A falling feather on the breeze,
lilting like the Seraphim
songs of Mephistopheles,
lured her drunkenly to him.

Lilting like the Seraphim,
she drank his iridescence. He
lured her drunkenly to him,
enraptured in naivety.

She drank his iridescence. He
befouled her virtue, was the air.
Enraptured in naivety
no more, would Eden hear her prayer?

Befouled; her virtue was the air
he stole away, a hunched-up thief.
No more would Eden hear her prayer -
the echoes howling his motif.

He stole away, a hunched-up thief,
a fallen feather on the breeze;
the echoes howling his motif -
songs of Mephistopheles.


Footnote: Passages from folk lore:
Hindu - the peacock is said to have angels' feathers, a devil's voice
and the walk of a thief
Chinese - a girl who looks at a peacock could become pregnant
Islamic: the peafowl carried Satan into the Garden of Eden after consuming him

somehow all neighborhood tribes & tribe lords love you.
somehow you beat my score on the nickelcade spaced invaders.

we leap fences
in escape of party befouled
cops. crusaders
of mustache & veiny hate.

you rip your jeans
& lose your artifacts in the creek. into
convenience store warm lights
& makeout mixtapes.

The bitter heart eats its owner
It's a fearful thing to love what death can touch

Their goodnight kiss felt like two blind animals bumping into each other in the dark
She felt in that moment that she loved him as much as it was possible to love anyone
What she felt was something like hard rain; violence
                                                                ­                      and brightness
                                                                ­                            and beauty
What formed in her mouth were the words,
Which of us is flawed?


He began to feel anger at the peace he found here and the complacency of the blue sky and quiet roads
His fists were in his eye sockets, his head exploding with the ruin of lives
As he set out, he felt a kind of happiness
He fell
            and he fell,
                               and the earth that we call sweet became his executioner


There is a point when the body relinquishes its pain
and waits dumbly
The savage animal eating his heart would someday grow weary
When do you stop being
                                           human?
When the body is so befouled, when you have groveled so deeply, when bitterness eats your
                                   bones?

The birds move from one tree to the next, building nests
This is how we live
The wind erases our footprints as we move
                And then one day, we are no longer alive on Earth,
                         And the footsteps are gone forever
The land is our blood, the clouds our hair

We are doorways, openings into something greater than ourselves,
Something that we don’t understand and will never understand
One cannot know why things happen as they do
We have nothing precious in and of ourselves
We are only precious that we are part of something too big to know
Every person alive thinks they are the center of the universe, that they are everything
When in fact each of us is less than nothing
Liquid, like a river
Season by season
Hope,
           and hope again.

Touch

You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?

You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.

See

With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,  
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!

Smell

Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.

Hear

Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend

How then?

If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?

Taste

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.

As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.

*Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.

I apologise
For all the hurt I have caused
I am sorry
For all the things I have said
I regret
Thinking that I might come through
I despise myself
For allowing you to believe in me

Forgive me
For how I feel
Forgive me
For pushing you away
I need to protect you
From myself

Nothing more than internal death and destruction
Something so pure would only succumb to my corruption
A poison seeps though my pores
Eroding away that which is closest

Don't touch me
Lest you catch my disease
Don't believe me
A veil of deception clothes my words

As the autumn sun shines
I wilt away
Powerless against the evil
Blinded by darkness' entirety



In the darkness the horrors swarm before my eyes
In the darkness the terror plays on my mind
In the darkness the tendrils weave themselves upon me
In the darkness I scream unheard

In the darkness they remove my flesh
In the darkness they tear out strands of my hair
In the darkness they burn away my soles
In the darkness I betray myself

In the darkness my body tears apart
In the darkness my pain consumes me
In the darkness my trust was broken
In the darkness I will never heal

In the darkness it dissolved my soul
In the darkness it stole my worth
In the darkness it befouled my body
In the darkness I lost myself

i’ve had too much to drink tonight.
please excuse me if i stumble.

have you ever been to a bar where you want to **** in the sink?
not in any, “**** this place” sort of way,
just,
on principle.

this is the sort of place
where patrons
**** in the sink.
the sort of tavern,
where the sink ******* are;
where you thank god for grime;
where it’s not just atlanta *****;
where,
should you **** in that sink,
you are not just sullying the reputation of one befouled public house,
but are continuing in a proud tradition,
of most noble and illustrious drinkers.

How to Read a Poem (Hint:  Not With Your Eyes)


Touch

You cannot lift or load it, over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight - is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert, a haiku delight?

You cannot touch it, but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders, shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat, gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face, from ear to ear.

See

With yours eyes, by a mere glance, true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty, but this gives no value clue,  
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!

Smell

Some Poe poems do stink, befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.

Hear

Wake you with kisses upon thy face, inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper of words from my lips,
is an insufficient, sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend

How then?

If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?

Taste

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.

As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.

Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.

A husband -> a wronged wife

"My dear take a chair
Your affair is unfair
I can't stand
A suffocating air
This way you and I
Could no longer continue
A loving pair
Soon to my parents
I must repair!
How come for love of a ****
A marital vow
You thwart? "

This way since
You decided me desert
For what I did spurred
By transient lust
Chagrin my soul has hit.
As usual in deep slumber
When I extend my hand
To ascertain whether
You have slept sound
And stir you up
So as we sleep entwined
Yet get awake to a tragedy stark
That I but draw a blank
My heart indeed
Incessantly bleed
From the loss it incurred
Your obeisance and love divested.

If you can't find it in your heart
My folly to forget
Forgive me my dear
For without you near
My life turns insufferably sour.

A wronged wife—>A husband

After your body you befouled
And proved a down to earth cad,
After your spirits perfidy you debased
Impudently you demand
As before I should you hold
An esteemed husband.
Indeed this I will not!
For rancor laden my heart
Bleed incessant
It mustn't!
Away to my parents I fled
For you failed to abscond
After what you did.
'Once bitten twice shy'
Forgive you how could I?

A husband—>A wronged wife

Your forgiveness but
Nothing depurate
The blot
In your eyes
Down me brought.
I hope
Forgiveness is the least
Your impeccable heart
Me could grant.
Even the ocean of tears
I wept
Whitewash me still not
My dear there is a second
Man goes wild
And commits a deed
He condemns absurd,
My perfidy to nothing but
To this folly could be imputed.

Man is prone to err
So you should consider
What matters is his bid
Improprieties away to clear.
So my dear
Give me a chance second
To prove, you loving husband.
Your forgiveness will be a credit
That surely you catapult
To ensconce
In the apex of my heart.
A forgiving personality
Is a virtuous quality
Besides your heart
Me 'love' that taught
Which is also on me soft
Won't follow a policy
Watertight and
Once for all me smite

A wronged wife—>A husband

Raving ans volleying
Boisterousness nay, nay!
You stultify
Must not I.

My mind is bedeviled
Since you I missed.
On your misdemeanor
Brood I shall no more
To night
Come to the cathedral
We first met
As a jump-start
Together out
We have to spend the night.
The night's Zephyr wet
Will wipe away
Our disagreement!

When you found me, I was lost
Dying from withdrawal
And your sick absolution
Hooked me worst of all
My blood burns without it
Body hurts without it
Heart Infernal, wounded
Hate is Love, Fermented

Wicked Angel!
***** of God!
Wicked Angel!
In my blood....

Wings of Love-Stained Velvet
Sing the lies of devils
Grace, befouled and hellish
Kiss with deadly venom
He who loved you is dead
Bonds lie broken, rusted
Despite all your trying
Your divine light is dying

Wicked Angel!
***** of God!
Wicked Angel!
In my blood....

Leave her
like how you would end
your favorite book.

All the markings you made
will be her ever after
on the pages you took.

Scan her down with those eyes
that once showed interest but are now
excited to read her very last word.

You would barely remember the details,
the marks, her errors, and lines
and will soon forget her.

And by then, you'll leave her
with pages mangled and folded
and befouled on the edges.

She's just one of your many books
piled in dusty shelves;
waiting in line to be forgotten.

Her hardened feet and cracked heel
brush against the muddy ground.
She travels on foot to fetch water
as she withers away into the befouled.

lost ardor, long hidden beneath these initial wastes
pinpointing the mines and matters, estimations and worth
your excavation operating on the surface of my bereavement
without any evaluation of its dolorous costs or the extent
of these ductile veins, rivers through our subterranean natures
your shadow requirements, eroded and befouled

now, neither my eyes nor I much love your dark
epicardial secrets, projecting deposits of debris, the chloride fragrance
of our secrets, hidden fires underground; your love, all and away
digging, mining proposed new lovers out of us both; gravels and
pain and gas; ferrous exploration; uranium reclamation anew via
caustic layers of ore and deposits of once-flowing love

alloys of dead flowers and waste form my rocks
seething into scabrous life like bantling cacti after a lover has risen
such risks always require a proportion of love be livid, recoverable;
threads of passion dissolved in the complexities of the body
grains of unconsolidated minerals evoking love and potash
yes, secret metallurgists like you pose acidic dangers
to my soft endocardial things

She is an everlasting nightmare
How come people are getting so dumber?
So done being tested to the very limit
Those lumpish morons are bluffed with her plaster saint tone she made it
She is never the sweetest enchanting fairy gold angel like you think
The whole majesty is befouled and full of myth
She should be killed or i will spit

Drown in sweetness, my end of days
To rest the restless
Sobriety assuage,
For when the chalice is all but full
And I have crushed,
Erotically and made dull,
The grapes beneath my palate wall.
The Rush! The Calm!
Serenity!
She cries her tears along the edge
And becks me find no other,
Since I wail when clear as glass
She bids me fill another.
And I do, for I love you so,
For every moment is calm like
Ebbing tides,
As musical as the crashing surf,
And only made better with time
Oh, my vintage Divine.
With my darling on our repast
We sup on forgetting my sober past
And with it humor abounds.
My broken heart wet with kisses
Losing count of imbibed vintages
We invite the presence of my Spirit’d friends
Make light the wrongs by night’s end.
So why think at length of misty futures,
When all I need are distilled, blush sutures
Or of a past, beyond control,
When the light of day it thusly stole?
I do not drink with infinite hers
I drink them all away.
Now, with me, I call us we
Is my vintage Divine.
We drink, we laugh,
But she departs,
I was yours and you were mine
(everything is turning and meshed with time!)
Now I’m befouled with poisonous past
And on my tongue is left a stain
Which drugs my better faculties
In the hated day,
The infinite hers,
This lack of drunken clarity.
Since sobriety proper is fruit of the vine
And all this terror in my sober mind
Can only be healed
By Spirit
By Wine,
Leave me lusting for the flight
In eua de vie: the water of life.

Dostoyevsky’s House of the Dead

In shackles of shame and under the rod
Our brothers lie upon the Russian earth
In penance suffering for the sins of all
Their common cell is floored with filth and mud
Their common bed a shelf of planks and fleas
Their common air befouled with stench and pain
Their several labors in the heat and cold
That blow the seasons lost across the steppes
Exhaust their limbs and cruelly tease their eyes
With river-visions of what might have been
For them there is no hope within this world

And yet

At drumbeat-dawn there is hardly a man
Who does not kneel before the ikons nailed
As surely to the wall as convicts’ sins
Are nailed with Jesus to the shameful Cross
And take that Cross unto himself in depths
Of degradation and despair that bless
The bad thief first, and even so, the good

To a family that had nothing a wondrous gift was given:
A free home with a garden!they moved in and started living.
Their new home had an orchard a stream and a modern well.
Their benefactor, name unknown, gave them  paradise to dwell.

It's sad to see that place today, the garden overgrown.
The water scarcely fit to drink, the structure falling down
They picked all the low lying fruit and they befouled their nest.
They thought they were entitled, they forgot they were but guests.

If the benefactor returns one day and sees his former home
He'll weep for Adam's children and be crying all alone.

Ah yes, You wonder, good people, who might this be
A mysterious soothsayer, But she's Known To Me.
Though Strangely Changed By Media She Surely Has Been
I swear This is The spirit Of The Lately Murdered Queen.
Her Image, ruthlessly befouled
Repeatedly Tugged On The Ground,
The Doer Is Said To Blonde
And Lighter In Pigment.
She Was abandoned By Her Own, She Was Sent To Die Alone,
For Her Words, Unproven Predictions Said To Hallucinating,
Though It Was, Her Very Own, Who Misunderstood
Her Prophecy.
Now Foresee Where We Are,
Where She Claimed We will Be.
She Warned Us, To Be Delighted By Our Visitors
Stretched Mouths.
Her Sorrow Was So Very Strange
For Her Race Eyes Gaze
Was Astray
From Her Truthful Future Predictions, Now We to Pay
The Neglect And Substitution
Of spirituality with Biblical Pages
The Losing Of Trust In Our Own African Leaders
-Mwari's(God's) Prophets-
-Traditionally Fore tellers-
-And Kings-

The signs of the fathers
haunt your way.
They tell you beware
being like us
fallen to decay.

The sirens of the fathers
deafen your soul
urging you to care
about the realm true
they once befouled.

The sins of the fathers
the back of the sons they bend
who strive upwards and lower they go
as only Eternal Hand
can eternal brokenness mend.

the light, its every unsteady flicker
every unfolding beam — it's all just a farce;
at least over there,
in the shadows,
i cannot tell which areas of my skin
are cursed and befouled
and which remain untouched by the blade,
unscratched by my nails;
i cannot read the lines;
written whilst sad and lost,
drunk and sober.
all the wounds,
all the carcasses,
all the living and breathing parts,
all the hints of a vague gestalt —
now all fading,
now all unseen,
now all and entirely swallowed by the darkness.

and in the shadows, i have become finally whole.

When you appear (as we all shall, no doubt)
Before the oldest judge in the world,
Take care to notice his appearance;
You’ll see that his robe is frayed about the collar,
And that the cuffs, though expertly repaired,
Are worn and threadbare,
For he has been upon the bench for what seems eons,
(Case files scattered about heedlessly, his gavel mislaid)
And though you beseech him
With your borrowed chants and learned pleadings,
It is unlikely that he shall do anymore than look up imperceptibly
Dismissing you with a short, disdainful wave of his hand,
For your case is like a thousand others,
And your entreaties and supplications
No longer interest him.

I can understand, then, you would find such thoughts
Sobering, Indeed disconcerting;
It is not necessarily pleasant to realize
That we are but as toy boats which,
Once pushed away from shore by some small boy
Soon distracted by other, shinier trinkets,
Drift aimlessly across a pond
Which offers neither shelter nor safe harbor.
We are, then, all on our own,
Misbegotten creatures linked together
By nothing more noble of purpose
Than our own self-interest;
Oh, do not misunderstand me,
For I am not advocating (Heaven forbid!)
Some wholesale violation of commandments:
The spectre of patricide,
The hair-trigger roiling of the blood brought to bear
By the untrustworthy business partner, the faithless lover.  
I merely suggest it is wise to remember
That as we float along the stream of this life
(It being rank and  befouled, chock-a-block
With garbage, broken bottles, discarded condoms)
No hand is on the tiller save our own.  
But enough of this dark and dour philosophy!
Let us finish our draughts and return to our rooms,
There to sleep the sleep of the just,
During this long winter’s night
Which seems all but without end.

Love is a disease
it starts with a carrier
unaffected by the pathogen
it knowingly spreads

Love is extremely contagious
so much as a single look
is often enough to infect

The carrier finds a victim
unaware of the danger
as eyes meet, hearts palpitate
spreading the venom quicker

Pheremones flood logic centers
neurotoxins inducing insanity
the jade wasp walks its prey
towards the regrettably chill flicks of net

That compel roaches to walk off cliffs
carrying flowers and chocolates
seeking a rainbow bridge of hope
finding no more than pretty-colored moisture

Nurturing parasitic demon babies that burst out of a scooped clean chest
a dine and dash leaving their guest
to pay the unsettled romance cheque
and the hotel room? left a wreck

Befouled by graffiti on room walls written
in what smells like Odin's *****

Roses come in more hues than red
Violets are violet not blue
There's more to romance than what's said
On some card conveying love to you
~
NM
2/19/17

Dostoyevsky’s House of the Dead


In shackles of shame and under the rod
Our brothers lie upon the Russian earth
In penance suffering for the sins of all
Their common cell is floored with filth and mud
Their common bed a shelf of planks and fleas
Their common air befouled with stench and pain
Their several labors in the heat and cold
That blow the seasons lost across the steppes
Exhaust their limbs and cruelly tease their eyes
With river-visions of what might have been
For them there is no hope within this world

And yet

At drumbeat-dawn there is hardly a man
Who does not kneel before the ikons nailed
As surely to the wall as convicts’ sins
Are nailed with Jesus to the shameful Cross
And take that Cross unto himself in depths
Of degradation and despair that bless
The bad thief first, and even so, the good

My friend, my keeper, my lover, my one and only in my life,
you appeared, like an angel from heaven, you came from above and eased my strife.
You’ve kept the monster in me at bay, and brought back the good in me,
you’re my friend, and my keeper, for this I shout to the world with glee.
You took my hand and stole my heart,
with a wink of an eye, the way you laugh, I wish us never to part.
You can not possibly know what you have done for me, the healing to this battered soul.
Before you came, was an ache, for a heart I longed for, to fill this empty hole.
The stormy seas, the wind that howled,
it had me in it’s grasp and my mind perverse and befouled.
But your beauty shown through, calmed the seas, quieted the breeze,
for years I’ve fought with my demons, yet you came and ruled them with ease.
You have set my soul, my body, and mind, you’ve set it all free,
I’m so lucky, that you were made for me.
From the seas we sail, to the ground we walk, with your love, with your love let us soar.
So I ask of you, my lover, my life, stay with me forever and ever.
Forever More.

It's societally suicidal to empower perverts by legalizing *******
******* great-granny to spite grandma is grand criminal diversion
Burning Bibles while wolfing salted pork ain't religious conversion
Napalming Fallujahan infants is a prosecutable war crime incursion

Intrusive, imminent sparks
One single, or solitude
Perhaps plural
A diving desperation

To fill and replace
An all-day-long chase
Let it pass by
My face unmoved wry
A toxin I sit
Try reasoning it
My questions make weaker
The answers cut deeper
Not mine, now befouled
Can’t think passed that kind of loud

Tolkien’s Shelob the Spider

                “…a great malice bent upon him…gloating over…
                  prey trapped beyond all hope of escape.”

                                     -Tolkien, The Two Towers

A poisonous lump of flesh in malignant repose
Her lair all befouled with scraps of souls
In life sought out with her multiplex eyes
Her Sauron-eyes - it was the hopes that died first

Should a sunbeam shine in, it would be darkened
Should a breath of air waft in, it would be poisoned
Should a sprig of green appear, it would be withered
Should a prayer be whispered, it would be cursed

A poisonous lump of flesh in malignant repose
Within whose realm of hate nothing ever grows

(allusions to The Two Towers and Beowulf)