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Aug 2019 · 560
the red tulips...
there is a vastness here

where a small breeze,

the size of a decaying sorrow

wakes the cold again

which may be all that’s left of me.

where a diamond pale haze of stars goes on eternal

like sound that has found a final silent shape

on a black sky where it means everything

It cannot speak off.

it’s empty out here, and cold.

cold enough to reconcile

the frozen cries, the kidnapped voices

and the silences that move

with certain cadaveric contractions

along the frozen emptiness

and In the morning when I look out

the previous evening remains

in its blank, cold, unforgiveness

even though I sang for them in

the eternal extensiveness of

the freezing cold, the stones

still cry with mouths opened wide

while the small icy wind and unsympathetic

moon subdue the apricot flowers,

Now the piercing cold day Is no longer enough

For all comprehension escapes me

suddenly jumps with fury hurling terrible hostilities to the sky,

as wandering ice spirits without homeland

begin to groan with a vast and vacant voice.

And frozen hearses, with muffled drums

and tragic music, slowly pass in my being

conquered, weeping, freezing

this atrocious iced and despotic place

plants its black flag in my soul

Now I do confess through boreal breath

I don’t think I will ever see the

Red Tulips again
Feb 2017 · 1.1k
for all of us who know
the pain of valentines
that never came
whose secret sobs
leave a teardrop stain
and hope next year
won’t be the same
Jan 2016 · 934
life lies on me like a coffin lid

the investment of a strange ventriloquism

where no one has imagined me

or the existence of my

verbalizing impulses of emotion

the structured knowledge of

chemistry and music

I shall go beyond

beyond the humming bird

beyond the giant stars

way, way past the darkness

in the valley

where the gentle tempest rests

and there I shall enter into visions

and claim a desolate sun

who possesses enormous

silhouetted slices of hell

i shall go far beyond the speaking rain

beyond the whispers that have taken up

residence in my mind

way, way past the living and the dead

where ancient texts have wept

i shall stumble far across the horizon

beyond the jagged edges of the world

far, far beyond all known compass

where cartographies of silence


here i shall be made a suggestive space

a womb with a heartbeat

here, far beyond all that is

in a dark place of peace
May 2015 · 994
portent of war.....
it rains  

where scattered white mists

applaud the silhouette

of a sharp and pointed moon

whose coagulant light

dispatches an infinite

population of ghosts

to haunt upon the mind

with tangential interests

are reluctant incarnations

of an intolerable vocabulary

with incoherent signs

these ragged images

free float before the eyes

create a straight line

upon a lime green colored wall

whose ghostly contour of shape

has no reason to be there

then it rains in horizontal free fall

from the ceiling to the floor

where these apparitions collide

in an empty sky of stars

creates a mysterious circumstance

that dictates mischievous epigraphs

where the leaves are black

it is whispered to young men

who reluctantly plant trees

whose shade they know

they will never sit in

it rains in this place

an angry and heavy rain

that sculpts the bones

and blinds the eyes

and the young men lie down

like rusted knives

in an antique drawer

without recognizing

this dredful portent of war
by the lake at sunrise
a strange dedication hangs in the air
concealed in threads of mist
that hang here, ghostly blankets
suspended by invisible strings
there is a silence without end every where
amorphous, it is as if the very elements themselves
hold their breath, poised
waiting for something to happen
while a silvery unexplained light
floats like mercury
on the lurid waters of the lake
the world looks on
in hideous and embarrassed silence
as I taste the lamentations of past times
a discord of sympathies swirl about
i cry out strange words
like making a wish in Latin
i am carried in a high altitude of color
through a French Pantheon of poems
and by the lakeside emaciated figures
form a density of mood
dripping in emotional subtlety
which cannot be properly named
my eyes gaze out upon the lake
in a vocabulary of incoherent signs
images that have no articulation
like that of a rancid stain
of ***** on a curved floor
that compares effects of sensitivity
to neurotic symbols
that rest uneasily on the walls
of hospital waiting rooms
a poetic syntax of sonorous symbolism
sensuously slashed
like a very, very sad crossword
I am high by the lakeside at sunrise
Apr 2015 · 808
unendurable, long and exhausting
are the pains
presumptuous in their plenty
such are these pernicious pains
that swarm in a slivering hiss
upon dark and lurking shadows
aesthetically applauding themselves
as they push here and there
in their wounding commentary
of painful narrative
agonising enough to reduce
the soul to debilitating bouts
of disagreeably damaging experience
with startling exaggerations
that produce disgraceful extortions
upon mind and body
squandering unbearable isolations
fragmenting the cracks
in a delicate structure of personality
uprooting it from a sanctified paradise
providing instead a monstrous, shameful loathing
that makes one choose to become another
other than those unthinking
other than this misery of anguish
other than this pain
deliberately to provoke an anger
the other with ingratiating timidity
or rebellious defiance
favouring a rejection of
all resentful obligations
all that is distasteful
all that is not worth carrying out
such as with a contempt
that allows one to escape into an emptiness
of the ridiculous and the impossible
through thoughts to an absurdity of beliefs
through the deserted streets
the neighbourhoods of the lie
pass the filthy inadequacies
of obscene caresses
where one is mocked
by exquisitely satisfying ******
of vicious pains
pains that control behaviour
freedom of movement
time and space
who appear at corners of the mouth
where lurk sarcastic secrets
now I know in these horrors and torments
that  time has stopped in all dimensions
eternity has ceased
Apr 2015 · 920
My Eyes
……for mine eyes are that of shadows…. shadows that don’t exist…searching out imponderable abstracts….these eyes…these emerald green colored eyes.. reveal the false tranquility of time and expectation… they can picture the veil of illusion that has fallen between me and reality…creating a painful impression of remoteness…while a blindness pulses through my blood…. my eyes beat like a blue sun from an electrically charged sky…they are my eyes….they are such as is…. would cause a step into chaos…an exodus towards the wastelands of fragmentation and depletion…. where fictions are invented daily and all Images change….. where the shadows of my eyes disappear in desperation…strung out in a black void…they cause me to take steps into the space others fear to occupy…my eyes…my emerald green eyes become inside the incantation of a new dimension….yet I am ecstatic in their awareness…..for my eyes are the windows of all the imaginations I possess….they are that shaky bridge between worlds where I take my heels…my eyes…my emerald green eyes…have chosen thus….. that both once closed to each are the opening…..the opening to me….
Aug 2014 · 1.7k
where the cullan trees lie
a yellowish shroud
is placed hurriedly
upon starched white sheets
revealing vicious contrasts

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

its Hessian appearance
an omen, a foretold event
like breathing deeply in a silence
amidst the history of a great disorder

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

violent ink stains
on folding parchment
embalm themselves
upon the thickness of a sorrow

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

placed deep within
shallow subterranean depths
of an enigmatic being
that is both engineering and entrenching

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

its perplexing sensations causing
a wonderful ingrained passion
to erupt with imponderable abstracts
where truth does not exceed exception

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

the shroud provides a false tranquillity
where there is no longer breath
imposes itself unobtrusively
with wonderful staccato caresses

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

it proclaims an innocence of salvation
yet gives gauge to spectacular routes
and an enormity of misconceptions  
amid prestigious beatifications

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

oh sweet smelling blue abyss
oh deluded reality
dressed in a winding sheet
of meaningless words

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

wrapped in phrases of falsehood
amidst this purgatorial fog
a twilight world of mysterious ailments
maintains a world of external restraints

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

creates and emptiness, a vacancy
provides an intoxication of vision
a strangeness of sensation
a world transparent

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

read the sentences of silence
breathe the perfume of never fading flowers
and see for the first time
the unfinished likeness of others

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie
Jul 2014 · 1.0k
the violets are dead
my heart ticks with the punctuated rhythm
of a girl busy with embroidery
i see a corpse and scrutinise all its secrets
it lingers with a purposeful dexterity
a tenacity that resembles autocrats
of a starved third world country
a dangerous presence that underpins
a blank prism
my reconnaissance reveals a frenetic arc
orbiting, humming as it does so
with intricate nightly returns
travels between light and shade
where black shadows tred
forming a link in the great causal chain
of human destiny
it is a place where stone ghosts welcome me
with threatening indifference of magical
i roam through deserted streets
with an inherent clumsiness
like waves on dark coastlines
that in hypnotic deception
form groups of disorientated sadness
where clouds of black crows fly around
sinister watch towers in the dark
Jul 2014 · 806
follow the dead violets
i hear the collective understanding

of dry sticks as they crack

the shock of alarm signals

like the migratory diaspora

of birds flying south

vibrates across tingling nerves

causing a necklace of choking

to grip at the throat

shivering I try to find a grave

I am watched from the summit of a hill

as a conflagration spreads

flames quiver

orange, yellow, purple, blue

there is an irregularity of thought

within me

my bones will soon

be pitched into debris

a petrified shiver

they still watch from

the summit of the hill

i collapse, gripped with a fear

of a permanent consignment

like that of dropping into a hollow

my face becomes plum stained

the income of breath becomes

a tenacious gasp

smoke swirls around me

blinding my red eyes

I become a misshapen

component of myself

standing like an effigy

hands raised in supplication

hysterically I try to

rid myself of this tyranny

find no distinguishable form

no solidified inquisitive intent

I rush and lash out

with a galvanised

inner adrenalin raised frenzy

a red sun appears

on the summit of the hill

ferocious in its heat

it lacks all euphony

and disintegrates with

debarring light

now speechless and cold

i fear the wind will find me

i move, burrow back

into a darkness

fire strokes across a green canvas

i am fault and disappear

without trace
I see blue fences full of holes
chalices of fire
on every corner
houses try to hide
disguising themselves as houses
this does not work
crowds gather
climbing through the holes
in the blue fences
they demand
that houses
disguised as houses
be demolished
and the bricks be thrown
through the holes
in the blue fences
this causes an uproar
not only from the houses
but also from the
aforementioned blue holes
now if you ever see
blue holes
stay well away
particularly if they have
been aroused to an
anger of any sorts
do not eat bananas
on a balcony in their presence
and never ever discard
peel with a blatant disregard  
to a disturbance of consciousness
in the universe
which is only adorable to the grotesque
Jul 2014 · 785
the lost dead….
i thought there was
a funeral in the street
but it was only the dead
looking for directions
one was red and yellow
Jul 2014 · 727
a shroud approaches me from the side
it's grey with wide, wide eyes
it follows me and brings a melancholy
it's wide eyes are like bloodshot
wolves in water
why does it follow me
what have i done, i know not
i do know it means to cause
an uncalled for resentment
where the implement of death
will furrow the fields
and blood uncalled for becomes  
a withering harvest of tongues
that cast upon the world
vile, putrid and villainous words
whose untruth becomes the cause
of bloodstained vocabularies
way beyond all compass
giving speech to black shadows
where these congregated silhouettes
dump their nightmares  
and two perfectly disturbing towers
plant signs in defiant ground
ignoring the tragedy this setting shall provide
causing a destruction as it goes
destroying the sparkle of the universe
through all the ages
ending in an eternity of shrouds
Jul 2014 · 983
deaf ferocious monsters
i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
with well meaning incompetence
i have disturbed the reality
and illusion of human identity
where i am enmeshed
in insoluble confusions of difficulties
where i find strange images
touching on the grotesque
and ask what is myself
what are the guarantees
of my identity
by what right is a name possessed
by what means is my individuality secured
these questions in my mind
have a curiously derivative quality
that pretend to govern themselves
where they collaborate in their own oppression
and make assumptions upon
ethical behaviour and social institutions
which represent fictions rather than fact
function in a world of collapsing distinctions
of artificial precepts
where these now hearing monsters
with vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment of intense
exhausting experience of  a mind
spiraling vertiginously
toward an inner chaos that proclaims
I am myself alone without moral constraints
yet register vast predicaments
with the memorability of vivid language
but with an individual rapaciousness
that creates an amalgam of narratives
with the oppressive weight of the past
designed to induce this evaluative vertigo
with such ferocity to produce a turmoil of demons
monsters of evil, whose viciousness is vividly stamped
upon their bodies that declares
their fathomless malice sending my mind
into a cruelly disassembling nature
where i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
Jul 2014 · 1.9k
The Villainous Beard
your beard doth have

a villainous nature I think

one that would for want of mischief

whisper uncertainties

into a grieving ear

as such would cause

a flailing of tongues

and extract dire extremities

from a grief stricken father

who through an acid mist of tears

would summon a pale horse

to seek a blank claim for revenge

that would magnify

existing greif a thousand fold

such is the nature of your

villainous beard

begone I say from

this house of sorrow

or it shall be you

who in a box shall lay

without grief to borrow

you villainous beard

begone I say
Jul 2014 · 727
how odd.........
i have seen a brown tardis

sitting on the rooftop

now a green one

red and purple lipsticks

walk hand in hand along the boulevard

unaware of what lurks atop the roofs

and in each dwelling lives a cat

called rudimental fish tails

who ask themselves

what did the Berlin orchestra do

during the war
Jul 2014 · 846
Future there is no future
frock coated mourners all men

standing on the roof tops

while a silver haired woman

speaks through a megaphone

with a Calvinistic zeal

though her voice is lost

in the howling wind

smile unsmiling smiles

terracotta soldiers stand

in rows around this

grotesque assembly

while large disembodied heads

at the beginnings of thoroughfares

impede any progress

sinister flags smirk from

countless one roomed wooden houses

the terracotta soldiers laugh

for they know they are but dust

then the high frocked coated

male mourners smile unsmiling smiles

and say to us

"the future we bequeath to you"

there is a lifeboat in the street

but no water

we sob...sob...sob....sob

for there is no future

the birds all fly away

no future just an unknown place

determined only by the mediocrity

of its frothing melancholy

what have they done

jesus what have they done
the uncertainties of
unendurable disturbances
that announce themselves
with the plausible coordinates
of illusion location
an identity to elusive
to justify human possession
leaves only the confusion
of such insoluble difficulties
where the finding of this strange image
is at once touching and grotesque
poses the question what is the self?
what are the guarantees of identity?
who possesses such and by what right?
how is individuality secured?
or are we left to the larcenous wiles
of ones own deployment
an illusion that hovers over one
like an appalling malady
exquisitely positioned on the mind
where it basques in the language
of so called neutral expression of thought
where one alone denounces the self
albeit under compulsion of poignant lament
that evaporates among
shrouds and gaping graves
we are all but the
coordinates of illusion
May 2014 · 875
Isidore Ducasse
like a histrionic mutant
involved in false calisthenics
he leaves the books unread
reaches for a burning ghost
there is no light, no colour
just tears of illusion
only three and a half thousand
square minutes
once the thickness of a sorrow
that is both exuberant and hard to pin down
the vaporious experience of breathtaking emotion
like a day smoothly solved
May 2014 · 788
My Delirium
unendurable, long and exhausting
are the pains
presumptuous like appeals
from a jaded pulpit
such as they are, are powerless
a passage from a discarded tract
such are these pernicious pains
that swarm in a slivering hiss
upon dark and lurking shadows
aesthetically applauding themselves
as they push here and there
in their wounding commentary
of painful narrative
agonising enough to reduce
the soul to debilitating bouts
of disagreeably damaging experience
with startling exaggerations
that produce disgraceful extortions
upon mind and body
squandering unbearable isolations
fragmenting the cracks
in a delicate structure of personality
uprooting it from a sanctified paradise
providing instead a monstrous, shameful loathing
that makes one choose to become another
other than those unthinking
other than this misery of anguish
other than this pain
deliberately to provoke an anger
the other with ingratiating timidity
or rebellious defiance
favours a rejection of
all resentful obligations
all that is distasteful
all that is not worth carrying out
such as with a contempt
that allows one to escape into an emptiness
of the ridiculous and the impossible
through thoughts to an absurdity of beliefs
through the deserted streets
the neighbourhoods of the lie
pass the filthy inadequacies
of obscene caresses
where one is mocked
by exquisitely satisfying ******
of vicious pains
pains that control behaviour
freedom of movement
time and space
who appear at the corners of the mouth
where lurk sarcastic secrets
now I know in these horrors and torments
that time has stopped in all dimensions
eternity has ceased
Apr 2014 · 5.0k
Crimean War???
there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism  
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world
monsters call to themselves
and breezes eat the stones
a blue moon
sheds the underworld
of thought and time
it wallows in a pink sea
where out of the depths
his words like blown
cherry blossoms come
and a little bird finds
his pool of dreams
the birthing pool of ideas
then she is gone
flying under a soft
Columbian sky
growing hope, after him
whose creations and distractions
are the processes
that are necessary to show
the true feelings
hidden beneath the surface of things
where there is an endless combat
a struggle between darkness and light
the emotional duality of life
between that which is
and that which
has already been
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 insistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a lifetime
In memory of Gabriel García Márquez
Apr 2014 · 1.2k
is it real…
a cult novilist in Blackpool
watches Martina Navratilova
throw sugar lumps
at passers by
as captured teardrops
in a teaspoon
call, plead, for understanding
perhaps release
for they’re not the
obsessive prize
once hailed as trophy
but simply words in the air
that execute that which never comes
causing a retreat from an ordinance
of nothing
where time defiles itself
a red speckled jersey
whose arms, once occupied
are too small, limited
like abandoned prosthetics
leaving rotting flesh
to slowly scald the earth
with a vaporous experience
of emotional contrasts
like that of mesmerising serpents
whose visional embrace
stares deeply with such a charge
of ****** energy
that causes the air to weep
and poses the question
who shall give me leave
Mar 2014 · 1.0k
and the skies with sudden encore come
filled with words not worked
orchastrating a full complement
of treacherous ambition
and will an exploration
of competeing claim of unsundry wills
and such as is gives men a will to transform themselves
to give a cause to anciet or recent voice
a permissible presentation of possibilities
in battle and brawl with a blunt rhetorical and physical disorder
which does emphasize such dramas
with stark, violent and repressive potential
all tantilized with the prospect of wealth in the ground
make a contention with vicious energies
of hate and ambition that propels
an intence and exhausting experience
upon a once civil-world to spiral
vertiginously toward an ancient choas
enacting old stories with the oppresiveweight of the past
now monstrous individualism
whose hideously fragile bonds to peace
no longer exeert their hold
and thus divorse themselves
with an individual rapaciousness
annihilating lives with a curiousley
derivative quality for a store of gas and oil
and disinherite themselves from moral constriant
evoking the soliloquy of historical hypocrisy
with a mutilation of truth
in a tragedy of lament for all human kind
then sudden uncalled for encore fills the skies
a flashing neon cocktail of colour
shines a peculiar light
like a fossil washed in my jeans
it allows me to speak to Panzas donkey
in a place where black winged angels wait
providing a backdrop to unconscious geography
that can never be reclaimed
movements are that of a stage contortionist
slow and deliberate
they recollect colliding tangents
that preclude all manner of inquiry
there is an articulated confrontation
that corresponds to a drawn curtain
an ash grey partition
painted with a particularised creation
projecting in a self generated universe
an estrangement to the world of aligning
past and present
A windmill tilts and magnifies
the sense of isolation generated
by my conversation with Panzas donkey
in a realisation of the unquantifiable location
of the non-geometric dimensions of Quixotic thought
yet allows for an initiation of sensory experience
as a world that exists independently of
physical space is explored
and I realise the expansion of consciousness
is the emitted light of relative thought
that flashes in colour before me
it is my dreams, they are violet
like the sky
Jan 2014 · 1.5k
Writing prompt of the hour: mandrake

oh poison, what poison doth whisper in my ear

race through my veins like molten metal

cause the hottest summer to season in my mind

echoes a terrible trembling in my tingling limbs

it is mandrake, oh such deadly shade of night

that raises me to the floor luring my knees to my face

in unequalled gross distortions

oh mandrake, thou art a shade so deadly

as to make the blackest night quiver

now this poison makes strange ineluctable rhythms

gradually and patiently enter my body, my thoughts

like a gradual orchestral cadence of static melody

subtly wisping around my whole being.

destructive mandrake now scampers in my blood

becomes inseparable and lives in me

in fiery flocks of hallucinated concepts.

it fires through my body like burning sulphur

this mandrake, this poison

that has prolonged persistence

makes an experience of antediluvian treachery

from another time, not of this time, this present, this now

this here

mandrake has embalmed me to

the red roguish clay

I die ghastly from a writing prompt

mandrake, mandrake, deadly nightshade

fuqing mandrake
Jan 2014 · 1.4k
A new reality in my mind...
at this time in the past right here

it used to be real

oh!...oh! for another reality

to leave this false perception

and go...go...go to feel the wind

on another's face

to see with another's eyes

how the colours appear to them

to hear what another hears

with an innocent ear

to feel the euphoria

that slows the world down

to have another's departure

from all perceived notions of reality

to a new understanding

another reality

where brief encounters with time

start with the embarkation of a sentence

that causes a curious disquiet

to race through the nerves

ricocheting in a vibrancy

of vatic vitality, a creative tension

transforming the cortex

creating new unforeseen images

a new reality where thoughts are visible

and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind

dazzling with a universal symbolism

that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words

scatters and amplifies the distinctions

of the senses, into a new reality

one of convulsive voices

oh! this new reality

it causes me to walk to a stranger

who is myself

and forms a true disintegration

of a controlled focus

on a beautiful disorder of

chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse

of the emotions, where blood stains smile

lavishly with a different vocabulary

destroying a predictable reality

and forges a new one that entertains discovery

of other dimensions.. which are the figments

of another's imagination

it is solitary encapsulation of ideas

that glitter on my tongue

where conflagrations of burning water

swirl dramatically in difficult articulation

of the smells and rancid ***** stains

of the ordinary that tries but is precluded

from the stream of consciousness

rushing in a discord of sympathies

through the inner geography of my mind

and forges a symbolic relationship

with these inplosively brief encounters with time

causing psychic post apocalyptic

predispositions to a false mimesis
Jan 2014 · 746
where is your voice in this repulse
for I have no voice to praise
it has scattered the beautiful storm
while a hideous laughter resounds
and burns like a revived repellent
oh what is this repulse, what is it so
that makes me weep assumptions
and forces life to take leave of my anguish
my senses my consciousness
what is this repulse, tell what is this repulse
is it that of a communication that jumps back
that causes the soul to vibrate continuously
in riotous unison with the universe
what is this repulse, is it hate, is it hate
Dec 2013 · 2.8k
the explosion
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
three blue
three blue
three blue
can’t you
hear it
the unutterable
sound of silence
Nov 2013 · 2.1k
to do rather than be
oh what sustains this mind

a mind that teeters

on the edge of a spiral vertigo

that sways and rocks

in an unease of palpitations

attempting to escape

from the brutal insensitivity

of the granite faces that occupy the streets

a mind of hallucinated perceptions

with a constant stream of imagery

that finds a difficulty in the self negotiation,

the articulation of its inner geography

where a frightened availability of disturbance

in the vocabulary of its chemical graffiti

leaves speech vacated on the tongue

where eyes are pushed to see

a discord of sympathies for different dimensions

that has one disassociated, cut off from the immediate

living in an inner dialogue

of rebellious and unconventional preoccupations  

a self alienation that heightens

the poetic colouring of the imagination

causes a ******* of the mind

that makes me cripplingly aware

of the abyss at the heart of my inner disquiet

makes my toes hover on the jagged edge of the world

yet I jump choosing discovery over societal dictum

to do rather than be
Nov 2013 · 2.1k
Acute Inner Disturbance
how long to live through the next thought
to have a brief encounter with time
an impossible time of intolerable anguish
where embarking upon a sentence
is a violent wrench from perceived notions
of reality, one that causes nerves
to flay upon my body with weal's of words
where vatic poetry is wrought in trembling rages
spilling, dripping upon the traumatised
parchment that is my pages
in de-congealing interrelated drops of image
that crack the pavements
in a visual vibrancy of taut creative tension
where these words keep their own company
and speak in interrogative tongues
causing a fragmentation of earthquake fissures
to radiate across my mind in a cataclysm
of universal poison that quiets and dissolves stability
and asks, no demands of me, what can you see?
Nov 2013 · 1.2k
A delirium
there are dimensions of time
sometimes entered
not always of ones own volition
a sort of hyper reality where the world
becomes a darkness with red lit shadows
It’s as if time slows down
so it can be experienced frame by frame
as if the consciousness has become
separated from the being
it is the slow decent into something unknown
of which, at this stage
it is unknown if the author will be able to
or even wants to find the way back
for there is a welcome in this wasteland
that makes melancholy love of unknown pleasures
where all looks are concentrated
fixed yet constantly absent
and on looking skilfully
it can be figured out
what terrible riddles
have been created in the head
those who know when and how it is
those who sail in memories
who are terrorized by the imagination
and who get angry with God
ask a question a simple question
which is always the same
as is the answer
an answer that resembles
the rise and fall of cryptic waves
that ebb and flow
scorching a shore of silent sorrows
lapping ferociously at the
arc of a whirlpool within the mind
whose decreasing concentric
circles **** one down
into an eternity of terrible beauty
Nov 2013 · 643
Pink, blue and purple pigs
Tap gently on my window
They have suicidal grins
Nov 2013 · 1.2k
A Terrifying Perception
there is heard an amplified distinction of sounds
smells of accelerated inner vertigo
a feeling of immanent death
the distillation of blood stains on the sheets
an impulse of volatilized emotion
that generates a different vocabulary
creates a fixation with a considered state
of inner concerns, entertains other dimensions
discovers with sinister undertones
that one is a figment, yes a figment
of someone else’s imagination
that you are a a fascinated but unfortunate escape
from a brutal insensitivity that sustains a mind
that teeters at the jagged edges of the world
for is it you… are is it who, an hallucinated perception
of the I, the we, the them and the me
Oct 2013 · 936
Subterranean Poet Boy
the young egoist licks a blunt blade in the wall
until his tongue bleeds, to feel, yes to feel, feel anything
in these fettid depths where splinters of light
find themselves lost in the subterranean gloom
of his bedroom
where on occasion when it presents itself
listens to grotesques, yes listens with an ear
a plain nasty and unfeeling ear
yet it listens without any phoney, putrid arty language
he hears old irregular clocks
feels the smells under the ground
drinks unquenchable angers
citing their antique tonal ability
to create magic words out of rain and mist
then screaming his voice starts oozing and undulating
creeping through these slow subterranean pampas
compressing and expanding themselves never and at once
he believes it is an unsafe place of frighteningly sincere dangers
then thinks is danger a place, licks the blunt blade in the wall
for even in this desperation
it makes him happy when his tongue bleeds
he tries to perfect conventionally generous impulses
the spit of dreams, his dreams as he dons his mask
his mask of foolscap to write a poem
then encounters angel-devils and demons
who he has the power to deceive
and thinks to himself as he licks
the blunt blade in the wall
finish it, finish it
then realizes it's unfinishable
Oct 2013 · 1.1k
a music box of magic words
a music box of magic words
of circuses, gruesome murders and monsters
a mad logic of connected disconnected things
held together by the drifting mists of dreams
first air and rainbows
destroying pious falsities, telling new tales
of many things to come, flying above the crowd
showing the blinding white distance ahead
of the two ice capped poles
past he various categories
like old people who die when the weather turns
yet there is a desire to summon and expect disaster
you've seen the show, blinding like the sun on water
matched only by the patience
of the floating fall of a ladies silk stocking
a music box that looks immensely vindicated
and in those precious seconds, these busy seconds
that mumble and murmur to themselves
of divine and temporal forces
tastes the whiff of immorality
that possesses that special skin
that cruelty of countless acquisitions
of alchemy especially its capacity to coach sorrow
to teach it to touch the regurgitated
inaccuracies of indentured truth
ah! the music box who returns the echoing roar
of answerless answers with questionable questions
yet inoculated and protected by the vast pleasures
that somehow conceal themselves within the music box
in its rhythms and its clock-work metal innards
cancel out any pain and the half closed eyes that stop the heart
shatter the sky
shower with an avalanche of magnetic attraction
the magic music box, the magic music box
Pandora's magic music box
a green silhouette of grey,  towering in secret turmoil
where shadows shuffle past clothed in draperies of U
like the front door of a public house at night time
on moments they stop and peer through windows
as if searching for themselves
and seeing themselves not within
place a hand on each others shoulder
with slender tapered  touch to life
and wander on looking
for the fresh warm rain of belief, any belief
they just don't care
dark as unforgiven justice
neither divine nor temporal forms
shadows that reflect no change
ensure no truth, show no energy to immerse
and this applies no effort to pick their chaos
nor specialised catastrophies
though do marshal devils of distinction
from the ramparts of the night
who dance in crooked form
twisting around the indolence of faces
peering through others windows
howls too for they make such howls
as such the shadows dismiss them
to their own oblivion
the shadows in their old humiliating story
move on still peeping, peeking and peering
but they languish in a wander land
always calm and reasonable
they move on like gassed first world war soldiers
but trembling inwardly with a frightful rage
cursing priests veined with age
who have told everyone's confession
and doctors slowly losing their hair
who never confess their secrets
not even to veined faced priests
and sometimes in a few seconds
these few but precious seconds
before the next window
it is remembered, yes remembered
shadows are the colour of light
in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, write
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue
Oct 2013 · 4.5k
how sad to be misunderstood
how sad to be misunderstood
to be evicted from life
to have the full tenure
of a torrid human existence
gesture horribly at you
in faultless reputation
like that of a rancid rage
over a lost trinket
or to be quarantined
while fingerless skin scolds
and noiseless voices are raised
in a donated generosity of savage ignorance
striving to make copious amends
in vain efforts to regrettable
slow acting poison that boils the mind
oh how sad to be misunderstood
such varicose viciousness
oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood
to live through and inoculated hour glass
giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy
and when your breath speaks they laugh
black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths
knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils
oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood
to be drenched in the rain but not get wet
in which antiquity rests with its
mythologised stupendous ill effects
getting  vivid shadows massed all around
oh how sad it is to be misunderstood
until dactylic, hexameter, elegance
completes and slithering syllables
by their antiquity  focus a shuddering shriek
that sends an exploding heart through your chest
think ha, ha, there is nothing to think
I think it has all been thought
perhaps not all
for I have just thought it
has all been thought
like a chicken that plucks its own feathers
perhaps one should think solitudes
enormous solitudes
such as one may experience at school
during holiday  time when all have gone but one,
leaving nothing left to think, only a tyranny of dreams
that sob and trickle down burning cheeks
making one almost think of grief
but there’s nothing left to think I tell you
all angels have fled and leave only the stench
of cadaverous thinks that have been thought
and having had that privilege die
fall rotten in the streets their putrid smell
an unthinkable contagion lays siege to the mind
there is nothing left to think, nothing I tell you
everything has been thought
by men in black with absurdly tiny heads
and all the thinks that have been thought
form a silhouette around the sun
in unthinking vengeance blocking out the light
though to sure there may be a think left
for I have composed a poem in a language
never before heard or thought of
I think it is the perfect think
what do you think
I think I should not be left at school during the holidays
thats what I think
Roden take note
Sep 2013 · 1.1k
Religion and Priests
every morning at dawn arise old ghosts
mouths a laceration of starched and well ironed sorrows
tall with hard calloused thoughts
they dispense in scattered winds
red fiery dust as they move
it pulverises a languid and tremulous sun
creating evil urges
white eyed they ****** and gulp
like burst and juicy fruit
their fill of emptied begging children
causing competing and contrasting
rumours of confrontation to avenge and humiliate
to cause a devastation of glimpses through
the red fiery dust paths
don’t think if there is no hurry they will slip away
no, the old ghosts multiply forcing a look upon
that frightened daylight star with an evil eye of virtue
that assumes to sanctify the foul rookeries
where perch devils and evil jinns
conjuring up a vaudeville of defrocked priests
who weep  over a holed and cast of shoe
with withered  fingers rattling rosaries
as if to ward of some dreaded contagion
and they lie there among the rain without the wet
and know that it is they who are the contagion
they so fearfully dread
Sep 2013 · 2.1k
Syria September 2013…
and the bombs sing their requiem in silent accord
while those with blood stained civil hands
think themselves out of thoughts
while running from their own feet
and here find strained in protest
words to pierce the ear of grief
and find that an elusive possession,
human identity,  is trampled by larcenous wiles
such a theft that suffuses a merciless and malicious twinship
both spurious and misplaced
and produces understandings that mystify
by a succession of inexplicable events
disorientates and masks
a comedy of daylight thoughts
at once touching and grotesque
where disorientation and danger lurk
and have us believe, that which would
restore order and reason
making the ordinary world ordinary again
becomes lost in its co-ordinates
of a self made illusion
whose features lead to an uncertainty
at once plausible and disturbing
one distinguished by solemnities
of disturbed incompetence of well meaning
whose distance of sorrow evaporates
in a poignant lament
Aug 2013 · 1.3k
Belfast Riots
Such vicious energies of hate
That propels an enactment
Of intense and exhausting experience
Where vigorous rhetoric of contending factions
Show inability to shape a moment into coherent form
Providing only chaos
Aug 2013 · 5.8k
tell me what words are there
to articulate this savage parade
not here, not in all the Lebanons
whose crystal castles sparkle
like broken glass
on the dark horizons
at the jagged edges of the world
from which cultured minds have receded
and all humanity has been relinquished
to the barbarity of the frenzied flavours of fools
who will speak for this wild parade
without impediment to mythical protagonists
tell me where are the energised arguments
against sophisticated yet false laments
where testament is torn through
weeping cedar trees
producing the unpredictable accidental quality
that memorialises phantom caresses
that have neither been invented nor encouraged
the hallow that inaugurates
the distinctive features of
destructive energies that are both
exuberant and hard to comprehend
this parade where there is
a savage sensibility
capable of apprehending
contradictory ethical imperatives
that vouch for a mocking stream of
tragic political consequence
displayed vividly in the inextricability
of civil order and political violence
that defies exclusive claim
by casting itself as freedom warrior
in disguise as militaristic humanism
and burns the temple tree
and where human identity
becomes an elusive possession
owned by a few
who in the inevitability of ignorance
refuse to recognise their tragic error
and the world does not mount
a strenuous protest
at this headlong dash for Ephesus
where antagonistic language and
neutral expression of thought converge
and here the value of valulessness
repudiates, even in a single poetic moment
Aug 2013 · 1.5k
What is this love?
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
bleeding comments on a scribble pad
interactions regulating a previous history
in words of spontaneous repeats
projecting the colour of dreams
in a world of violet sky
that has dispensed with night and day
in elliptical words that dilate
to a lacerating urgency
where apocalyptic statements
unleash in silent appraisal
a symbiosis of male and female
the creation of a new species
survivors of anaemic journeys
where one does not need to search
for identity in the other
but experiences that freedom
from the strain of isolation
and pieces together the fragments of
a once thought insoluble puzzle
that is disturbed in hidden speech
in bleeding comments on
an unruled scribble pad
Aug 2013 · 520
the secret lives of enigmas
expansion of consciousness
could realise the light
emitted by relative thought
two blue one brown
two blue
two blue one brown
two blue
two blue one brown
two blue
two blue one brown
projecting self generated universes
the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space
Jul 2013 · 1.2k
I wish I was In Zanzibar
I wish I was in Zanzibar
to walk upon its sand
to feel the impressions of poems
that explode within my palms
and all the ink that baths upon
and calls itself anew
is but a shower of raging sunlight
that drags my heart askew
I wish I was in Zanzibar
to walk upon its sand
to feel his beutiful fingers
entwined within my hand
my arms stretch out above my head
I really do love him
But know that he is dead
I wish I was in Zanzibar
to feel its gentle waves
its foam like Can Can dancers
performing on a stage
and one day soon
I am going to have to go there
and then they all will know
that I am a boy, a mere pretender
in slow motion in the show
and here I will look for butterflies
as I make my way to school
and claim the part of intelligence
or perhaps that of  fool
I think in velvet red
and dream of the day it will be me
naked upon the stage
I wish I was in Zanzibar
to feel its gentle rage
and put my palm to ink and pen
and write upon its page
I wish I was in Zanzibar
its where I wish to go
to play all day upon the sand
and be in its strange and wonderful show
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