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

The green fairy occupies my mouth as if in a dream

Senses surge past me in waves

Of perfect silence that torture the mind

I raise my eyes like a drawbridge

Getting ready for the fleet whose

Noise deafens the colour of my

Pupils

Overwhelmed the sky clasps

Me in a study and struggles to

Kiss my green lips

Aglow with blue beams its perfumed sun

Smiles and stretches me in the

Silk of the seas, where fish speak

With stars in feminine voices and

Ask my name

Floating in bliss I can not recall it

Only the selected elegance of History

Comes to mind

You lead me to insanity

As such as I go towards the doors of Bedlam

It is with a happy heart

For to me you are all the charm of invited places

Who sees us, yes sees us

Trembling in our rages

Knows of fatal qualities

Who with the perfection of form

Allows us to follow your visions

of improbable desertions

Towards words on an empty page

With emmence calculations of emulation

Enables  our pale impatience

Whose claims those choirs of impotance

Forge creative impulses with infernal probity

That calls for the application of oppoerunity

Like you, whose arrival of always

Will be everywhere

there is a strangeness
it hovers
hovers like an unspoken word
or an unshared sorrow
floating in the air
beckoning with
articulated device
it means to kiss me, I think
what is it, what is this that hovers so
and would take possession of my lips
leave upon them an impression of
indentured love
that would if so allowed linger
with imprinted hope of
future taste and would lay upon my heart
an imploration of immaculate understanding
what is this strangeness

You won't remember me

A little white shadow of the heart

Who in adulation of wonder

Became une éternité de papillon

There is a wind

a wind that displaces me

from the limitations  of the present

it locates me in a century

i shall never live to see

a coloured wind

that overtakes me

lifts me out of this present

transports me into

the fragments of a fiction

it is a wind with violet eyes

it disperses me

into celebrated elements

a wind that cradles me

listens to me

a wind that stops me

in mid-sentence

makes me fumble

over the cohesion of my words

it is a wind that

drapes the mirrors

causes voluminous

approbation of thought

across purple, blue and red lit canals

a wind that is

the potency of a swallowed aphrodisiac

blowing through my veins

a wind of implacable silence

that causes me to hear

the tireless serration of

my mind expiring

on the last moonlit beach

I walk through an anemic street

Its galvanized paleness generating a ****** fever

Menstrual blood smears the walls the alleys

There is an expectancy of life and death

As a single occurrence

An experience of inseparability

It is a primitive animistic street

That propels dark gods to ****** frenzy

Who generate molten red drifts

Along the steerage of its passage

It is a street that has anticipated its journeys

Of a concentrated and indelible red

Of loud and terrible silence

That knots around white waists

Speaking in frantic crimson

It is a street of cycles

Surrogate thoughts on unpardonable parchment / A counterfeit of reason / The Bastion of idiocy/

Glass blue birds stitch themselves across my mouth

Catching, capturing, carrying by breath

They cause a tangled nature in my words

Attack the paper forming an anarchy of sentences

Apotheosizing my breath into iambic speech

Of dreams invaded by frantically malign illusions

Chanting, chanting, chanting, chanting, chanting

A form of salacious incantation

That fills me with a need a need

Like a rats craving for poison

Compulsive, irrational and destructive

And here I sit in the complicitious confines of my bedroom

While a cold wind frisks the streets

there is a plurality in the times
for I cannot stop for death
it cannot stop for me
and I hear the roar of silent space
as it  hears the roars of me
driving one towards
visionary liberation
like a frenzied shaman
in his dance
deranging sensories to be found
yet still known in this trance
and punishment for poetry is not new
nor is the strangling of my hair
for we are all solitaries
placed, situated, somewhere
so I wish I was in Zanzibar
to walk upon its sand
to feel the impressions of words
explode within my hands
and to drink all the ink
that baths upon me and calls itself anew
it is the shimmer of this violet haze
that echoes in my view

in that moment
that most precious moment
all moments disappear
and before me
truth fills the open coffers of my mind
and leaves upon me the most openness
that my heart is as wide, open I say
like a scar on a wounded soldier
yet his voice makes me feel
like that of a girl with a bright blue dress
I don’t know why
though to be with him colors are much brighter
mirth much more merrier
and the velvet complexion
of his softness consumes me
and I smell the scent of his hair
blinded by the tiger experience of his eyes
feel the slightest brush
of his fingers upon
the upturned romance of my plam
a 21st century Romeo
shall I return to school
and face a turmoil
or relent and let torment
by betray that has not led me there
then now I think
this is like another skin
and feel that I may fall victim
to an infinite permanence
of lives accepted
for when he speaks
I see his sentence
visible in the sky

A brief visit in space

Startling abrptness

Of the question

Presented me with a proof

That I was about to enter

Upon a strong impulse

Of the secret of words

Like the dance off the magpies

Or the melting of ice upon warm touch

it migrates into purgatory fashions

and plays like a quiver on the nerves

oh so rich art thou in artifice

that would have me believe

in a cold and unattributed consciousness

like an infestation of infant prodigies  

for it is a vicariousness of viciousness

that leaves the music of C Major

devoid of untold homage

and a singular letter on a scale

is it a transmusicality of mutation

punctuated by red felt tip notes

for all music is life

the life of C Major in the time

of vicious vicariousness

what is it that i am looking for

what is that convulses my mind so

i don’t know, I just don’t know

yet I keep on searching for something

something i know not what

it is in the words, i know it is in the words

it demands a recognition,

perhaps it is an illusion of complex

temporal simultaneity that plays

upon my reason but what is it

that delivers a thousand shivers

and colors from everywhere and nowhere

is it the blank spot that enters my consciousness

bringing temporarily bright blackness

the blindness one receives if

engaged in an over prolonged look at the sun

is it the inner workings of my mind

trying to free some irritant that

has intended to punctuate my thinking

without permission

an attempt to perplex

this new apostasy

that incubates within

yet a confusion hangs suspended

Of this blank spot, this nothingness,

this void of inarticulate reality that

exaggerates its intentions to consummate

a separation but never succeeds in its completion

i have been searching

searching for something

something that remains

always beyond my reach

like a post apocalyptic

nuclear holocaust of the mind

that which is sought

appears blind with

burnt out eyes and silenced

in case there is death in sleep

or a river of blood in the after life

then finding a reason

for that which is sought

everything becomes numb

sacrificed to old Polaroids

floating on the edge

of the solar system

where desperate people

dream of the best way to die

Among an uploading minds eye

where doors refuse to close

that which is sought, it, still eludes

Vandalized ink stains

Where my feelings

Were washed away

if I cry it is for help

If I'm sick it is a love song

Written on the soul

Where help is wanted

For emaciated corpses

You know, yes you know

Where the dead eyes are

Down among the leaves

Watching, watching, watching

the inexorable finality of time

that outlives us all

clutches at exaggerations

that would conform

to pretentious intentions

and succeed in consummating

an accentuated design

of limitless flaws

Beneath a cold metallic rain
I hear its name, in ordered chaos
Feel its colour and its claim
A nocturnal light descends
Penetrates memories
And I find myself, I abandon
Trinkets and incense in favor
Of iridescent sounds
As powdery blackness violently
Calls; I see and weep
Buried in elegance of tenebrous
Shadows unheard;
Clothed in misfortune;
Scarlet tragedies of all the books unread
Are we living or just not dead?
Shaded dreams of mock disguise
Dribbling faith and ancient time
Dark suffering farce; I am gone;
To be a very wicked madman
A pauper of the mind
But still wearing my red jacket
Leave for Africa
Where the sun drowns every day
In a deathly sea
Here I try to hunt down
My memory
Yet inhale the perfume
A million scents
And become beyond my own logic
Where I find ecstasy of discovery
In the world of my mind

Vacant eyes with

Nauseating sight strut

A cruel distortion

A violent paradise

Of popular poses

That become a hallow

Antique night

Kennington in mornings thought
Olive skin and drunken breath
Hairs that slide between newly discovered realms

Beauty, belief
Unapologetic paleness
That fills our room
Steals my breath

A single kiss
That leaves me blind
And mute

The discovery of hands of feet
A perfect back with muscled tone
That shines upon our beings complete

A thousand years
Per you are still
The rich heir of all my tears

........there is an asylum in my thought that flees .....a conspiracy in confederation that possess a fatal capacity to provide violent  symphonies to play upon my mind, with diligent dispersal in a thick breeze of color all the words of nocturnal extravagance that I am all to eager to learn to invent to place to paper while all around me there is an eruption of orange and red.......

ghost, anyone’s ghost, perhaps your ghost

steps back from the mirror

a door into the imaginary, an apprehended space

where is visualised a discordant haze

a pulse of implosiveness

that never intersects with anyone

yet stares back at you

releasing a helix cycle of identities

where in indolence cleanses

are made lamentable

with odorous contempt

for the pitiless destinies

of ghosts, anyone’s ghost, perhaps your ghost

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

Then when the pens
Of oriental scribes
Descend, I find
Grief which undermines
Unstudied tombs of unlost time
Foundations of existence flood
Over me, as if in ambush lay
Unendurable pain is felt within
Its blame the extinguishing of the day

i’m gonna watch you bleed
got a trocadero in my mind
black blood, green blood
from your synthetic rage
spills out on the carpet
turns into France and Spain
impoverished beauty relocated
i’m gonna watch you bleed
in the Place du Trocadero, Paris
bleed Trocadero tears

there is a call to the recollection
of impossible probabilities
so difficult, so difficult
my parchment weeps  
it has led me here
to choose complacent melancholy
in a private odyssey
that won’t leave me or come back
i shall go tomorrow
why?, will someone tell me
where have I been
must go to think it over
it is an invitation to a suicide
left unanswered
in a place where promises
linger in the air like floating sorrows
or perhaps the ****** of stubbed metal
in a medical basin
and yet the words come as they are
unclothed, naked, unsolicited in their guilt
cruel masters of silence
carriages that drive through the sky
survivors of journeys
through the inner space of my mind
their indented regularity
forming conclusive patterns
in a molten white furnace
they recall a purple day

The poet has imprisoned my consciousness

In a consumption of such tolerable

Totality that breath becomes a vast wind

One that sets me free

With spectacular deranged sophistication’s

The only thing is I can not remember

Not to forget

Not to forget

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 day before yesterday
is different than today
streets are deserted
a population lost in a city
searches for its destination
beautiful and disturbing
statues stare at me
with a ****** plausibility  
though I think they are blind
there is a heartbeat
it pounds politely
making an inventory of time
that possesses
the magnitude of a disaster
because the day before yesterday
is different than today

and in the hairs there was blood
strange blood
like that which has concealed yet flows
his fingers probes the feeling
a feeling of immense tension building up within him
like the grieving of a mother for a dead child
that sentences in a mournful court
that which is personal protest
the earth to death
the blood wanders about his body
it feels the geography of his bones
his skin
like some inner universe it navigates itself
to the feeling that is probed
but it is to late
for there is a silnce now
which grows in darkness and consistency
curdling thought
yet when he smiles
he is beautiful

is it serious
do people like words
on the inside of their fridge
are they happy, or am I happy
no, no this is ridiculous
though a relationship
with a fridge door
with incorrect spelling
of words upon it
and one without
i fear will not change
the position of happiness
and yet makes one yield
to a magnificent beast
that leaves me to grow
the ingredients of soup
though it sounds like the
impossible language of ice

outer, inner what are realities

conscious, unconscious

differing thought that gives

tangible form to such as that

which has only existed in my imagination

when voiced indicate the delirium

of those dark despairs

that hang pitch black draperies upon the wall of my mind

in continuous distortion of ordinary motives

amplify my feelings, implosive and apocalyptic

forming an agonized arena of anguish

whose illusion is a disguise of perplexities

in a deployment of destrubing exchanges

of dubious sense that sit like a petulance

upon the mind

while I in patience stand smiling at my grief

there is a scramble
between the articulated gaps
where naked stanzas shiver
in  a state of levitation
irregular, without a center
a reserved latitude of sensation
where perspective of space is reversed
a dangerous irregularity, irrepressible
that sees across dimensions  
where boundaries become transparent
which can stimulate the mind
into a white silence
in which one is lost
in a vertiginous hole

Forgive me please, please do

For he takes possession of me once more

His voice leaves the darkness

Where shadows dwell in silence

Dancing like music on the wind

Escaping a muffled winding sheet

Bringing a delicacy of tribute to my ears

With brief utterances that cram more meaning

Into language than any book conceals

Forcing a confrontation with unresolvable contradictions

That provide for the unraveling of a mind

Have I been given worth

And in my hour of need

Alone, alone again indeed

Have I been given worth

That divine deformities

Present themselves upon me

Bind a hideousness of shackle

To an already confined bone

That desires a rent of tears

For folly, if folly be its place

Or something greater has its owe

A valorisation of humane feeling

Or mighty angers friends

In diabolical theater

Have I been given worth

And in my hour of need

Alone again, alone again indeed

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

by god something has taken control of my mind
for it is no longer mine
what do I do
ha! ha! ha!
I am overrun with joy and sadness
at the same time
what does it mean
whatd does one do

At last, at last, at last!

I have found it

A dissecting table

That has upon it

An umbrella and a typewriter

And some ink stains

That have dried upon

A tongue

Thank you Isidore

how different
the temper of the true
whose anger
can make the worst
the better cause
and give
delightful form
to fiction
as that of fact
where their
frequentation
becomes the inequality
of imagination
a delicate
truth telling lie

how long has he been alone

he does not know

only that he is made of light

a non molecular form

that brings him into focus

a charcoal stencil

on the dimensional planes

of an imagined luminous sketch

that constantly flutters

like a black silk stocking

falling through space

forever tilted with expectancy

but impeded by a blank inertia

a stream of forms blown into light

but he has a relationship

a relationship with a double

dust jacket and book

for we form an indented regularity

To start before the beginning

Before the earth embalmed me

A time when Cyparisse

Had not yet set root in my belly

Nor made sap of my blood

It was a time when it was possible

To speak to Panza’s donkey

When I thought of Zanzibar

A time when the vagrancy of my soul

Had not yet embarked on its erratic itinerary

Plunging me eventually into the bright light

Of a tainted and squalid reality

i am standing at a high window

it overlooks the city

i attempt to correlate the emptiness

of the thin blue sky with the vacuum

that is my life

one of desperate predicaments

I think of poems and poetry hear them voiced

become confused, for I don't know if

poetry is the poison or the cure

i feel an evocation of madness

suffer its reckless inner portent

struggle with its urgent transformations

breathe a continuity of collective emotions

and fear the mediocritized collective of life

i am standing at a high window

it overlooks the city

a city elliptically compressed

in my stampeding mind

i am standing in a city

it overlooks a high window

there is a poem involved in a violent scene

a confrontation with the inexpressible

I am standing in a poem

There is no city just a high window

Who? Who? Who is it?

That claims a great righteousness

Greater than any other

Who force a bitter love

In deception of their unwarranted claim

That makes the air seethe with murmurings

Of difference and love is left in fragmentation

Who tell me, who? who is it?

That has a greater righteousness

Than righteousness itself, tell me please

Whose claim lies in hate and bitterest gall

Against an enormous part of the human existence

Who, who are these people whose perpetual

Inarticualtion is a violation of love

And make mockery of their claim

Who? who are they? let their stone hearts bleed

our pockets are filled with stones

in conspiratorial fabrication of fictions

as chemical colors seep

by conscious deployment of illusions

transforming human misery and violence into wit

in loquacious gestures

that fail to expose the artifice

of gender distinction

that intolerable wrong

that leaves stones in all our pockets

I have made memories of myself

Salvaged, translated and translucent memories

Like dust twirls that spiral

Revolving in the rays of a white sun

Through wooden slatted windows

While the heaviness that hangs

Hunted shadows over me night and day

Refuses to lighten

Real and imagined codes and expectations

Imposed themselves on me

I have become mirrored in other peoples' reflections

A shadow cast by moonlight in a memory

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

Through the shadows of evening

I brandish my grievances

Tortures that shame me with a fatal incompetence

That disperse nothingness, while about the place

Threads of mist hang in the air, ghostly blankets

Suspended by invisible strings perhaps portents

Prophesies of future events

Beyond my mind there is a silence

A silence without end everywhere

It is as if the very elements themselves

Hold their breath waiting for something to happen

A silvery unexplained light floats like mercury on my mind

The world looks on in hideous and embarrassed silence

I close my eyes

…and upon the turbulent storms of thought
bodies are abandoned
driven with a canabalizing
anticpition of deathlessness
that in effortless frequencies
selects that which can never be reclaimed
whose deliberate movements
recollect those tangents
that preclude inquiry and articulate themselves
in an awareness of vanishing imagination
that by its estrangement
visits the  finding of its self
in unifying bonds
that emphasizes the
immediate shape of shared perception
as of a field turning blue
in moonlight under snow

What purchase to justify the elusive possession of human identity

In emulation of that which confronts by baffling order of habituation

That tangled interaction in breathless strangeness of the ordinary existence

Yet there is only daylight and that which is condemned to die by life’s end

Those insoluble difficulties that as such are confusions that resolve themselves

In a strangeness that is both touching and grotesque and ask a simple question

What is the self? What is identity? What is that which haunts throughout a life?

Only that of a masque which hides in mediocrity and grief another mask  

Which allows an awakening only to continue to live the saddest of our dreams

Come, take my breath one last time

Whose kiss in eager presentation fits

And possibilities linger on my lips

Disguised as gullible identities

Who seem more real and equally matched

With whom they are contrasted

Producing tantalizing prospects of riches

That can never be retained