Sunlight braids rained onto the dusty folds of our parking-lot-like schemes,  'cross the gaping leaps between our sentenced deaths with the occasional intervals of blindness; lighting the path torrents for black light on black, and the little hopes, still held back.
Pocket poles and bullet collars decorate the walkways to the stockyard, where we piled our words and promises before; we stood bare and helpless to the passing winds that swept the misty passages empty, through the urban woods of vanity and fair.
Still the overtures sound light carried on the sealed whispers of the distant dream; that we would live! And portions of our existence rest down the wasted years, on the rocky crust pavements of a river. Floating streams of living things that pass down into oblivion, with their faces cold, and impotent smiles alike.
Perhaps the fading wonders of the breeze one midnight would sweep me away too; perhaps it will take me on to you.
But this that extends down through the rot and the veil of beasts, in to light the flares of a broken heart... It was not you! It was something else, something awfully lovely; it was totally something new!
A father's dream set into the breed of a pointless purpose also set into the wilderness and into the vain colours of a feint folly for greed; as the vacant corpses pose the prose for fortune bring, and for the songs we sing.
Beatitude in the sense of a crime for the sake of a lesser scream; a voice through the void that echoes against the street lights shaping the crossroads to hell; the tolling bell! The little left, gone and strew.

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012

Plaque..
lingering on the
outermost surface of
my fingers,
palms,
skin.
nothing new.
coming of age
in an era
of grease, oil
***,
patriarchs,
the third wave,
followed by
a tsunami,
soon to come,
earthquakes are
too prevalent
for this not to be.

my hands will soon
be washed clean of
the sin that was placed
on them,
--not on
my own accord,
but on theirs.

"God is so dead"

          -Post-postmodern Nietzsche

"I came across a lonesome face,
among the figures stuck in traffic,
Someone there, somewhere,
Longs for a distant place...
A place, of dreams and magic.
This ageing scent, of dying breath,
And history, is just too tragic!

The wandering braids,
Scout the town,
Hoping, things will come around,

And as early risers greet their way,
Their faces Pass, and fade away!

The stones and old homes,
Fill space Between,
fiction, And the stories we tell!
They reek through the alleyways,
With reflections keen,
Mixed with an old familiar smell...
Of Passages dusty and features a-print,
The smiling pales of concrete mint,
And the fellow grin, by the local inn,
Who's never had a tonic and gin,
Unlike those of London...

This,
I can barely define,
stories-high, as we go by,
simply left behind!

But passenger light,
Drops in flight,
In the hours of eight 'till five,
I caught the melody sung in sun,
In our hour or so long drive...

Still I couldn't tell,
Of this old scent and smell,
and all that it's not,
why This raging ravel still, seems so forgot.
Although they've bettered it,
in some sort of a way...
Today, I think...
With all hopes a-still,
there's little much left,
and less be will...
Little still floats, and little is wet!"

A.r. Bazian
*Jan 14th, 2012

With the house they are selling their childhood and adolescence, five funny brothers and grandmother's sweets, late night dramas and the unattractive maids they inherited, cigarettes they puffed secretly and lessons they learned with jackfruit pulp. Now the roots are being pulled and I wonder what'll be left. I wish people live there, generations come and play on its front yard and I hope my ancestors understand new generation urbanism and modernity.

My new medium
the Sanskrit pen
that makes my words widen
I wish the upstairs was more silent
I'm afraid of waking them
I return from the carriage quarters
where I blew off smoke
sending quick wisps through rings
and I closed the six doors of the four chambers
to arrange an exorcism
The smoke must dissolve
in only haunted rooms
and not reach the vents of elders or newborns
cause they'll certainly frighten
thinking demons abound
Numb as the ******, depersonalized
but realizing it (wanting it)?
What's my name?
I won't tell
but if you know it
could you say it aloud?
I swear someday I'll know myself

The debate is on
I want to perform
but first I must
humidify my guitar
Ate dinner
now there's a lump in my throat
so I'm gonna sit here
drinking tea 'till I feel
paradoxically soothed and energized
hamburger and homefries
the summer dish
perfect for outside
but here I sit in my A/C winterland
conditioning myself for hats and gloves
The water's warming and rising
the mosquito larvae have won
Itching in Yellow Fever delirium
These grassy hollows
were once a worthwhile place

The new wonders are now
grotesque animistic anomalies
Today, face-to-face with rabid rabbits
Tomorrow, the white light angels
with hyper beam cleansing
     they could no longer bear to watch
from porcelain obelisks
the human media screen
of indoor inexploration
fail to hide the sins
from the scale holding counters
Justice, the lucky one
with bandanna over eyes
still heard the profit wrenching semantics
get drowned out from screaming harpies
Responsible gods stopped their foray
in fear humans will survive
Dark matter engulfs all
in fear humans will survive

The Pop Culture is growing
More to study
more trivial knowledge
The entertainment category
less hobbied skills
We're so enthralled
Modern Age, information phase
So fun
The things we can do
when we're not working
and we're not not working
more these days
These days are so distractive
not by the hardships of life
but the ease
I see so much more that draws me in
I feel I should experience all
But there's no time
and my own expression
may be worth half of it anyway

It is winter, icy night outside the ancient terraced house, crisp
and creeping-cold, the road fleeting and the boisterous,
rejoicing revelers invading my room unseen but well heard,
silky-blacked, silk-backed, slick-backed, on the loudbusybarstriken front street.
The houses are sleeping like the dead (though the dead shan’t wake the morrow, in the deep, frosted earth) or sleeping like snoring Grandma
Passed the creaking stairs, behind the thick wooden door.
The chimneys enjoy a smoke, and the street watching in lazy light.
And the people of the long and aging road are lying, dormant, on hold now.

Be still, the birds are in wait, the office-workers, the budget-blunderers, the dole-wallers and money-splashers, equestrians, assistants, cricketers and coppers, the seller and the sold to, convicts, clergy, scrap-men, soldiers, the wary eyed whistleblowers and bleak spinsters. The elderly lie alone, cold and widowed, falling in love in dreams of those long passed, gramophones serenading them with swinging sounds since forgotten. The bachelors lie not alone but feel it, aside women they met but a moment prior. And the sloothing silhouettes of foxes stalk in the brush, and the fallen leaves clump prickled by the spiking spines of a slumbering hedgehog, and the hens in the clucking coops; and the mice creep across grassy planes playing hide and go seek, darting and ducking, amidst the quiet nightly warzone.

You can hear the frost amassing, and the old homes groaning.
Only your eyes are alive to see the bellowing chimney pots washing the black sky with grey, consuming and spreading, smoke. And you stand alone in hearing the working dogs retort with the sky, the primal yowl, where Jack Russell’s, Bull Terriers, Whippets and Grey Hounds, Fox hounds, Patterdales, Lakelands and Border Terriers take wolven shape and warrant the moon and stars to adjourn.

Heed. It is much too late, or early, the day-break behemoth’s begin to crawl blind through dawn, slumped uniform and jangling key and toast crumbed stubble, golden tie pin and tracksuit top, parted as the red sea, racing rats, inhaling bus fare; openmouthed in Citrone’s, rattled morning news; in Pickwick’s cafe shutters exhale the bleak dark and swallow first light. It is genesis in Chester-Le-Street, coagulating evermore, with breakfast offers stuffed down its throat, passed my frosted window pane, sleet and rain, headphones, lit cigarette, black brew two sugars, lichened grave stones and flashing blue lights. It is break of day amongst the pushers of pencils.

Watch. It is discontent, dragging, alone coursing through a bacon stottie; clinging to a dead end rock, aside the cockles and mussels, to be exhumed by an uncomfortable chair and the computer on the blink.

Is this it. Ask. Is this it.