Dreams are beautiful things.
Memories of past's fights,
Hope of a future light,
For a tomorrow so bright.
.
Thus we must work together.
To save our imagination before it rots.
Go out flaunting our true colors
and achieving the dreams we all sought.
.
The fell deeds of men
can be forgotten, words can not.
For they are forever etched immortal.
That's the power of dreams and thoughts.
**- Aks & Vergil.

You are my Dante, you are my Vergil, you are my Beatrice, you are my devil. You are the spineless and endless tortured souls of men and woman who form horizons that never seem to end. You are the hung bodies in the trees of death, you are Cleopatra and Antony. In that never ending tornado of lust, cursed to spin and spin, conjoined in cursed love. You are the undeserving unborn who are tortured before they've ever even breathed dear life.

And I, I am only another accursed undead.

To my grandma,



Dressed with your antique gold decorations
And your oneiric sets
In a swinging gait, bucolic
You come into view, tall, fabulous

In your museum, my amused
Unveiling the stylized veils
Around marbles, spread
In colors, irised hues

You’re dancing, evolving, fragile
Between Vélázquez and Vergil.
Of the Graces, of Guernica, deft
You know it all, aurora, sybil.

Of your opportune inspiration
I tasted all the delights
Between your eyes and smooth fingers
I’ve seen the masters’ evil spells

But also a pale beauty
We have together moored
On the ocean of eternity
Beside the Arts, carved out of love.

Still reading in your golden voice
Those expert accents of yours out of
Time, your moves back then
A work today, still glistening



To you then this libertine fire
Your impish fingers detain…


September 8, 2015, Lyon
Translated on October 18, 2015

Oh the things that we could do
If only youd give me an item or two.
Start out slow then jump the speed,
When i cut them up with a wacker thats made fir weeds
Oh the things that we would feel,
From the beating if hands to the stomp of our heels
Tonight we dine in hell, we must,
For that is what for our blood lusts
We are one and we are two,
But you dont understand the gravity do you?
This is not Vergil im telling you now,
My real name is Noah, you know my real name now
See now is the time that it really gets scary,
Cause its only the real one stop your comparing
Weve planned it for years i planned on my parents,
But i guess i never had the *****, it just comes with habit
But the other disagreed said he only wanted the girls,
But the one you seem most, his blood began to curddle
Ive been homicidal, suicidal since year 6,
I smoked, cut, and now tried **** just for a fix
Writings my passion though thats much is true,
Done with my ditty, sorry if i bothered any of you
Wanna cut? thats wrong, trust me i would know,
Almost lost to much to live one year in the snow
Of course it wasnt me but someone else,
I wont go to that story cause youll be sad in yourselves
The last time a cop taught a class i was in, he asked along the lines if "anyone pointed a knife at you?" Hmmm?
Ive had it a few times, one time too close,
Not all of scars on my body are self inflicted yaknow,
Nope not that time you see,
Someone else held the blade and dragged it over me
Thats the time they took my virginity again by force,
But that was only time 1 before,
Was it assisted suicide you ask?
I was too scared to ask for help in the past,
No not assisted i tell you that for sure,
Cause im a survival of teenage torture
Survivor not survival, i jumble my words,
But now you see why my fists are now curled,
Ah alas ive nothing to say,
Ive no more to tell, at least no more today

latin poet catullus was often called too personal by contemporaries,
he didn’t write about gods and monsters or heroes or epics,
he wrote about himself and that was terrifying.

catullus wore his heart on his sleeve
and his heart was ugly sometimes, this beating, ****** thing
that would never shut up,
chattering between the line breaks and skirting around the meter.

the opening line to his poem carminae XVI was
“pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo”
which translates pretty literally to
“i will ******* you and face-*******”  
my latin teacher called him “incredibly ******”
i call him “the realest ******* to ever live”  
catullus was the first person to ever write
an open letter to his senatores,
julius caesar burned at the stake of carminae LIV and LVII.
catullus wrote about his boyfriends and his married girlfriend lesbia,
who incidentally was not his beard
or one of sappho’s lovers.
catullus buried his brother in the shrine of carminae CI,
left offerings of wine and bread and coins over his closed eyes.
catullus always made the ugly sound beautiful, eloquent.
you could taste the blood in his mouth,
the pearls and gravel between his teeth.
when i translate his work, he’s the only classic poet
who feels like he’s still alive, laughing at me from his grave
and writing invective epigrams about my grammatical errors.  

catullus was a little bit of an *******, but maybe so i am sometimes,
and catullus was a honest *******.
that’s more than i can say, some days.
he never shied away from himself, not even
from all the ****** parts that are hard to make quiet.
he always wrote about himself because
he understood what ovid and vergil and horace were still learning:
you can’t write about anything if you can’t write about yourself,
if you can’t look at yourself in the mirror
and call your demons by their names.