your birthday party.
sirens.
crowds gathered in the lawn,
both
from the festivities
and more,
after the incident.

i'm told
that the piece
of hard candy
you choked on
dissolved before
help could arrive.

4 years old,
and the balloons
on your mailbox
seem more Haunting
than celebratory.

Helios Alatza Oct 11

i haven't been writing.
and i do
and don't
know why.

i haven't been writing
because you
don't deserve it.

you uncaring masses.

cruel souls.

i haven't been writing
because art;
both others And
my own
ceases to carry much weight.

i haven't been writing
because you
who would love me
are the Same
who hate others.

or myself, also,
once you dug deeper
than your questions
veiled in superficiality.

i haven't been writing
because too many
dogs are dying
lately.

i haven't been writing
because i fear
i am fraud;
unable to recognize
my influences.

i haven't been writing
and i don't Know
whether it should
bother me
or not.

running away from
Myself
i set out to find
the secret things that
the gods,
both beautiful,
and terrible,
created long before
i should chance to flee.
but, to see them,
i should think they
were created solely for myself.
soley, it would seem,
to bring me to you,
distance aside.

and what erudite things
that i have bore witness!

i saw the sun fall into the
lakes of the north,
and burn them wholly,
until their waters were orange and gold,
too intense to gaze at for long.
and i laughed because,
the gods had thought themselves
fashioners of some grand, beautiful
Scene
but,
they didn't know that i had seen
your naked form,
traced my fingers along the alabaster
perfumed curves of your flesh,
and known that beauty superior.

i saw the places where
they shattered the earth,
and the walls of stone were
painted like something
you would paint
for me
when the words just
couldn't come to you
and you cried the colors
onto the soil.

i saw the fields
where oceans of sweet
grasses and Ancient sage
married one another and
the gods turned themselves
into the uncountable herds
of wild horses, a thousand colors
defying anything that should
seek to break their spirit.
but i had already bathed
in the crucible of your
passion, and seen you
battle Fiercely
for my love.

It's yours.

i saw the vast displacement,
the empty places
where the gods taught man
to destroy, and
subjugate.
to grow false crops
and distance himself
from nature.
but i have known things
far more sinister than
what cruel gods muster.
i, seeking to destroy myself,
had lost you, and,
having won that love again
seek to keep it as such.

i saw the great
steel bones to be warped and wrought
into grand cathedrals, so that
the gods might seek to
prove themselves Real to me,
unknowing that i couldn't
possibly think anything
of the sort.
not while the possibility remained
that you could ever die.

sure,
the melody
can change.

and,
the beat
gets altered.

but in the end
i think i've heard
every Song.

they go like this:

you're lured in.
because you think,
just for a moment,
it's going to be
Different.

excitedly,
you listen intently.
and,
you are in love,
again.

(quite without noticing)

the poems,
once stagnant and,
Tepid
flow again like
they haven't in
years.

your fire,
thought extinguished,
will find itself
fanned into
conflagration.

and like a
decanter of
that most precious
of ambrosia;

you'll pour
yourself Out.
giving everything
to the song,
until you're
empty.

again.

empty from;
loneliness,
unrequited Love,
and just
not being
refilled.

but you'll keep listening.

the songs never
change themselves.
not really.
not to suite your needs,
anyway.

sure.

someone may
come along and,
add a
Variation
to a
tired tune.

and you might think
that it's a different song.

for a while.

Helios Alatza Aug 28

the way your hair
falls to frame your face,
and caress your shoulders
the way i wish to.

the soft arch
of your brow,
like gates.

your eyes,
a more beautiful
reflection.

the gentle turn of
your nose
and
your high
round cheeks.

ah!
and your lips!
to feel the
heat
of your breath...

and to be
able to
brush your neck
with hungering
kisses.

the low Valley
between
your breasts.
garden
of sweetest
flowers.

and surely,
to rest upon
your thighs;
those beautiful
Hands
entwined
in my hair.

and then tracing
the length of
your legs.

each

seperately.

kissing behind
your knees.
while i wonder
where these feet
have traveled.

Helios Alatza Aug 17

tonight is strange.
you see,
i slept today
at a friend's house.
but now, cannot
sleep.

and when i say "slept"
i mean;
i laid there
in her blankets,
and thought of you.

and when i say
"thought of you"
i mean;
i wondered if
at that moment
you missed me too.

and when i say "wondered"
i mean;
i imagined your lips
against
my eyelids.

and when i say "against"
what i meant to say
was;
that i wished you
were held against
me.

and when i say "held"
i meant;
that i'll take your problems
and shoulder them
as My own.

but dear,
when i said
"problems"
what i meant to say
was that your
ink-stained fingernails
are god-crafted.

and by "ink"
you know
that i mean;
you've forever
left your mark
on me.

and by "mark"
i mean;
that you've drawn
in all the sides of
all the best poems.

and by "drawn"
i offer up;
that this is not
the first or last
time we fire one another
and scald the oceans.

tonight is strange,
indeed.

it's a good thing
You always know
what i'm really
trying to say.

Helios Alatza Aug 11

i am not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

i am driven,
and lazy.
running water,
and ash,
baked into the earth.

i am both
undeserving,
and
the only one
worthy of
Love.

i am flotsam,
and bubbles,
and that coin
which sinks once
tossed Into the
fountain.

i am grass
heaped high !
to feed cattle.

and discarded
watermelon
seed.

but you !
you're the same.
and then,
not the same.

you're flourishing
flowers,
and wilting
autumnal Leaves.

both witness the scythe.

you are living inspiration,
and monument
to entropy.

and if you have veins
then let me be
the salt in those veins.

and if love dies,
then let it die in me,
first.

i couldn't stand
to see it
the other
way around.

Same.
Not Same.

if you are the mirror
then am i
not the frame?

but all of This:
the prose,
aggregate metaphor,
lonely night,
cold morning,
wine drunk alone,
the joy of Longing,

not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

except maybe;
to display.

— The End —