The world is out of balance: koyaanisqatsi!  
Numinous, my heart's nemophilist alerted to the danger,
yet presently in rasasavada,  espies the solstace moon and cries
in acatalepsy:  Mamihlapinatapai with the hunter within...
Should I embrace this smultronställe,
cought in the ostranenie of meliorism,
or drift from this vorfrued to sophresyne;

My only desire is the nurishing erlebnisse of metanoia,
of my dérive towards sehnsucht:
of rasasavada, that I may insulate myself from the Weltanschauung
of modern society, hiraeth to a nefelibata.

Bathing under the cool glow of a thousand million stars--
shattered mirrors reflecting your brilliance--
you are the sun, and the great deep your lover.

When I am not there, you see the emptiness in all its implication:
the death of stars, the beauty of change, and the soft significance
that all of this is happening without you, and within you.

I hear you call to me in the midnight hour,
longing to be touched by the warmth of a familiar star.
But I am as empty as the great deep, filled with peace, surrounded by chaos.

There is a sinking discomfort at my core
my ego falls into a pit of quicksand, lost forever more;
lost to the lingering sorrow--for tomorrow will be
as it was today: languishing, writhing in emptiness...

To trust the world, my mothers breast,
as if the heart of man were best,
suited to the freedom that nature blessed
her children of the wild quest,
is folly of the highest order:

poverty and disorder
corruption from the roots to the fruits;
and the starving of this world abound
unseen and unnumbered.

To feel hunger, to know the dark dimension of despair;
this the tyranny of society perpetuates upon itself:
to be a pauper, a peon, a peasant, a pleb under the rule of another;
to work as a slave to someone else's cause and convenience.

To be individual instead of indivisible,
to be alright with the starving children in Africa
if it means I can buy new shoes.

Hunger does not begin or end with you.
Hunger is the slave master of a thousand and one kingdoms.
Hunger is the gatekeeper to the kingdom of heaven.
Appease him and the world will know peace.

If in my life, my love I question—
And question I my love right now—
Then let the providence of my true thoughts reprove.  
It is the after-*** feelings of a man—different from a woman—
That makes our love so hard to find, to prove, prevail,
And express presently.

No commitment--we want no feelings felt--
But it is with the tides; our rational dissolves our masculinity,
And the words from lips that be love, itself a symbol,
And the coveted presence of such beauty too.
I lie; I lied for I love and I should ne’er reprove.

I’ve got to **** her to prove I’m worth the time—
that she doesn’t need that other job
and that she wants to be with me.
I’ve got to **** her,
so she knows that I’m a man,
a person worth relationship;
that can please her any time,
and pleasures looking good.
I’ve got to **** her so she’ll stay with me,
and love no other men,
to keep her love as strong as now.
Love is always mad.

I am on the front of a beach, a seas exit or entrance.
There was a feeling of superficiality in my vision, and my conception.
The waves, **! The keepers of the fleeting see on the soon-to-be-night tide.
They were so subtle as to loosen me in placidity, a melting hypnosis of crashes and slides. Thus was the nature of my moment with god. I was thus, thus was thus, thus was truth, god was truth, and the moment was god.

And oh, what a season, of fire and explosions, of the heat of summer and the love of the summers warmth, in the night that blew a silver wind in the moonlight, and the days that would either burn your skin, or tan it, depending upon constitutions. And depending upon the angle of the eyes, one could see the beauty of either the blades of grass, where there is no single blade, or the golden-sun dusk that was the most beautiful red, orange, blue, violet, becoming deeper as every memory of the day passes with the sun for new memories to take their place. And I will sit and wonder at the new sky, the freckled face of the drawn beauty, made demure, made to endure, though the moon gets smaller, though the day seems longer, though slept through. I will sit and wonder, until the darkness fades, the silver turns molten; the freckles turn pure blue, the true colors of his natural shyness. Just then, the day seemed like the beach, a seas exit or entrance.    

There was a beauty in the ever foreseen sorrows of the future. Where the time became a fortune telling bell that, even the dulled mind, could hear and know where the tune was going. So as far as the ghastly face of death was concerned, we thought she was a beauty, a dancer at the ball, where infinity, god, oblivion, and me where fixed upon her her, as she was the spitting image of the beach, a seas exit or an entrance.

I love you more than I can sleep,
I love you more than I can weep;
I love you when I think or pray,
I love you when I eat or play;
I love you like the poet's muse,
I love you like the summer hues.
My heart, it aches for every beat,
which thump and tremble when we meet.