A pile of mud
moving, re-animated:
you watch a trail of stink

—striking everyone's senses—
I'm leaving behind.

A man of mud walks toward you,
sliding smooth
on the façade of a greasy pavement

coming at you
longing, to solicit
your pity

—my body crumbles
at each step I ****** towards you
while watching myself being torn apart.

I stretch my arm, and then my stiff fingers,
each soaked in tears,
to grab whatever I can out of you.

I disintegrate into emptiness
at every attempt I make
—all futile, meaningless.

My muddied lips
set apart to plead,
but only a screeching noise

comes out,
squeaking,
like that of a mouse.

You,
the one with a shovel
—sharp is the blade—

scream at me,
whacking my clay-man body
with your murderous tool

you hold so tight
—this sight of Mudman
must be hideous indeed

to those pupils of innocence,
burning brightly
with consuming hatred.

    Lying on the floor
    flattened, unaccepted,
    the muddied lips

    that survived the shattering blow
    are squirming still.

    You grind them under your heel
    merciless.

Call me a medicine man,
and yeah, I'll be there for you sure,
dedicated to you only,
to help the one without a cure.

    Once I step inside your heart
    you'll begin to doze off,

and those shaky hands will be soothed
while letting your head rock to and fro; can't be helped.
You'd be my tiny little sleepyhead
holding that little dose in your palm

    and you'll soon wander off
    deep into the neverland of your own version,

forgetful of human senses:
the striking smell, the taste to savour,
the sound the music that is ever whimsical,
the bright light and the dim dark.

And I reckon you already like it
all surrounded by the forgetfulness
—the numbing sensations nullifying your will to rise,
and the pleasure finds shelter within you.

    Then in your dream
    you start to want me more,

    not knowing the impending consequences
    of forgetting all about yourself,

of drowning
further into the river
that we all call the sorrow,
and of falling faster and farther

until you know nowhere to return.
I call out "Wakey-wakey," then,
prying open your eyes and every doors
that'll lead you outside with haste

—the light shines upon your pupils
still drowned in tears,
bewildered, with your legs wobbling.
Yet you're no longer my sleepyhead anyway,

    so walk on, off with you,
    carry on with your stiff legs

    —though you pretty much look like
    you'll need a stick just to stand upright -

    and do come see me
    if you ever need me again.

Come to me, my dearest one.
Let me get inside you more;
    
naivety is your nature,
thus eager to please
and to be pleased
—time flies like a fleeting bluebird,

a fairy in its blue bright spirit,
    and still you’re nearing my presence.
    Almost there, so be afraid of me,
    and yet fond of me,

for I'll never let you stray off anymore
—stop your wandering, no more—
and ‘tis the proof that I hold you so dear.
I long to relish that imminent moment

    where you’ll give me the enjoyable tickles
    while struggling in my arms tightly locked,

kept held in my blooming *****
in ominous anticipation.
Alas, I'm much eager to please you so  
—and I do expect, you would feel the same;
    
that is what I know from your eyes
trying to shun my eagerness,
still neglecting my attentive gesture
beckoning you to join me,

    but you will hide it no longer,
    for all of your struggles, big or small no matter,

    fans my fanatic yearning for your soul.

So accept me, my foolish child
(so carefree, but still shuddering)
as the dim evening clouds
would shroud the skies above,

sealing off the passage of light  
that was once so brilliant,
but now without a reason to exist.
And you, the courted,

    don't just stand there
    when I come to embrace you heartily,

so induce me—do ****** me,
and betray your fear
to be accepted by me, and only.
Do me a favor, and this shall work

as a token of passion for me;
the perfection is all yours:

the purification of our intents,
the petrifaction of our conscience,

the completion of our unison,
ceasing the compliance
with the rigid standards
of the unworthy.

    Wings of the butterfly collapse
    altogether, and you will be
    awaken, knowing that, my love,
    you are truly a butterfly.

    Like a pair of moths,
    we fly into the torchlight burning incandescent.

The two ol' pals are facing each other.

He passes a glass of poison
to his dear guest, leaning
near the front door, slightly opened;
and he's learning the reason—

why he's standing there,
about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment—
'bout to burst in tears
shedding the vivid droplets

that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost.
Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still,
while the owner of the kitchenette
is putting back the bottle

    to where it belonged;
    and he's gone, present no longer.

The drink on the rock—left on the shelf—
is evaporating, following the vaporized guest,
leaving the scent of faint alcohol
that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.

Blissful art those
that are ignorant.

They know not pain,
for they do not know what pain is;

and I wish
I could join them,

the children of the oblivion.

Batteries of the skies;
booming thunders, and so are you.
You, the whirlwind the most ferocious,
befit such name ever notorious—

    ever in a strife of your own
    seemingly unending.

The whirlwind strikes hard
and fast, and as such; angels of death
descending, striking from the faint heavens
to accomplish its sole purpose, destructive in nature,

beseeching its everlasting glory
that’d evoke the sun’s jealousy, even.
Alas! You carry out the task
that spares none of the land,

taking away the dearest one from another, weeping,
flipping cars and engines from where they're standing,
while plucking out the road signs once robust
and even the trees once deemed so ancient—

none is spared but wrecked
before the might of the whirlwind
the total annihilation being its sole identity—
the one that destroys in the name of thy honor

    and in the very name of glory in vain.
    You look around—

only to see none has survived
or has been left alive; spectating
the empty earth and the water
while being dispersed, scattered amidst the air,

lifted by the hands of thy maker
disappearing—joining the void specters,
and thus befitting the word, truly,
the vainglory.

The pleasure is all mine

when I see a nickel on the sidewalk
while on my way to the bus-stop
nearby,

and when I,
the fast traveller,
see a piece of weathered poster
whirled up in the wind

and then laid there
on the roadside forgotten,
yet still retaining
its hue vivid

—the colors are still lively at the least,
nevertheless.
    My heart grows into full vivacity
    when I see such serendipity so small,

glowing in brilliance yet so lucid,
in a manner ever graceful
—no matter how tiny that is—    
from the bottom of my heart
    
    —I'm being accepted
    into thy blissfulness, which may hold
    the wonders of the world
    ever imaginable.