how can I make a translation
of these never before felt feelings
if their language I don’t possess
one of which mine ears
have never had a previliage
of previous precous encounter
and one which overwhelms so powerfully
mine eyes;  and my tongue but in realisaton
is powerless to pronounce
yet can do nothing else than confront them
these feelings, these feelings, oh these feelings
a painted mosiac of plasure and gulit
that leaves me in such a quandadry as I don’t know why
yet has me beliebve that the only thing  I trust
any longer is this very moment; the moment with him
where pure and untainted feeelings break upon me
as foamed waves upon a pebbled beach
where convention does disintigarte
in splintering bursts of Vulacn light
oh to be yet disintangled in my mind
to be detached, feeling each succeeeding thought
as it seperates itself from the centreal core of my mind
to examine them in the srange sub-lit detachement
where I find myelf now floating
there is no known languange for its expression
these feelings, these felings, these feelings
only Raleigh, only Raleigh, I hope

oh what a darkness of consistency
grows around this silence
that of a lonely sentence
fallen to earth by itself
offering hesitated thought
that which conceives, yet conceals
a deep misery
an unhappiness that blinds the eyes
that does in its silence circle like poisoned incense
around a badly carved pentangle
squeezing tears from the corners of clenched eyes
forming a violent trembling
from neck to ankles
its silent translation a feeeling
of immence tension vibrating through the body
Ah, this fallen silence
is the beauty that Isaw, I see
the change incredible that brings
this silenece to me rather that someone else
where bliss does come down
and envelope in a mist of passionate lips embrace
imersining itself in a liberating tumultious emotonal experiance
resurfing as internsified passion
intricate in its dipiction
dazzling in its dencely textured matrex
of intimacy in its silence; its fallen silence
the silence of a kiss
that kiss
his kiss
my first kiss with another boy

wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace  a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE

is there hope between a stone
like the figurative speech of abstracton
those fragile metophers of life
an essesnce of fleeting moments of existence
like some iconic inventory of bourgious values
that reinscribe themselves
on the inside of your eyeballs
so when you close them
they become a cultural outpost
here where inventory shades into affermation
where poeple come, clamour
to claim it as thier own
where a thousand seductions become one illusion
your eyes closed peer
into and enchanted looking glass of stone
where brooding darkness
offers beauty and hope
but rules here are different
language, customs, values
are not what they seem
for if you look back
it is a piller of salt
who will turn into you
for this is a place of images
images built upon images
constructed upon layers
and layers of so much paint
and you ask yourself ( without much instistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a life time

once I saw a blue moon
shedding the underworld
of thought and time
it wallowed in a pink sea
where out of the depths
sea blossoms came
to be beyond the rain
to be beyond the rain
and a litle bird found
a pool of dreams
the birthing pool
then she was gone
flying under a soft black sky
growing hope after
beyond the rain
beyond the rain
whose creations and distractions
are the prossessses
that are necessary to show
the true feelings
hidden beneath the surface of things
beyond the rain
beyond the rain
where there is a combat
a struggle between darkness and light
the emotional duality of life
BETWEEN THAT WHICH IS
AND THAT WHICH HAS ALREADY BEEN
beyond the rain
beyond the rain

an intimacy of affections and intimate attentions
hovers in the air
sometimes shimmering
perhaps swirling
this way and that
creating at its core an impulse of hope
of a shared dream
drawn to each as each is to each
as in pursuit of that which is hidden in our hearts
obscured by what we think we know about ourselves
yet we are drawn into this thing
and find ourselves called to each other
in pursuit of our dreams of love
yet we have lived this long experience
these shared echoes that we realise#
each without each would be stunningly incomplete
a lavish perfume it envelopes us
invests us with new forms
in the most powerful and novel ways
with new rituals and language
we bristle with unexamined interpersonal connections
so gentle, so powerful, so beautiful
like the terms borrowed
from tow different galaxies of homeless stars
yet complement each other as a whole
for we have found it
what
love
what is it
it is the music only we can hear
for we are the duality of our dream

what is this discovery of a cheap corpse
whose tightened jar contains imprisoned sunlight
whose hallow sheet now beckons
whose tracked eyes through my fingers weaves
and makes unjust shadows linger on the mind
and whose cause is that of trickles
that would gauge the cheeks
in unwarranted departure from clenched
and sorrowful eyes
what is its language, how does one speak it
this discovery that melts with a black proclamation
of lost intention that no longer lingers on its breath
but departs not in sorrow but in a chaos
and leaves unanswered its own existence