In a strange mood - see/write art



in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^

in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.

knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.

a *****, well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.




^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell


Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me

Borne abreast a  Valkerie
Astride the crested steed,
Ascending high to maelstrom
Where fear transcends the greed.

Where the very fire of being
Elevates the spirit's quest
And the steel of high endeavour
Puts all good men to test.

Where the visceral is torture
To the threshold of the strain
In engaging guts and tolerance
To intercept the pain.

So vanquish all the vanities,
Banish all the loud
For the wonder of endeavour
Is what makes we people... Proud!

Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 September 2010

A poem for my
Darling daughter,
Robin
..Who turns
Sweet forty two
Today!!

Let's get drunk together again,
Let's lose our minds and go insane,
With our words revisit the past,
Let's make something that will last.

Let's drink wine and stay up late,
Talk of love and banish hate,
Let us drink until it's hazy,
Let's, for once, do something crazy.

Let's do shots and take off clothes,
Touch and kiss until time slows,
Let's rewind to the good old days,
With our hearts and souls ablaze.

Let's drink until we fall asleep,
And let us laugh until we weep,
Baring secrets, regrets, and dreams,
No longer on warring teams.

But in the morning when we wake,
Nauseous, tired, and with headache,
Will things continue as the night before,
Or will you break my heart once more?

By Nabs

07.00 AM :
I rubbed my eyes, blearily heading to the bathroom. Nightmare haunting my steps, as if it doesn't want to let me go.

Waking up was less dreadful than getting ready.

07.03 AM :
Turning the water knobs, was like an exorcism.
More aware, more awake, yet the blankness was still there. I wonder If today's the day.

The shower was cold as always.

I went out to fetch the towel, I never once looked at the mirror.

9.30 AM :
The first period was literature.
We're learning about the classic fairy tales. The teacher asked us for questions.

' Why does stories only tell about the fairest of them all?"

I managed to seal the questions back to where in belong.

9.55 AM :
The girl next to me received a crumpled paper ball.
She's very kind, and have the sweetest dimples.
As she reads, I can see her self esteem crumpling up, not unlike a paper ball.
I hugged her.
She asked, with hollowed voice, If I wanted to know what was written on it.

I shook my head, I already know what it is.
It's the same word, that still echoes in my world.

'FAT ***', was written on the paper.

12.30 PM :
Lunch was always a tiring affair.
Noisy chatters and baleful glare.
Distaste at how the line seems to never end.
Counting calories to pass the time.

Glancing at my wrist, deciding what food to eat based on the way my hands circle my wrist.

12. 34 PM :
Navigating cafeteria was even worse.
It's like avoiding the poisonous full course, that an assassin serve at you.
Bullying as a side dish, teenage drama as the main course, illusion of escape as the dessert.
The hustle and bustle of school life.

You are bound to accidentally consume that poisonous ****.

12.45 PM :
After I finished eating mashed potato and green beans, some hyenas approached me.
They clawed pleasantries and congratulated me.

"What for?"

"You are thin now! That's like so awesome! "

"But--"

"Also a friendly advice, I'd watch out for that mashed potatoes! Thinking about all that calories make me shudder!"

They walked away with a bounce on their feet, and howls so loud that all the others are staring at them curiously.
I am left bleeding out and nauseous at the encounter.

I clutched my stomach, feeling claustrophobic.

Desperately, trying to banish the thought of emptying my self.

12.59 PM :
The sound of flushing, hits my ear.
Shame crashed against me with doubled force.

I heave again. Body trembling.

The bell rang.

14.00 PM :
It's the last period for the day.
It was health class, and the teacher are telling us about the importance of food. That denying your self sustenance was equal to slowly killing yourself.
He looked at me, I pretend to not see.

Last week, a senior died of anorexia.
His body was too used of rejecting food that he couldn't accept their proposal again.
His stomach balked at the thought of getting back again.
He said goodbye to the world after 7 days of divorce.
The funeral was a messy affair.

I knew him.

15.00 PM :
I opened my locker,
Head spinning from all the people that approached me today.

They were people I barely know.
Congratulating me on losing my weight. Said I was prettier. Said I look good like this. Said I should keep being this way.
Asking me, what's the secret?

They all asked with a saccharine sweet smile on their face, as if it is a good thing.

As if being sick, is a success.

I wonder if they will still call me pretty when they see the bite marks on my knuckle.

15.20 PM :
On the way home I saw a burger joint,
my stomach was clawing for food but my mouth tasted like acid.

I wonder if drinking water will be enough to quench my hunger.

15.25 PM :
I passed a water puddle.

I saw a gaunt faced girl, with a pale complexion.
Her used to be lush hair turned lanky.
Her lips were literred with cuts and bite marks,  her eyes had faint purplish circle.
She looks so different from the person I used to know.

I continued my walk, trying to ignore the emptiness that had stayed in my bones.

16.30 PM :
My mother went into my room, when I was lying in my bed, counting my ribcage.
She looked at me, and a pained look crossed her face. I can see that she's holding back her tears.

She hugged me gently, as if afraid I will crumble with a touch.

I wanted to say that I wont turn into a wraith and vanish like my aunt, but I'm afraid it would be a lie.

"I'm getting better mom. Look here! I got more meat!," I said to my mom, hoping she believe the lie.

I know I'm turning fainter by the day.

She hugged me tighter, brushing my falling hair.

16.53 PM :
My mother left me her baked cookies, I nibbled on it. Wanting to stop being so starving. Ignoring the way my stomach want me to retch it.

I took another bite and count it as a success.

21.00 PM :
I stood in front of the mirror, that I had been avoiding for months, hoping to finally see my reflection.
Instead what I see was all the calories that I needed to burn,
The flaws that my body have,
And plans about not eating tomorrow.

I wonder if It's better to burn my self to ashes.

22.00 PM :
I went down stairs to grab some water.
I heard my mother crying to my father.
Said she's afraid I would vanish away from her.
Said she don't think she can take it any more.

Said she felt like she was cracking every time she sees me.

There were red gashes on her arm.

I swallowed the bile threatening to come out, ignoring how cold I feel despite the heaters on.

22.05 PM :
I smashed the mirror with my knuckle.
Rage and hopelessness was coursing my whole body. I let the tears and everything out.
The pain was sharp, and shards of glass were graced with my blood.

At that moment I saw my old self flashing in front of my eyes. So I kept punching the mirror until it is completely splintered. Shards of it was falling to the floor.

Satisfaction was addicting.

22.45 PM :
I went to sleep with gauze wrapped, still slightly bleeding, fist.
Blanket securely covering me, hoping the nightmares will not come today.

They did come, but they were nuzzling me.

07.00 AM :
I rubbed my eyes, blearily heading to the bathroom. My fist throbbed.

On the fractured mirror was written,

OUT OF ORDER:
This mirror is distorted by socially constructed
ideas of beauty.

Get a new one.

(P.S: You look fine as always)

FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99

I

A ****** and a sudden end,
  Gunshot or a noose,
For Death who takes what man would keep,
  Leaves what man would lose.
He might have had my sister,
  My cousins by the score,
But nothing satisfied the fool
  But my dear Mary Moore,
None other knows what pleasures man
  At table or in bed.
What shall I do for pretty girls
  Now my old bawd is dead?

II

Though stiff to strike a bargain,
  Like an old Jew man,
Her bargain struck we laughed and talked
  And emptied many a can;
And O! but she had stories,
  Though not for the priest's ear,
To keep the soul of man alive,
  Banish age and care,
And being old she put a skin
  On everything she said.
What shall I do for pretty girls
  Now my old bawd is dead?

III

The priests have got a book that says
  But for Adam's sin
Eden's Garden would be there
  And I there within.
No expectation fails there,
  No pleasing habit ends,
No man grows old, no girl grows cold
  But friends walk by friends.
Who quarrels over halfpennies
  That plucks the trees for bread?
What shall I do for pretty girls
  Now my old bawd is dead?

No love.
You didn't believe in expressing your feelings plainly,
till you were crying vulgarities into someone's chest.
A strange cliche became something to accept, ordinarily.

"How the trip never stops", MC Ride is screaming,
"On and on, it's beyond insane."
Drowning out your thoughts was something
you only heard in music, or something your ex said
back in high school,
until you fell asleep with headphones and sunglasses on
blaring Death Grips.
"Choose this life, you're on your own."

"I never asked to be a hero"
Hanging your Moon Knight collection on your walls;
Cried to words written on a page for the first time.
You need to be loved by everyone,
and want to be loved by no one.
Understood the pressure and wrote every day,
wrote to be not the best, but just to return from your
fall from grace, to former glory.
"I never asked to be a hero, but I beg you;
Make me a hero again."

"Sono Teido?" = "Is that all you got?"
Studying frame data, unable to sleep.
Thought you had a calling, but you gave up.
Realized a hobby is only as good as it keeps you
busy from all the ******* you could be thinking of.
Good ******* to keep out the bad.
Chun-Li leaves her opponent with wise advice;
"Tameraibe Make yo" = "Hesitate and you will lose."

All you have to do is shine and be bright,
you'll be the type they want to take home.
However, angels didn't want me when I was young,
and they still observe for seconds at a time.
You press your palms into your eyes;
They pick you up for only a moment.
Didn't believe you could be heart broken.
Then they dropped you.

Came back from the dead without prayers.
Found your armor didn't make you a knight,
it made you a villain of the highest order.
Spoke in curses and sang a hex,
to banish your love to hell forever.
"I was a God, Valera", Doctor Doom spoke,
"I found it beneath me."

Found it after the fact. Three too many voices in your head;
Prodigal Son, Nihilist Prophet, Feminist Instigator.
Few believe so hard in something they've tried to erase.
Tried to ****, to smother, to maim, and finally, to nurture.
To give up, to recover, to come back, and decide you still believe.

You couldn't make anything happen with no love.

A ***** deserves respect
When she can break you down
To her level
Whether you want to go
Or not
When just the PROMISE of her arrival
Shakes one to the core
And when in the REALITY of her arrival
One is faced with but two choices-
UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER… or
A FIGHT TO THE DEATH
She’s so bad… That...
She can decimate an entire family… One by one…
Or show up where she is least expected… in a surprise attack…
And I do not like her… And she don’t RUN things here… but
She IS given respect…In that
This low-down cruel ***** will
make a believer out of the hardest man
make your life... and the lives of your loved ones
revolve solely around her
make you break your bank
make you drive miles and miles
for unproven remedies… and
experimental relief
make you try ANYTHING
from crystal necklaces to copper bracelets...
to banish her evil self... and
I DO NOT LIKE HER…
but whether I like her or not...
she DOES command a ******-up sort of
respect
So I always capitalize the C in Cancer... cuz
She is my enemy… and
One should never
underestimate
the enemy

I dream about them sometimes.

A fold for an eyelash, crooked tooth, white hair;
A beak for a fingertip, heart-shaped mole, rough elbow;
A wing for an expression, idea, stifled laugh;
A neck for a spasm, brutally honest letter, sleeping breath.

I hold tightly to my chest the first of the two paper cranes [Loss and Love, respectively]. It calls back to her brothers and sisters at (our) home. At times, the sound would be so painful, I would banish it to the farthest recesses of my room, between book and shirt, away from light and butterflies.
But her cage is an illusion.
Paper is as fragile as the heart, and the older it gets the more brittle it becomes. Then, she would fit nicely through the bars.

One tiny (paper) tear for a missed celebration, stifled sob, empty rib cage.
I can see them all now, simply by knowing how long this one waited for them to come.
Their destination is an illusion. You could scatter them across the sea and they would all find refuge at the bottom of our ocean.

I still fold to this day, and wonder if you still do, too.

With the sound of your voice you
touch my soul and I am so glad
for that touch and sometimes  I
celebrate the sound of your voice
and at other times I feel the need
to recover from it.

You can speak a world into existence
or empty life of its meaning and the
unspeakable is heard and felt when
you speak to me, and as I hear your
voice I am touched.

When you speak the energy flows
and just the sound of your voice
makes me glad to be alive and glad
that I am a man.

With your voice you banish fear,
soothe and caress challenges and
delights and when you speak the
subject does not matter but for me
the sound of your voice does.

The fascination that is you, the
mystery that is you, I find and know
in the sound of your voice and as the
sound of your voice excites  and
nurture's me I warm myself in
it as it touches my soul.

When we speak our souls resonate
and intimacy occurs and we attend
to what we love and who we love
and that is the sound of each others
voice and one another.

Should you speak to me in urgency
or despair gladly I would take
on the world for you and you know
this and  P S, I Love You
                                                  Jon York     2018

A shooting star shot me
with a 50. caliber of beauty
while I was standing guard
in the middle of my duty.

There I stood in silence
in the middle of the night.
Reminded of your smile
that is brighter than light.

Dreaming of those eyes
that illuminates my heart
and banish the gloom
that once tore me apart.

And as the shining sun rose
blooming beautifully slowly.
I thanked you once again
For not keeping me lonely.

Who knew,

The girl who had
No voice
Would
One day
Teach the world to
Sing
?

To banish their
Bashful
And beam forth
In beauty,

To learn to
Simply
Just Sing
?

A time ago
Her soft
"Hello" was
Lost
Within
Translation
.

But now?
Oh, now!

With no care
To how,

That caterpillar

Has
Found
Her wings
.

It's when you notice you're on the road,
Charging some end with harrowing choice,
The mirage unfolds; a mead-hall bright,
Born from a storm and ought be your load
The stones ask out if you dare to rejoice

Then stay the path, rock after rock,
As futile you know it may be
And rest but with wonder at what it was
That led you this road to see,
Try to banish the stones you think mock,
For Roving wanted to make you free.

If I was god, I'd calm the storms,
I'd hush the seas and tide,
If I was god, I'd stop the wars,
Make humans stand by side,

If I was god, I'd banish all money,
Everything would be free,
If I was god, no one would hurt,
No human pain would be,

If I was god, I'd feed the world,
With fruits and vegetables galore,
If I was god, no illness be,
Like people suffered before,

If I was god, I'd make it right,
Paradise would be right now,
If I was god, no nightmares be,
Coz peaceful dreams I'd allow,

But wait a minute, god I am,
As each of us as well,
So stop this silly living now,
We've turned our earth to hell,

He's inside everyone of us,
You feel his beating heart,
That he gave to us so selflessly,
But other humans rip apart,

Breathe in your faith, whatever it be,
And exhale the love and pride,
We'll bless humankind together,
From here to universal wide.

Black loom the crags of the uplands behind me,
Dark are the sands of the far-stretching shore.
Dim are the pathways and rocks that remind me
Sadly of years in the lost Nevermore.

Soft laps the ocean on wave-polish'd boulder,
Sweet is the sound and familiar to me;
Here, with her head gently bent to my shoulder,
Walk'd I with Unda, the Bride of the Sea.

Bright was the morn of my youth when I met her,
Sweet as the breeze that blew o'er the brine.
Swift was I captur'd in Love's strongest fetter,
Glad to be here, and she glad to be mine.

Never a question ask'd I where she wander'd,
Never a question ask'd she of my birth:
Happy as children, we thought not nor ponder'd,
Glad of the bounty of ocean and earth.

Once when the moonlight play'd soft 'mid the billows,
High on the cliff o'er the waters we stood,
Bound was her hair with a garland of willows,
Pluck'd by the fount in the bird-haunted wood.

Strangely she gaz'd on the surges beneath her,
Charm'd with the sound or entranc'd by the light:
Then did the waves a wild aspect bequeath her,
Stern as the ocean and weird as the night.

Coldly she left me, astonish'd and weeping,
Standing alone 'mid the legions she bless'd:
Down, ever downward, half gliding, half creeping,
Stole the sweet Unda in oceanward quest.

Calm grew the sea, and tumultuous beating
Turn'd to a ripple as Unda the fair
Trod the wet sands in affectionate greeting,
Beckon'd to me, and no longer was there!

Long did I pace by the banks where she vanish'd,
High climb'd the moon and descended again.
Grey broke the dawn till the sad night was banish'd,
Still ach'd my soul with its infinite pain.

All the wide world have I search'd for my darling;
Scour'd the far desert and sail'd distant seas.
Once on the wave while the tempest was snarling,
Flash'd a fair face that brought quiet and ease.

Ever in restlessness onward I stumble
Seeking and pining scarce heeding my way.
Now have I stray'd where the wide waters rumble,
Back to the scene of the lost yesterday.

Lo! the red moon from the ocean's low hazes
Rises in ominous grandeur to view;
Strange is its face as my tortur'd eye gazes
O'er the vast reaches of sparkle and blue.

Straight from the moon to the shore where I'm sighing
Grows a bright bridge made of wavelets and beams.
Frail it may be, yet how simple the trying,
Wand'ring from earth to the orb of sweet dreams.

What is yon face in the moonlight appearing;
Have I at last found the maiden that fled?
Out on the beam-bridge my footsteps are nearing
Her whose sweet beckoning hastens my tread.

Current's surround me, and drowsily swaying,
Far on the moon-path I seek the sweet face.
Eagerly, hasting, half panting, half praying,
Forward I reach for the vision of grace.

Murmuring waters about me are closing,
Soft the sweet vision advances to me.
Done are my trials; my heart is reposing
Safe with my Unda, the Bride of the Sea.

Journals strewn
Frantic writings
My thoughts are hewn
My mind is fighting
With memories and resolves
That I was describing
Younger versions of myself
Always complaining
Thinking that being bullet proof
Would keep them from shooting
If I could talk to her
The girl I was
Maybe shed some light and some tears
For her cause
Extract a little bit of blood
From those who manipulated her
From the bits of paper
Upon I once wrote
Words have always been a way
To communicate my joy and rage
Inside the diaries I would wage
Wars in my head
But the battles never escaped
They should have
Then now I would have a cleaner slate
To place newer memories of calmer days
Instead they live side by side
Thought I left behind my past
Instead it would just hide
Behind meshes of meat and coils in my mind
Bits of paper
Lonely words
Always written
Never heard
Trying my hardest
Not to sound absurd
In my attempts to be a normal girl
I guess old habits are the hardest to break
I continue writing of demons and angels
That never escape
Hold them back
Try to forsake
The others that live in my thoughts
Everyday
Only few outside of me
Can banish them away
Clear the settling dust of my fate
My bits of paper
My life in script
You can enter at your will
And live in safety of never being apart of it
I guess that's been my only wish
To live through words
To simply exist
Swinging my feelings from limb to limb
And always shifting regardless of whim
Rotting away underneath perfect skin
Dorian gray meets zombie land
Feasting and pleasuring on human sins
Knowing that's not who I really am
But on bits of paper
It contradicts
My good intentions
With my former riots
Never completely evil
Or wholly good
Knocked down off my feet
Where I firmly stood
Creeping with a soundless craze
They saw me smile and always misunderstood
Bits of paper
That's all I am
Past, present and future
That's all I have
Records of who I am
And who I'm not
I keep them all
In case they'll be forgotten
No treasure or wealth or object of praise
Will ever banish my words away

I want to take you to an art museum,
but I'll spend the entire time looking
at you because you'll be the most
breathtaking thing in the room.

Once we're there I'll try and memorize
every curve and every line of your face
as if I were a sculptor and I was assigned
the lofty task of immortalizing your beauty.

I'll come home and dream about you-
your profile engrained into my memory,
and the image of your smile soft
and sweet enough to banish my nightmares.

I want to take you to an art museum,
and I want to hold your hand the whole time,
feeling your reaction to each piece before us
and letting it resonate within me.

Pick a painting that intrigues you and
we'll stand in front of it; I want to know
what about this art compels you
so that I may learn to do the same.  

We'll stand quietly, together, side by side,
because this is a space where we can
share our silence- I want to be guided
only by the pull of your hands and eyes.

I want to take you to an art museum
because once we walk outside together,
I'll have fallen in love with you
and what more could I possibly want?

Amara is sleeping.
She's dreaming.
Not dreams of her future,
But of her many pasts.

She's dreaming of a time
Before time mattered so much.
Days before roles.
Before acts.
Before stories.

Vignettes of time before
Captains, kings, or allegiances.
When loyalties owed only to friends
In the shape of paws
And Stars Sent from the stars.

And then from the stars,
A star fell
And a second past emerged from the rubble.
Shea, Lilacs, and Azure Mist.

She dreams of when she ran away.
Away from this past.
The first.
But not the last.

Amara's dreaming of her fresh start.
A third past.
The promises,
The oaths,
The rules that came with,
The mistakes she wouldn't make,
And the slips she would not repeat.

Then allegiance arose.
Fealty to Duty, Honor, and Glory
.But no stranger to human weakness,
It ended in broken promises,
Tarnished honor,
And a second flight.

She fled from pain
But found neither comfor
tNor relief.
And she forgot long ago
Why she ran a second time,
To spend an Era alone.

Then her demons came.
A fourth, and uncertain life.
When the Hero in Black
Cast them out.

But the Hero could not banish them forever.
Too soon to be spared,
The Child of Dark Hair
Followed.

Amara is dreaming
Of when she swore
Never returning.
Promised herself freedom.
And explored the world of the demons.
Twice she made the promise.
And twice she broke it.

Now she is awake.
The sole survivor of her visions.
She is cold
To know only she is left
To remember the dreams.

She fell from the stars.
She ran from the mist.
She broke the promise.
And in many ways,
She killed the Hero in Black.

Only she remains
To remember the colors
Of her four pasts
Within eleven dreams.

I was fifteen when my father was knighted and we moved to an estate near the castle
I began working in the court as his squire. The months speed as I learn. I sharpen swords and shine boots; I listened to the servants stories of court gossip and political intrigue. My favorite though was the court magician who talked about lightning and planets. I knew each constellation in the night sky. I was sixteen and my father was killed. The older ones were afraid of me then. All the boys in the castle met in front of the blacksmiths forge after chores were finished. We fought each other sometimes one on one, other times in piles of bodies and limbs. Black eyes, split lips and broken knuckles were common. In fact a visiting duke once noticed out loud about all the servant boys having black eyes. They were badges of honor of course, worn with pride.
Sometimes we would sneak into the cellar and drink ale. I was a boy without a care in the world until I turned seventeen years of age. One night I escaped the castle with my bow to hunt. A storm came off of the sea, I had not noticed it rolling but it struck with fury. I was lost and soaking wet and the cold was setting in. Lightning flashed and I could no longer see the moon.
Something attacked me. I remember nothing of it except waking later leaned against the castle wall. No marks on my body. I became violent and detached. I shattered the jaw of a boy one afternoon. All the court laundry girls were watching us from the windows, and he cursed my father. I was blind with rage, and it was beautiful. I never felt so alive in my life. I could smell the sweat of the boy as I slammed a right hook into his jawline. I could smell the blood and it's sensual dripping warmth on my knuckles. It took every bit of strength not to lick it from my hand. I dreamed of it that night in my room. It's aroma melded with the memories already as clear as a painting in my mind. Each detail elongated and dramatized with a feral edge.
The dreams were haunting at first, but I soon relished them. I dream of the moon first always reflecting in the lake brimmed by ancient pines. Then I was chasing a deer or a rabbit through the brambles and down old paths that only beasts know. Then, the taste of warm blood in my mouth, the pulsing of lifeblood beneath my teeth.

In my dream I watch the phases of the moon cycling through the dark. Until, on the full moon. I was lying in my bed, hoping for the pleasure of the dreams again. I was warm all at once and colors began to brighten. Then it seemed as if daylight were pouring in through the window although surely it was the moon. I gazed at her. Until within me the locks began to break, and it seemed as if chains were falling from my being. Until blackness, so infinite and complete filled with the most terrible and beautiful visions I had ever experienced.
I could taste everything in the universe and I watched the wind blow through the pines from a tall rock rustling the needles into a symphony of movement and sound. Such beauty I have never known. Then a golden flash between the trees.
An old buck moved through the boughs. I tested his scent on the wind he smelled of earth and roots. Then I am chasing him.
Into a clearing he staggers as I toy with him. He breaths deeply, his sides heaving. I can see his hot breath as a cloud in the cold air. Then his cry, and the spray arterial. The taste of life.

I awaken leaned naked against a pine. Claw marks adorn the trunks of the great trees around me. Deep claw marks as if a bear...
I was terrified
I was alone

I work in the stables. I lock myself away and I feel guilt  for the pleasure of my dreams. As if they were tangible sins.
Then the kings daughter visited me and asked about the foal that was born earlier that morning. She was curt and spoke down to me. My chest was hot. I was nervous that I would insult her and be executed. We watched the newborn stand next to its mother. I thought she was watching me from the corner of her eye, but her next words proved me wrong."How dare you look at me, slave."
She returned the next day, and the next each day she seemed more angry than the last. She and her handmaid wanted horses readied for a ride. The king arrived and I dropped to my knees in fear. "You boy will protect these girls as they ride."
The hole in my chest fills with melted iron, as the young princess thanks her father with a kiss on the cheek. He leaves and my anger is complete. She will have me killed; ****** girls will probably ride directly down a hill and break a neck. Then who shall be blamed

They controlled the horses in a strangely feminine manner. Their sweet purring to the horses made them flick their ears. Their light touch turning the great beasts with ease. Such beauty I had never seen. Their delicate figures like full bloomed flowers and the hanging tassels of silk blow in the wind. Her scent...unmistakable.
She watches me.

The night before the full moon I was slipping into the beauty of the dreams. Sleep pulled me downward, and suddenly a small rap on the door.
I fully expected guards upon the other side. They somehow had found out I was the beast and Would cut my head from my shoulders.
My heart races as the door opens. A shadow slips inside as I crack the door. It pushes past me. The scent...
She stands in the moonlight of the window with dark eyes piercing. Thank the gods it was not a full moon.
I light a small lamp with shaking hands and she slides towards me, removing her dark cloak showing her nightdress. The curves of her body...not left up to the imagination against the silk.
My head swims, and the beast inside me growls deeply. She pushes herself against me, but my mind races to the headsman's axe, to the kings eyes.
I push her away and hand her her cloak. Telling her it was much too late for such foolishness.
I am a slave after all...

I could not sleep
but the dreams slipped in anyway
Like leaves in the wind they twist and float
Pulling me into their strange likeness
I am enthralled by the the scent of a nightdress
And the warmth of a body pressed against me
In moonlight I am bathed
My hands with blood soaked

She does not visit me at the stalls, and I do not see her face peaking at us from the tower window as we wrestle in the courtyard.
Inside me a strange ache at her absence. I drink ale that night and stumble to my room. The door I forget to lock, and the windows swung wide.
So cloudy
I could not stop
The feeling so pure
I could not banish it

She was found by her handmaiden in pieces around the bedroom. Her white night dress shredded and stained scarlet.
Twenty dead soldiers, each with their throats torn out or their heads smash in. As if some bear they whispered...
I was found naked out in the wheat fields covered in blood. They followed the trail straight to me.

*He stands before the king making his statement
Explaining how he was attacked by some beast
Only two months 'ore. He explains how he could not control.
The king shakes with rage. A black cover is brought to hide his face.
He goes quietly to the block and death. His body burned to ash

Pain, please leave me,
Please will you just go away?
Quit haunting my every moment,
Stop bothering me every single day.

Pain, this horrible feeling,
What did I do to deserve such pain?
Why are you punishing me?
Why do you have to remain?

Pain, leave me alone,
I will not be consumed by you,
What did I do wrong?
What do I have to do?

Pain, will you continue,
To afflict my every moment?
For the rest of my life,
Or is relief being sent?

Pain, leave me be,
What will drive you away?
I don’t deserve this,
I did not ask for you in any way.

Pain, I wish I could,
Banish you to hell forever,
I will not rely on you,
I don’t believe in you ever.

Pain, stop the torture,
Release your grip on me,
Will you please stop?
All I want is to be free...

Begone! I say to thee
Begone Satan far from me
Begone, In Jesus name, I banish you from my life
We are through
Jesus died for all my pain
You, my soul will never gain
Begone, You frightful man
For only through the blood of Christ. I can
Be free my soul, come fly with me
For Satan, you could never be
Begone. I banish you
All my foes, pain, fear, depression, all of those
I banish you from my side
Begone from me, for Jesus' way is never wide
No room for you to overthrow
No words for you to ever crow
For in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God
I give to you this farewell nod.

Take away the chains
Smash the shackled gloom
Tear away the tether
Blow up the ****** room!

Tell her to **** it
**** the whole **** thing
I don't care anymore
Just make her head ring

Shut up the piercing voice
Banish Monotone tones
Choke away the chiding tongue
Stop her ceaseless moans

But spare the shame of being seen
in anger, spite or hurt
Let her never know the pain
It takes to change what's learnt

Please never let this me be seen
this self I will conceal
I choose to never show the world
I choose never to feel

THE ARAB PAGANS
                     MATLOOB BOKHARI

The Arab pagans  were plunged in the depth of ignorance,
Barbarism;  adored idols, lived in unchaste life,
Ate  dead bodies,  disregarded every feeling of humanity,
Allah raised among them a man,  honest, and pure ;
Who called them to  Oneness of God , forbade idol worship.  
Enjoined them to speak truth, be faithful, merciful .
Muhammad taught them rights of  neighbors ; kith and kin:
Forbade them to speak evil of women, or to eat orphans’ stuff.  
Ordered them to flee from the vices, and to abstain from evil.
Offer prayers, render alms,  observe fast and respect elders.
  The Arab pagans rose against him to cease his preaching.
Muhammad with a bloodied face, a busted lip, a broken tooth prayed for them
When they mutilated Hamza’s corpse; burnt off his nose ;  cut off his ears;
Muhammad, the messenger of peace and love, forgiving prayed for the pagans
But the shadow  of  the dark clouds of hate totally eclipsed the moon of love
The Arab pagans ruthlessly massacred the whole family of Muhammad
Hussain ,picking up the body of his young son, an image of Muhammad,prayed:
Praise be to Allah Who is the hearer of prayers and warders off anguishes
Hussain, gathering pieces of the dead body of his nephew trampled by horses , prayed
O Allah! The All-gentle, the All aware! I willingly desire for You and testify Your Lordship!
Hussain, burrying  his six month martyr with his own hand in the sand of Karbala, prayed
Praise be to Allah Who is raiser of ranks and suppressor of tyrants
Hussain  standing on  shifting sand-dunes of Kerbala , smeared with blood. of Abbas, prayed
O All-merciful, O All-beneficent. !All glory be to You! Verily Originator and Reproducer
The grandson of Prophet Muhammad ,left all alone, called  for help
But the pagans threw his headless body  on  the plains of Karbala
Leaving Prophet’s daughters in   raging flames of tents, they celebrated victory
O God Who gladdens the hearts that mourn, dries the eyes that weep
I cannot write the whole story of love and hate,  My heart cries! My pen  bleeds!
Matloob, sky and stars weep upon such sacrifices, angels bow, they don’t die in vain!
Every soul shall  have a taste of death:  We test you by evil and by good by way of trial!
Praise be to Allah ,Hearer of prayers! From God we come, and unto Him is our return.













Jan G. A good poetic account of  the history of Islam. Another Hussein might be required to correct once again what came of the Islamic Republic. Oppression loves to speak in the name of liberation it once embraced. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poems/by/matloob#sthash.iCoJzCfi.dpuf



RAJ NANDY: To take an universal view I must say, that let religion not come in the way of love and peace! It has been for the Wise to show us the way, banish ignorance and bring forth light always! True faith is love and as the greatest binding force that shall remain! Thanks for sharing, -Raj



Rick Ratliff : I am  a Christian  and moved greatly by this  powerful read


Rev. Donny Doom – Thanks  for this thought provoking read!


Nikluss 6: An excellent story!!
is it from the Koran????
PEACE MATLOOB!!!!



tarobinson - What a great poem . Wonderfully told . RESPECTFULLY TOLD .




    Hussain was supported by Christians too in Karbala
    

Kyle Wittman - Title / intro is: It certainly sparked my attention.


My favorite line is: The last line.

It's a great read! I do love the imagery.






Dark Iris : Such a beautiful  truth! I  Like it.

I wonder why everything I write on paper is so depressing
And why my mind picks random lines from poetry to recite over and over like quiet prayers (is this my religion? words and stories?)
Why red ink tastes like sin (no that's too cliche) like seduction?
Why the cover of this moleskine is so soft and forgiving (I swear just for me) the sigh into a trusted friend's shoulder
I can't cry any more so I'll sing badly but fervently songs that help soothe the gnawing ache inside
Cherish the few people who make me feel full and whole (Banish the phantom pains for limbs or extensions of me I've lost)  
I'll exhale poems to ravel up the bad feelings
It's a struggle or maybe just a war that I just don't want to lose any more

Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
  Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
  Alas! it were—unhallow’d bliss.

Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
  How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
  For that,—would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
  Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,—and why?
  I would not force a painful tear.

I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
  Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
  To make thy *****’s heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
  United by the priest’s decree:
By any ties but those divine,
  Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
  Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
  Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
  By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
  Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave
  More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
  I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
  And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
  All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shall thou be free,
  No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
  No martyr shall thou be to love.

The intent
to ****
has yet to swell

What seeds
are needed
in order
to grow
such dangerous flowers?

How does one
abandon instinct?
How does one crush thought?

How does one betray the mind
in order to make space
for absolute wrongness?

How does one put aside all that is right
in order to sin,
In order to delve deeper into thoughts
society has advised us not to enjoy?

How does one find the courage
to banish a small portion of what is right
to make space
for what is wrong?

and

If truth is so sacred,
and truth knows no boundaries,
then why should we,
slaves and servants of this entity,
limit ourselves so?

Why should we let right and wrong enslave us,
hold us captive, preventing us from acting upon instinct?
If truth, the entity we respect without a second thought
is so sacred to us,
why do we limit ourselves with things of such little importance,
things like "right and wrong", things that are products of weak minds, weak souls?

If God is so powerful,
why should we limit ourselves so?
Why are we less than those we respect?
Why do we choose to be less?
Why do we limit ourselves?

Because we cannot be more than the Gods we create?
We cannot be more than the consequences we create?

We are the masters of the things we think limits us.
We are it's creators. We create truth. We create God.
We create the higher beings who have no limits.
And yet we, creators of such things, limit ourselves so.

We've limited ourselves for so long
that we think the glass wall is carved from stone.
For the wall to shatter,
it needn't be touched;
for the only power needed
is willpower.

Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alcinous led the way to the
Phaecian place of assembly, which was near the ships. When they got
there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while
Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous’ servants, and went round the
town in order to help Ulysses to get home. She went up to the
citizens, man by man, and said, “Aldermen and town councillors of
the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the
stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King
Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god.”
  With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to
the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded. Every
one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had
beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller
and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaecians
favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well
in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him. Then,
when they were got together, Alcinous spoke:
  “Hear me,” said he, “aldermen and town councillors of the
Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded. This stranger,
whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or
other either East or West. He wants an escort and wishes to have the
matter settled. Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for
others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has
been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough.
Let us draw a ship into the sea—one that has never yet made a voyage-
and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors. Then
when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship
and come to my house to prepare a feast. I will find you in
everything. I am giving will these instructions to the young men who
will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town
councillors, you will join me in entertaining our guest in the
cloisters. I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing
to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing
about.”
  Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a
servant went to fetch Demodocus. The fifty-two picked oarsmen went
to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they
drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound
the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in
due course, and spread the white sails aloft. They moored the vessel a
little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house
of King Alcinous. The outhouses, yards, and all the precincts were
filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young;
and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two
oxen. These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent
banquet.
  A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the
muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil,
for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had
robbed him of his eyesight. Pontonous set a seat for him among the
guests, leaning it up against a bearing-post. He hung the lyre for him
on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it
with his hands. He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals
by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he
was so disposed.
  The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were
before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink,
the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more
especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit,
the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that
they heaped on one another as they gat together at a banquet. But
Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chieftains quarrelling with one
another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the
stone floor to consult the oracle. Here was the beginning of the
evil that by the will of Jove fell both Danaans and Trojans.
  Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head
and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see
that he was weeping. When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears
from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a
drink-offering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed
Demodocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then
Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly. No
one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him,
and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving. So he at once said,
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough
now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due
accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers,
and runners.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after. A
servant hung Demodocus’s lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the
cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the
chief men of the Phaeacians were going to see the sports; a crowd of
several thousands of people followed them, and there were many
excellent competitors for all the prizes. Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus,
Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon,
Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton. There was
also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was
the best looking man among the Phaecians except Laodamas. Three sons
of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
  The foot races came first. The course was set out for them from
the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all
flew forward at the same moment. Clytoneus came in first by a long
way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow
that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field. They then
turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be
the best man. Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at
throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus.
Alcinous’s son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who
presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games, “Let
us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems
very powerfully built; his thighs, claves, hands, and neck are of
prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much
lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man,
no matter how strong he is.”
  “You are quite right, Laodamas,” replied Euryalus, “go up to your
guest and speak to him about it yourself.”
  When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the
crowd and said to Ulysses, “I hope, Sir, that you will enter
yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are
skilled in any of them—and you must have gone in for many a one
before now. There is nothing that does any one so much credit all
his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and
feet. Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from
your mind. Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship
is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found.”
  Ulysses answered, “Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way? my
mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through
infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying
your king and people to further me on my return home.”
  Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said, “I gather, then, that
you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight
in. I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in
ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of
their outward freights and homeward cargoes. There does not seem to be
much of the athlete about you.”
  “For shame, Sir,” answered Ulysses, fiercely, “you are an insolent
fellow—so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in
speech, person, and understanding. One man may be of weak presence,
but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he
charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his
hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his
fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to. Another may be as
handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion.
This is your case. No god could make a finer looking fellow than you
are, but you are a fool. Your ill-judged remarks have made me
exceedingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a
great many athletic exercises; indeed, so long as I had youth and
strength, I was among the first athletes of the age. Now, however, I
am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on
the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite
of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the
quick.”
  So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a
disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the
Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it
back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in
the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of
its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any
mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and
marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she,
“could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead
of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no
Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”
  Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookers-on,
so he began to speak more pleasantly. “Young men,” said he, “come up
to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or
even heavier. If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come
on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do
not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but
not with him because I am his guest, and one cannot compete with one’s
own personal friend. At least I do not think it a prudent or a
sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host’s family at any game,
especially when he is in a foreign country. He will cut the ground
from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards
any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is
the best man. I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known
among mankind. I am an excellent archer. In battle I am always the
first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are
taking aim at him alongside of me. Philoctetes was the only man who
could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy
and in practice. I far excel every one else in the whole world, of
those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not
like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus
the Cechalian-men who could shoot against the gods themselves. This in
fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by his end, for Apollo was angry
with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer. I
can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow. Running
is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the
Phaecians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea;
my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak.”
  They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began, “Sir,
we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from
which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as
having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been
made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been
uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety. I hope you
will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any be one of your
chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get
home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all
kinds. We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as
wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent
sailors. We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we
also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so
now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing,
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers,
minstrels. Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or
other of you and fetch it for him.”
  On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king’s
house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward.
It was their business to manage everything connected with the
sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the
dancers. Presently the servant came back with Demodocus’s lyre, and he
took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in
the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was
delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
  Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and
how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan. Mars
made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan’s marriage bed, so
the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan. Vulcan was very
angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy
brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to
forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that
they might stay there in that place. When he had finished his snare he
went into his bedroom and festooned the bed-posts all over with chains
like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the
ceiling. Not even a god could see them, so fine and subtle were
they. As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as
though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of
all places in the world was the one he was most fond of. But Mars kept
no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his
house, burning with love for Venus.
  Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and
was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, an said as
he took her hand in his own, “Let us go to the couch of Vulcan: he
is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose
speech is barbarous.”
  She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their
rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had
spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but
found too late that they were in a trap. Then Vulcan came up to
them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout
the sun told him what was going on. He was in a furious passion, and
stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all
the gods.
  “Father Jove,” he cried, “and all you other blessed gods who live
for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight
that I will show you. Jove’s daughter Venus is always dishonouring
me because I am lame. She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and
clean built, whereas I am a *******—but my parents are to blame for
that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me. Come and see the
pair together asleep on my bed. It makes me furious to look at them.
They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie
there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep
much; there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me
the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but
not honest.”
  On this the gods gathered to the **

Hello Darkness,
We meet again.
Dwelling inside of me, licking at my nerves.
Lapping up my freshly drawn blood as fuel.
My brain is plagued by you.
My heart is diseased.
No pills or herbs will banish you.
No needles or probes will find you.
I am alone with you.
I am  forever ruined by your love of decay.
Roots are no longer deep in the soil.
But abstract above.
My organs are exposed through my translucent skin.
You leave me exposed.
Tell me Darkness.
Why do I hold you here when there is a world of light?
A world of laughter?
Darkness, I will tell you.
Because being alone with you, isn't as dangerous as being alone with myself

We've lost count of the times
That we've killed ourselves
Become new
Scorched Earth
Laid a past to rest

We don't even have funerals for them anymore
There are no emotions left to process
We just light the match and let the flames infest
The crevices

The ones those feelings used to attack

We've taken a break from the program
And there aren't enough ones and zeroes
In the whole ******* Universe
To make us come back

The faces have all become pixelated
Not one more important than the others
They'll all pretend to be your Brothers
Sisters, Mothers, Friends

And Lovers

But, you'll soon discover
When the mist dissipates
And the illusions are all torn asunder
When the harsh scowl of Baal greets you
With an absolute absence of color

That they were all none other
Than the Devils  
You sought to destroy
To purge from the Earth
To banish to the Void

Reality is cold
We decided it would be best to avoid it

There are times when I can eat the world alive.
The hunger in my veins
glows red-hot and consumes all logic.
The hunger in my veins
rushes to my head and burns up the facade.
The facade of innocence in my eyes
that collapses as the fire mounts and I'm alone.

It takes a special one to banish
the lies in my eyes,
to capture the fire and make it grow.

Darling, the hunger in my veins
it yearns for you.
The hunger in my veins,
it grows anew.

I dreamed of your touch last night,
woke up half insane.
Eros keeps teasing me
with thoughts of you.
Through sun and moonlight
your scent in my rumpled sheets
fills my mind.

Take me
rain hard kisses down my throat.
Take me
slake your lust on the softness of my skin.
Take me
offer up a sacrifice to Aphrodite's son.
Take me
drain the hunger in my veins.
Take me
in between the darkness and the light.

*Satisfy me.