the dead air shrieks
with a venomous lullaby
slams and reverberates
with salvaged impregnation’s
of speeding threads
a stimulus that empty’s
the insides of short lived
moments between reality
and imagination
provides for scattered
but orderly quatrains
that tremble with the sound
what is it? what is it?
it is the metallic blue guitar
the music of the band

looking for a road
a beach road
with an awareness of
frozen vision
that appears shocked
that the world is
in ruins
a vision that interprets
disintegration
as an introduction
to temporal vestige
as the road to
another dimension
a beach road
that leaves one
drowning, drowning
in ones own breath

He has done the sentences
I want to drink
Beautiful…beautiful words
I thirst
Make me think

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

A boulevard where vagabonds swim
Is lined with Thracian women weeping
Swaying gently in the wind
With portraits of headless young men
Suspended on String, they are
In pursuit of tenebrous dreams
Whose shadow soft illusion lights
Yet the colour of black eludes
Amidst the debris of this magic and mystic charm
Forging hidden truths leaving light and darkness
In appeal to unreasoned thought that splinter sound
Leaving only tarnished echo floating effortlessly in tragic space
Notions negotiate and migrate in terrible turmoil
Not able to understand chaos corrodes
Human rust that eats the soul
With gnawing knowledge of emptiness
Creates a vacuum in the heart
That leaves cold the heat of happiness
Proclaiming despair its God
Points an accusing finger and brands us unclean
Impure, none persons, where is the colour of black

black storms rage in his eyes

fierce, frightening dust devils

making silent apocalyptic statements  

while searching for identity

recording the sound of color

black, white, red, green, blue

experiencing a drift of thought

as if floating in a dream

menaced suddenly by vowels

distorted, disconnected in delirium

he perceives a frequency in the air

like disturbed hidden speech

or a dream that cannot find

its alternative

and whose function it is

to study drug wasted features

of a skeletal torso

or to recall the unrelieved

immobility of time and place

to write the color of sound

I think who is coming
No one, there are no echoes
I encounter a color
But don’t know what it is
It’s not a colour I have ever seen
Nor has anyone
It is a new colour just born
A colour that tempers shameless chaos
Tears the preferred darkness of blame deep inside
That denies the chance of I am
No one is here there are no echoes no sounds
A white spider smiles in incongruous chorus
A valley of its heart burning in choking congress
While it walks on its hands leaving footprints of burning rainbows embedded in the clay
I am not where I think.....therefore I think where I am not...

in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, write
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue

and I have had glimpses
of an eager dawn
turn to the crackle of flame
and incinerate itself
in the creation
of an emotional impulse

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

the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function

the acrid unease of incence

emaciating the mind

hangs in the air at the edge of the forest

where the dew drops wither

the sorrows of the moon

where shaped and tailed eyes

pacified only

by a satisfaction of images

that buzz in frenzied movements

savored and perverse

strangle

in black, scarlet, white and pink

divergent parallels

the quantum connection of memory

listen to the deformation of silence

and tease the disunity of

attempted cohesive geometry

where nothing is heard

but strained articulated color

by shaped and tailed eyes

an unpardonable aberration
in possession of an adrenalized
dynamism of energy
which emerges
like that of the dirt on my face
but cannot hide
the strangulation of my hair
nor the red that fires my fingers
nor the desire or physical location
of my marvellous sexuality
or the ink that bleeds from my nose
when the excitement of creation
reaches its unmonitored theft  
of psychophysical *******
of writing upon the page
those elusive words that once written
become an imagined ****** fantasy
blurred but cannot be retained
for the words must be free
free to be the poem, to be themselves
to be ourselves

They hide behind

A masked impunity

One that loiters on the lips

That gathers dust

While proclaiming

A nightmare of angels

Who haunt derangement

In startling blasphemous hullucinations

Which excite to the point of delerium

Who menace with grandiose examples

Which surpass all human capacities

Renouncing indisputable rights as heresy

Keeping their stones not cast, unthrown

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

an intimacy of affections and intimate attentions
hovers in the air
sometimes shimmering
perhaps swirling
this way and that
creating at its core an impulse of hope
of a shared dream
drawn to each as each is to each
as in pursuit of that which is hidden in our hearts
obscured by what we think we know about ourselves
yet we are drawn into this thing
and find ourselves called to each other
in pursuit of our dreams of love
yet we have lived this long experience
these shared echoes that we realise#
each without each would be stunningly incomplete
a lavish perfume it envelopes us
invests us with new forms
in the most powerful and novel ways
with new rituals and language
we bristle with unexamined interpersonal connections
so gentle, so powerful, so beautiful
like the terms borrowed
from tow different galaxies of homeless stars
yet complement each other as a whole
for we have found it
what
love
what is it
it is the music only we can hear
for we are the duality of our dream

Inhaling the silence deeply

I smell a lime tree in the Lebanon

Feel its solitude, its isolation

Tightly close my eyes, because

I can’t remember what it is

I have to forget

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

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

Its rhythmic charade ticking, ticking, ticking perturbs me a great deal
It is trying to force on me a sense of living within and not outside its boundaries, making me feel trapped
I shift my legs slightly and my shorts rise up clinging to the tops of my thighs in disordered precision
I throw the duvet back and observe, without seeing it the discourse of history in my blood
I 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 redundence of images a sympathetic attunement to the dimensions of words that are the medium of my new translation.
A new complete language, now, for the first time accompanies my thoughts.

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

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

Hear the crying of the moon
The silent scents that stray
Quiet clocks at noon
Bewildering the day

And in the soft caress
Of the jewelled dawn
Gold, red, amber
Make ready to be gone

Brush your hand across my tingling skin
With its scented shade
Feel its soothing touch
All reality to fade

There is no end, I think, of kissing
Palms move with pilgrims’ tender touch
My breath fast and glistening
Never have I felt such want so much

In your arms there is delight
Like stars in a dark black painted night
Whose moon casts, such peculiar light
That all fantasy takes to flight

In the heaven of your face
See your colour, cream, pink trace
Feel the beautiful embrace
Take me to another place

Tenderness of touching greets my smile
I drink you in all the while
Tasting your soft risen sun
Another day has just begun

We are not really two
But are one

Hear the crying of the moon
The silent scents that stray
Quiet clocks at noon
Bewildering the day

And in the soft caress
Of the jewelled dawn
Gold, red, amber
Make ready to be gone

Brush your hand across my tingling skin
With its scented shade
Feel its soothing touch
All reality to fade

There is no end, I think, of kissing
Palms move with pilgrims’ tender touch
My breath fast and glistening
Never have I felt such want so much

In your arms there is delight
Like stars in a dark black painted night
Whose moon casts, such peculiar light
That all fantasy takes to flight

In the heaven of your face
See your colour, cream, pink trace
Feel the beautiful embrace
Take me to another place

Tenderness of touching greets my smile
I drink you in all the while
Tasting your soft risen sun
Another day has just begun

We are not really two
But are one

a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary

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

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

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

walk on broken water
where there is a sweetness
of myopic moments
crunched in the palms
of your hands
organised and agonized
in secret loneliness
perhaps better to be gone
than remain here
a redundant conclusion
defined by a strange
relief of paragraphs
merciless in their pursuit
of an entitlement
to be heard
in aggressive palpitations
of resisted dematerialization
of sounds

I dream only beautiful nightmares where black flowers ******

With the arrival of always and grow everywhere

Lifting aloft their jet colored leaves to a blue and purple sun

Which leaves me fraught with glorious purpose

Still I am nothing much, just something different

What potions has thou produced

That makes the hottest

Of all summers in my mind

Causes global shifts of dramatic register

In my being, yes and brings to rebirth

A series of discontinuous functions

Tell me, tell me what is this potion

That strays the clocks at noon

And brings a vagrancy on the day

And by night prevails in scarlet custom

Whose crimson vale does me entangle

When stars are opt to play

Bringing a rampant start to the

Extinguishing of the day

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

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

I have become a walker
A walker between worlds
In a monotonous night of questions
Answered but not explained
****** of loneliness
On a blank page parade themselves
Providing invitations to dust
I wonder in a city of night
Trying to escape from
The threat of nothingness
A flame of living to disrobe a false life
To dispel darkness in the three realms
Here I meet a raven
In pursuit of tenebrous dreams
Whose shadow soft illusion lights
The colour of which eludes/
I question this Poe Bird
But the Raven keeps its tongue
In Quiet seclusion
While it weaves non color
Into a an iridescent arch
A black rainbow that now has
The purchase of my vision
Makes colors flee in terror
Leaving me despondent
And devoid of proper thought

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

there is a vastness here

where a small breeze,

the size of a decaying sorrow

wakes the cold again

which may be all that’s left of me.

where a diamond pale haze of stars goes on eternal

like sound that has found a final silent shape

on a black sky where it means everything

It cannot speak off.

it’s empty out here, and cold.

cold enough to reconcile

the frozen cries, the kidnapped voices

and the silences that move

with certain cadaveric contractions

along the frozen emptiness

and In the morning when I look out

the previous evening remains

in its blank, cold, unforgiveness

even though I sang for them in

the eternal extensiveness of

the freezing cold, the stones

still cry with mouths opened wide

while the small icy wind and unsympathetic

moon subdue the apricot flowers,

Now the piercing cold day Is no longer enough

For all comprehension escapes me

suddenly jumps with fury hurling terrible hostilities to the sky,

as wandering ice spirits without homeland

begin to groan with a vast and vacant voice.

And frozen hearses, with muffled drums

and tragic music, slowly pass in my being

conquered, weeping, freezing

this atrocious iced and despotic place

plants its black flag in my soul

Now I do confess through boreal breath

I don’t think I will ever see the

Red Tulips again

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

A timeless dimension

Unmitigated clarity

I focus on the page

And surrender to

The pointed direction

Of the transcription

Of my unconsciousness

There is writing

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

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

Removing the little lace dress with its white hem I place it back on its chair.

The white hem radiates slightly enticing my naked boyhood once more

With its lusciousness, a savannah of continuous beautiful evocation

I sit naked and watch the little lace dress with its white hem

See it become languorous and dreamlike

I smell the exotic flora of its continued subtle seduction

It ripples softly in a slight waft of air

Like a breath blowing on a still pond

I cannot resist it, I am the trance of its hypnosis

Nothing intervenes, nor tries to prevent me

As my fingers fall for its flirtations

Once more I acquiesce to the most wanted desire

Of the little lace dress with the white hem

To caress the body of a fifteen year old boy

To become a second skin

I allow it to slide over me seducing my senses

Realizing the counters of my thin syrup coloured form

The words whisper again about my girls’ complexion

About my long black hair, about the body I inhabit, the likeness of a girl

I look once more in the mirror, they could be correct

A senior takes of his clothes like a *****

Committing himself to the shower, smiles

Offering me a bouquet of suds

I become the player of a flute

He moans enjoying the water music

I come up every few minutes for air

His soap cleans my mouth

I wonder if the sky gets sad

Its common purpose

A different herald

Floating like an un-forgiveness

Its clouds, its clouds, its clouds

Waifs in white clothing

To the snark

To dark it was

To spark

To misty

To behave

To easy

To set fire

To a Vatican conclave

To easy for others

To choke on scented smoke

To easy for the Snark who was not ashamed

To shout in eager chorus another fool have they named

To wit he laughed and strode away

To Snark…Snark…Snark…Snark…Snark

To be sure this is the noise a Snark makes when he walks away

To be honest if you meet one you will know provided he walks away

To be sure he may stay and try and eat you..........

A boy in purple pants
Clapped his hands
Air convulsed with his care

The world was shattered
Stunned by his noise
Pavements cracked

Old men died

“Wet Paint”, it said
heavy bold, white on red
upper case
no need for waste
except food stuffs
it read

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

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

three blue
three blue
three blue
can’t you
hear it
too
the unutterable
sound of silence