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Jun 2020 · 96
The Keeps
Izlecan Jun 2020
Cue upon the shore, through the heaving,
The pull might contrive the sediment;
What subject a mere iota might have strung?
‘Twas a hist upon some certain shut.
What course might have momentum brung about?
The dust through the maneuvers or
The time through the slip of a tongue.
What course might have held that time?
May be a hiss that slithers through the waves,
Or might have been a whirlwind of an abdominal clime;
Man must, therefore, certainly thrive(!)
What hardy keeps might be  hither to chime?
Therefore, a man tolerates the bearing
Of an unfathomable crime
May 2020 · 95
The Entourage
Izlecan May 2020
As the vivacity of entourage seeks to proceed
For the rivalry of no lead;
As it cleaves through the restated deeds,
And then, the attributes come to hold no chore.
As the dusk flees over the sediment and
Over to the sheets that cloister not,
The promise of another wallop seems obsolete,
Because it clings to a phase of no strike.
Once a thread back than, goes for the thrice,
And solely rebels;
If the desultory crowd lies between the creaks,
And If not,
A breath still teases for too much.
And as the rivalry becomes the leading act,
the day is made of the weavers,
and the night after that,
Seems to simply appear.
Izlecan Nov 2019
As thou leap in lieu of a lay,
Would i be eminent within a brawl of the sane?
Would I see the dilemma of
From the very own standards;
Am i prone or mayst thou not?
One adopts too much of that haze.
Am i in tone or canst thou not?
Till the loop becomes a tease,
I acquire a bit of a bitter taste.
And like a confusion teetering a jelly cake,
I blow the candles with no such sense.
And the sheets shall not tolerate(?)
The breaths of a complete phase,
But rather a heap of the mind game;
Like an unimaginably,
Wandering nightmare.
Though age counts the years,
I heave for the confusion on the jelly cake;
As thou leap in lieu of a lay.
Jul 2019 · 518
The 3-hour Strike
Izlecan Jul 2019
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
“To lobby is to redeem,
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
Over another man’s bearing.”
Oct 2018 · 1.8k
The Cloak
Izlecan Oct 2018
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak  that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations,  thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere *****.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Sep 2018 · 2.1k
The Sway in the Temple
Izlecan Sep 2018
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Jun 2018 · 460
The Sway
Izlecan Jun 2018
Cataclysmic act of craving;
Driven by the motive of unknowingness,
Those made of the urges
May befriend the style of heaving,
longing, surging, sighing,moaning, knowing, embracing,
Till the matter becomes an acquaintance
Of sour taste, however intimidating.
Those of the taste shall still be unknowingly,
For the oblivion is its lifelong fool,
For thee head either towards a truth or hither a reasonable rue.

Beware the promise of the sky!
Where it shelters both the moon and the stardust;
However the course it cries,
It fosters and cloisters the air with seemingly glitter at night.
Though the gush never sweeps away the moon and the sun,
The leaves will still sway melancholically,
however tremble, with which they die.
They own thereof rhythm
Of the notes, strung by the wind.

May thy sea heave away by the sun,
Then 'tis her feet thumping by the moon.
(As it wears a repute of its own undying gloom.)
Stand thy ground, then dance hither their gravity
As you crave beyond thy own truth.
Those of the desire,
Aught to drown in a minute shade of its own very blue.
They may befriend the rules of heaving, crying, trying, accepting,
And the art of letting the flow, hopelessly and incessantly, in.
May 2018 · 388
Izlecan May 2018
The elegy is sighed in a yearnful of moan,
Tis' a discourse , 'tis a toll.
For the knell is foundered with
A mouthful of thorns,
'Tis a dispatch, 'tis a call.

Howl hither the malicious dawn;
Dawn it is, the two faceted flow:
A presence of those masquerade *****.
Until a haul, 'tis a faux.
"'Tis a fault, 'tis a fault."

In their deed, the cloisters are redeemed  yclept the hiss and yclept the haul,
'Tis a discourse, 'tis a fall
"'Tis a fault and 'tis a fault."

For I sin above all (too),
And in a remorse I heave,
Then, out an elegy I sighed;
There,I merely nod:
"Yes, indeed(!)"
'Tis a fault of mine now, 'tis a fault.
Apr 2018 · 363
The Touch
Izlecan Apr 2018
Sweet tangibility(!)
How faux thou are,
For 'tis and for 'twas mine.
Oh mighty(!) The foggy twine,
For 'twas a fool, 'tis now a clown
Apr 2018 · 669
Izlecan Apr 2018
Once again her ashen crust cleaves , for its once aught to be sought.
In thou curiosity, heft the crude mud, brief a dawn to
the gravity of an intricate craft,
Where thee defy and 'tis a waking howl
Where a flock betrays its trace, flees behind a fowl.
Fowl, shaped upon by the call,
Leads to a world of faux strays,
Where the bodies sway under the moon
But sleeps upon the day.
Nocturnal breaths intertwine around,
Welcoming them into a warm embrace:
Where it is born 'dreamily' to eternally haze.
In no time, the march creates a howl too
That obeys the dance of calamity,
But her refusal hides under a tongue
For it is a refuge, kept under the safety.
After all, it's matriarchy, crumbling a feet of the tantrum,
The wind guffaws, sways to the luminous olive trees;
Where a nest of refugees crawl upon,
Chirping freely to the motion of adversary,
to a moment of cleft.
Thus, it's the mother nature that heaves above all
As if blowing a floral and once again, livid breath.
In its deed, she incessantly cries fugues,
As if a virtuoso morphed upon the death.
Upon lulling the sweet mortality into clay,
Then it strolls around, surreptitiously,the plenitudes of ****** heft,
then heading hither a flaw;
When the day and night sleeps, until the rituals nudges, an absolute,
No sense.
Mar 2018 · 384
Izlecan Mar 2018
Tethered between branches:
The aesthetic of unsettlement,
The sweet mortality that tastes
Like a dead *** of leaves;
Shed on a cleavage of daylight,
Where the breaths chatter like autumn trees.
The gush that blows a fleeting murmur,
Its alibi in disguise.
The dust creeps upon a fall,
That screeches an eventual end of a boulevard;
Stuttering the leaves on a dawn,
Where they covet for to be hither or thither,
For twere,the mortality, in awe of them,
And for did I unleash them aught,
Under it crawled in my flesh
Sewed through as if an intravenous flow.
Death, my fellow(!)
for 'tis headed to thee,
As it cleft hither a flaw.

On a light it flickers,
On a death it singed,
For 'tis a shed,
Upon the day when it cleaves
Feb 2018 · 772
Izlecan Feb 2018
Ecstasy mire in its own sorrow,
As if a ghost makes love to its shade.
The wooden door merely holds the knock;
Instead it punches out within the walls,
Dispersed as if a blow of clay.
There the sound hauls up a craft:
Foul of the wooden scent.
Just as it intertwines with cloisters,
The curves are lined into a  silhouette.
The mountainous fogs are sharpened,
The apex is buttoned and round.
The matter it is that shapes the core:
The mere marriage of soul and dust.
How a flesh can tease its craft,
As it gnaws on a clavicle(?)
The ghost sips on a river,
As if making love to its shade.
Dec 2017 · 318
The Asleep
Izlecan Dec 2017
The moon reaches down on the utopia,
An ablaze morass sits down on the streets;
With its clement, walks through
A crowd of ignorant bliss.

The life is adamant on the visionary city,
A sigh of relief nestles on the back of the throats.
An imminence punches out the onus
That satiated the courageous float.

When the mud of unknowingness gropes the ankles
Of haltingly walking hesitation,
Among the heads full of buoyancy,
It glitters for the heinous castigation.

Do not doubt(!)
For you are smothered
In between the hands of the mud
That melts out from the heads full of
Buoyant and ignorant bliss.
Do not ever bellow!
Swallow the defiance
Down on a singeing insight,
The unknowing city never
Stumps on the muddy and deafening ground.
Do not ever hear(!)
The knell that screeches out from the heights,
The sigh of death disguised over the steps of the foolish crowd..
Dec 2017 · 749
Izlecan Dec 2017
Singe the bellowing esteem of nonentity:
The thumper of a silhouette.
In your deed you sink down,
From the dangling second of hate.
The more you have been, the less you were;
Hues of a figure,
That crawls behind your back.
The more you got, the less you had,
As the evanescence smothered the moment to death.
From a crack of noise, the light slithers through,
Don't shed a voice, for a silhouette it hums to.
Solace of shade outlined upon the dust,
As the pavements merge into the crowds,
Dont shed a voice for it passes on through; With a crack of noise, the ache breaks in two.
As the moments pass, a lullaby inebriates the silhouette,
From those moments on, hues of a figure sleeps behind your back.
Dec 2017 · 429
After Life
Izlecan Dec 2017
A cluster that shifts its way through air,
Maneuvers over the dust framed on the walls;
Dangling like a fading murmur.
May a blur of delineation
Hang up on the wind, for it can fall.
The armor of nothingness devours
The endomorph encapsulated
To a glass of assumed euphoria;
Privy only to those whose confidence
Sits solemnly on a bed side table,
Besides the visions of tomorrow:
Where bathtub flows carelessly,
Till the matter dries up against the walls,
For it only rests beyond the dust,
Till the frames of the sky
And the gravity embraces,deathly,
A life long ghost.
May a blur of delineation
Hang up on the wind, for it can fall.
Nov 2017 · 338
Izlecan Nov 2017
You are obsolete on death,
You flicker on a minute.
Those eyes will glitter among the earth,
So cry yourself to sleep.

Your vocals are hoarse,
You strung them so swift.
Those will be the remnants of the earth,
So cut out the periphrases.

You are redundant ,
You are circumvented with flesh.
You have a figure,
An outline, for which you will pass.

You will leave a whisper of your craft,
A murmur of your sleep.
Those eyes will glitter among the earth,
So silent a word to keep.

You do not defy!
You have no time to hiss!
You are a minute on earth,
You abjure your own gravity,
only then you stand still.
Oct 2017 · 455
Night Terror
Izlecan Oct 2017
I am defaulted,
For I seek congruity
Of heinous hums that stifle my scream;
At night when the gloom falls under my pillows,
Crawling beneath to cloister itself around the iridescence
From a light, it never shone
I am defeated
By those shall be bound to defy;
Shall see the hues of tomorrow, the cues of a spectrum merged within itself.
Darkness quaffs down the chaos sleeping on the tip of my tongue,
Attenuating a minute of clarity:
Privy to those whose scream echoes within tangled sheets and stuffed mats:
Screeches, as if a knell,behind the murmur of the room..
Oct 2017 · 389
Visionary Of Death
Izlecan Oct 2017
Thou ***** a minute of adversity,
stumping on the rival with two eyes;
As if an innundation overwhelms the ground
As thou hush the gore splattered
Arid as the utopic vision of the crowds
Everyone has accepted death
Noone bears the sound of the knell:
Thou shall still be petrified by the dark!
Shall miss a moment of ironic cleft:
Where thou tackle on mundanity and self bereft
Condolences to whomever has passed:
Away from a madness that clenches a crowd of no tomorrow, without a promise of longevity,
For they have given in to a visionary of death.
Sep 2017 · 511
A Divisive City
Izlecan Sep 2017
Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With agony, thou cry, thou scream and thou sleep

Staggering over time, the extensions of gore
A morph possessed over the flags: cloistered around throat
An uttering of serene eons, of atrophy and of thaw;
A morass of hegemony, of identity and war
Withered from bullets,drained over the ground
A knock on the coffin of tommorrow and   the past
A chronology misplaced and outdone
And a synapse of presence smothered with the breath of dust

Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With hope, thou bawl, thou shout, thou sleep

Chaotic commemoration ruptures over the streets
Splatters around an arcane, segregated country
Under the mud of enigma lies the rotten leaves of history
Away the tomorrow leans, restless and unknowingly
For it lies awake with the screams of a rifle, the screeching audibilty of ghostly  mutterings, the camaraderie caught on flesh, between the teeth of craved monarchy
For the tomorrow lies awake near the history.
For the past suffocates the vivacity
Yclept the peace, yclept the tranquility!

Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With anger, thou yelp, thou break, thou sleep

A hymn of sigh deafens the petrifying serenity
A sigh outraged with the murmur of life
Seismic ephemerality tears the ground apart
Barges in, the present, whispers a cry
The tomorrow lies still over the chunks of calamity
Lulled to sleep with the kiss of presence,
With the screams of a distant enmity:
The burial of time that has been cloistered around the anonymity
The burial of the ceased, the past, as a euphemism
The burial of the existence, the present, as    a mayhem
The burial of the undone, the tomorrow, with a malediction
All three in the same grave, punching the timeless, imminent reality they delineated

Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With silence, thou shatter, thou question, thou sleep

Down the ground quaffs the time
Of a city that no longer breathes
Out inundates the prayers of a dilemma
For a country is to cleave
Fidelity over a continuum, with faded prayers, shares a discourse
Befuddled with an antinomy, it asks itself, how an epitaph shall be wrought?
Down the ground swallows the confusion
Of a city that no longer cries
Now, which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
To be overwhelmed by a plenitude of halves
In the name of peace, in the name of life!

Which ground shall I die beneath?
To lie awake with an eternal sleep
I no longer whisper over the divided streets
Not to awaken the past, not to revive the wounds and faded hymns
I breathe in the dust, devouring the ceased
For a divided city is to be kissed
Down I no longer hold an impulse to scream:
A gush of presence that arises a breeze
That of which billowing up the grave
Releasing a future for a road ahead
With hope, I bawl, I defy, I beg
Yclept the peace, in the name of solidarity!
Jun 2017 · 412
Izlecan Jun 2017
See the defiance, feel the chains.
Extricate with every motion and devour the lies,
Promising an absolute freedom; nothing is absolute.
Dangle from a cliff, feel the taste of death on your tongue.

Proximity matters when the matter is about death and life.
Longevity feels strenous while death feels fine.
They bound you up into chains and dangle you from life;
A blemish way forgotten and euphemized

Recall back to the moments of freedom, Have you seen it framed?
Have you seen it meandered from digression?
Recall, recall,recall and rewind back.

Quaff the massacre,push the lump down. Feel it drip down into your system;
Then suddenly,you don’t have the guts!
Hear the dead; hear the truth.
May 2017 · 467
Izlecan May 2017
What if I was the gush of wind filled up into the laps of ocean
The amorphous flesh and reiteration of
Mar 2017 · 904
Izlecan Mar 2017
filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility

The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence

Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate

For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk

The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst

The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return

Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.
Jan 2017 · 319
Flicker Of Regret
Izlecan Jan 2017
For I have restrained from the light above
Thou, in the ogling reflection, stood, awaiting
Amorphous reiteration of the rue singes the flesh
For I ,ere sewing the sin on my flesh, was inebriated from passion and from those I regret.

The eons of dust arched the back of the wind,
Integrating through, never did they collide, only swiveling.
For I missed the light flickering,
Beyond the hues of tears clear on my skin..

Only in this meandering path do I bedeck my complexion,
With sins ,adjoining skin over skin
I have never admired
The way they nestle over sin.

Thee; The patchy and rough branches,
Sew beyond the bones under,
Inexorably calling to terminate
This pain over and under

For i have sinned, please tune me out
Discerned from the peaks of higher mountains; Apart.
Though the stars shine upon solely a dust,
For a jiff, merely descends the armour, down

Caved in, clemency seems away in clouds,
Billowing up towards the luminary.
Did I crave it or did I not?
Does flesh ache a lot.

I stood in front of a mirror,
Abhoring the adversarial and metaphoric matter
Ethereality strikes over my flesh,
When I commemorate the sins I have flecked

— The End —