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Oculi Dec 2020
The smell of burnt hair.
Pyre, made of autumn leaves.

A sound beyond hearing.
Metal, bending and twisting.

One eye, but not the other.
One ear and two more.

Lines, straight lines.
No curves, no wrinkles.

Do you hear it?
Can you see it?

A fire you can't put out.
Burning ice like a thunderous cloud.
Oculi Aug 2020
The gust of wind in my back
I hear cicadas again
And tamed horses roam
Oh mother, I am back home

My breath short
And the heat soaring
Alone, as you were
Forgotten like a cur

The blades of grass welcomed me
And the trees whispered nice words
And the walls blankly listened
And my song was sung

But Hungary, my sweet old home
No more is my song for you

My breath shorter
Interrupted and forced to
Become one with that gust of wind
I run like the hunted
And my hunter the trusted

Lies, deception, corruption
That is what you are
My dear, sweet Hungary

The blades of grass no longer welcome me
And the trees turn their heads as the autumn comes
And my breath long, wispy and furtive
My song a ballad of my sadness
But there is nobody to sing it
And without ears, these shadows cannot hear it

I'm untangled from you, Hungary
I despise you, blades of grass
I will ignore you, trees, like you have chosen for me
This is not my home
The soil from whence I came and clay from whence I was made
I hope it dries up, I hope the end finally comes for you
And maybe then, you will wish for a different path
You will wish you had heard my song
Oculi Feb 2020
Those folks
They cry about forgotten love
As though it's a thing of yesterday
We all snicker at their naiveté
For it is known their love cares little
So cry on, little poet, cry your little heart out
But you achieve nothing

Those folks
They weep as though they're wounded
Yelling wolf about some depression
What's got you down? Some advice
Maybe stop taking yourself so seriously
Poems about how hard it is from noblemen
You've never seen the Tysa overflow

Those folks
Crying over your mother like a child
So what if she is dead?
Shouting to the rest of us like some imbecile
Crazed upon the perch of suicide
When it is just a woman who birthed you
Why, mine didn't even love me

Those folks
Singing odes to addiction
Be it hiding behind drugs or alcohol
Snubbing your face with powder
Locking yourselves in your room
Suspended bodies of privilege
Crying about hardship

Those folks
Who have never been attacked by their own mind
Assaulted by their trusted
Tricked by those they loved
Who've never seen a man take his life
Or heard someone get shot
And think they've been through it all

Those folks
Who have never heard the true songs
The real notes of reality pass them by
Hide from the world all you want
But those prophets were once right
And if you had listened you might know
But you just assumed you're as smart

You folks
With your upper-class *****
Your cliques of conceit and deceit
Those godforsaken silver windows
You've never seen it rain like it does
You've never seen the fire in the forest
So quiet down, you good-for-nothing *******.
Oculi Nov 2019
Birds of a feather
Do flock together
So I see a swan, ever so often
For I'm on my death bed

It is a resting place that I turn to every night
The next day waking in a bittersweet abyss
For I nary rest my mournful eye
And once I do, it still opens evermore

What is it to take a title?
I step on pedestals once and twice
On my hand, a mantle, a gauntlet
On my back, a cape, head, a crown

Who am I to assume the roles of the passed and the gone?
I step and step and step in their footsteps and live
Never have I drowned myself in bile
Or fastened a rope around my wounded neck
Never clipped my beautiful wings
I just burned the tips, to stay flightless
Took off the crown and weeped forever
While the idolized watch over me and hope I stand

Who are you, who were you, who will you be?
Am I as you describe, a knife in the dark?
I've been dreaming the words of a prophet
Because, honey, I am the wall, the bastion
And you are the sweet, piercing trumpet
Tear me down, so I can rise from the ashes
Never once will I die
I am immortal

I am a star whose beams shine bright black
My confusion reaches past these hospital windows
Woman, please help me in my woe
I'm new here, a stranger
I don't recognize this

I am a pestilence that strikes animals
Or a Dutch merchant
I am the star who burns like the brightest candle
I am the woman who walks on the edges of thorns
And dives deeper and deeper into despair
I am the homeless man who asks for money
In exchange for a poem from another homeless man
My knowledge is none and immeasurable

Dancing through streets of gray concrete
The rain knocks on my forehead and eyes
Are the empty chambers still full and free?
Are you happy to see me?
Or is that a gun in your pocket?

Sing swan songs, so the people may hear you
Let them know, may they cry in their darkest hour
While your heart rises above the ocean of blackness
They cry out for you, but it's too late. Always too late.
That was your last song, and it will never again be sung.

That was your last song, and it will never again be sung.

Birds of a feather
Do flock together
So I see a swan, ever so often
For I'm on my death bed

No, nurse, I do not want it
Bringing me medicine won't help
Do you not get it?
All my songs are my last song, I'm not leaving.
I wanted to write about identity. My country and its identity are synonymous with passing.
Oculi Oct 2019
While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The black tar envelops my unmanly sigh
A cigarette in the moon's light with a stranger
And the howling of an unsightly beast

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The fog obscures everything in sight
I'm questioning the night sky on its numbers
The forest looks in disgust and curiosity

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out
While plucking feathers, my ear drum pops
I say my goodbye and flap my bare wings

An ornate door leads to the mausoleum
A huge crack showing the entrance of grave robbers
The youths wander inside to belittle their ancestors
And my ballad softly floats above the ground

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The young man rests near his anvil
Opening his book of poetry on an empty page
Only to find the blood of the martyr seeping

While plucking my feathers
Will the youth remember my name?
Will I be forgotten as a nameless man?
Or will I be the poet of the next century?

Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!

But do not forget me and the steps which I took
Do not forget my babbling, my bish and my bosch
Do not forget my gifts, you, receiver of blessing
Pluck them rhythmically, slave, rhythmically

My feather falls, slowly to the ground
It is the last of its kind
And as my breaths draw to a close
The children laugh gleefully
Unknowing the end is near
Extinction on my name once and for all
Pluck my feathers no more, slave,
I've just blood to give.
Ars poetica.
Oculi Sep 2019
The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one

Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America

The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile

The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America

The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried

Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America


Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?


Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more

The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her

And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-****
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?

God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America

Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.
Oculi Sep 2019
A collection of donkeys
Reviewing the depth and girth of light
In a circular channel of platinum white
While the Cold War's puppet master smiles

What is in the creases of the temple?
Built upon the Aztec temptress's armpit
Discovered by the Spanish butcher
And burnt by the pale ghost

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

He asked me why my hair was soft
I severed my ear and lent it
The pianist, unsurprised, played on
With a pyrrhic victory among black and white

Plagiarism runs amok
It is my good friend, the light in the dark
The lightning coiling around my mind
A brilliant idea strikes the gutter

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

What's your answer?
Among the darkened rain clouds?
What's your answer?
Among ****** handles?
What's your answer?
Among the trumpets and horns?
What's your answer?
To the performance of a life?

Sing no more!
This is my noblest music!
The buzzing of nothing!
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