Mist clouds forming on my skin
I dye my mind in thin formations
soft sentient siblings aviate my fingers
frost lit prisms projecting visions that I relate to
chromatic distillation fancying the minds eye
dark transient beings no longer apply
dispersing and spilling into stretches of time
Aether, Aether, help me climb.

Hate Words Eight Words

The face is now veiled in darkness
Soul of a beggar but name of a king.
I used to grasp his embrace
Now of him, I have no trace.

Holding the globe of the past
He stands, is, memory of distress
I watch him quickly breathe his last
As trudges the souvenir of thievishness…

I summon my self’s shield
Silent steel, I stay still
Nightmare, my battlefield
I was, am, guided by my will.

His lust eyes me and smile
Fight in the flesh, he purs
Slime of a sight sick and vile
Covered in cowardice and furs!

Verbal violation of his desired aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

Seated on his malachite throne
He attempts to break my temple
I constrict my ocean turned ripple
It awaits, is, will be a cyclone.

The viciousness of his speech
Echoes in my mind from afar
I am no lamb on his altar
Vicious blood-thirsty leech,

He twists his hem of power
With a swift sound, removes his helm
Walt Whitman in the refreshed bower
Lend me your boldness in your realm!

Blank and wide are his irises
Empty shell of a shabby knell
As he, mud-eyed, rattling, rises
My mother’s doom for which she fell!

Violent destruction of his born aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


His coarse voice resonates
In the shame-paved room
He shines, splendor of his gloom
Empire of unknown coordinates,

Naught of an ultimate utopia
Boastful volubile hegemony
Defecator of his dystopia
Machine of his misogyny!

Hear my battlecry, begone
You have with your blade
Tainted my giggling jade
Lo! I am amazonstone!

Point your ringed finger
Your mysterious misery
Hails no glory or mystery
At the gown of your anger,

Vivacious victory of his degraded aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

I face you, clad in love, glad
I remember your name I had
I fed your face to the flame
To shush the shreds of this blame…

My femininity are my swords
Of peace I touch the infinite rare rim
Eight words against your eight words
Shout a mea culpa seditious stream

Of a tongue that I despise!
I felt your despair’s backlashes
Do not fret about your demise
To me you are already ashes!

Sit down as I melt
With my inner core
You tastelessly tried to smelt
All your hope and your last ore!

Vivified volition of your pugnacious aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


My long silver birth-link
With you vanishes
I mark with the ideal ink
Your name on your fleshes.

Your image flickers and stutters
That’s the paralyzing current I felt
Horrendous is the thought of your belt
Your astute apologue blinks and blathers…

I close the door of your crumbling palace
Your voiced obscenity put to rest
I won’t wait for your inaudible, alas
Apology for this thread of threat!

Gone is the blood of your shade
Slowly to the ground you will fade
Away from the light you begot
You ******* bipolar bigot!

Voidableness of your daughter’s aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.

but have you noticed, have you noticed how  all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.

Solitude defines us.
When our spirits are colliding, and we crash into the silence
of Nothing.
We are not
what we eat,
how we dress,
or who we love,
we are chaos and electric meat
our weary bones,
collapsed with madness.
Left Alone, our fragile souls ignite
and many wither...
As the flames of isolation
reduce the blaze to a glimmer
Til the fires have been weakened
enough to destroy.

Our Souls,
Left to Wander,
Lost in the Aether...

Our Passing Thoughts,
Preserved Eternally,
behind tiny glass windows,
inside little plastic boxes.

We hold this glass over our flames, and suffocate the fires.
Planned Obsolescence: Our Model Has Expired.

You are a leader ship

how I know this?

cause I'm a leader ship too

I can see the sinuous fibre of your very being

take a look

I bet you can see it too

we are borne of the earth and the stars

borne in the wind

there are four cardinal directions, N E S W, do not forget about the intermediary

be an intermediary ~ who wants to be a cardinal?

we need our leader ships following their own true north

2D - 3D -- 4D --- 5D ---------------------------- >

following the wormholes ... the aether

following certain signs and symbols

trust in divine feminine ... .. . .. ... masculine divine in trust
trust in masculine divine ... .. . .. ... divine feminine in trust

" 'It's all this!' He wrapped his finger in his fist; the car hugged the line straight and true." ~ Kerouac

Ship builders choose their timber mindfully
Be mindful with your archetypes, Noah!

Flora and Fauna, the sisters of Season
Of Spring and of Summer
Allow now our drummer
To drum out the beat
For the feet of the sisters
To glide and to creep
Like the encroaching sleep
Which may perch on your shoulder if we cannot keep you awake
And on the edge of your seat, sir.

Now the former, sweet Flora, will finger the flute
While the other continues to glide and to slide
Like a sequined Venetian harlequin bride;
And now Fauna will mimic the movements of bird and of beast
As she graces the work of our landscape artiste
And all is completely unfeasible
Completely lacks reason
We guarantee.

Presently
In the eye of the beholder
Sweet Flora seemingly draws from the aether a lyre
And with flourishing fingers she plucks from the heavens
A song of the seasons, a pagan ode to Pan!


Behold! No aid of hoops, no strings
The vestal-******-harlot sisters sing
Of beautiful Persephone
And with unseen damselfly wings
Ascend from mediocrity
All melody forgotten
All the drums create cacophony
And you will find serenity in chaotic monotony
Now let this climaxing crescendo banish all your sorrowing!

No more that light; no more that sacred realm
Life’s door was dappled gloam; now all is black.
A man of wax with saintly, hollow eyes
Devoid of sin, devoid of love and light
That golden room is lost – you can’t turn back.
Now love has lost its lustre - lust lost joy
And coy eyes turn to watch the empty man
Struck by eternal beauty, and condemned
To haunt the broken world of mortal men;
And shrilling wind caresses empty hand.

How could I forget
the darkness I embrace?
Those encounters live
forever in my heart.

I am engulfed by nothing;
it’s a nameless thing.

Don’t want this life.
I killed my God.
Certain of pain.
Love wants to destroy me.
If we die, nothing
ever matters.

Like a tree or the grass,
less capable,
more suitable.
Nothing compares
to time and space,
aether or flesh.

You are my
Ensorcelled Elysium,
You are my
Eden Dream.

You cascade
Upon my Dreamscape,
Enshrine my slumber in
A flowered gale of aromatic petals
That envelop me, beckon me
To herald the rebirth
Of Days of Yore.

You vein
The Glistening Glade of Memories
With your
Brooks of Aqueous Emerald.

Tis' the
Phantasmagoric Plane
Where still
My wayworn spirit wanders, wearily
In search of the magic
To enfetter
The Hands of Fate
(For they conspire against us).

Swifter than your descent
Into my soul
(Five seconds still and flat)
By
The nexus of your affections,
You evanesced
Like vapor,
Yet
I shall not concede to
The Malevolent Matriarch of Destiny.

For you
O, Breath of Life,
Forsook me not
So I sublime all stains
Tarnishing my flesh
By cries to The Ethereal.

At midday
Awaiting the Twilight
I long for
The birth of The Womb of Aether’s
Progeny,
Starlit winds.

I muse
Swimmingly in Seas of Reminiscence,
Banished from that Blackened Bastion
Of Shadowed Heavens,
For when darkness shrouds
My dreams can be seen
Draping the skies.

I then fathom,
You must not be far off,
Wishing,
Hoping,
Believing
That perhaps
You too
Wonder upon stars
Longing to find that one
That entwines us anew.

You shall alight,
Upon me once more
As
August Sun’s Nimbus
(If only for a moment)
Is thwarted
By
Ebony Miasma
That drenches Cimmerian skies.

In search
Of Ardor’s Light abiding in
The Sylvan Shrine of Your Numinous Eyes
I plead that
The Crag oppress
The Coals of Tribulation,
Until my anguish is
A Diamond Heart.

The pilgrimage
I must bear,
Must be traveled by
The Adamantine alone.

Where have you gone,
Tree of Life?
Why have you withered,
Yggdrasil?

Do I possess
The Eradia of Souls,
By which you shall
Effloresce?

I would halt the cogs of time,
Relinquish my liberty,
To slumber for eternity
In crystal stasis
By your side.

Even in that crystalline quietude,
I would be eminent,
I would be exalted,
I would be ennobled,
In the knowingness that
Your
Stalwart Heart
Radiates
Just beside me.

I exhale Empyrean Winds
When rapt in reverie,
Yearning to be
Captive to your devotion,
Yours alone.

The Bliss of Your Most Holy Kiss
Would signet me
With the
Bounty of Your Name
Burnishing the skin
On my lips.

Though ephemeral,
Your presence divined,
Your presence
Was my anointing.

To be solaced
By the astral resonance emitted
By your touch
Sent the
Pulse of Nirvana
Surging, rippling,
Like a kaleidoscope tide,
Down my spine

You are
The Waters of Vitality
That floweth from
The Creeks of Eden,

You have been
Poured upon my palate
From the
Goblet of Redemption
That I may drinketh
Of
Supernal immortality.

When once again we meet,
Perhaps the tears you summoned
From my spirit
By your
Stirring caress
Shall have absolved me
Of the pangs
In loving a man
(And man alone).

Perhaps then,
The sentiments
I pine to profess,
Will resound.

A melody
Sung in legato,
A  mellifluous melisma,
Flawlessly delineated
And
Intonation in deiform
Or perhaps,
Flowering fioritura
Lacing airwaves,
By the Empress Coloratura.

Perhaps then, piety
Betwixt you and I,
Will waft the air
And I might then,
Permit my quaking body
To succumb to
You alone.

Until that morn,
I shall be vigilant,
Counting the Dawns,
Counting the Twilights,
Until
I can gaze
Into your forested eyes
If even for but a moment.

For even but a moment
Spent with you,
Will bleed a nostalgia
Across my mind's sky,
Painting clouds crimson with passion,
And
That I shall revere,
And
That shall last
And last
And,
Last… And
Last.

O, it will last,
To Elysian Infinity.

∞
            I am a vestige,
               But I shall live once more,
                  In the light of memories
                       That blossom, are perennial,
                           And imbibe the dazed glory of the past
                       Until the past is vanquished
                 By a future that is fragrant
             With the mist of romance
          And eclipses the simulacrum,
       A fictitious sun of the infernal masquerade,
    The antithesis of the truest holy,
Then, rapture of life shall mystify no longer,
For the Numen of Truth,
  Shall cleanse creation without a drop of façade,
      His Providence shall emancipate the hollow,
             The Death of Dreams shall writhe
               In everlasting abeyance,
                 Absolving our wayward spirits,
                  The Winds of Change,
                  The Scourge of Pain,
               And
          The Loveless Wraiths
        That haunted our husks
      Shall be transcended for aeons,
  And tribulation made distant, made nebulous
As the Genesis of Time and Space itself
  For we embark on an exodus,
     Beseeching salvation to redeem us
        When the Requiem of Iniquity
           Is triumphed by everlasting cadence.

Be Valiant,
                 Be Sapient,
                             Be Love
                                       And
                                          By this
                                                You shall conquer the world
                                                           ∞

PROMETHEUS (alone)

O holy Aether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,--
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me
A limit to these sorrows?
And yet what word do I say? I have foreknown
Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe
With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse
Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
In silence or in speech. Because I gave
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
To this compelling fate. Because I stole
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,
That sin I expiate in this agony,
Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.
Ah, ah me! what a sound,
What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen
Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between,
Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,
To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain--
Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!
The god Zeus hateth sore,
And his gods hate again,
As many as tread on his glorified floor,
Because I loved mortals too much evermore.
Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,
As of birds flying near!
And the air undersings
The light stroke of their wings--
And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.

VIII. TO ARES (17 lines)

(ll. 1-17) Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-
helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, Saviour of cities,
harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the
spear, O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of
Themis, stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous
men, sceptred King of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere
among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether
wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third
firmament of heaven; hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless
youth!  Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and
strength of war, that I may be able to drive away bitter
cowardice from my head and crush down the deceitful impulses of
my soul.  Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes
me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife.  Rather, O blessed
one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of
peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of
death.

Forest paths and along rocky shelves
a mountainous terrain, underfoot but simple steps
peered crevices, lofty scapes, downtrodden things
the messages of space and time not yet forlorn
though stark sublimity; more nimble avenues
than sheep dare, a windborn precipice of seeming
whence daunted by the sight, thence humbly still.

Some tracks, in pace of venture, seeing or finding
cry out themselves, as if the rocks would speak
and the wind whisper; there's something here
more than meets the eye, as shadows dance
trees bend and raise, waving branches
the leaves clapping their hands-
one last breath before the plunge
while very Earth is heaving.

I can't save you

Don't save me

Your beliefs erode my DNA

I love you but I bleed

I will find God elsewhere

I bet She is waiting for me there.

a pale neurology
within
pale iron gates
painted in pallid shades
of steel, gold and myrrh.
locked within recursive delusions of grandeur
like granite, horizontal and brittle
snapping within their multiplicities
lost within blindness' entangled waves.
drowning at the cusps of its own banality:
vacant plasticity
homeomorphic sludge
betraying nothing
of the mystified real
but an idempotent of
projected projections,
of a recursively flickering reel,
an echo-chamber,
of pale
gated communities.

aether.
flesh.
bronze.
iron.
silver.
gold.
gold.
ink.
(tape)
flesh.
sili­con.
pale.
pale.
ether,
aether
    
                           (void)

The trees
used to sing with the wind
before He got here.

The salty ocean water
would gently shush us
all to sleep.
Now that He’s here
ships are sinking like
our dreams:
immediately.

Ever since He arrived
Candles no longer light the way,
They burn bridges
and build unimaginable walls
in their wake.

Plutonium
is no longer
radioactive.
Radioactivity
is relative.
Everything now glows a
sickly hue,
brought on
by His discolored
rotting views.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

The eternal marriage
of Air
and the Earth
has faltered
under the guise of
conversion
“therapy”

Water has now
made itself undrinkable to all
but the chosen few.

Fire is now
Only Orange.

The Aether
is no longer empty.
It is filled
with all our memories.
It is the only place
for all of our bodies to go
now that we’re bound for soot,
inhabitable soil
and eternal
nuclear snow.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

are now

GreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgain

There are lots of avenues
through history
to travel down “again.”

Many views of former greatness.

Slavery
Holocausts
Massacres
Cities Lost

and it all starts

with an immigration ban.

Signed on the day
remembering
my dozens of dead family.
My millions slaughtered endlessly.

Here we are
At the beginning.

History supposedly repeats itself

Let’s not let Him

A body and soul stretched to extremes
Yin and yang
The most and least of both worlds
Opposite sides of the coin
Cleansing and pure
Tainting and pitch
Light and dark
Of the purest white
And the most tainted black
Earth and air and fire and water and aether
Sun and rain
The brightest and hottest fires of sun
Beating and firing heat from the bottomless flames of hell
Breaking into a cold sweat without cease
The flaming evil of health
Rain and sun
The darkest and iciest rain of clouds
Pouring and drenching from the endless pools of heaven
Chilling into a cleansing soak never long enough
The freezing good of pain
The contradictions, the back and forth
The intelligent confusion
The stupid direction
The leather and biker tough guy
The shy and bookish sweet girl
The false realities and true lies
Love in strangers and indifference in close friends
Hope in troubled times and loss in peaceful
Banding together the unlikelies
Separating the probabilities
Pain in love and happiness
Contentment in fear and despair
The sound of one hand clapping.

What are these bands around your wrists
These frayed stories that barely cling?
And what are these enchantments held
That cradle your touch between each ring?
And what is this ancient writing here
That’s inked from shops of yester-year?
Is there a relic about you yet
That makes your brackish past run clear?

What is that place your eye seeks out
When your steady gaze is aether-bound?
And what steep truths have you traversed
To gather poise as you have found?
What shadows passing now have stayed
And fears upon tanned shoulder weighed?
Can mysteries be unraveled here
That in your piercing focus played?

Oh wandering mystery mountain man,
Oh sweet conundrum of my dreams,
Oh distant altruistic love,
Oh ponderer of whispering streams,
Wherefore do the stars yet speak
So I can hear their secret calls,
But ever in their praises keep
Your hidden name in cosmic halls?
Yes, to my ears they murmur deep
The stain-ed truths of earth and sky
But never leaks that hopeful peep;
Verisimilitude is shy.

Forever my enigma: you.
The heavens sagely made it so.
For I have solved the their secrets through,
But so much in you left to know.

An orange-rose halo suffused
    the eastern horizon
like the birth of a fresh new world.

Our celestial furnace, still veiled
    beyond the eastern edge,
lent its glow to the bright silver disk
    still hovering in the western sky.

In the chill still of an autumn morn
    where yesterday greets tomorrow,
a sermon wrought of science and spirit
    whispered through the aether,

        "All is hope.
            All is promise.
                All is awakening,"

Here be dragons all old maps say
Here be dragons: beware, go'way
Noble knights and brave crusaders:
All steer clear and take detour
But whose to say these fearsome beasts
These terrible monsters of lore,
Who declared that these gentle giants
Live only to create gore
They may be misspoken for
And probably misunderstood
They could be timid gentile folk
Who dine on aether and fish
But nevermind the possibilities
Here be dragons: go'way, beware

I, naive

I believed that the break in the clouds
Was the end of rain

Thought those rays of sun weren't burning

I was lying
Myself in the grass,
Asking if the tulip chutes in Anatolia
Were the same sinking green I feel now

Where were we?
Love for a thousand spaces and bottling them into skins
Wanted to touch and know deeply all beautiful things

No you're not allowed, they don't want to let you in
That way, it's a distant place and means too much to understand
The biological and irrational
Crazed, sweeps gregarity above and within an aether-- like milky foam upon the waves

When I return home from excursions
I will be Ipanema
The soft locale, unabashed and known to no soul
Except empty elevators--

The lowly philosopher-king

Maybe then you'll think highly of me
Through the mixed feelings
Unable to handle
Straight through the socket
Ring of fire
Then and only then will you realize
That real life

Is more than just a zone or some local
Brewery on a Friday night

And every other Friday night

Ever thereafter--
You'll unlock the box of atomic intention
And listen deeply to her on the station
"Sade and Other Like Hits"

Slowed down for full potential

Letting your cochlea stroke themselves off to the tune of the universe
And the sound of air moving indiscriminately
Will give you
All this


Somewhere
almost fractal, imbibed
Decimated repetitively
There is a fragment of my voice,
Calling

"Love, how much I'd love to be. "

the idea being, opposed to what james joyce invented in ulysses and sartre replicated with a lack of punctuation marks: point being - at what point is atlas speaking, and at what point is sisyphus speaking? and, as it happens: when are both speaking, and where one of the either is introspecting in the domain of thought... that least futile realm of action, that act of mining: enter the minotaur, who said: you keep both your orbs, i'm attempting a crossword puzzle from (a) to (b) with the only clues intertwined with a memorisation of R L L R R R L L R L R L R L L L L R L R R E (R. turn right / L. turn left, E. exit).

i'm getting this void re-entering
the orbit of planet-365 -
and it's bugging me -
  quite a simple observation -
what's with the volume of jokes?
western society is peppered
with comedy, or rather in
the non-classical sense of what
a comedy ought to be:
    they ****** the poets throughout
the ages: but comedians are
not writing comedies:
they're writing sketches - comedy
sketches... is anyone as tired as me
languishing under the:
  why is the fate of sisyphus always
deemed worse than the fate
of atlas?!
             i find that western society
has become infested with a comedy
virus...
   i've never so many jokes akin
to ****** laughter, where what could
have been genuine, is merely
canned laughter replication...
so many jokes have been said:
but of the many jokes -
i remember my childhood,
as children we used to tell each other
jokes, and remember them...
there was this one about killing
mosquitos and how we went to the 3rd
mosquito's killed funeral...
some classics, that remain lost,
or at least archived in the deepest
recess of memory...
      if there ever was a plight of the west,
it came when western societies
"thought" themselves to be funny...
   ****, it was going so great up to the early
00s...
      boy, they could sing... they could
sing their hearts out!
but then they stopped singing
and thought it was better to tell a joke:
mind you: there are no decent jokes
in the anglophone world -
because:
  (a) too many jokes are being said
(b) a joke is a correctional facility
based more upon insinuated-clarification
than slap-stick spontaneity...
and there's, of course
(c) with so many jokes, it's hard
to tell a decent one...
  a memorable one...
   i still think the anglophone world should
have concentrated on their singing
prowess...
can we talk about the black privilege of
the bible belt gospel choirs?!
  the 100m sprinters?!
          breathing apparatus of the choir
like the guns of navarro!
          why do the english-speaking
nations suddenly think they're funny?
they're not...
    if you managed to watch the original
comedy show from the 1970s
you'd find that there was no canned laughter
instrumented like a bad italian *****...
akin to the moment in *the brand new testament
with ea telling marc that he has a nice
voice, so he does the "subtitles of onomatopoeia"
versus authentic pleasure in the movie...
and meets his german sweetheart...
      the downfall of western society,
if there ever was one, given the 1920s observations
from germany: when the english stopped
singing, and turned their sight toward
comedy...
   i hate comedy for lazy people,
as much as i hate intelligent comedy,
i hate modern comedy because modern comedy
is sketchy, it's not scripted to a proper
comedy in the classical sense -
       the more jokes you tell,
the less chance you have of a memorable
joke -
    i sometimes wish to read a book
of maxims: and find a joke among them -
like the joke of the two picts copper wire
a penny argument and stretch armstrong -
or how welsh men get laid,
              pushing a mutton off a cliff...
tell me a joke worth being said
side-by-side akin to vine vidi vici -
and you can have the floor...
             i think i've had enough of
laughter,
     i am actually beyond tired to respond
with laughter...
          the anglophone world used
to have just great songs, and by having
great songs was renowned for
telling bad, overly intelligent jokes -
                  in all honesty i find more
laughter from moments in between
sedative refills where i am looking for
       a cogito - that has no ergo-bridge
arithmetic into a sum -
   i laugh, because once i start
looking for my "narrative" -
    or the "loss" of therein -
    the moment i stop thinking and
never demand it to resurge with a "purpose"
i find that - omnia in aether est
                    (all is in the air) -
   which is just an alea iacta est
                                            reiteration...
funny: i find catching myself not thinking -
more funny, than any current take
on comedy -
    and it's not exactly pennies
falling from heaven:
   everything on this earth is thrown
into the air, and whoever catches what he
catches - he tends to -
                       the same fatalism as of old.

I told her reality is a lie
reality is a lie
there are cowboys and aliens
making music in the sky
robots and dinosaurs
dancing in the jungle
monsters and angels
playing checkers in the chimney

Don't bother them and their whimsy, she said
I'm what's real
like the illusory cold of steel
or the bellyful of a meal
I cook and I clean for you
I laugh and I sing for you
I hold and I cry for you
I feel no shame that I'd die for you
but you're far off in the aether
tempting ruin from fool's gold gods
and I ponder how long I should wait for you
to come down from the heights you have scaled

The heights scaled me, my darling, I uttered
they came creeping in the night
alighting me to the depths of hell
where the ****** weep with fright
they call out for mercy, I swear
and I do not lift a finger
for I am a mortal
only armed with prayer
It's best you leave me be
I will plan their great escape
for if anyone deserves no freedom
it is I
'tis I...

But she never left, did she
she clamored on for hope
that I'd be the man I was
that I'd not be tempted by the rope
I watched her smile grow dull
her eyes' glow became glassy
her encouragements lost pep
her savor for life lost flavor
and the gods grew quiet...
the fairies fluttered away
the aliens and monsters disappeared
guilt began to choke my spirit

Darling, I said, sweet thing
your smile wanes softer than the moon
what can I get for you,
a lilt? a tune?
She sighed and shook her head
"Your dreams await, my love."
I was shocked to hear the utterance
the defeat that marred her voice
I hugged her deeply, as if to stop her falling
lo, her spirit had ebbed into despair
frightfully, I told her, "I shant dream again."
But you always dream, she said, it wouldn't hurt to dream once more
Oh but it does hurt, I whispered, it hurts that you hurt for me
The ****** still call, do they not?
Your one voice drowns them out
What of the aliens and their schemes?
I will make plans for you, say the word
What of the cowboys and their adventures?
You are my adventure, my freedom, my home
I don't know, you'll be dreaming tomorrow, I must prepare the bed
I'll prepare it with you - you and I will make love tonight

After so long, will you have the stones?

I will be the mountain you're astride
stones enough for cobbled streets
stones enough for churches and keeps
I tell you darling, I am through
no dreaming, no sleeping, no games
I will lay you down tonight
until you say my name!

And the morrows were ever sweeter
the days skipped by with grace
no longer brooding over the dead
it was life that I laid claim to
my love, she held me tight like never before
cooing like a nested bird at the highest tree
she turns to me, says, "I have something to show you."
She leads me to the door and opens
but it was then that the doorway warped
a darkness suffused the entry
a darkness deeper than the cosmos beyond the sky
and in a that darkness, a gleam...
I reached out to touch, with my love grasping my hand
the gleam became a roaring light
and from it, the king of darkness himself

You were to be a hero, he claimed, a champion for them all
but here you stand at the threshold
here, you fight you last battle
I heard your cries to the hells
your pining for their salvation
I heard them cry for you
I heard them sing for freedom
it tickled me, their futility
until I realized, it had never been done before
for someone to light hell to a chorus
for them to weep no longer,
for them to hope
I've come to you with an offer
we shall see what you are made of
what can you offer for their freedom
what thing of value can replace my coveted ******?

I gulped, not sure what to say
was I dreaming again? Surely not!
But my darling was seeing this, too
this was not a dream at all!

All I ever had to offer, was myself, I said

And will you make that offer?

My grip on her hand loosened against my will
against my better judgment, I yearned to shake his hand
to make the deal
to save their souls
but I knew, or at least I was learning
things could never be that simple...

After me, I said, shall there be more souls to claim?

Always as the sun rises and sets
there is reaping, bills to collect
the debt of sin is final, and punishment is due
punishment for them
punishment for you

Can I have your assurance
that you will not take more souls after me?
I require your agreement
your acceptance of my plea

The king of darkness smiled a vast, soulless grin
Unless you make their decisions for them, you cannot change their fates
But you would give them a chance
a glimmer of opportunity to right their courses

Something else was nagging at me
Why, after all this time, was he here?
To make a simple offer?
My soul for the ******?
The offer made no sense
if I truly were ******, my soul would be worth less than any of theirs
I began to catch on to the ploy
I began to live the game

I don't believe my soul is worth the souls of hell...

Ah, a change of heart

No, I just don't believe the scale is balanced - my soul has the scale tipped

You jest

Don't tell me you can't afford my soul...

Wha- well how much then? I'd have to wait for new batches

I don't think you're up for bargaining

I can offer you a hundred years more worth of souls

You wouldn't come here for a soul worth so little - that's a sad offer

A thousand years more worth, it's a bargain!

I don't come so cheap, that's pathetic...

How much then, how much!

All the souls... of all time

Do you mean hell to be some kind of revolving door? No. Absolutely not. Actions have consequences, and the ultimate consequence is hell - that's fair.

Fair? Fair for billions of people to live lives of suffering, emptiness, and defeat, and sure, fail at it, cause catastrophe maybe, but ultimately all for the chance to live, only for all that striving, and all the weight of that suffering, to land them in a pit for eternity, experiencing a suffering unlike anything they'd ever imagined?
Fair? You have no idea what's fair and your bogus offers are indicative of that.

I felt her grip my hand tight. I held just as firm.

The king looked shocked, so... that's a no then.

Did you hear anything I said?

I heard, and if you have some means to change how the universe works, I suggest you start working, because I have work of my own to do.

That's it then?

Indeed.

With that, the king of darkness melted into the black, disappearing from sight, along with the dark portal. Suddenly, light burst from the now open doorway, revealing the green pastures beyond.

You saw all that?

She nodded. You dreams weren't for nothing, then?

I guess not. I breathed a sigh of relief. You had something to show me?

I absolutely forgot with everything that just happened. Are... are we dreaming?

I looked around, smiling. Everything is real, I said.

She smiled back, and let me out into the world where I had not ventured in years.

The first steps were trouble. My joints ached. The sky was too bright. But as we strode, it got easier. I began to enjoy it. She led me far, until I almost didn't recognize where we were. Up a steep hill with trees and shrubbery covering its expanse.

At the top, a small clearing, within which a tall tree stood. We rounded it, and she pointed at something, "Remember?"

I nodded, I can't believe we haven't been here since we were kids.

You're the one that brought me here the first time.

I forgot this place existed

This used to be your favorite spot

Things changed. We changed.

Change doesn't have to end life. It could be the beginning.

I hugged her. It could, I said.

What she'd pointed at was a carving of our faces I'd made in the trunk of the tree when I first began dreaming of the future. She was my dream. My first dream. Sad to see how I'd taken her for granted.

I want to help you, she said. I want to dream with you.

The dreams won't change anything anymore, I said, we have our answer. I want to start changing the world... will you help me with that?

She nodded.

I dreamed, I said, because I was suffering. I dreamed because I wanted an answer. Instead, the dreaming brought me into the darkness, and I couldn't escape. But with your help, I did.
Now, we take everyone else out of the darkness. We help them build a world where dreams are filled with love, not death.

I like that, she said.

We kissed. We climbed the tree to a good, thick branch and sat watching the sun sink into the horizon.

I thanked the heavens for my life, and, as I watched the sunset, sang to myself, at first in my head, then with my voice, and she joined in,
"Reality is alive,
reality is alive."

I was around fifteen
when I first imagined
myself as your husband
and I distinctly remember
Laughing and tearing up,
just a little,
because I didn’t think it
was possible
for someone like you
to love someone like me.
I did not know how to love...
but there we were
genuinely happy
and in love,
adrift in the aether of
my teenage imagination,
your face was hidden from me.
I return the comfort
of that fantasy and
conjure scenes of our life together.
Spending time with you
comforts me and gives me peace.
Wherever you are, please
know that I love you
and that I am looking for you.
Darling, you are literally my fantasy
and I will not rest until
our love is our reality.    
I cannot wait to meet you.
Have a great day, Love.  
I can’t wait to hear about it!
Yours.
Always.

I want to write a poem
but I have to write code instead
There can be a kind of poetry in code
especially my code
I'm proud of the elegant design
of my loops and logics
my streamlined systems
My code flows

pulling the User along effortlessly
guiding them gracefully from one end of the black box to the other
and out again
No Errors
My code flows

secret haikus left in comment blocks
for other programmers to find
like digital hieroglyphics on virtual cave walls
test data populated with pantheons and
mystical chants from faraway lands
My code flows

water of ones
in sea of zeroes
pouring through me
from aether to mind to muscle to machine
bit by bit
block by block
stacked upon stack
module into module through function and parameters passed
My code flows

flows through me
until the integer flips
the Boolean switch
change of state
status update
now compiled and crystallized
Executable
and then passed on
leaving me
out of my hands
disseminated to The Users
like a prayer to a congregation
I hear the clicking fingers of their choir
singing the song of my code
now flowing through Them

the mirror eyes of the corpse, long after people
voiced their concern of the fear of seeing
them no longer blinking, or allowing a peering
into the window of soul, either shuttering
them still to suit the numb limbs, or preparing
them with two coins for Charon and the crossing
of the Styx - that foul river of modern combustion
engine ointments of unrefined diesel.*

i'm angry at my piano of letters,
i call it the dog whistle piano,
the silent piano that rightly can also be
compared to a machine gun -
and that dumb musicology of poetry
is rhyme, or as one english teacher
revealed, the poetic alphabet of 52 letterings:
roses are red (a)
violets are blue (b)
             dearest repertoire of procrastination's jive (c)
             a head donning a beehive (c)
better dead than red (a)
i wrote this wearing only one shoe (b)...
and like this onto:
bring in the four elements,
atheists argue life ought to be like air,
never connected to skeletal structures,
randomised in atomic form and our bodies too,
the ones citing life's arguments
using earth have the easy inhibitory
village life, they're the characters
on b.b.c. radio 4's the archers (not
that peach schnapps, the mighty
"i'm living on a farm yo ** **",
what do you call a non-urban benefits
system? farming subsidy) -
those of argument from water we take
to imply basically all of us -
the fiery ones' motto better to burn out
than fade away - the 27 club -
and then the lightning ones
are stuck in a dying light-bulb epilepsy
of constant mirroring rejuvenation -
mind you, the moths are bewildered,
it's a lysergic acid (can you imagine
a lysergic alkaline?) trip for them,
so they don't even bother smacking the
**** thing for an instant light-bulb-tan:
moths invented u.v. sun-tan parlours long
before we had the thought of it.

O, it is December,
A brumal, solemn,
Algid December;
I do fall
And I do quiver, in
Reminiscence
For it is December.

A throne
Worn, earthen-millefleur recliner
And I
Vestured in dereliction,
Crowned in
The Diadem of Loveless Blight:

Your utterances resound in
The dense sense of the past tense;
Ineffable magistry,
Where our
Scintillations and propagations might emblazon
The Luminous Seeds of the Stars.

Your soul
Waxeth Messianic,
In those
Pithy moments
Of our ethereal communion.

        Your porcelain epidermis
                                                And azure irides
                                    Quaked mine senses
                                                          ­ Until every sight was
                                                 ∞Arcadian∞

O, Where
                        Have you gone
            Glaceaen Arcadia?

     O, Is the
            Fulgurant Vista
     You sparked in
Mine Mind’s Sky
              Now twilit, a starless Aether?

Breathe me
            Anew, that the Auric Chalice of Amour might pour
Me into thee, set me free, let me be
                              Yours and yours
                                        Alone (∞).
            

O, it is December,
A brumal, solemn,
Algid December;
I shall transcend
And I shall remember
Your infinite arms,
For it is December.

He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.

He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.

His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.

He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.

I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.

Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.

In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.

I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.

My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:

To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart

Crystal light— sun shines,
All the world, memories of groove,
  .  .  .  Akashic record.

there are branches fingers of a dead will tendrils waving into a roaring white nothing wine into milk declaring themselves trying to make their realness known but reaching further into nothing and pin pricking out of the air texture to nothing like stained glass on a cage it gave us like in the beginning was the word and the word was like pretending there is an aether and they guard it and if I race through their gaps

Wake in nothing.
Put on my debris.
Cup my hand to The Sun.
Sit in a stone room and touch myself.

chosen child for nature's creativity
tangoing to the sway of twilight trees
such spiritually sensual sensibilities

hypersensitivity heightening passion
life intensified in intellectual interest
love embellished with emotional empathy

oh, to bottle her elusive essence
to drink in her wistful nights
to infuse my tea with her promise
to scent my pillow with her dreams

uncork the atmospheric aroma
of sepia tinged crescents
wafting in celestial patisseries

sweeten the clear blue skies
with mists of crystallized honey
perfuming the divine aether

oh, fill my breath with her ephemeral
synchronize my life's pulse to the
metronome ponytails of skipping girls
followed by the tails of wagging dogs