The World
May very will spin out of cycle some day
If the phoenix in its core burns away for good
All of its green will mix with the blue
And create the clay from which we were made
But if Persephone grows back every year
In the form of wheat in an acre of field
How many days
                 And how many weeks
                             Does our planet have left to yield?

Oh, crees tu?

Te consagrare

Estoy sangrando para ti

Oh, eres mio

Estoy muriendome para ti


As Peter stands alone in the battlefield
He prays to God, his only shield
But the shield
Was not blessed

Who will walk by his side
When he marches into the crusade
A King not fit to wear his crown
Who rested on the Judgment Day?

Recuerdas tu?

Los angeles tuvieron

Ojos negros

Oh eres mio

Yo capturare tu aureola

Y la llevare al infierno

Loneliness, as told by Peter
Is an illuminated script
Just worn through years of long stagnation
And hangs upon a crucifix

How does it feel to feel nothing
To strive, to fear, to achieve something
You know will never reach the end
Just darkness around the ******* bend


Oh, yo no creo nunca mas

Yo no te quiero

No tiene sentido

Oh, yo no te adoro nunca mas

Estoy cansado de perseguirte

Y me duelen los pies


And as I grew, I always knew
That I was disillusioned
For footprints never followed me
To Babylon or Galilee

Oh, I betrayed them all three times, three times, three times, three times
While singing hymns and stupid nursery rhymes, rhymes, rhymes, rhymes

About walking with that boy to battle
I saw his flag in the light
And I regret, not being there
To watch the disciples fight

A smile, a smile, a cross, a cross
Across the hill
Towards Paradise Lost

2-3 part harmony:

Part 1: (No te quiero

No, I don’t want you

No te quiero

No, I don’t love you

No te quiero

I don’t want to fight for you)

Part 2:  Paraiso Perdido, Perdido, Perdido
Paraiso Perdido, Perdido….

Part 3: He stands alone in the battlefield…
He stands alone in the battlefield
He stands alone in the battlefield
We all stand alone in the battlefield

Born at the age of sixteen
To again experience the cusp of noon sun
At the bottom of orangeade syrup
Indelible on your tongue, permanent
In a mid-summer twilight
At the touch of sweat skin and wet ears
On maple arms and black foot night
Singing to the will o’ the wisp
(Leather bound a thought
They will read it, perhaps pay
And take pleasure in your hymn
As verse of summer knows the animus
Which lightens the load of e’ryone)

Ineffable are his hands on terra cotta walls
A hot whisper in the ear and cotton lips
Which press the skin on beachy nocturne
To the ocean, the unforgiving expanse
That vomits all my woes
Which I throw back into it
To again experience the cusp of heat
And boiling blood and salty extravagance
The emotion at an apogee
That makes the world a rumination of wonder
(Not to live without fault
But to thrive in its decadence)

The heat of twilight cakes my legs in shorts
On yellow sunspots, glowing in his amber eyes
Soon, to appear on the cusp of gothic moor
During the late ombre effect of dusky sky
When its nighttime cataract reveals, the moon
A pitted moonscape
The moor is silent and whispers to its dwellers
If I were to find him there, in the fresco
Etched into the crystal caverns of night
Would he respond in the marsh
With the crickets between the reeds
Or the owl on the ground mole
As the whispers of naiads?

Yesterday’s gravity

Pulls threads in weaved cloth
Blown and scattering waves
Massive like black holes and small
Like the wings of humming

Birds of Planck length down feathers
On a drifting radiowave
While watching the television in a
Padded

Rooms inside Schrödinger’s box
Contained by hypertension
Like the hairs that grow in fibers of
The cerebrum’s

Neurons which inflate and warp
His hands shook like the rabbit ears
On his old television, wood paneled with
Outdated

Textbooks like his shelves
And enigma is his cited source
In his teleportation box, bedridden
Things in

There are superstrings on the walls
Floating eyes on the atoms of loneliness
Quark fizz, structural quanta on
Yesterday’s gravity

Pulls threads in weaved cloth

Among thee, desperation paints
Sallow cheeks and shaking palms
In the temple in which every child
Consecrates a rebirthing, rejoicing Psalm
Are the steadfast oaths of ages past
Belittled with the present ecstatic gestures?
And upon mine, my chest is pounded
In lieu of papyrus padded scriptures

He walks, the offender, through the halls
While burnt offerings are singed with frankincense
And pulls the steeple’s steel bells
In ode to the sorrowful April shower’s Lent
And finally, the King sits upon his throne
Ad clerum, to the clergy, and nods with respect
When eyed, the child burns inside a dress
Whilst he forgot to genuflect

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming age
In which thine beloved empire crumbles
And the voice of fire breathes out like winter breath
In response to those insidious mumbles
In a world where the ox and *** are slain
For charity to make light of a bleary spring
While He still whispers in my conscience
Still exists their soul in everything

When you reach the crossing of wane and wax
And turn left on the right hand road
A deaf man will be hearing birdsong
And a mute humming sweet song low
Their treble clefts will fill the air
And the sea witch cries of things she lacks
And monkeys swoop from gas lamps above
With treasure on their hairy backs

Ode to open season in the sea
Where mermaids swim to Galilee
Swift red orphans paint the gravel sidesteps
And tornados rip the sky
Shake the Earth like Nephalim
Sing, ye sweet Cherubim
Find tigers in your blind spots
From Bengal rugs and oriental pots
You will find at the market way
Fall deep in love with the sky above
And only whisper during May

The river doves are ripe as rush
The fly fish are all feathered
Come ye faithful denizens to
Discuss the imminent weather
Blithe as nail and smooth as tooth
The Cherokees sear the horse’s tether
And Poseidon’s monsters rush out like flu
To trample all of swan footed you
There is no promise in a word
But crystal chimes and charcoal blacks
So tell the sea witch what you want
When you reach the crossing of wane and wax

In the essence of value, there is much to be said
For a language, words mean nothing
Without their value:
Instead they are letters put together, random and unrandom
As base pairs in DNA
They will unaffect you, unchanged you, uncorrect you
You and your ***** mouth of worthless words
To anybody who doesn’t speak your language

In the essence of worth, there is much less to be earned
For the worth of monetary value  in your pocket is imaginary as well
Just as the meaning of words
It is paper, cloth, the tattered fray of a Goodwill jacket
And until you see those green and red triangles
They are simply paper, and metals, jangling like dreams
Investments made, while rarely is the question asked
Is this all necessary?

In the essence of significance, an object is privately coveted
Your textbooks, your humans, your keepsakes
You pledge to take, when asked, on a deserted island
For this comfort can be found
But starting life in a cell takes but a small electric surge
And you thought it really did take two to tango…
Would you ever believe that it took but electrons?

In the essence of morals, an objection is always remarked
The space between black and white can be filled only
With the value, significance, and worth of piety
But where would we be
Without our reliable instincts
To guide us into the darkness?
As the rebel knows, and the king and the layman knows
From the same faulty conscience breeds the newborns
The identical clones of “should” and “should not”
Which pervade those private imaginings
Of your perfect world
Because why would we bother having those nagging little morals
Without the want to change someone else’s?