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Mar 2015 · 860
King with a Broken Crown
Nielsen Mooken Mar 2015
There stood a boy with a broken crown in his hands, not knowing that from these shards would one day come the gift of imagination. Later, much later, inside of a body having outgrown the sweet smelling palm trees of his childhood, the eyes of the same boy would light up, looking up and finding, in the red and grey of the afternoon sky, the one who wore it.
The smell of the midday rain still clung to nostrils, much like its defeated foe, dust would, on a dry sunny day. I do not recall, or rather, cannot wrap my mind around the reasons which pulled me out of the shop to look at the sky at that moment, from that angle, with my eyes tearing up ever so slightly. There he was, and the grey and red of the sky were his tears and blood. He had fallen, a giant king magnificent and ridiculous at the same time, like fallen statues or noseless sphinxes, and the clouds carried his life away.Slowly, inexorably, a pilgrimage towards the east, as if returning the rays to the birthplace of the sun. They disguised themselves into grotesque shapes, imitations of clouds, in the pink velvet of exposed organs or smiling skeletons of red. The sun shone through his wounds. He looked down and knew I saw him. In this moment, in the moment our eyes crossed, I knew he saw me, I knew he recognised me, that boy with a broken crown in hand. That day I was the one bleeding, but those were only the blades of sugar canes against my skin, but today, I looked at him, expiring his last with my throat burning with a thousand questions but my lips dry as the summer dust. Who was he? What was his name? Why did he did? Was it worth it? One question my mind did not dare to ask though, was the name of his killer, for the deeper recesses of my souls knew the answer to this question and my heart engaged into that little dance which makes the ribcage suddenly feel like a cramped place.
As I walked back into the shop, a tear fled from the confines of my ducts and died on the floor, most probably trampled by couple of minutes later by an unknowing customer, not able to see me scrape off the blood from under my fingernails with the shards of a broken crown.
Feb 2015 · 1.6k
Rebellious Heart
Nielsen Mooken Feb 2015
Oh, what resplendent havoc can you wreak
Thrashing savagely against my rib cage,
Asking questions to which my brain can't speak
In any other tongue but that of rage.
Oh what poisonous covetings do you sow
That must taint the grains of affection
And plant the misery that forces me to know
That this love will be my own affliction.
Oh, what derelict promises of joy
Do you make to my frail and naive mind
For it is to you but a broken toy.
Rebellious heart why are you so hard to find?
Feb 2015 · 1.4k
Old Souls
Nielsen Mooken Feb 2015
That night I dreamt of two star-crossed lovers,
hidden in the bodies of green giants.
I knew them both from a time now long past
For my spirit was just as wild as theirs.
They silently pined for each other,
In the echoes of the tears of the falls
The murmur of the river taunting them
Forever so close, yet a world apart.
Their hands reaching out under a silver blade.
That which was once tears, that which was once rain,
That which was once earth, That which was once sea
Now carries under her breath their longing.
Oh no dear heart! Do not despair for them
For they are old souls who know that loving is not possessing
Feb 2015 · 1.7k
A Solis Occasum Cardine
Nielsen Mooken Feb 2015
Nous etions, en cet instant, prisonniers du bonheur.
Heritiers de cette douce mais, o combien lourde, ferveur
Brulant sous cette peau vernie de sueur, de sable et de sel,
Portes, en princes sous les ficelles des tisseuses de ciel.
Nous regardions le gris a nous ecorcher les yeux,
Aimant de la passion infidele du zenith bleu
Le vide encombrant de nos plus incroyables espoirs
Et le remou sans debut ni fin de nouvelles memoires.
Nous les connaissions, ces esprits, vagabonds des mers
Chassant, au milieu des vagues ces humeurs incidencieres,
Celles la meme qui jadis se prenommaient “reves d’enfance”
Et qui depuis de sont transformes en dependence.
Nous les connaissions, et meme si la nature de ce lien
M’est masque par un sacerdoce qui ne sera jamais mien,
Elle me dicte toujours chaque contour de leur lames grises
Qui de cet air sec et fier sont tragiquement eprises
Nous etions, en cet instant prisonniers de beaute,
Celle la meme qui voit nos poumons dechiquetes
A vouloir engouffrer ce monde entier sous nos pores
Que demain a travers ces lettres je puisse a nouveau le voir.
Nielsen Mooken Nov 2014
If there are words to be heard in this thumping
As the black turns to grey through the lighting,
If dew is drowned and white walls are tainted
As the oldest colours have all faded,
If the morning songs of the birds
Are only in our hearts to be heard,
Then teach, me morning the peace you bring!
If the beady eyed flow stream of pilgrims
If the slippers splinter and splash the water film
And brazen lights splatter the black recipient
With a hissing, oh so inconvenient,
If the keeper’s morning cigarette
And the perfume of the fresh baguette
Enlace as lovers within my nose.
If the bananas seem strangely lit,
Under the glow of white tungsten hilt
And the craving of a lazy sleep
Has laid the newspapers in such a heep.
And if radios blare the sad morning news
I do not look for the blessings of a muse,
I have found in my morning bread run.
One Tuesday morning, after another sleepless night, I went to the shop to buy bread. What I saw...
Sep 2014 · 464
Love Song to the Night
Nielsen Mooken Sep 2014
As the night lays awake inside of me
You murmur a love song to the sleepless.
As the cold presses on my naked skin,
You kiss my cheeks with a sweet temperance
And lead me to your glorious haven.
Under the shelter of these giant leaves,
Are our eyes but those of two sparrows,
Who watch the world from hole in the sky
Into which birds disappear at nightfall.
The pearls of rains run along the blades,
Racing each other to their beds of grass,
As naïve as in the winds of childhood love.
They wear the blue of the midnight streetlights
With the frivolous ease of princesses
Unburdened by the rule of gales
Or the heavy grey garments of daylight.
They dance and play under the watchful eye
Of the mother of all things of the night.
The moon sits alone in her splendor,
For her sky is not freckled with stars
But her earth is decorated  with tears.
She looks for no company tonight
But that of her lover children.
She smiles upon us, as she always does,
As the black of your hair enlaces
My chest and echoes my heartbeat
With the gentle thumping of the rains.
Jul 2014 · 1.1k
Port- Louis
Nielsen Mooken Jul 2014
Dans les rues de Port-Louis, il fait bon dix-huit heures.
Ou chercher, dans cette ville bercée de sueur
Le fantôme de cet acharnement de vie
Qui noie les sens de lumière, de chaleur et d’envie?
Dans les aboiements rauques de ces cabots rois du soir?
Dans le son des volets qu’on baisse de façon vénielle?
Dans les pas qui s’éclaboussent sur le trottoir
Les maux de cette étrange promesse d’étincelle ?
Dans les rues de Port-Louis, il fait bon nuit d’hiver
Grise comme lasse de ces nuées de couleurs incendiaires
Elle s’éteint le temps d’allumer les étoiles,
Peintres bien plus dures que leur jumelles estivales.
L’écru de leur toile est teinte de la froideur du blanc.
Quels soupirs s’emmêlent aux clous qui habitent ses vents?
Quel chant quand la pluie crucifie ainsi nos flancs?
Est-ce celle de cette ville bohème, de beauté fille de sang?
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
And what if you are never mine to hold?
Only for these weary eyes to behold.
And what if you are never mine to know?
I could never teach my love not to grow.
And what if we are not what we speak?
Hope will know what dormant scents to seek.
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
In Chaos
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Pristine bristle of the jocund dreams of dawn,
Dewy eyes, desolate witness of dirge,
Boldness of the unhunted fawn of joy,
Feelings beautiful and naive, feelings denied.
Fear awakes with the spirit of the morrow
And poisons dwell in the ruins of memory
For in the winds is writ that in Chaos is Sanctity
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Glorious wanderers on Death's celadon globe
Stride- in sombre ceilidh- the arsenic haar,
Mantle of Dis' harrowing of derelicts.
Feral shadows stroking the hollow strath
With crimson paces aloft Acheron's shores,
The Erinyes, in macabre cavalcades
Walk the land, bereft, forever of aubades
Jun 2014 · 653
Children of the Earth
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Whence cometh these mournful euphonies?
Tis' the winds; the choir of sprights in the clefts
Or tis' the earth; the plight of her laboured back?
Whence cometh this flame dancing with our souls?
Tis' flicker of the nascent wings of love
Or tis' the pyre of rage that devours?
Tis' the dream of our blood, our death, our powers!
Jun 2014 · 6.9k
A Candle
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
She dances, possessed by the haughtiness
That inhabits the children of pureness.
She spreads her locks over her heart,
Eglantine and amber, equal in parts.
She cries for herself, in a cruel ******,
Her tears, flowing daggers in her soul of wax.

What are these insolent games she plays?
Teaching her shadows irreverent ways
And nurturing a hectic stillness.
What voices haunt her murmured boldness?
Her lullaby, pillowed by destruction
Hummed solely out of her own compassion.

She waves to her cousins, the silver lights,
Painters of the robe of the summer nights.
She burns ,as them, freckling the darkness
With a light, a fragrance, and a caress.
She is passion, a witness, a deity
Existing, not for light, but for beauty.
Jun 2014 · 789
Ghost of My Roisin Dubh
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
A romantic grace that ebb and flows
A wilting palour, or gleaming candour.
Dressed in the most splendid melancholy
Dost thou, Yesteryears, again bloom and wreathe
Piercing the fibres of succoring apathy
Unyielding, haunting asymmetry
Ghost of my Roisin Dubh vent thy effrontry
Jun 2014 · 3.2k
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Oh, whims of the Hyades,
Insolent, unhunted spirit,
Spoiled child of Eudora's breast!
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
And what of this hour, dark and beautiful
In her insistence.
She visits in the nights of sleepless lull,
Object of insolence!
She questions this very earth, ***** and dull
And devoid of sense.
Her words are as sweet as pain ever gets:
“End it all, die and cry the tears life forgets”
Jun 2014 · 783
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
I arise to thee, beautiful pilgrim
Returning to the ***** of Winter,
Droving forth the winds once full of whims,
But now bound to thy will- oh Enchanter
Of the first dancing lights- by the promised
Arrival of the new Gods of the sky.
You wear the morning light- Remised
Of the nascent azure and its red Eye -
Like a veil, in mourning of the silence.
The kings and queens of burning summer,
The din of the humans’ blissful pretense,
Will soon seek the night like moths a taper
And tributaries of parched skin will be paid
To the pest that walks, the old timekeeper
And the shaft flies and leaves things unsaid.
Away! Hot and languishing despair
For I arise to dreams of the sprites of Winter,
And the light kisses my skin like sweet Death,
Oh! Sweet, sweet ghost of coldness, here, my wreath!
Jun 2014 · 2.9k
Dreams of Despair
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Through darkness, laced in edges of light,
And rain, falling like angels plagued by blight,
Shattering their heavenly bones and wings,
Onto the eyeless dust of their return;
Through paths stranger to the hope of spring,
Where voices of ghosts hang with cries of “Burn!”
And moss mottled trees, like macabre jesters
Dance, limbless, leaves flailing grotesquely
To the secret japes of wind-bourn nesters;
Through corpse-ridden forests of insanity,
To where the rocks dress as the three witches
And chant midst their vainglorious riches
*“All hail, Eremita, bound to the adamah altar,
All hail, Eremita, your blood soma from the mortar,
All hail, Eremita, thou shalt be dead hereafter”...
Jun 2014 · 498
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
There is, in our bleakest hour of despair
A singular feeling of wild ecstasy,
An unexpected joy that clears the air
To which the pained sinews can but agree.

There is, in our most joyous moments
This terrible doubt of the spotless mind
That nurtures the fear of future torments
And mocks mirth as being naive and blind.

There is, in our greatest acts of passion
The lingering ghosts of expectations
Who haunt us with the shadows of reason
And shackles our ankles with patience.
Jun 2014 · 5.0k
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Were I a companion, in playful heart
To thy aery errands, carried there
As a dead leaf, by the spirits of the wind.
That this rocky cleft, and its blue dress of dew
May tell my senses a murmur, a tale
That faith in wonderous things may faint,
And unravel what belief dares not paint.
Jun 2014 · 675
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Sentient beings, or puppets of fate
When, by free will or by command,
They- with vehement threads of hate-
Decant the numbness of my hand
To be Acheron's vicariates.

Black sentinels of my torment
They haunt every abode of rest
And flaunt their hoary adornement
Over the arch of my behest;
A crumbled wall of laments.

Giant companions by my side,
They shade the embers of joys
Of when I danced with Etesians' tide
And tasted the feeling that cloys,
In the garden of the Hesperides.
Jun 2014 · 1.5k
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Winter, my last friend, thank you for this morning.
Even as your silver cloak grows frayed
With new freckles of azur accenting
The golden, our covenant you have not brayed.
This silent valediction, moonstone rayed
Belies the dying of our Sapphire,
Our council, our secret, our pyre!
Jun 2014 · 642
Belle du Sud
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Belle du sud, ou le sceaux se scellent en sang,
Ou la terre se chamaille avec l’océan
Tel la blessure qui nourrit tes larmes.

Belle du sud, fille de déchirement,
Témoin de ce feu presque inconscient
Qui s’entête à bruler tous tes charmes.

Belle du sud, prière de tes aïeux
Defi lancé à la terre et aux cieux
Toi qui enterre dans ton silence mon vacarme.
#french #mauritius #rose-belle #village #beautyofthesouth #francais #poesie
Jun 2014 · 1.6k
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
"Chalk forest branches, Hermes of sylvan gloom,
Dark mists that flirt with the narrow streams,
Creatures that cherish the rayless nights,
Faery spirits and carnage mongers
All spread, at her feet, their obediences.
To her willow throne borne on braided flames
Lay heathen peregrines with claws and manes"
#greek #hell #hades #persephone #mythology
Jun 2014 · 1.7k
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
"Incandescent ******, walking at noon
Shrouded from thy travesty of sight.
Her tender ******* preach of rage and violence
And dance, in pants, with tremours of her black hair
Her light bleeds over a savage darkness
Where the cold soil decays into rev'rence
Nostrils and eyes posed in a sleep pretense"
#beauty #thoughts #angel #savagery #love
Jun 2014 · 803
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
"Does she not, through the veil of slumber
Find the grace hidden in the darkest of night?
Where innocence paints glimmers, spirits and manes
Does she not, under the dewy watch of Nyx,
Clad- like thousands gone by and thousands to be-
In the black and silver of one starry night,
Find that dreams breathe still when memories but sight?"
#night #sleep #darkness #beauty
Jun 2014 · 491
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
"Defiled humanity! In mascarades
And ****** ecstasies of joy and passion
Is thy gangrened solace anchored!
You paint beauty in nauseous tenderness
And garland her with frigid senility
No! For beauty is haunting and savage
And in my frosty grave throbs her haughty rage"
#beauty #savage #thoughts #melancholy
Jun 2014 · 532
The Heavenly Sylph
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
"Chalk forest branches, Hermes of sylvan gloom,
Dark mists that flirt with the narrow streams,
Creatures that cherish the rayless nights,
Faery spirits and carnage mongers
All spread, at her feet, their obediences.
To her willow throne borne on braided flames
Lay heathen peregrines with claws and manes"
Jun 2014 · 688
A Spirit of Melancholy
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
She breathes and flirts with my loneliness,
Drinking from the last lights of heaven.
She weaves and braids a wreath of weariness
As Nyx drops a grey cloak o'er the even
And hides Pans' wild heaths and gardens carven.
Pale spirits drenched in afternoon rain
Flee, from the peerless eyes, driven
By other senses, less fickle, less vain
And who sing in a sweeter tongue of the pain

As Aoelus revets a mantle of shadows
And raving fragrances burst into the night,
She takes my hand, and leads me through the echoes
To her dominion, where she flaunts her might.
Here she commands genii to an aery flight,
Possessing the high grasses into a trance,
An angry hoard, out to a ghostly fight,
Their spears, like white fires, swirl and dance,
Puppets in a belligerent romance.

Over this multitude, pale and hectic red,
Cairns stand, overgrown with moss and flowers,
Silent guardians of childhood mirth long fled.
Over these, do I feel, the weight of hours
For the first time. Her touch shrivels and sours
Over my skin, as locks of a wailing cloud
Prophesy of black rain, of bleak powers,
And of the dark hours that enshroud
The lost joys, forever broken and bowed.

— The End —