The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt. 1*

The nights were longer, as though at bay...
It's time for the artist to make his way.

"It's a mighty profitable business,
isn't it Hugh?"

Said the mortician to his dog.

"These ones are old...
Almost as old as you"

As he worked up his corpse,
for its last and lonesome grog.

"Off to burial, this would see,
off with the other one,
whom ever was he...
Off with you too sir; old wasted chap...
Make for the wedding soon,
of woods and crap;
I shall expect a clean and smoothly slit,
to slip here this trap.. and finish it quick!
his final dance; adieu.. farewell..
Soon riddance will follow,
of you as well."

Yelled the mortician to the delving man,
To take over from here while still he can...

A.r. Bazian
Jan 26th, 2016

"I am your silence, your violence, and your every dream.
That in this drawing hour, it would seem, I am your failing scream, echoed far beyond the concrete pace that be-stills your thought... Where it would seem, I am -in fact, your dream!
Where we may over the world rain like light poles imploring, in forms of nothingness, the world to dust... While so vividly blooming onto the infinite strokes of the universe... Our every verse, ever so sublime!"

Sep 30, 2013

"Your absence takes over, and my silence... My violence, and your pacing dream! The world spins still unto the hollow vaults of your bedded crusts, and you still splendour for on your wine! The day passes ever still; ever so bleak, stale, and fine!"

Oct 7th 2013

"In this -the universe, abstract silence, that is our vengeance, wrath, and kindness... We abstain.. The pacing stops, where the ends of the world collide!
In you, I confide."

Mar 5th, 2014

"I am your endless expanse; the boundless void of rampage and timeless tune... Wagner's immortal rage... Bach's rebellion... and the vacuum spirit of our delusion.. and disillusion. I am the silence that resounds through the bleak folds of your existence, and mine; the conclusion."

*Jul 1st, 2014

"I don't know her.
I've seen her;
A strong spectre of absolute femininity and a lingering presence so strong, that all things thereon.. revolved unto the centrepiece of her clear, imperfect, overwhelming and sinking magnitude.
The fortitude..
She's the most beautiful women I've ever seen.. and no, not that kind of beauty. Well, It could've been..
She has a darkness to her, so captivating; so dense that all article in her cense is stalled in mesmerising silence and anticipation for the next fleeting beat of her beautiful heart..  for the next pacing glaze that would tear me apart, along the horizon of mere "things" in her shade, as she looks around and so passionately drowns the world in awe.
The charm that she'd bestow..
When I first saw her, my heart stopped, literally, only to -and out of grave deafness, explode as if it has been beating 'cross an infinite expanse of scapes compressed in the swiftness of a second.. boom!
'cross the room..
Suddenly, the void that consumed out of me the very sorry existence that I am, failingly so distant to her proximity, exploded like a rose bursting into bloom.. exploding no less, from pale tasteless petals to mindblowing extravagance.
I don't love her, I admit. I don't even know how to begin to fathom such an implosion of utopian lust for the hazel green distance in her eyes, let alone love her. She might be a man-eater, in disguise, for all the possibilities of things likely.. She is, however unattainable, perhaps my greatest unembarked adventure; my Odyssey. Not so, perhaps, my greatest... the one other dream she, still that I of another kiss.. a bliss.. an even greater adventure, nonetheless.. but a rhythm for another rhyme; another prose for another time.
This.. She's ancient unconscionable forbidden bliss for the morbid spirit that I am, enchanted with sweetness and love. Volatile like wildfire, she has the world entwined in the gypsy black waves of unconstrained dreams.
But that wasn't her, who lingered back in my head... The residence was of another.. I saw her once, in my seems.. my truest endeavours for a place that screams for relentless torture behind sweet jagged beams of black light on black.
I don't love her, I reassure, nor am I in love with another. I'm taken by her like a leaf is in a storm. I am home. She's death in a green hazed gaze, for those of you who didn't figure it out by now."

A.r. Bazian
*Nov 8th, 2015

"It has been weeks, since our last discourse,
The sound of muttered sketch;
Rain-burnt,stained, and course... They are,
So lively, so weighed, and rich...
 
These pale yellow long faces,
‘fore lamp lit well traces,
seem rigid...Unlike my fingertips...
How the days still pass, so right here on course,
Like a steady pool in stream,
Of all our thoughts; our solemn oughts’,
of what might, and should have been.
 
And do you know?
O' what do you know?
of when darkness settles in...
There are from the edges of a turning page,
A distant woe and dew,
Of the mornings when, our nights grew thin,
And my thoughts would be of you!
 
O' dare I how, do dare I speak,
of songs that sound of you...
From far away, O' dare I say,
these times were so but few...
 
I'd linger in rhyme,
In meadows of chime,
In Arts, in words,and songs,
 
Of revolt and freedom..
Of satire and reason,
On dance, on tempo and cue..
But none of them dear,
I solemnly hear,
Do sing my old nightmares adieu ...
But O' do they pry,
My heart for goodbye,
And for parting hereon forgo,
Where there is no reason,
For heartache or treason,
To devil with hearts on in on toe..
So 'wards them sea chamber,
To see mine own paper,
Wet soaked to marrow and stone...
How waters would carry,
The heartaches we'd bury,
To surface, when all else is gone.."

A.r. Bazian
*May 18th, 2014

"I came across a lonesome face,
among the figures stuck in traffic,
Someone there, somewhere,
Longs for a distant place...
A place, of dreams and magic.
This ageing scent, of dying breath,
And history, is just too tragic!

The wandering braids,
Scout the town,
Hoping, things will come around,

And as early risers greet their way,
Their faces Pass, and fade away!

The stones and old homes,
Fill space Between,
fiction, And the stories we tell!
They reek through the alleyways,
With reflections keen,
Mixed with an old familiar smell...
Of Passages dusty and features a-print,
The smiling pales of concrete mint,
And the fellow grin, by the local inn,
Who's never had a tonic and gin,
Unlike those of London...

This,
I can barely define,
stories-high, as we go by,
simply left behind!

But passenger light,
Drops in flight,
In the hours of eight 'till five,
I caught the melody sung in sun,
In our hour or so long drive...

Still I couldn't tell,
Of this old scent and smell,
and all that it's not,
why This raging ravel still, seems so forgot.
Although they've bettered it,
in some sort of a way...
Today, I think...
With all hopes a-still,
there's little much left,
and less be will...
Little still floats, and little is wet!"

A.r. Bazian
*Jan 14th, 2012

"It is summer yet, and the last roses fade to gloom,
in the searing heat of our midnight silence,
and the parting shadows of a distant moon,
in this darkness,
the night is clearest than parting day,
the last rose of summer; limp...
like silliness of our dismay!"

A.r. Bazian
*May 19th, 2014

"And with the Midnight feathers,
brushing against the great walls of red seas and gloom,
come braided sonnets unto the world,
to praise the passing of our dreams.
in this pacing passion... this worldly compassion,
every single thing, is exactly how and what it seems!

the morning blush,
the midnight rush,
the world spinning still... 
onto the minutes of vast extent,
wards the racing years of lives ill-spent!
hours passing curved, and heavy,
like leaping light, cold... unbent!

the dawning widows, like leaves they went,
into their slumbers, cast and sent...
off with this poem,
my weary deed...
and onto the winds of northern speed.
to where the blue vastness, starlit by day,
nights and days over,
to not by this day!

but like peoples' due, to dates unsaid,
to promises few, like words in wed,
in rites of sea, or gapes of red...
writ solemn in black, to fears we dread...
and onto the pits of mighty oblivion...
for she will be alone, too!"

A.r. Bazian
*Apr 15th, 2013