God exists, this one I know for sure,
And though to some ‘tis may sound to obscure,
The evidence beheld I of his style
Though ‘tisn’t
too easy to express; just listen:
I was waiting for my friend,
We at the moment did intend
To go and do some exercise
At somewhere’s gym; but never mind;
And so was standing I, awaiting,
Amidst the square donned with the snow;
It crunched and crackled at my step,
The birds with wings above me flapped,
Some children bumping to each other,
Aside - theirs smiling mothers, fathers,
Some riding horses, big and little,
Of peddler’s goods the cheery brittle;
And just behind the row of birch
Emerged Of Holy Father Church;
This not my job to you describe
The Beauty of this fairest sight,
But ‘twas the good, the solemn site
Of modesty; and sheer delight
Derived the every one by-watcher
Who had a fleeting chance to watch her;
And so was I as mesmerized
As filled with ever-baffling fright
What one within so often may
Carry throughout the whole long day;
But wait and hark, for ‘tis important, just when the bell began to chime,
Converging everything, the time,
The place, the sight, the proper moment,
As if of something Greater token,
From sky so high above me then
The snow to fall from there began;
And was so tranquil that a scene,
That drove away my inner spleen,  
That I became with thought conceived
That some Great True was t’me revealed

Gloomy, cloudy misty day,
Air suffused with silence fey,
Look is fixéd on the feet
Lest with dreamy eyes to meet
The glance of Darkness in a way
Of your windy path may stray
You on the stranded darkened beach
And fill you with a fever itch
To indicate the ghastly presence
Of extraterrestrial essence
Bonded with a world beyond
To which with tighten clasp he holds
To that of his; and not intends
To intervene with our mess

Some time already I’ve been walking,
Mu tongue dried out from lack of talking,
My feet was bleeding through the holes
In leather boots which had no soles;
The barren land behind me Was,
In front of me (of sunken nose)
Was nothing better, nothing worse
Just the landscape as well hoarse
With not one herb, or rill or well;
Not e’en vicinities of hell
I’m sure were such a wretched view,
Where e’en a little drop of dew
Was worthy of the Holy Grail,
Let alone the brook, or dale
To cool yourself in misty shade
Where miseries somehow will fade
For so a little, though, albeit
The swarming thoughts itself may mate
Into one pleasant revery
Begotten by the freshing lee..
I dropped in fancy for a moment
But limbs of mine that were so swollen
Reminded of themselves with pain..
So I proceed my way again

I used to flank my PE lessons;
It’s bad, I know; there is no blessing,
No pray, no psalm for such a sin
And all the accusations merged in din
Of rasping metal grinding of a board
Which surface’s being mangle with a chalk;
Shall I this sound recall, and, Lord, oh my;
I’m almost ready all my principles belie
And drop upon my knees in front of a Coach,
For him to smack me as a wretched roach
And all my intestines present
And drop them as a ******* on cement
For all the varmints of a world
The death of their own kin behold;
For them to be Edification
Of all the truancy’s damnation

The lurid shining of the monitor
Is overshadowed by a neon signboard
Overboard of my apartment, piercing
Through the ever mist; emitting rays of
Purple, red and blue; as if the meteor
From outer space had fallen near me;
And standing with cup of steaming coffee
Me something gives and other times Bereaves
Of piece or angst or misery, despair
It is depending of the mood, you know

En garde, grim reaper, Thou art
No match for me; the shade from thine
Wings will not cover my sun; I will not
Succumb to the swath of thy honed scythe;
Thy bony fingers shall not clasp my heart
And rip it from my breast, crushing ribs
And tearing skin to flakes and *****; I will
Not be an addition to thy pendants in
Thy closet; my life is mine and no one
Else’s; I did not choose to come to this
World and now thou sayest that I am no
Master upon my demise either; abyssward
From whence thou crawlest every time I
Charge thee to betake and lurk there in
Fear every time I stride by lest thy Perdition
Desirest thou to find; corrugate and shrink
And be no more thou foul fiend and dwelt
In the most far and unattainable nooks of
Visible universe and beyond and further
To be a stain no more upon the surface of
Elysium; and dare not to come back for
Swear I on the graves of all befallen that
No more shall crumble and resident the soil
To be a feast for worms and maggots;
No more shall deadmen walk; no more
Shall nooses be tighten and edges sharpen; No more shall battlecries of
Chief-tans resonant through the air
By the reverberations amplifying only
More and corrupting everything that it touches;
No more I say nor evermore nor e’en
A hundred nor a thousand years hereafter
Shalt thou straddle thy stallion and ride
With thy kin leaving nothing ye-after but
Decadence and misery and gloom; no
More shall I be the slave to thy sway; no more
Shall thou reapest the spikes of the field
Of Mankind; so hence I banish thee and
Willing to vow to defy every siege thou
Mayest plot; for to defend those of
A-kin to me is my holy duty that I
Determine to accomplish despite all
Thy charges; so ready to prepare
Thyself, Angel of Death, and come
And get what thou deservest from
The hand that wields the flaming sword,
For thy own death shall the very last  be

There is no future and no past,
Only present moment;
And forever does he last
Without letting you to pass
‘Teternity’s abdomen

Howling wind and hurling snow,
Moaning of the world unknown,
Of the mysteries uncertain
Hiding under snowy curtain

Spinning twirling all around,
People lifting off the ground
With the promise of adventure
If you’ll dare beyond to venture

Whirlwind with a stormy gale
Blow with promise of a tale
Of a very distant land,
With avid ear to this attend
If you will dare, then hail, my friend
The place where you your life will spend

Morning opens eyelids on the east again,
And every time reminds it of a promise,
Of something swarming there beyond your Gaze, and ‘tis the only thing that’s really honest

Standing on the edge of the world
Is quite different from what you may've heard:
It’s quiet but with toneless droning of as if
A swarm of bumblebees in striped adorning
Buzzing relentlessly and aimlessly;
No waterfall or chasm or nothing it’s
Just, well, you know, reminds you of a list
Perspective: one step ahead and you
Are back again; no wonder it is so
Decrepit and shackled and you may
Not believe it but feeling of something,
Like, you know, of everything and nothing
At a time; something Lovecraftian;
Indescribable; inexpressible;
You just stand stranded and derive an
Energy from this darkless-though-lightless-as-well
Being in nothing at the edge of something;
Edge may be a little bit far-fetched;
You may be’d rather prefer a rim;
So be it so
A rim of the world; no end and no
Beginning, you know, just it somewhere
There aloof from everything and still
So close to all you know and feel;
Dunno; you just stand stranded on the
Sand as though at the edge of the ocean
No motion though is visible or tangible
But breeze you may feel tinkling on your
Face imbuing droplets of sweat but at
The moment of realizing of thinking
About it it drops and vanished and you
Again just standing stranded on the edge
Of the land abandoned on the rim of the
Horizon of events as reverse gravity’s
Rainbow is arching the other side of the
Universal plate where nothing at all but
Everything

Sometimes I think of not-so-distant future,
What it will be like, the thought of this I nurture,
And then contrive the cities in the sky
And people that can easily to fly
All by themselves, no plane nor highway-tube
Knotted in the involute death-loop;
No death, no afterlife, nothing at all
For science of that time them made a-whole;
The colonies on Mars and distant quadrants
At nearest stars united in a cadence
As if a thread connecting all the knots
The system of a stations on a spot
And to another jumping, to the next
The metal and the sterile floating nest;
For ‘tis well known what Earth is but a cradle
Humanity supposed to leave forever

O verily how hard it is sometimes
The proper words of beautiness to find
‘Texpress that what is gnarling on your heart
Threatening to tear it ‘way apart
If being able not from inner chest
To fetch the words th’ occasion fitting best
For burden this is oft of too much weight
To let you easily aspire to th’ utmost height
And soar there fretting not about the sun
To melt you waxen wings; o there is none
From brethren of mine who wouldn’t mind
To spend a day or two in aimless grind
With nothing to express or on his soul
Swelling and reclaiming form or mould
To ready be at once to be dispatched
And to rebirth upon a paper’s batch
‘Tis better not to live then, nor indeed
To squander your potential on vile screed

The snowfalls always seemed to me
To be the falling of le ciel
And snowflakes simply are
The harbingers of times to come
What come to earth to hail
The advent new of Newborns
To the earth that borne through
Pain and toil and blood and then
Umbilical cord are torn and lost
That mystical connection till rebirth
That’ll be unknown to him, and dearth
Of knowing proper place innate to the
Inane entity before the being of existence
Before gaining a shell to thereafter fledge
And plunge again into unknown
To then again emerge amidst the toll of it

I stand in front of a window
With a darkness without and within
Watching snowflakes falling together
In this descent creating or rather combining
Into a snowfall that every time it befalls
For me to behold it and with the inner eye
To hold it, I can’t help but only permit
Myself to feel a state of heaven bliss
Especially when booted feet of mine create A crisp
Of snow under theirs membrane sole,
This crunch with such a pleasure fills the soul
Of every one who knows what it is like
To take a pleasant winter roaming hike

Without a cup of tea with lemon I
Wouldn’t even dare in conscious fair to try
To roam throughout the day and Be
a very gay and pleasant company
Without fragrance this and hue or shade
Of lemon cake located on the plate

To everyone is known
this special state of mind,
When no sleep dons upon you,
No matter how you try,
No slumber is bestowed on,
No reveries to find
In numberless attempts
To sandman’s coach descry

You tumble and you wamble
Upon you untucked bed,
You counting all the mammals
What’s known on earth to dwell
You’re changing disposition
Of your unresting head
While something does inside you
Begin in size to swell

When blanket is too hot now,
Without it - to cold
And nothing is in order
Amidst your swarming thoughts,
When everything you ponder
On is slipping of its hold,
When every link of system
Untying  of its knot

When there’s no salvation
To this horrendous plight
And everything on earth to you
Is not at all all-right
When ‘tseems to be no ending
To this enduring night
One wink and Oh... tremendous;
Behold a new daylight

What is the memory but a motley quilt,
With patches stitched together,
But some detached from there as if Inappropriate
To the purpose of alleviating in the period
Of grief and sorrow, which are so often
Cause a day to be a hue darker than it is,
The people to be meaner than they are
And events to go not in the way they
Ostensibly  
Are supposed to go;
To leave only warm colors suffused with
Fragrance of a mead, the ripple of a brook,
The rustling of a fallen foliage would be
Perfect; yeah, for sure, but to remember
Darker relict of the days of yore
Sometimes is far more better than
Be in the pinky glasses of a false perception;
To see not only in the black or white
But in the gray and green and red and
Purple
To see the life in its full spectrum of a
Motley quilt to warm on freezing
Days or to emit the tears to facilitate
The soul’s ordeal to thereafter meet
The day with shiny watery eyes and
Unburden as if a weightless heart

Bestow on me the gift of inspiration
For me to then describe that strange sensation
That I begin to feel when upward stare
And notice halo of thy misty claire;
By cloud hidden or amidst the stars
Devoid of all the lattices and bars
And still to yet remain in one same place:
The paragon of elegance and grace.
O ‘tis indeed too hard a task to count
How many people on this rigid ground
By light of yours you did imbue to praise
Thy silver sheen pervading misty haze
Near tides what then again by your command
Assault so ever un-preparèd land;
Or when there is no gust or nor a gale,
And when the peace instead of storm prevails
To all the lost and poor forgotten souls
‘Temerge from theirs decrepit, squalid holes
And to begin their marching peaceful raid
To your abode by silvering moon-glade
For if ‘tis not the final path to heaven
Then never I’d prefer to be forgiven

I drained all inspiration from this world
And see no more a point to this life hold

I remember my own Conceiving,
Stridulation of a loosen springs
Of jalopy parked somewhere in the rear
Of an upper level of a parking on the
Skirts of town forgotten by me but
Remembrance still is vivid as if I am
Creeping on my four to to the shaking
Out of tune a little vehicle with lights out
Both rear and front and litters of used Condoms with ***** filling and leaking
From its rubber carcass and butts Smothered though some flickering still
In the darkness of night on the skirt of
The forgotten town where misty and Panting glass was to and fro to and fro
Up and down and sidewise with a chance
Limb or feet splattered against sideways Windows leaving a print of sole with
All its interlaces and wrinkles and crinkles
And toes with torn flannel out of passion
Or just lost on the skirts of the town
Forgotten by Everyone but me where I am standing
Watching my own conceiving by monster
Of a doubled backs back in the car in the
Town where lights of out but reek was
There as if inherent in the very concrete
And all blocks and bricks and levels and
Tiers and I remember there my own
Conceiving as I was standing there on my
Own four and creeping up to swaying Lizzie and getting on my hind double
And approaching the panted and misty
Window with my both eyes reflecting
And glancing back at me at which a
Moment ever I arise with sweat
A-dripping down my temples and back
And cheeks and arms and breast
And wall in front of me in the dark
Town forgotten by everyone but me in the
Car where I remember was my own
Conceiving

Shall I from battered path of life derailed
Into the vast mysterious unknown,
Where every firmament is thin and frailed
And everything to you does seem forlorn?
Where dwells no light, nor dark, nor pungent fire
What either burns or purges stranded souls,
Or where reside the creatures vile and dire
Collecting for the passage golden tolls;
Or shall Through this abyss I ever wander
Along the flowing River of the dead,
Or with my head precociously to plunger,
Myself to the sleek tenants of there fed.
But this is all just aimless reveries
Of one who is bereaved of heaven bliss

I am a man
I am a human being
I am an animal
I am within myself myself
I am the one that cannot be everywhere
I am a dancer on the tightrope
I am an infant
I am a child
I am a creator of all things
I am a writer
I am a poet
I am a scoundrel
I am a fraud
I am a swindler
I am a swine
I am a partner
I am en entity
I am the space
I am the liar
I am a man that sometimes cannot take it
I am a hallow man
I am a ball suspended on a chain
I am a denizen of the world
I am a zealot
I am a hater
I am an envious seraphim
I am a revelation
I am an atonement
I am a perdition of this world
I am this world
I am all of it
I am nothing at all
I am the Essenes of this soul
I am the pale king
I am myself my kingdom and my throne
I am myself my life
I am the one that cannot be forgotten
I am the one that cannot be forgiven
I am the one by every other hated
I am the one by every other loved
I am a son
I am to be a begetter
I am to be the salt of the earth
I am to be an angel in the heaven
I am to be the devil in the hell
I am the fallen
I am the arisen
I am the one that chainéd to the rock
I am the one who’s lover being plucked
I am a no one

I wish I had a wish
When a shooting star
So rapid and so childish
Glides through the regions far

I remember swaying on the verge
Of dark and light, before and after, to and fro
Whence to the world of forms I was conveyed
To suffer just as any other human being,
Within this futile form, confined to bear
The sin of our fathers’ fathers and so forth that stems
From the first couple of the world, banished from Eden,
Seduced by vicious serpent and condemned to toil, and bear
And multiply; and so through ages was it in the progress
To finally conclude in my true self; for I remember light,
And cold, and pain and darkness; the metal cling,
Sterility of white; but then before my inner eye is cradle,
I lying there myself with strangest sense of missing,
Of lacking something too important to express…
Oh, yes, that was the point: I am unable at the moment
To express my swarming thoughts… or rather figures;
Or maybe even outlines of perfect things; and from
The misery, despair and sorrow I try to do my best,
But only peal or rather shriek is able to emit from breast
Of mine; O Lost, O Ghost, in this world all alone
That for eternal wandering is doomed to travel from one Eternity
Into another; and then again, again, again and one more time;
For the machine for ever is in working, and all the clogs
Are always greased and oiled; and there is no way to break the circle,
Or just escape, to be no slave for torture, to walk and see no time,
To sense not the rotation of the earth, or in the utter self-esteem
To deemed yourself the mover of the planet, that just because
Of you is possible the progress
Through space and time too vast
For us to comprehend the wholeness of the Chaos; for chaos this
Still is for sure, indeed; and how in our conceit can we so be deluded
As to believe ourselves the bearers of the knowledge
Pertaining to the mysteries of life; O Lost, imagine now you can
The first my feelings as a boarder of this stage; for sure I am, as
Spirt is immortal, that dusk is but beginning of the dawn.

They put a needle in my vein
And followed day I spent in vain

It is hard to write, but write must I,
For who I am, if not a man with pen, or by chance a plume of peacock would suit me best?
This I know not
But what do I know?
What i am sure about?
This I know not either
I know not what I know not
Seems funny?
Aye, it does
It is
It shall be
For who are we but parody
A mockery of something
Of some entity
Of being
Of being what?

There was a great man from Fargo,
Who once lost his most precious cargo.
It was inherent vice
Of most uncommon price
But it turned out he just failed to send it

I met him standing
In the middle of the lane, awaiting
For some silhouettes, apparently,
For he
Was gazing through the haze
Enveloping the ground of this intricate maze,
Amidst eternities of both
The one behind us and the one of forth
Acquaintance; peevishly there hotching
On his place, like pole earthshaking
Though with not a-lack of grace
This little figure strangèly reminded
Of my own wraiths I thought was far behind me; but never did they leave my soul’s abode,
No matter whether home I or abroad
I always carry them like plummet on a chain
With which all a-way down and down upcoming drowner fane,
Just like pale moon is setting to its further sleep
The same way future drowner does complete
The full life circle of eternal plan,
The one which you could not outran
In vacuous attempt to fool the time
In game that has been riggéd before thine
Name and surname were inscribed in list
Of papyrus and lost in spaceless mist

The herald of the day
Began his march again
As he did yesterday and will tomorrow
Making someone gay, to other - bringing sorrow
Attention paying no to people’s prayers
Towing in accordance with eternal plan
Inexorably
as if In chariot across the sky
Starting  in the east and westward strides to die, to sleep, no more, but just today,
To-morrow ‘gain unmooring from his bay

Facing me with empty gaze,
Gazing into dim-lit space,
Spacing out till brake of dawn
will brake the night and welcome morn

Walking in the freezing air,
Chillness crippling through my hair,
Goosebumps waddling on my spine,
But nonetheless something divine
Pervades the ever frosty world
When moon as yet may be behold
Soaring in the starry sky
But waning under lullaby
Of Phoebus, while with easy pace
He regains his rightful place;
And by the warble of the birds
Your heart from ennui emerges

When I wake up in my bed
With aching head
I hesitate from thence arise
With sleepy eyes;
I rub them with my weaken hands;
An itch in glands
From drinking something cold that night
What wasn’t right
And now regretting doing this;
Something amiss
Through haze and mistness of the day,
Of life decay
I follow birds just when they fly
High in the sky,
It remedies my hurting head
I wish was dead
And every morning just the same,
No ‘scape from pain

The conversation in a bus
Commenced thus:
The silence hung above the ground,
Encompassing all everything around
With muteness of a world;
And not one word
Was uttered in vicinities of life
That ceased to be in an eternal strife
And finally declared was peace,
When something was so thoroughly amiss
Amid turmoil of precipice of hell
Where the most abject creatures used to dwell,
For there was nothing in that vacuousness of chasm,
As if within the man after ******
Was nothing there, within, without,
Nor along the fissure; no, no doubt,
‘Tis something was indeed so very strange
What to the utmost point of stretching range
Was seen no sain a person, nor deranged,
Nor hollow men, nor locked up in a cage
And only one array of words
reverberates through chain of poles:
“We are the men of no land
Who dwell in no men’s land
We’d like to free our hands
To make this torture end”

To thee, The Muse, I will try to aspire,
If you will deign to grant me strength and power
To imbue the words from me required
With Beauty, meaning; to induce desire
Within the souls of ignorants; this sire,
Whose history I’m here about to unfold
By means of means as yet not being told.
An artist was of great imaginary power,
Whom Beaty of the nature didst inspire
To depict th’ most common - most sublime;
Who in the azure pond pervaded to the brim
And strewn with water lilies to the rim
Did manage to express the utmost feeling
And the innermost of soul stirring
With canvas, easel and a swab of brush
In one prolongéd moment of blood rush
Could be compared, if not surpass,
To great Apollo chiseled in the brass;
Fortitude of madman did he has
To every season paint the same haystacks
From the same angle, point of view and place;
And in every sample show it’s grace
Of that uniqueness that he then beheld:
So through the canvas distinctly was smelled
The rich odor of rye so ripe and swelled
That it was hard desire to subdue
To pluck one spike and eagerly to chew
To feel this somehow bitter, somehow pleasant sap,
That not ‘fore long would plunge you into nap
In which you would descry either the dawning
So perfectly describéd in one drawing;
Or woman with a lad amidst the meadow
Under the parasol, or at the window
Pondering on something in her mind;
Or sky with water jointlessly aligned
So ‘tis impossible to  outline
To which domain each sphere is confined;
Or four lean poplars in one straight array,
Or two red boats at anchor at the bay;
The Lunch, The Cliff, The Magpie perched,
Another lilies  joyfully emerged
As if there is no other place for them
And everything pervaded with such phlegm
That ‘tis indeed so bitterly  to rise,
And in the distance to behold sunrise
Although comparable, but not the same
To that Which nature’s trying To surpass in vain.

The dark is but the light what’s yet to fade,
And so are we in our most current state
Just corpses what are soon to putrefy,
Pervade the soil and to the heaven fly