I'm haunted by bullet-shaped hearts,
With sparks-tinted pearls n’ quartz,
Of styles slanted by bonbon tarts.

I was the sash-links of velveted stuffy arts,
Meaning my love has even counterparts,
Of yours and I and yours and I.
Why, You remind me of liberty
And my likings of poetry.  

And when the lead—O! When the lead fired
A slow, in my easy trench coat cold n’ tired
Mistletoes of Narra leaves…n’ oh my heart.

I have been humbled deep. In a heap of a palm
Holding the universe in a gaze calm
N’ repose; of your works in beautiful prose.
And from my eyes, I'm bleeding,
Not unto blindness, but unto seeing.

You,
The blood,
and nothing.

Poems unto sleep.
I read to you,
who drudged in jaded narrow suns,
Engored by the steel-edge‘d lance.
A shaft long like baton for a handless,
He who agrips the birth of light and darkness.
What hands? Your blood? And death?
A flail a darkened eyes a straying sleep.
What a strange metaphor for a burnout.
What a stranger line for a callout.  
What a strangest solace to whine about.
Here again, we ponder each ponder each aloud.
None again, we ponder each but alas the cloud.
No more! We’re mulling less than ever before.
Yes, yes, I see you. Though it is dark around.
Make no noise before dawn. For I made a tour
For you to wrap back up your wrist to lounge.
Until you crept much you look behind your back.
And We’ll meet again,when the lance had fallen
upon Each and each of em’ or us or all and none.
Afterwhich,
I popped away, out the viewer’s lane,
To sum accounts, the strands of mane.
Understand? Do count the rain.
By the ripples, not the chain.
Purl and rift and lop so brisk, so master.
Top a risk, a water dense, a matter of sense.
Immerse your cranium, eat your pain to scatter
Across the butter up a pan, still you kiss the bane.
And you stood blue, with or without pain.
What color is it next? Pink? Yellow perhaps.
You scare yourself with thoughts of mishaps.
Rank round the stripes, ropes and lives…oh.
Bare dotted gauges we thank,
of which we cut a blink.
and declare, “I see more than I think.”
Thenofwhich,
Much is seen, To be known.
Much is known, you will see.
Never or now, now or never.
No man of lips can whisper through a
didgeridoo.
Let a cricket hear you moan before your lips
of blue.
Resent! Listen and reply to an echo of an ugly voice.
You're still a child, a child of responsibilities,
Is it that which you call your toys?
So I've declared its nature now it empties
What sensitive brotherhoods, Akins, relatives,
Whatever. You do you hate it more than those
Whispers and whimpers you make up prose,
Like a model’s ugly review of the winners.
A loss isn't much of an effect than your cause.
I beg the corridor linen quake,
I beg the dice to loan an odd for a brake.
But the lance isn’t so seep,
And I'm gone, unto no sleep.
Thus listen, in darkness twilight.
In the dullness of a careless night,
Of that pale moonlight,
Who tugged the bight
up the greatest summit height.
Hush the song, puff—so much noise.
There are verses listening to you,
And there are songs listening to you.
Every time you run out of battery.
Run back to crescendos bowing in retrograde.
Oh now its the ocean’s raid, is what it's made
From your annoying back scratching aims.
Its a question asked what would the names.
And I would mend your beady pecks,
When there's no Cigarettes After ***.
Make me make you sleep.
Hindly hurl your hurdle heap,
Torch the zephyr you interkeep.
And fly.
Beneath your idle numen sky.
In ties with the barrier crossing billows
Ordains rushed to have all,
All the essays of the masters moments ago.
Ambrosia ornaments wrawl,
Crawl a moment ago, and then and then so,
Mirror heaven night.
No more noises white;
See false and you won't fight;
see it wrong to be right.
Is this a dream?
The words you’re witnessing.
Does it paint confusion?
Or celestial dissolution?
Whatever whatever.
Let us go then, you and I.
When the evening is spread out against the sky.
Like our leaden night of decomprehensibles,
Pillows—any pillow, you're good to cry.
Upon any reason agrip.
We started the night and we ended twice.
And you don't need to know why
the lance is as often as seep
When I read to you,
Before and after,
Your poems unto sleep.

What have I done?

Passing a proper life rather than to flee.
I would sob of it, in ink.  
But I left my pen in my study.
And pencils do not sink
as dark as any charcoal does.
It is a mark, I suppose.
But a mark grey and half uncertain.
Easier to erase than to oppose.

Then again,
I have written some, bygones ago.
We have time, yes? This goes first I ashow:
Bold wrinkles and scary parts—oh my heart…
Then once again,
You're beside me in my anecdotes.
A diary, rather than a biography:
Words that which assembled ashame of me,
Assembled a wishful child’s ideal playtime.
And I’m contempt from all my discontent.
Who could judge with an eye to justify? How so?
Do any deity know me? A shy and an afraid thing.
No longer now, a dignity to be reattained.

For God’s favor is entertained, not pertained.
That is if fortitude arches from solitude.

But I'm more of a scoundrel than a rude,
Because I make the most of all.
There is only two roads but I see fifty more.
I took none for they all have traces.
And there's no going back,
Only unkindness, has its forward paces.
And I too! Possess this vices,
But I won't make the most of all.
For I am not from solitude,
but a crowd of proud men of fortitude.

And when my rendition ends, I'm back in circles.
Where the heart rushes to the brim of the sink,
And alost its face about the mirror,
Wishes I had been an angel and say:

Heaven is a place on earth,
As long you stood all you understood,
and life ends with every tick you ponder.
And there is always time, only time; and
Think nothing of it, when you pause a little more.
For it makes a man odd,
missing his blood.

Seasons if not the weather blew a petalfalls.
If what should sink drains, what whispers drop?
If waterfalls bring a river, petalfalls cradle deep
a billow north. And frank wisdom is its blessing,
If leaves can ponder. So butterflies should only
Wander; So far as the petalfall’s whisper drops.
Till’ I'm away down south, with my friends balmed to the clouds, cradled to a thousandfold.

Aim high wont you? These arms followed an angle close to you, than right. That diamond eyes, peered once, before the setter of our struggle.

The karmas misled the merits,
And the merits with decisions.
A tension teasing, ******* questions,
Sowed beneath burnt-up fields beside a road.
The smoke’s precision upon its smudging air,
That tears it open, that leads across unwoven.
And our eternity shreds a speck of little dignity.
My dignity that shared a speck upon our eternity.
A steam kissed and ate the air-flux. A rough chill!
Singeing our eyes to let free—Yet we hugged
the same pillow in the fire; And diamond shards fell beneath your cheek, peering at the setter.
Do not cry, beloved. I will save your life:
Impairing the merits that misled us,
The decisions that misled us.

Prayers are no meditations for your begging.
Pretending you're embedded in God’s will,
Aside salvation: The eternal momentum to
Chant a meaning; his second-hand revelations!
To bear witness the next three digited centuries.  
And what if the burst of colors was in my head,
From the crowns walked a plank to confess
A halfpiece of bread, and a wine-full of blood
In your heart. What knees pristine, uncalloused!
As if uncrucifixed to the privilege of delusions.

A heathen! Me?
You're mistaken, my brother.
He is definitive in my eyes! And upon my words,
Our Father sees me as he sees you.
But I see you not as Our Father does.

For when you're lost then, do you seize deceit?
Because the latter excuses were amiss
of validations from other Holy spirits?
Or is it, you're paltrier of a servant unrequited
By God’s manifestation of an ant,
Born inside an indecisive man: crying—begging.
Fate and God and spirits and fortunes,
Whatever fits your pocket, fits with lies.
Lies that begged to know a little paradise.
It's all abstract! A profound persuasion within.
Numbers ruined the origins of your skin?
You don't know? Where's your resolution then?
If one beseechs one more trivial permission,
When does the life of purity begin?
And if one doubts his God,
Is he not permitted to sin?

By the everyday bench, he—above all, is sinister.
Look yonder, at his warped entry hole,
aloft his ghoul-like chin.
Mercy! The bread cried.
That sad naked eyes gazing upon his feast,
Until the dry surface denied
his tongue, gliding through utmost dexterity,
And eventually died.

The blood is butter,
The tongue is hell.

And the crust could only tell
What is beyond nothing before reverie.

The mush, the crush, a touch of reverie.
He's but a entitlement of his attonements.
He’s the lyrical empirical, reaper of meals,
That is only eaten by men,
by women, by child.  
Upon fixation, he's near but a separation
of humanity and *******.
An offspring of all vices,
A reaper of reverie.
What need of you to ponder
more in the face of a Monster?