It tickles when my hair brushes my neck
Sending shivers down my spine
To keep me in line and I forget
What the sound of my voice is when all I can hear
Is the echo of my thoughts
And I forgot to tell you about the day
That I lost my way and how
You helped me find it.
Sometimes I wish I were a bird
With fragile wings and a song to sing
Each morning, to sound the alarms of
Spring and make it known that I am in fact alive.
I have a tongue that cuts through lies
A blade honed by truth
But it's no use when my words fall
On deaf ears and my smile is met by
Only fear of reality.
It is by this name that I walk the earth
Desperately trying and crying out for the souls
Of the forgotten sons and daughters that
Have no names only graves and stones
Washed clean of an identity by the rain and the
Pain of years that have passed.
In a shell of a soldier I pick up the guise
Of a man on crusade for his faith in what once
Was a trance and now I can
Stop pretending that I have the answers
Before I even know the question.

Today, today it is always today.
Never leaving my side nor allowing
my lids to rest their tension.
To hide from the always now,
the unrequited  thoughts.
Beliefs I never knew I had.
Within the seasons of the self,
standing in the shadow of my mind.

Away, away, please do not stay.
Give me tomorrow or yesterday,
Images and dreams of greater or new.
Visions of joy, structures of wax.
To follow the mind of the season.
Give me fact-free fantasy's
folly and fancies.

But:
today,today it's always today!
Always here to keep tomorrow away.

Frequent & repeated lines of questioning,
not limited to frequent and repeated running,

O,
your honor,
how wyd one do in the dog days should so futile an expense be paid.

Often,

though not often enough
(and
entirely too often,)

it seems
to be
repeated

to be
repeated the sayings of the elderly,

but I say,
among others,

RUN!

collapse into the whole of everything else.

Run not in the ablative sense,
but inwardly.

The Dog Days are days in the truest meaning,
Don't Hold Me To That!!!

for this will pass,
as will those and that.

That rustling will never cease
and should it,
I fear the worst.

From this cries a home

A HOME!

for want of all.

Take this, Take me, whole, unbroken, beyond dog days and frequent and repeated sayings & questions. Take me home.

A Breath of wind is wind itself,

should true and steady braided shelfs,

foraged fords from handsome lords,

prayed hopes & proper ropes,

could life and science meet the world beyond Biology?

"A home," it cried, "a home for me with trees and lakes and reverie."

I tried and cries for something else, elsewhere

I found a leaning shelf.

Should what was true and even hold nothing told or helpless here,

I cannot hide a place inside,

though I cannot say I really tried.

She sees the waves ram against the crags, stretching outward and onward to the line that breaks the sky in half, and in doing so it meets the sea in a wholesome piece. The waves crash upon the sand and walking across it is a white horse taller than she; its black eyes capture her in a doe-eyed gaze, and as it approaches she is consumed by a strange fear and in terror she leaps into the sea and is swept away by the white currents that roll her along, throw her, jostle her, swallow her and eventually spit her out only to pound her once more, dragging her slowly, to where the white waves subside and the sky meets the sea.

An attempt at prose poetry

She grabs
her
triangle
for
a gyrate.

The end product
is
but a forced
gem
to sparkle.

Spoons to
lick
Spoons to
pour

Limit-
the
hidden clown

A stop
and
she figures
her
futile vertex.

Each point
reflected
twice.

Birth, desire
& death
in consecutive
origins.

A dead life.
Gems are but
stones.

Acidic faces - a humble absorption.

Distortions, accepted
as clean networks in a green eyeball.

Faces flowing as a stream
of black decay, from our skulls

'Others' is an entity
falling for a pit or falling in it.

Base of a base seems lost.

Dilution occurring through kisses
or shutters of infinite resolutions.

Legs become the silent dunes, they cover

Curves preventing from falling,
help in getting stuck and rotting.

Spaces make deadly chemicals
get artistic recognition.

Two roads indulged in zombie meets,
left twisted in a quake.

Fragile fingers now learning
to narrate life with bones, or at least tend to

War has left none rock stiff but bones
and war is when it is to the bone

as some young minds in the middle
of nowhere, of a deserted, bare chest

wrapped in soft, damp, dead twigs,
screaming, take a bath, take a bath.

Sad corners
Dark caves
Fumed pits

Dark lagoons
Dead reflections
Caged souls
Black forests

Breeze turning
chilled whistles

Possibility of life
Bigger possibility of ghosts.

True that it
divides a face

Vertical divisions
First choices

Its stoppage
before the lips.

A small tear -
hideout of an
entire negativity.

Horizontal division
is day to day living.

A perfect rule -
we divide in different ways
we cross paths
for a cancellation.

dryead May 1

naked of the cloaks of the desired,
even a deeply nestled petal wilts
of rhythmic imitation of the sun.
what effortlessly nourishes an animal but sleep?

effort to sustain a roadside presence greater than the gain,
did you grow thorns? or were they written in your skin?
(inscription: learn to give up, learn to coexist;
shut out words will always miss)

a man that isn't male, a woman free of feminine
left guessing at another ill-communicated notion

to open without expectations, thin of want
to miser, hidden coffers nourishing no passersby

when roots obscure the sun a rose may strategize
but some hands open only in the darkness,
pale and bright or yawning at a winter cloak
as if to ask: comes there a longer night?

July 3 2015

He's got coffee in his blood,
He dances with brown camels,
He is alive and dying
By his own will
As he should've not been born
With that scar on his chest,
With his ribs wrapped in skin,
With his crazy-grooving heart.

He is the Alchemist of sounds,
The Athlet of the tongue,
His hair reflects his homeland's sands,
Look of his eyes can blind a man,
He seems to be the son of middle-eastern sun -
Slow, lazy, drying out your life
Though always giving.

I know, the gray in northern sky is his,
He've reached his fine hands and left it there,
And in the chaos of the sandstorm
You'll see him always walking onwards
Though aimless,
Cloacked in weary clothes and idle anger both.

His smile's the strongest of his shields,
His words, as it has often turned to be with most of us,
Are mirrors of his own:
They show the aimless but directed,
The tubrid waves that mutter briefly.

He prays to metal and he preys on the unwise,
His god is dead and it happend no less than twice,
He buried his gold and digs it out only
For fire and smoke, for bitter and jokes,
The Cow of three eyes and the Bee on his blazen
Are joying ungodly.

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