A random provocation of amber light

A blond redhead

The cruelty in everything more complicated

Like falling asleep alone

Or Franz Kafka in an ally

......there is a sorrow that tears at my heart....it cries like an orphaned child looking for a father....it swirls about me in the night and plagues me in the light......

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

I live in a long solitude

A life of prolonged

And perpetual suicide

For all life, all lives

Are thus so

Breathe deeply in this silence

Stand, stand still like the thickness of a sorrow

Feel one’s own emotions, their intensity

Amidst the history of this great disorder

Where truth does not exceed exception

...is there a silence..for I can hear it...that noisy silence as it falls about me in perpetual silence...strains the ear...halts the chest.....why is this silence so audible...can you hear it...or is it just me....this sound of silence....silence in the lime trees...:) Edgar

They have qualifications of compensations that prove ineffectual in the meaning of speech
Like the false prophets who preach then hide in explanation preferring the faces of boys steal my name
Mothers hold their children to their *******, purple smoke fills the air while other peoples’ appetites are eaten
The most frightful realisation of ambiguity presents itself in a waltz of hesitation
I hear the whispers of soft syrup coloured skin, of long polished black hair, of complexions
A pestilential silence that reaches and grips from corpse strewn streets creates a gentle but pure indolence
Now You are no longer where I can find my presence.

What tormenting love

What estrangement

Does mount a strenuous protest

In imagined transformations

That hover over this cast

This appalling malady

Enmeshed in a humiliation of confusion

That does give a loving dispensation

And by mericulous tongue

Restores a beauty to sceptical wonder

That comes into this world hand in hand

With love, not one before the other

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

…they say there is a madness upon me….but what is such as this that would flay a tongue upon its speech and in so doing label that which is different insane……

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

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

There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don't care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insonce dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind

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

Dubious sense of unresolved ambivalence

Given to implausible suppositions of fragmentation

That distinguishes itself in well meaning solemnities

Of delicious incompetence that evaporates distance

In its poignant lament of darkness

That shadows words of cruelty, indifference and rage

Oh how unbearable those misadventures of piteous overthrows

That cram into brief utterances more meaning

Than language can hold and force a confrontation

Of unresolvable contradictions hidden in such speech

That are the stilling of time, those words that find expression

In a mystic power that transforms darkness into intense light

Whilst blocking out the harsh unforgiving light of everyday

And causes mutation and change of place in disorienting fashion

In seeking a loyalty of angers by shifts of dramatic register

Views its own meaning unstable and problematic

In defense of its own legitimacy

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

I listen to the absence of time
Allow myself to become wrapped in its nothingness
It is a punctuated absence, like light through dust,
Showing all my imperfections deep emotions and real desires
My thoughts parade before me a regiment of vagabonds
I view all this as if I had never existed
Desperately searching through my boiling memory
For something that may prove my existence
I find nothing

Now my mind is heavy with expectation
Laden with an atmosphere of flawless irregularities
Strangely I feel a dreadful sorrow
I know I have always had desperation with life
A black rainbow in the sky that has the purchase on my vision
But the distain of silence nevertheless echoes weird
With destabilising compensations
My own splintered voice reverberating in my head
Presents a clarity of particular insanity
Now I realise for the first time
I have kept my secrets even from myself
So now when I reach out to find Me
I can’t, it’s too late, I've already gone

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

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

The fury of time engulfs me
Gazing once more on its unabstracted velocity
Realize that time has no objective or subjective realization
Unexpectantly there is a shift of air that breezes about me
Like cool morning mist I allow it to cover me without expectation
A consequence of exuberation possesses my being
Like that of a vanquished dream
I crave its succulent softness
It surrounds me and hovers
Its pulse evaporating in my mind
Then in ecstatic euphoria pearlesque ribbons hit the wall
Melt on my hand dripping like silken spangles
Filling my room with antiquated resolution

Oh' if I could speak the language of his atraction

With a generosity of exchange in bounteous metaphors

Yes and let him be the quality of my oppression

For there is a torture about my words when put to voice

They search for plausible reasons as is such cannot be found

And yet I have a trouble governing my generous impulses

Oh' the inaudible corruption that is my mind, hoping, wishing

Begging for a prosperity of possibilities that will vanquish tears

That I with moral perspectives should  bind a mutuality between us

Invalidating my inadequacies thus find a resolution not in artiface

But in a charmed and beautiful way that shall be the essence of love

Without a prodigality of thought, but each for each, in solemnity of kiss

The earth shall embalm me

Trees will set root in my belly

And make sap of my blood

There will be vagrancy in my soul

Its embarkation on an erratic itinerary

Leaving behind a tainted and squalid reality

I shall mix with black and white silences

Those that migrate in the oppressed contradictions of dreams

It is here I shall succumb to violent wrenches of my imagination

It is here that I shall be beneath an impetuous but charming moon

Smiling

A white abstract silence falls heavily like phosphorous snow… odd and oblique with nervous intensity of random limitations… sensitive and fragile in its unremitting generosity…A fluency of motion of imaginary realisation in silent turbulence descends in tenebrous shadows of illusion detonating the unconscious… the symmetry and exactitude of silence beyond all compass…. an intricate camouflage… meticulous and consistent.

Disinherited it tries to sanctify the air….. a silence in where stars evaporate vibrational loud and inquisitive…. freezing time by the velocity of its inner momentum of silent adrenalin.

Concealing its true identity isolating me in unknown realisation of what is to occur.. It resonates with constant tension waiting for unpredictability’s of indispensible voices that don’t speak….. This is a realisation of the imagination…. a vibrant insensibility…. density of unravelled thoughts that vaporise within me causing a vibration that fractures the equation of time and space in the burning crucible of my mind.

Intractable proportions of silent thought…. hovering… a constant mirage of irrational calculations….. This silence forces all the tears of consequence to fall upon my face with no avail…..Then in this thunderous silence see graffiti on white walls…abstract and meaningless….Like primitive lives…those with meaning yet possess no meaning… an ungovernable democracy of fruitless endeavour… of non factual fastidiousness… a glimpse of life and its fallacy.

Yet the words were spoken and written… by whom… And for why.. Now the silence punctuates and instructs…. phosphorous extinguishes itself and hides behind another truth…..The noise of the world cascades in torrents deafening… attempting to defeat… subordinate the senses in atavistic cruelty… Prowling searching for the silence… but it has gone…. disappeared in the imagination of my inner self…. an abstraction I call me….. But I know where the silence has gone….

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

……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….

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

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

I have surrendered to ungovernable impulses

That within my very existence invokes a great addiction

Oppresses noise and forms an intoxication of contradictions

They caress me with impetuous charms of dazzling vision

With vast silences that mitigate in sonorous symbolism

Exiled in my own reality, I see what I have never seen

Or only thought I saw I am now condemned

To see what has never been seen

A shimmering like the painting of a whisper

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

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

Nighttime..fear and envy

The owl has a knife

His eyes are green

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

Photos in birch bark frames

Cinnamon scented candles

My first thesaurus

Tin soldiers made of chocolate

A jar of cheap face cream

The mad king and the Doctor

And a beleaguered embodiment

Of crawling chronicled chaos

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 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

Hideous pages from

The note book of the ******

Have imprisoned my words

With swift intent have purchased

A chorus of dumb envy

Who sing to silence the sound of alone

That great melody that descends

In loud orchestral silences of cannibalism

I know, I hear, know its worth yet feel its fear

The dead words are still buried in my belly

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

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

there is paint
it peels from my eyes
in long gaseous ribbons
it is punctuated by
a bright blindness
where methodologies
reach no conclusions
paint peels from my ears
in uncontested echoes
projecting a self
generated audible universe
paint peels from my mouth
in black storms
of expanded consciousness
leaving behind a particulated
paralized partition
that leaves me disconnected
in a correspondence of color
A field of snow
turning blue under moonlight
in accord with the peeling of paint
like a light emitted by relative thought
paint peels, paint peels, paint peels

Cobra writes

in indecipherable script

while consuming portions

of a botanical garden

mostly ***** poppies

sunflowers are amassed

at its oval entrance

where the peppermint people congregate

associations of place and time are lost

familiar figures vanish

replaced by holograms

of eroticized dimensions

who occupy the light

eyelids painted in rainbow colors

giving a pink glimmer of affirmation

to gay rights

while the blanks between

interpretative thoughts

are popularized by a blaze of color

where authority comes

into confrontation

with python

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

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

...I am in a delirium beyond all compass....I have seen him....yes seen him...powerful...perhaps again...yes again...though to sure.... when..... I am not of a mind to know.......anyways perhaps later...... yes.... later perhaps...

Pink, blue and purple pigs
Tap gently on my window
They have suicidal grins

and into the firmament
fumbling for visions
collapse under
disordered nerves
concentrate
need to modulate
a creative energy rush
that has been afforded  to me
by the pills just taken
a need to feed the void
to appeal to the dead verses
that are waiting
a manifestation of poetic absolutes
a need to startle oneself alive
extract thought processes
a frantic buzz of possibilities
overdosing and watching
multiplying mirrors
amazed at the images
of one starring back
a poetic geometry
detachable used
and abused
in a copulatorey rite
of aural distillation
of the poets rage
frequencies that fall
upon catatonic faces
of artistic alienation
brought about by
a dissonance of attunement
to the vibrations of the verses
these spoken words
these living entities
who are oblique, cut up, desiccated
by a savage failure to understand
the visualized stanzas
a failure to disarrange all the senses

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

This unresolved ambivalence

Contaminates a dubious sense

Of accents yet unknown

And of unbridled words yet unspoken

Where one becomes haunted by circumstances

Bequeathed to a virtuous iniquity of discourse

Whose fabrication of appearance binds deception

Yet transforms human misery by conscious and unconscious

Deployment of illusions were words are those energies

Given free rein and perform a fecundity of speech  

Defying as it does so semantic predictability

And brings dissolution to normality

The first born UNICORN

A thousand words

Within me gently fade

As I write about hate

Underwater

For Underwater everyone

Sounds the same

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

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