in the waves
of your gaze
    my ship
  bursts into
     dreams
                                as my mouth
                           watering for yours
                                fills me with
                                     unease
                                                          ­              endlessly
                                         ­                                longing
                                                         ­             to permeate
                                                        ­           on your reverie
                                                         ­                  steam
                                    to dim
                                 the lights
                            of your sirenic
                                   breeze
                                                          ­           to undress
                                                         ­        the complexity
                                                      ­            of your mind
                                                            ­           scheme

                                        i solemnly live
                                     to hear your name
                                  that even the silences
                                               scream

An amorphous cave hides behind a cascading flow of crystalline blue, sparkling and shining like radiant glass.

Inside the incandescent cave, an effervescent and ephemeral scent of dulcet cinnamon coalesces into the air of the inside of this seemingly halcyon cave.

The feelings, the emotions, the sights, all too inexorable in it's ineffable reality. It calls out, with it's mellifluous and beautiful, languid and sirenic voice, incandescent with epiphany,

"Come child of man, meet me, greet me, welcome me, me as the idyllic felicity some dare to even dream of, and then let me embrace you and enrapture you and encompass you in my incorporeal and frozen, evanescent tranquility."

This ephemeral and serene cave now even murmurs and sings a tranquil symphony suffused with rhapsodic zeniths.

It... It truly was ephemeral...

A horrible shriek, a shrill and a repulsive and repugnant and rancid smell. A decrepit cacophony of hollow, anguished wailing and screaming. Pain at my soul, and a harsh, hoarse and coarse voice filled with slaughter and cataclysm. A grotesque, hirsute maladroit leech, visceral and shunned from everything and everyone, even the Earth itself...

Sometimes...
I cannot hear your thoughts
Your mind to me
Is like smooth jagged glass
Beneath a pool of liquid winter
A lake of crystallized silence.
It hurts.

Sometimes...
I cannot feel your emotions
Your face is like an empty mask
A hollow shell
Your eyes are depthless glass
Living ice.
I can feel your heartbeat
I can hear you breathe
Tears flow down my cheeks,
Freezing in your frigid warmth.
They sound like antipathy.

Sometimes...
We kiss
Mental screams against silence
Passion against nothingness
Motion against stillness
You don't lie
You don't speak
You do nothing at all.
There're no roses amongst the thorns.

Sometimes...
I hear you speak
Flowers blooming in winter
Blood burning through snow
Your voice is a sirenic thing
Filling me
Maddening me
Tearing my heart apart.
A captivating inferno.
A glacial wind.
A numbing kiss.
Your voice is poison.
I crave its touch.

Sometimes...
I wonder if you're a corpse
I wonder if you're hollow
I wonder if you forget to feel.
Your smile
Is an existential thing.
Your laugh
Is a detached melody.
Your stare
Is an empty dream.
Arctic indifference.
Words fading into the wind.

Sometimes...
I can only see you
An aloof statue
A pitiless observer.
Tears flow down my cheeks,
Freezing in your frigid warmth.
I no longer understand you
Perhaps,
I never did.
Flowers blooming in winter
Blood burning through snow
My devotion
To a narcissistic fascination
Your voice is a sirenic thing
There're no roses amongst the thorns.
It hurts.
I wish to **** you.
You don't lie
You don't speak
You do nothing at all.

Your face remains an empty mask
Mental screams against silence
Arctic indifference
Decayed insanity
Inert image upon darkened glass.
What do I do with all these feelings?
You will not die.


It hurts.

It began one dim Saturday morning:
I was the lost pilgrim around,
He was the most dignified luminary.

He turned out to be my stockholm syndrome
The closest thing I had to a light

We used to look around
Back then
We wanted to see the whole world
We wanted it all.

One morning
One sirenic morning I will always despise
We decided to look around too much
Down the street there was some goddess
She was gracious
It was nothing- yet not so pointless

From that moment on
Our string twisted
The edges grew distant

And then it happened

Oh no!

He stumbled upon the *****
Alas, that goddess who wasn't anything.
The air
It was sharp, so excruciating

The next day
I thought my system had broken
I thought my chest had burst into flames
(But I was actually overreacting a little.)

But still he is in my thoughts
I think
About how it all changed that a.m.

I am letting hope blaze

My eyes... Ouch!
When I think of that far-flung dream
The luminary and myself.

the foolish thing about me is that
even in the most starless of nights
i swear i see your face in the sky
thin contrails define the contours of
your face and the faint luster of
the quarter-moon is
your sirenic beam
illuminating

my lonely castles in the air
this solitary heart of mine
can't bear to scatter the stones
for my feeble soul will only gather
each and every last one splintered
my fingertips under your vicious spell
like in a catalepsy i cannot depart will build
myriad statues; columns of tributes chastely paid

down to your fangs crooked, eyes black,
hair crimson gossamer, $2 acid green leather shoes
and cigarette fixed between ghastly ripe lips
uttered infinite slanders and sins then
the swan song sang way too soon
i am tethered to your morbid grandeur
prisoned by your hard-bitten disposition
such enticing torment i revel in

"Let me out" the figure in the painting calls
"Let me out of these one dimensional walls"

The figure of oil  let's out a sirenic drawl, that hypnotizes the starer
and makes him fall

nothing can hurt you but infinity is all

a sirenic void
entrance to detachment

what is there to replace?
when all there is has always been

out the bin with regrettable sin
the walls of boundaries are thin

when all comes to an end
where the **** do I begin?

sashayed into a doom
the corner of my room

a lesson learned with grace
a healthy bitter taste


******* ****


my time I cannot waste
I put the flower on a pedestal and not a vase


sometimes wasted times wasted feeling numb below my waist

copy paste erase **** I rather not face

what's the point?

Isn't it ironic,
I, try to size up shoe,
when we knew,
our love, never felt true,
lost at the sea of ours,
I look at sirens,
wishing, I was wise too,
seeing now, why is you