My breathe encapsulated with shards of excruciation, I am not inclined to understand the distorted vengeance that is beneath me, something greater than I lurks with a suffocating aura tormenting everything that is weak enough to where the cloak of demons. Do not entice beings in the underworld, leave them to face their own revelation, when the walls start to crumble on their fickle minds that are soaked in an ill-instrinsic fiction dream world that will never happen, because they will always be the ones poisoned by him.

With your bottom resting on me
you roam the world of poetry
display spectrum of your poetic mood
ever bothered about this piece of wood?

I hold your frame over day and night
weight of your spirit soaring to height
your struggle to find in all only good
ever bothered about this piece of wood?

I rest your arms on my armrest
for your comfort I do my best
see you don't fall when in deep brood
ever bothered about this piece of wood?

For years my touch has kept you at peace
carried you safe seated with ease
when empty yawns the space I stood
is it then you would realize worth of my wood?

Should a primitive tribe be civilized?
Are we civilized or savage?

Leave them the aborigines to their home
in peace
their abode in the depth of forest.

But where's their abode?
we cut the jungle and made road
where would their babies be born?
in the smoke of engines blaring of horns
so hard for them to birth
on the dwindling patch of their earth
our Paleolithic ancestors' living fossils
who with iron will
fought bullets with bows and arrows
now falling by the bullies of progress
begging for last living space.

Leave them the way they lived so long
unspoiled with their own education and culture
let them retain their own way of life
and not make them civilized the way we are.

From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.

The smell of the foundry surrounds you
abounds and wreaths around you.
A man of ore, born of the earth

I thought of you as Roman.
Alive, shuddering with the stress
and exertions
of recent war

The thrill of hardship
fresh upon you,
made ever-stronger by violent work
your fibres stretch then relax
to gather in quiet, resting power

Glittered in sweat,
you have raced through history
to arrive, tattered and magnificent,
heaving, and worn like a mountain

I have melted into you -
piston thighs greased with excitement!
As your black-ringed fingers
chase a whitened path,
through my pebbled steam

Our minerals mix:
salt and blood, tears and love
and the hooves of legion drum in my ears,
outpacing a gathering storm
as little death overwhelms me

You are home,
hanging suspended in a grief-cloud
above me.
And I invite you, with a succession of imagined dilations,
to rain down.