nor does the love of flesh
portray the enormity
of the ink that weeps upon my page
nor give sufficient life
to the words that cling to me
like orphaned children
in search of a family
such as pain of mind
that amplifies an unjust justification
that allows shadows to linger on my mind
that which allows the trickle of tears
to slowly wet my cheeks
a blue blair, dead, still
that adds to the temporal ruins
that violate my freedom

There is sand in my pockets

I am waiting on it to turn to gold

While the holes in my shoes

Refuse to tred carefully

On the contents of my unconsciousness

The constallated images of my mind

Giving them tangible form

Of opulent manifestation

Black rubies of forbidden thought

Who give birth to new emotions

Where galactic magicians sing

Incantatery truisms of other realities

Where banality is evaded with sharp realistic taste

That breeds on impulse of eternal heaviness

Of emotional anguish which seethe and bubble

Burst blisters of my charged inner self

My castle, my cell, my coffin, my grave

In ******* detonation of undiluted words

Concentrated, full, a blue fire of energized thrusts

Sustaining uninterrupted creation of imagery

There is sand in my pockets

I am waiting on it to turn to gold

I discard my shoes but retain their holes

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

Dark night of the tallest dreams

Whose visions yearn for a willing

Transformation of themselves

And cry pretensions of constraints

And possibilities of ****** intensity

Who emphasize a drama of forced elements

In dark violent and repressive potential

That leaves such visions impoverished

Yes impoverished of an outcome

Unable to shape such matters

Into coherent form

Allows for vicious energies

Of an intense and exhausting experience

Makes vigorous its form of monstrous depiction

That leaves an eternity of lamentation in their making

Inducing that of evaluative vertigo

That flares into a conflagration of the mind

Embalming the senses, allows for a turmoil of demons

Of fathomless malice and grotesque shadows

To be the inauguaration of the tragedy of my night

there is a sense of fluency
in his visual metamorphoses
framed in a diaphanous red
that isolates a consciousness
yet at the same time allows a journey
to ultimate extremes
of perfected enhancement
of the higher realization
of unfulfilling limitations
he knows that he can never be free
like a name in an address book
written in blue ceramics
that provides the impulse
to sensitizing thought
to the silence that walls him in
spiraling back in second hand decibels
overloaded with the complex distribution
of metabolic need
forms contradictory impulses
an index of vulnerable and invulnerability
like the familiar dissimilarity in his eyes

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

Shadows on my mind
In purple images play
Echoes of words
Shimmering, silhouettic
Seductions, Hideous
Perhaps, contagious
Falseness as if in fatigue
Indiscriminate, without
Compromise in their counterfeit
Lying in wait in eager ambush
Hidden by a thought
A thin antiquated distraction
A solitary mutilation of identity
Deflecting interest in amplified displacement
Into delirious disguise, re-emerging in distraction
Pestering, problematic, destabilising directness
In their ubiquitous imaginary lie
A realisation that one is all too aware of
Yet despite this knowledge cannot help
But conspire in their captivating complicity.

a white pinked pettled flower
that looks much like
a flying duck in destress
is a friend to the yellow leaved flower
though to be sure does not wear a hat
either by choice or design but by decree
because there are terrible anti-hat laws
directed at flowrers, who to some
though not to me, maybe of an oddity
for I am of a mind to believe
if flowers wish to wear hats
by all means they should be permitted to do so
so let them deal with me as they will
for I do not fear them
flower hats and for-get-me-nots
shall be are call

There is a boy bathed by the light of the full moon
I wrote about it, then I burned it
Now.. sitting in the shade of the budding lime trees
I realize that which is once written..cannot be destroyed
An oddness is abroad I believe
An oddness that allows for the purchasing of warm apricot juice
An oddness that produces groundless but powerful fears
An oddness producing an impulse to run away
An oddness that weaves itself into a shape among the sultry and coagulated air
An oddness in the shape of a boy
Captured by the blue light of a full moon in the middle of the day
I shut my eyes but the vision flutters before me
As if it is impressed on tissue paper
Blown gently by a soft breeze
The boys face though beautiful is one made for derision
I think to myself..this can't be.. but alas it is
For when I now open my eyes the hallucination
For that's what I believe it to be
Still flutters before me as a candle flame flickers
My heart is beating in a wild desperation
I am about to scream
The mirage dissolves itself and the boy vanishes
The fear that has griped me evaporates
I put the whole episode down to the drinking
Of warm apricot juice on a very hot day
But am I wrong am I wrong...that would be an oddness

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

Morning is reborn in broken sentences

Like the sound of skin

In a summers trickle of dispute

Covers all in a swaddling shroud

A falcon leaves flies away

With shreak tells all

There is nothing here

But this abandoned boy

Everything is becoming most peculiar
A strange carnavalesque atmosphere is gently blowing around me
Time has moved, passed, drifted, gone back, gone forward, gone down, gone up
There is a tepid touch on me, I shake; feel infinity of tears without inventory or cause
While the sun gives two shadows to one shape
I see the seven minute blackness of 2186
Now pictures of shadows turn their faces from me
Words run away in fear the streets are crowded with screaming, squealing sentences
Squalls of coloured vowels scurry, furtive and fearful
Consonants collide with each other in their panic to escape
As the blinding ignorance of ‘normality’ hunts down the paragraphs
Books, notes and letters are piled, a huge bonfire is lit
The flesh of words, of thoughts of alternatives melts
The flames are stoked, ashes fly spiralling into the air
The smell of bitter blackness is pervasive and prolonged
A bleak confession to tragedy.

I am lonely, yes lonely

Yet I do not stop

I do not stop

For I do not wish to offend

Offence that terrible conflict

Between commodity of self interest

And treasonous alliance of the heart

Offence an immaculate misconception

……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….

I witness the carnivalesque dance of illusion

the self conscious telling of a familiar story

a darkening tone, the synthesing

of incompatible perspectives

that cause an incandescent agony

of self-inflicted wounds

caused by the somatizing of events by others

but leads to epiphanic illuminations

the transformative energies of disintigration

where all the beauty that is inherent in the ordinary

becomes clear

everthing lights up with the glow

of the quantum expansion of great silences

and I can retrieve from the unconcious

something I know but have forgotten

the anguish of this agonised arena

where black angels

roam delusional paranoia

a commitment to life

a responsibility to death

an obedience to immense solitudes

of anticipation generated by inspirational charge

an agony of imagined dreams

found in missing time

the unattainable that no longer exists

an unrealized reality

oh the anguish of this agonised arena

this continuous invocation of other

of I of me of we

a great elucidation of emotional chaos

the outer geography of my imagination

where all is led bare

and i see the black shadow of light

qualified, qualified, qualified

artifice, oh artifice of deception

miraculously ameliorated

by a strategy masquerading as a reality

or a reality masquerading as a strategy

leads to unresolved questions

of the perplexities that tug

at the heart of many truths

laying bear the spontaneous rhythms

of a mind in motion with

an unprecedented intensity

of a struggle to articulate

perceptions of a shattered understanding

of absurdities proclaimed as violations

of moral obligation

for morality is nothing more than opinion

that has a treasonous alliance with itself

giving birth to illegitimate validations of stupidity

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

roam

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

Oh, what sleep so soft in death
I would enjoy if I could hear
You tell of our passion with a silent tear

In my schoolboy bedroom it is a completely different world
Brings me in confluence with my shadow
The meeting of two merging anticipated tributaries
Like cold blue morning and dark sprinkled night
Where my mirror has become the ritualised
Expression of my isolation of my individual consciousness
Fused as one at the edge, where all else becomes blurred
An abstraction, indefinably lost like the mixing of shadows
That cannot be deduced on any mental map
I hear my shadow beckoning me
In its uncoordinated marginality
In isolation I receive his thoughts, his considered reflections
Something has now united us through joint experience a totality
An idea a notion conceived, to abrogate the restraint on liberty
An erosion of all guilt, advancement to a notion
Of profound imagination, where invariably
Our congress will be complete there can be no latitude for digression.

defective, with every ancient deceit
a terbaulant calm within me rages
and I leap from a great hight
into a shallow abyss
where lurk the stains you cannot see
that creep in this petty place
where the speech of those who speak
lays open like a drawer of stained knives
and a stone terrain of thought
recollects the gestures made
where a confrontation with
a corresponding fictionalization
places one in an unquantifiable location

Moscow now lies at an angle
An angle to the other side of silence
It is here where you don’t see me
When asked may we say nothing
Unnatural relations, unnatural relations
Are the unnatural words used
Ha, ha, ha,
But we are articulate flesh
What is  
unnatural, unnatural, unnatural
It is unnatural to deny
A vast majority of the human existence
Moscow now lies at an angle
To the other side of silence

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

there are ashes in my mouth

the residue of flaming words

that scorch the silk savannah of my mind

they drain the blood from my skin

as if my wrists have been opened

bleeding onto the pages before me

a great ******* of half-formed consciousness

these words, these flaming, fiery words

erupt in rapid torrents

of strange improbable happenings

their clatter grows louder, they yell

now I understand the nature of my curse

it  is to look for something I have forgotten

a beautiful yet tragic gentleness

like the femininity of my hands

that calls to me from across

the infinite blackness of space

there are ashes in my mouth

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

"Normality" does not imprison me

My life being not heavy enough

Is allowed to take flight

To float above the reasoned realm

Where revelations of the truth

Realized only by detachment devour my thought

Increase my errorless purpose

And so the stencils of oriental scribes

Like colourless shadows overpower my mind

Floating, floating high above

Adrift on an expanse of darkness

Presently that black ink

Raises its curtain before my very eyes

Revealing the stage, the illuminated stage

On which I am to set my drama

Where the phantoms of my imagination

Will enact their mysterious mysteries

A poetic alchemy

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

Silvine Blockster

had a book

which it seems

everywhere he took

and thus as is

always the case

as when such books

are ferried in open space

it was not unusual

for folk to ask

if they could look

inside Silvines Blokcsters book

But upon not such uncivil pleas

he would become incenced

and wobble most peculiarly

at the knees

rant and even rave

shout and squeal

but he never would reveal

the pages of the books appeal

so once upon a dark and dreary night

when Mr Poe was real and truly out of sight

some citizens upon themselves they took

a vow to knock Silvine Blockster on the head

and steal his precious book

but alas dear reader

the blow they cast

caused poor Silvine Blockster

to breath his last

all fled in panic but one

who stayed fast

and stood there to the very last

he took a furtive look

inside the book

his knees buckled

his face turned white

and from head to toe

was filled with fright

but the book

he could not let go

this brought a smile to Mr Poe

who was not there

as well you know

now Mr Rephil Pad had a book

which it seems

everywhere he took

and when citizens

begged to take a look

his face whould turn green

and he would puke

and dear reader

please beware

for I do not mean to scare

if you encounter

Mr Rephil Pad

under no circumstnce

ask to look

inside his book

or enter into confederation

with those, who for just one peek

would crack his skull

and watch blood leak

for upon this crinkled parchement

fited and forgotten ink

tells of a curse

of which you must not think

a death note

you must not read

on this very subject

Mr Poe and I and of course the Raven

on this subject are all agreed

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

Bleached skin propels its self
With such luminous darkness
Compelling Pleasured blindness

Makes teenage eyes blink
With measured softness
Stains our pants

i hear only the music that he hears
the red satin of his mind
the thoughts that drape themselves
upon the willing advancement of our spring
that self chosen fury of barbarous love
stars, flesh, flowers, tongues
compete in the magic without tears
like lazing upon endless beaches
in retribution to those
that refuse, either by inheritance or design
to recognise the precious emrald dewdrop
that lies within the foetus of our understanding
that space others cannot occupy
he has turned my rags to gold

Dawn is a remembrance of night

That fades in the pretend modesty of piety

Punctured by treacherous daylight

Haunted by the gray spectre of complicity.

Purloined pleasures
Of unsolved paleness
Was pleasing, Per laughed
When he spread me
A wish bone
I enjoy his fun

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

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

This is for you

You nearly destroyed me

With frostbitten

Prowling fingertips

And never ending tongue

I will not be the map

Nor Constellation of your

Permissible presentations

Or improvised gender constraints

You do not know me

For I am all the possibilities

That are, that have gone before

That are yet to come

I am a trillion blazing suns gently burning

Preoccupation what is it

It is on this occasion

With a subliminal HERE STOP

One that finds itself

In a starry, starry night

But for all its efforts

Can not go forth as before

To live anymore, to live a particular more

For no other chapters are available

They are all preoccupied

Preoccupied with DUST

For as preocupational moments go

DUST is pretty much well up there

With the best for all things return

Return to a subliminal HERE STOP

To DUST, yes to DUST, just DUST

I feel the black breath settle on my neck

A black sun communicates with me

There is an imaginative power at its source

It is like the purple stain on a drawn wine cork

My vision is occupied by it, it twinkles and crackles

I see a scent hang in the air, an anesthetising intoxicant

Numbing, cold, like watching gargoyles in the street

I know the winds speech it has an oneiric vocabulary

That drifts among the scarlet stained scent

Swirling through my crystallized thought

Causing a pristine vacillation in my mind

That echoes like a vacant cobalt night  

Disturbing the fundamental enigma

That is the centre of my being

I close my eyes

This is for you

You nearly destroyed me

With frostbitten

Prowling fingertips

And never ending tongue

I will not be the map

Nor Constellation of your

Permissible presentations

Or improvised gender constraints

You do not know me

For I am all the possibilities

That are, that have gone before

That are yet to come

I am a trillion blazing suns gently burning

Not utterances of unsolvable contradictions,no

He speaks to me, do you not understand

In incantatory language, intense, so intense

It creates a new heaven and earth

He speaks with magic words

Whose overpowering proof of authenticity

Is in their unawareness of my presence

And would that this be the status of my language

In a world wedded to nothingness this language

Creates a fresh reality that floats free of the body and society

His words are the occupiers of a new

Magical, passionate and transformative speech

That become an absolute singularity in the mind

Where time is stilled in cancellation to a complement

Forms the magical realm of reciprocal imagination

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

With lips intoning

A litany of endearments

In a language I fully understood

One kiss, one kiss, one kiss

Conjured up all those remembered

windows of the soul softening the

Jagged edges of the world

Erasing the stultifying atmosphere

Of unmistakable applications of

Symbols that try to unmake thought

His kiss provoked new meaning

The glamorous sounding world

Of ideas; A bewildering emotion

One that could not be filled

In with a charcoal pencil

A sensual communication

Only he could deliver

Wonderfully ******

Oh! The memory of the moment

And lift the curtains

Of the fringe that

Framed his face and gaze

Deeper, deeper into those

Smiling eyes; in sensuous touch

Of naked sound

Taste mysterious pulses

Imprisoned yet unbound

Spangled light reflected all around

Then we made words that pierced

The ground while echoes of

Forgotten laughter fluttered

Like a thousand birds

One moment, this moment

This kiss, Oh! His kiss

Holding in its tender touch

                                                  The promise of a lifetime

I am friends with it
understand its feverish desires
its delicious sensations
its equatorial liquid chocolate brown eyes
that cause a tear stained face
and trembling lips
know these grieving stinging tears
they cause me to crawl on the floor
make my hands dance
like bleached white skeletons
disrupting the rhythm of my blood
I know I will be finally finite
and can quietly disappear
like sour ***** on a morning pavement
after the cleaners have been

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

i thought there was
a funeral in the street
but it was only the dead
looking for directions
one was red and yellow

He wears his falseness as if in fatigue

Like the new old décor of a bad Victorian theme pub

A nostalgia of bland notoriety, hideous, perhaps contagious

For it is indiscriminate and without compromise in its counterfeit

Lying in wait, eagerly in ambush, hidden by a thought

A thin antiquated distraction, a solitary mutilation of identity

Deflecting interest in amplified displacement into delirious disguise

Re-emerging in distraction, pestering, problematic,

Destabilizing directness in its ubiquitous imaginary lie

It is a realization that one is all too aware off

Yet despite this knowledge cannot help but conspire in its captivating complicity

I am fearful to look upon him directly,

For in so doing I may discover in his open masque

Improbable truths about myself, as foul as any slander

there is a photograph of a blind ******
that stares at me when I’m not there
and a footless boy that wears my boots
who eats my toast with teeth so false
they make no impression upon its worth
there are leather wrinkles in his smile
that make me blush and wait a while
to watch and stare at his wolf red eyes
at his forced composure that does exercise
upon his boast the eating of all my toast
though I do not mind
for he is kind
and has lips of cheery red
that I wish instead
of eating toast
if all were said were kissing me instead
then I look at the picture of the blind ******
and find to my surprise
there’s no one there

Shall I die victim to the terrors I have anticipated

Those that creep by a scarlet moon at midnight

The terrors that return me

To the deep waters of my subconsciousness

Terrors that trickle and trail and impart no sound

Yet emphasize their dark, violent and repressive potential

Oh those terrors that stalk, that follow

Whose shadow can be diserned behind every door and on every stair

That lay me impoverished of courage and ridiculed of depiction

I shall die by these terrors who with want of word

Spread upon me such vicious energies that enact

An intence and exhausting experience

Terrors that empahasie a mind spiraling

Vertiginously toward an unknown chaos

Shall I die, victim to the terrors I have anticipated

I shall, shall I not, I know I shall

Then all was silent

For there was a relentless

Hysteria of calm

Investing a barbarism

Of grotesque stillness

That lay about a treachery

Of gross tranquility

In the midst of human kind

All are lost for words in 2061

All, all, all are dumb in 2061

For I have seen it, the silence

A blank spot enters my consciousness

A temporarily bright blackness

A blindness one receives if engaged

In an over prolonged look at the sun

A confusion hangs suspended

Now when I attempt to recall things

All I can remember is the absolute lucidity of this blank spot

This nothingness, a void of inarticulate reality

That exaggerates its intentions to consummate a separation

But never succeeds in its completion

This confusion however gives me a blinding clarity of perception

What I do recall is the realisation that I have always been someone else

The construction of a plural figure is what I have been trying to realize

Like Rimbaud I am another