I observe, without seeing it the discourse of history in my blood
Hear it, feel its silent speech, its frantic rush, and its inner dialogue
Like a hidden undercurrent coursing through all my veins
The inner space of speech, the redundance of images
A sympathetic attunement to the dimensions of words
That is the medium of my new translation
A new complete language, now, for the first time accompanies my thoughts.
My body is already loaded with the nuclear impulse of an outcast
Demanding a proliferation of attentions, seeking the androgynous coupling of opposites
A fascination showers me I become bewildered by my own questioning
Study my nakedness in the mirror seeking to replace it with something else
I am about to reverse the process of viewing the world, confuse my sensory responses
Challenge all with a double, I wish to distort and destabilize
To divide between mental image and physical reality
This gives me immense pleasure

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

I negotiate the lie of beauty
Navigating its deceit, its untamed geography
Feel the curves of careless form

Caress un-travelled paths
Match its pretence and smile
Then breathe the darkness of its light

His touch perfect places itself
At the centre of all my dreams
Piercing syrup coloured skin

With little globs of sap
Glistening on a hairless map
Leaving exploration yet to be discovered

There is a terrible existence within me

A tortured skeleton, an ossuary of disturbance

It glamours at my skin, it listens, it listens

Where hunger speaks of canibalism

And scratches at the stone floor of my chest

In blurred echoes of a censorship

That erases occurrences on a Ducassian

Dissecting table with an infinite whisper

Of morbid intention in disordered silence

Shouts with immense calibrations

Its pale impatience, its pale impatience

In agonized incantatory obduration

...it is a letter in a cemetery...to hell with distinguished solemnities or perhaps heaven with dubious incompetence of well meaning form....down here....down here.... in the cemetery....where there are no poignant laments...for us...the emaciated corpses...grotesques that reside perhaps beyond your horizon of plausible vision...but sit here among the dead eyes hiding in the leaves...where our coordinants evaporate in vandalized ink...help wanted among the emaciated corpses..........

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

transparent boundaries in a mind
mark out the blank vacuum of space
scrutinize other minds discard all trivia
extract with a kinetic incisiveness
required information
in a chronological diversity of images
speak with the fluency of an abrupt halt
which is maximized to reduce an effect
on the skeletal calisthenics of
introspective histrionics
by acquired extrasensory faculties
by that very mind, by that very mind
a neurobiological transmutation

is it the paradox of construction

of an unseen core or a painful interiority

with an insistence on a dark meloncholy

which is it, which is it, oh which is it

is it unreasonable I ask, to persist obstinately

in sorrow

or is such a cause a despair of bitter corrosiveness

centered on that very paradox

who with astonishing vividness

conveys the spontaneous rhythms of the mind

a mind in motion that preserves unprcedented intensity

that reflects disturbing exchanges of intimate encounters

intertwined in unresolved vagaries that present themselves

with the passage of time

and view these dark attractions in the same moment

the same moment of becoming, yes at that moment

the moment of our death

The complete disarrangement of all my senses, myself my I

Is threatened with the bitter sound of uncertain rumour

That possesses an urgency of unwillingness

An incomprehension of thought

The improvised mediocrity of relished indignity

Asinine questions, absurd and ludicrous probing

Accusations and primitive propensities

The deformities of exaggerated obscenities

That blame and brand myself my I as mad

They have stolen liars tongues

Unfettered falsehoods that lure by practice of pretense

Make subject to a tyranny of questionable inquisitions

That claim themselves both by treaty and inheritance

Pursue with a vigor blind narcoleptic dancers with a ferocity

That embalms the bones with the tears of a million fans

Who in such tragedy represent that image and behold him

His limb freshly bleeding reading his words in lamentation

black shadows spread
congregated  silhouettes
torn from their sleep
anguish etched on their faces
where nightmares have been dumped
create an avenging rage
of systematic hysteria
beyond all human bonds
become blind
to the anticipated
repressions of reality
entities whose powers
are not fully grasped
grey noise a menacing presence
anthracitic, their blackest tasks
so horrible
creating night in the middle of the day
mischievous  and malicious
they are no more
than an eternity away
where a box has no mother
black shapes beg
in their furtive
ballet once again
pure with night
sees the scene

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

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

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

Let me hear him, let me hear him

Whose tongue does emphasize

A drama of frenzied elements

Impoverished by ridicule of vicious energies

That try to shape coherent form

Between contending factions

Thus registering predicaments

In a tragedy of vivid language

That mutilates a cannibalism of words

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

Strange ineluctable rhythms have gradually and patiently entered my thoughts
Like a gradual orchestral cadence of soft melody subtly wisping around my whole being
They scamper in my blood become inseparable and live in me
Flocks of hallucinated concepts
I become possessed of ever changing moods
The catatonic calm
The delirious frenzy
The ungovernable mania
My pleas, my questions, are ignored
I live
In wondrous chaos
In disturbed turbulence
In manic colors
In the the Darwinianism of shapes
I experience a feeling of high elation
A complicity in my adopted position
Intoxicated by the prospect of my duality.

he emerged shocking

in his reality

in the nakedness of selfhood

and cheap approximations

reduced to a simple ‘I’

to which all of us are leveled

at those instances when

we don’t have to exist for other people

it is a nameless solitude

a realm of migrant squalor

where disposable smiles

are smeared across unreasonable faces

and where one is forced to seek

a loyalty of angers in others the same

Why is there claimed a prosperity of jests

That in loneliness a compulsion does denounce

And neutral expression declares war upon itself

Where an unjust obedience encounters misfortune

A mishap that leaves an extremity of borrowed disparagement

Shouting in a weary importance of arrival whose agency is false

Leaves me, leaves me with head buried in palm

Having conversations with my tears

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
incantations
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

there is a seperation

a pain of seperation

such as a seperation

that only lovers specialise in

where the prevention of thought

is like a fortress overrun

where trampling terrains of concern

stampede upon the praire of the mind

transforming it into a soft savanna

of wating engagements

that murmer with comforing enchantments

lays upon such pain of seperation

as that of a perforated scar

seared across the heart

bringing tickles of soft warm tears

to the cheeks

the happist time becomes

a chasm only conquerd

by that gulping unification

of embrace

where soft burning lips

meet in that unknown

but express language

of clasped reunion

it is that pain, that awful pain

that only lovers know

We are slaves to freedom

Captives who watch

The passing parade

Of life with wistful impotence

Clothed in the arrogance of ignorance

Shivering enviously in the shadow

Of other peoples flesh

Repenting other kinds of lives

Disguised and self conscious

Amidst the squalor of the living

And oh how we give thanks

For our Slavery

let us perceive the world anew

and call to account that which

produces intolerable wrongs

of devious motivations

and let us give vindication

to a universal imperative

more powerful than

the pious injunctions of any belief system

whose lies cause such struggle of speech

to produce weird tormented admonitions

in hallucination

that pollutes with a tenacious

intractable meaningless vitality

Flying with cut wrists

Above the color of a surrogate self

Osiris Son of Earth and Heaven

I suddenly feel the warm red viscous liquid

Slowly it seeps out furtively at first

Then with more determination

Down my arm across my right hand, across my left

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip

I can sense it congealed on my head where my hands have been

Clinging to me not wishing to leave

My face is caressed by crimson fingers as a lover would

My eyes, ears, nose, mouth, neck

It seems to roam over me looking for a home

Trickling across my lips it offers, no dares me to taste

Teasing me, but my mouth cannot respond

Lips now matched against the scarlet

A growing blue in comparison, colour mix

Form a new symmetric sapphiric jewel

I feel rushing air as off a great wind

Bright white lights curiously dance above me

Invite me to join them

Colours speed past

Drab, dreary colours green, grey

Then suddenly a veil is laid upon me

All is black

In the shallow capacity of a dream

Whose nightmare is compulsive

Whose argument is a melancholy

Of intoned attuned contradictions

Of that which is arguably another

With an express made more sober

By an emphasis of obscure fragmentation’s

That effects, in ambiguous contradictions

Mists that conjure in artificial reluctance

An unwrapping pretense that grows heavy in the palm

Making sleeping bruises weep

Those that have placed themselves

By treaty or inheritance upon a soul

And embalm a presence

On announcement of resurrection

For those who awake

Am I the Rat poet

From an ossuary of ages

Whose words scurry

Along blind tunnels

Am I the Rat poet

Locked in counterfeit cages

Whose letters wander in deficit

With a majestic malevolence

Am I the Rat poet

Exposing counterfeit confessions

Of plagued and decaying text

Who hears the sounds of burning books

Am I the Rat poet

Who writes what you despise

Yes, Yes, Yes

I am the Rat Poet

Can't you tell by my listening eyes

so many faces, so many faces
disfigured lives in hushed tones of living
find  they have no choice
and with eyes discoloured
yet not blind destroy the flowers that bloom
they recognise the work of the infernal serpent
in Miltonian affirmation of a stranger
and a more deadly disfigurement
than that which like sun baked clay
bears its cracks in the haunting of lives
with a medieval gargoylian curse
to becomes the orphans
of nothing, except everything
and ask how does this equate
with so many faces
faces that are struggling for
the paradise to be regained
for the infernal serpent to be slain  
so many faces, so many faces

Jaundiced minds
In Red, dim lit rooms
Speak of the burning rain
With barbarous
Atavistic articulations

I am Looking

At the looking glass

Looking at me

As I coast the shore

Of vertiginous reflections

My shadow says his heart sounds different
Words to assuage whatever pain this causes evade me
However I am somewhat loathe to enter
Into a Socratic dialogue with my shadow
Only to be aware if imperceptibly
That his knowledge of such far outweighs mine in the balance
So I say nothing change the subject
My shadow raises a question
Interrogating me on my pursuance of its form
It probes me as to why a fifteen-year-old boy peruses him
Forever questioning about his purpose and mine
These questions I cannot answer, now look bewildered
Blushing even in the presence of my shadow
But he smiles for he knows my thoughts and my actions
After all he is me
But I know his contagious affirmation of myself
Feel his warm glow his imperious perfection
His desire the need to accommodate his want
I reduce myself to his wondrous allure
Feel the ripples of a soft capricious breeze enticing me
I succumb gladly to its seductive enchantments it seduces me
I allow it to overcome my being
Then as so many times before we become one

there is a warmth

in the cold glow

of articulated extremities

that occur within

a biospherian belief

in the isolation

of esoteric initiation

of discoveries and

aspirations that allow

self consciousness to expand

to that dimension

isolated within brain cells

that can assimilate

and instigate great changes

in a personal universe

He who provides

The supreme ambivalence

An equivalence of contradictions

This trendy late adolescent

Who has a disconcerting

Dangerous quality about him

Who is keen and energetic

Like an ad for a fizzy drink

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

As adolescent night falls
He drifts in my dreams
His harsh and angry words
Causing hardness
Leave Turin stencils on my sheets
The feared bruising of our lips
In geometry of circular mouths
Does not stop our history
Prompts navigation
Leaves pleasure un-distilled

seventy-three silk worms

live on the peripheries

of my consciousness

i see them

encounter their stares

hundreds of silver eyes

their ravenous mouths

that keep me emaciated

in my own mind

long vertical ropes of thread

spiraling in molecular contortionisms

among my thoughts

there is an elasticity in their movements

their speech is laden with androgynous chic

they possess and exacting ambition

not to be kept alive by toxins

and look to their Dadaist progenitors

for encouragement in their silken tasks

seventy-three silk worms

who find affirmative properties

in the rebirth of my brain cells

Amidst gray garlic skies

Swells a deafening despair

It laments the death of yesterday

And in its ineffable grief

Appears as a drop, yes a drop

It is green and resembles

A soft wind blown thus among clouds

By the ordinance of chance

Across black boulevards

And here the legendary

Taste of ashes fills the air

Where a single breath disperses

Galactic calculations through green glaciated lips

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

Pictures of shadows

Turn their faces from me

Words run away in fear

Streets are crowded with

Screaming squealing sentences

Squalls of colored vowels scurry

Furtive and fearful consonants

Collide in panic to escape

The blinding ignorance of 'normality'

Hunts down the paragraphs

Books, notes, letters are piled high

A bonfire is lit the flesh of words

Of thoughts of alternatives melt

The flames are stoked ashes fly

Spiraling into the air

A smell of bitter blackness

Pervasive and prolonged

A bleak confession to tragedy

Lists of endless lists listed

Lists of listed horrizonal lines

Lines of horrezonal listed lists

Laid out lines of lists, row after row

Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines

Lists of lists, of lists of lists listed

Lists of lists not yet listed in lines

Listed not yet lines of lists listed

Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines

Lines waiting to be listed in lines of lists

List this list, it hasn’t been listed in

Lists of lines unlisted, hold on I’ll make a

List

watch gray inking night
turn to amber
like a special ink upon
some mysterious blotting paper
and the same state as previous
of profound emotional turmoil
thunders within my heart
what cause is this
that has so overwhelmed me
what sorcery is it that binds me to tears
that blink through wet stained eyelashes
and wash upon my face in tumbling droplets
form a recreation of heightened moments
of my consciousness the weightlessness of inner thought
It makes me know the winds speech
realise the attempted elimination of identity
and I try desperately to hide
from the gargoyles that now stalk me through the streets
and smell their black breath hanging in the air
like some kind of numbing intoxicant mist
and I try to resolve the enigma that is the core of my being
that which contains the esoteric voice of the wind
in rapacious resoundements of remembrance
that cannot be recalled to mind

there is a numbed feeling
one of exclusivity
that suggests
a solitary reconnaissance
one of orientated purposes
where moods are reflectively animated
in individual focus
in order to infiltrate
a non sharing experience
but the feeling abruptly stops
it is a synchronized wound
it is the assassination
of the distant and complex
terminals of the human mind
i am irretrievably shocked
poeple live
but there are really no survivors

amid pentagrams

satelliting my mind

an outward location

of an ostentation

that lids a voyeuristic eye

to Da Vinci’ fingers in a jar

waiting anxiously for them

to move, perform an ******

panache of evocative art

but they are congealed

in a stalactite shiver

that lacks transmitted urgency

but contact with these

enigmatic digits causes

a correspondingly delayed

then urgently convulsive frenzy

that somewhere in time

bring frictional contact

with a canvas or a ceiling

Da Vinci’ fingers in a jar

an outward location

of unclasped curiosity

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

mutant mannequins

stare from the shop window

visions of Venus de Milo

awaiting the hour to come alive

indecipherable simulations

anonymous

yet they have about them

a lacerating urgency

an elliptical and oblique

consciousness

that emits the light

of relative thought

establishing a symbiosis

of non gender

that stimulates the color of dreams

in unleashed silent appraisal

History has dreamed of me

And as such in its’ imaginings

Feels the painful days and tragedy

Of my great lament

Scorching the jagged edges of the world

It is a history that possesses

A capricious and intense sensitivity

A receptivity to suggestions of the imaginary

It bestows instability to the great vital rhythms of my life

And the misty memories of that present,

That present past, provide a misery of mood

Fills my veins with an inconsistency of feelings

Creating an all engulfing anxiety

Of fear and contempt for myself

Where amidst this great disorder

I fear that all hope has fled

Vanquished toward a black and purple sky

This causes all the great human dilemmas

To take up unwelcome residence in my mind

Which is tortured by a pervasiveness of antagonism

Antipathy and disturbance

You see  I can no more escape from these

Obsessing reflections in my consciousness

Than I can from my own reflection in a mirror

What meaningfulness

Of historical process

That undermines itself

With irrelevant ineptitude

Of the unpredictable

Concatenation of events

A resolution sought

Less with human intention

Than with achievement

Of contending collapse

Of its experience

And reflects the

Divine informalities

Of exuberant desire

The Isolation of my immense solitude's

Find expression in words

Beautiful incandescent words

Energetic advocagets

Of secret fibers of consciousness

That block out a harsh and unforgiving reality

Who transform an everyday darkness into intense light

Words that are not complete unto themselves

Nor empty but malleable with relentless perspicacity

Creations mythical and radical that cast fanatical curiosities

Upon the clear and harmonious contours of the mind

Melting nerves and thought making concience blush

With contemplated reflections of paralysed silence

Imprinting multicolored words on an immutable identity

With elegant and capricious expression that brings a joy

do I possess an inner reality
one of hallucinatory psychosis
and if so is it
incorruptible
immutable
does it float on my breath
confiscating my words
is it a projection of my self
like watching a movie
disconnected
yet caught on the edge
of a dematerialization
which reflects images that mob my head
causing me to think of rats
that slink out of drains at noon
and whispers in the mouth
like a static interference on my mind

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

and on my breath
i feel his talkative
and in my heart
feel his words so beautifuly evocative
and in my mind feel his wonderful
and whats so forbidden is so beautiful
if only all the stupid fools knew
they would all feel so wonderful too