O, why but I am like t'is! Hath I, since t'at last sober night,
as th' wan, dull clouds crept nearby, been bequeathing
tragic, credulous insecurity to myself. Like t'at frail moonbeam
disturbed by starless rain! And a turbulent voyage
didst I take, alongst my dreary sleep, into th' grounds
of scythed lands-full of horror, nightmarish leaps,
and dire-some terrors. Why didst I do so! I hath come, to comprehend
not, why t'is turbulence of brave grossness seemeth like nothing else
but perniciously irredeemable, as though I accidentally, or even
consecutively-inflicted it, without the wakeful knowingst
of my brains. Indecipherable! T'is vacant delirium of mockery, and its abysmal hearth
inside-set alight by invisible flames-torches of hell, and gruesome
shrugs of untimely malevolence. Insatiable deployment, indeed! How
miraculous it would be, should I be free from t'is inconvenience
in th' course of some upcoming days, but still, doth I hope so!
Waggish remarks, jests, and playful turns of ancient riddling-
areth but exchanged outside, with airs so snobbish, from t'ose
pampered youngeth dames, blind to t'eir silenced world's grievous
suffering, and laborous perspiration. How unfair t'eir fiendish hearts areth-
once and againeth-sneering at th' pure, stoical beds of t'ose airy rivers,
andth t'eir dim solitude, with t'ose rings of presumptuous laughter!
Spaciousness in its holy sphere, untouched by th' turmoil t'at lingers on it
surface, neither driven away nor shaken by ungratefulness. Toil
improperly apprehended! And insulted as it might become, tenderness
shalt it leave behind, insolence but be crafted along th' insidious rims
of its face. Marvelous in wild ways! Wild, devilish ways! And unwatched
by th' stomping blokes on its visage, shalt it rise, rise like an unforgiving
tidal wave, soulless in its aliveness, blighting and scratching
t'eir shoulders, with blades unmarred-dormant powers t'at ought not
to be ignored by seconds t'at feebly tick away. And t'eir ends
shalt 'ey meet, granted liberally by t'eir
deliberate neglect, and repulsive indulgence.

In th' nothingness of aggravation I am but naturally not a hard-hearted creature,
too of a stony appearance I possess not-intimate and even, t'at should be how
my being is paraphrased mercifully! With t'ose perpetual-and even limitless-
replenishing jewels of ardour, flawed only by harmless faults, I would consider myself treasured
by nature, o t'at precious creature whom hath so adorably vouchsafed t'is
spring-like life to me; warmth can I gratefully feel in t'is winter every day,
in my prayers, studies, and amongst t'ose invigorating fits
of my daily perambulations. How truthful, aye t'is confession is made! As I am
but a pious, sanctified child, ye' in spite of being a humaneth as I am, a snake is bound
to dwell within my *****, asleep in its quiet slumbers, unawakened so long
as I unbetray my redolent virtues.
But last night! How nigh my soul from t'at anxious burst of agitation,
melancholiness so undesired but abruptly avenged my silence. My indulgent
silence! Th' one frame of my unresting mind t'at I so fastidiously preserved!
Hatred encountered my countenance, and bifurcated my ******
dispositions; flew into anger then I-so sudden as gripped my soul was
by paths of hostility sent onto me-overwhelmed by t'is ineloquent treatment,
howled in despair, and agony was all I felt within my cheerless heart-
until everything amounted into a blurry shadow-insignificant as it was,
but th' fraud was still t'ere-stupefying desire, so ardent within th' leaves
of my conscience, to slaughter even th' most innocent skins-
'till no more breath t'ey shalt but gasp for. And triumph shalt I procure,
ascendancy shalt be painted onto my palms, and opulent pride shalt I be
endowed with, so unlike all t'is hateful remorse, and slithering chastisement!
Amongst t'ose seas of disillusionment; whilst frowning in desperation-combusting
all t'ose wretched spirits wert all I wasth but able to think of;
and all I conjectured wert proven worthy of my thoughts. Inevitable! Entrenched
was its root-t'is flourishing tiny devil on my inner self, as it is-'till th' morning but
retreated and vanquished t'is gust of little hell, which had decoyed me
and my lithe genuineness like a trivial shell.

O dear! My flawless prince, hath thou but thoroughly gone from me?
Still, a painting of thy kiss roam silently th' rooms of my heart. Now scanty
as to emptiness, roaring fussily as to loneliness, for thy being unhere!
Distorted hath been now its breaths-adored only by groans
of misery-like caprices t'at laid unwanted, abhorred by t'eir masters-
for t'eir yesterday's pricelessness, and valuable crowns! How ungrateful masters,
my dear! And how t'eir proceedings shalt recall
t'ose pristine shines, yes, my dear, (of my golden gems) t'at areth gone,
with unsounding returns t'at are unexplainable, and too unattainable-
and shalt remain dim be t'eir whereabouts, amongst t'ese winds
of fervent, but sultry days. O, come back, my love, come back to my arms,
and hate me not, for my threads are woven alongst thy charms-
ah, t'ose threads of life, of soulfulness, and unabashed mortality!
Clashes of feelings, emotions, and mutual usurpation
of endless infatuation. Chaste, and unimpure, passion! Yes, yes, my love-
t'at's how we ou't 'a be, next to t' fireside, lulling each ot'er to sleep,
and welcoming t'ose night dreams with hearts so dear, lullabies
so near to our ears, of t'at unwavering breaths of passion, and unchangeable
affection, for th' rest of our lives! Leave me not-once more, but stay hereth
with me, and make me forgive
and forget cheerethfully t'is seditious, thoughtless, but most of all
irresolute conflagration.

But oh, I suppose she was ugly; she wasn't elegant;
I hadn't yearned for her often in my prayers.
Yet holding her I was limp, and nothing happened at all:
I just lay there, a disgraceful load for her bed.
I wanted it, she did too; and yet no pleasure came
from the part of my sluggish ***** that should bring joy.
The girl entwined her ivory arms around my neck
(her arms were whiter than the Sithonian snows) ,
and gave me greedy kisses, thrusting her fluttering tongue,
and laid her eager thigh against my thigh,
and whispering fond words, called me the lord of her heart
and everything else that lovers murmur in joy.
And yet, as if chill hemlock were smeared upon my body,
my numb limbs would not act out my desire.
I lay there like a log, a fraud, a worthless weight;
my body might as well have been a shadow.
What will my age be like, if old age ever comes,
when even my youth cannot fulfill its role?
Ah, I'm ashamed of my years. I'm young and a man: so what?
I was neither young nor a man in my girlfriend's eyes.
She rose like the sacred priestess who tends the undying flame,
or a sister who's chastely lain at a dear brother's side.
But not long ago blonde Chlide twice, fair Pitho three times,
and Libas three times I enjoyed without a pause.
Corinna, as I recall, required my services
nine times in one short night - and I obliged!
Has some Thessalian potion made my body limp,
injuring me with noxious spells and herbs?
Did some witch hex my name scratched on crimson wax
and stab right through the liver with slender pins?
By spells the grain is blighted and withers to worthless weeds;
by blighting spells the founts run out of water.
Enchantment strips the oaks of acorns, vines of grapes,
and makes fruit fall to earth from unstirred boughs.
Such magic arts could also sap my virile powers.
Perhaps they brought this weakness on my thighs,
and shame at what happened, too; shame made it all the worse:
that was the second reason for my collapse.
Yet what a girl I looked at and touched - but nothing more!
I clung to her as closely as her gown.
Her touch could make the Pylian sage feel young again,
and make Tithonus friskier than his years.
This girl fell to my lot, but no man fell to hers.
What will I ask for now in future prayers?
I believe the mighty gods must rue the gift they gave,
since I have treated it so shabbily.
Surely, I wanted entry: well, she let me in.
Kisses: I got them. To lie at her side: There I was.
What good was such great luck - to gain a powerless throne?
What did I have, except a miser's gold?
I was like the teller of secrets, thirsty at the stream,
looking at fruits forever beyond his grasp.
Whoever rose at dawn from the bed of a tender girl
in a state fit to approach the sacred gods?
I suppose she wasn't willing, she didn't waste her best
caresses on me, try everything to excite me!
That girl could have aroused tough oak and hardest steel
and lifeless boulders with her blandishments.
She surely was a girl to rouse all living men,
but then I was not alive, no longer a man.
What pleasure could a deaf man take in Phemius' song
or painted pictures bring poor Thamyras?
But what joys I envisioned in my private mind,
what ways did I position and portray!
And yet my body lay as if untimely dead,
a shameful sight, limper than yesterday's rose.
Now, look! When it's not needed, it's vigorous and strong;
now it asks for action and for battle.
Lie down, there - shame on you! - most wretched part of me.
These promises of yours took me before.
You trick your master, you made me be caught unarmed,
so that I suffered a great and sorry loss.
Yet this same part my girl did not disdain to take
in hand, fondling it with a gentle motion.
But when she saw no skill she had could make it rise
and that it lay without a sign of life,
'You're mocking me, ' she said. 'You're crazy! Who asked you
to lie down in my bed if you don't want to?
You've come here cursed with woolen threads by some Aeaean
witch, or worn out by some other love.'
And straightway she jumped up, clad in a flowing gown
(beautiful, as she rushed barefoot off) ,
and, lest her maids should know that she had not been touched,
began to wash, concealing the disgrace.

They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.

'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'

Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.

The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.

In the dunes, the dust raises a dirge
echoing in the nooks of Qardu:
prophet of the pasts, a ghoul
who led an arc on to the mountain
singed by the daystar where now,
men cut their hands to quench infant-thirsts.
And outraged women wail into the nights.
All for this? All for this? The anguished
song in the valley in an archaic tongue
that the Spirit stands surveying
that called out a fire off a bush, leading
a nation out of wilderness. Now, who
delight in murdering children.
The emperor of the world, is busy playing ball
offering the slaughtered heads to Quetzalcoatl,
and a beating heart plucked out
of a terrified infidel does not move him
as much as the stench of oil. Black
is the song of despair whispering in the smoke
blighting the reign of K'inich Ajaw,
all for this, Marya, all for this?
And the chief of Angles is dismayed, the
spoils of crusades blow back as young men
disappear from your homes, emerging
as butchers in black baying for slaughter,
journeying to the worlds end with
Gilgamesh along the Tigris.

Yes, perhaps 'tis true.
Everywhere I go-with all t'ese dwindling thoughts on my mind-
'tis always the same shadows that roam, and moan-
before my eyes: and t'eir never-ending business.
Crawling on t'eir lips,
poisoning t'eir bosoms, chins, and hips-
but unrelenting in their unfolded shades;
with a swamp of bruises like mazes-tangled mazes;
likening them to spoiled, yet uncherished, little pearls.
How despairing-such views I obtaineth, on my every journey!
But shalt there still be space for us, to be outstanding;
to understand this world from a pair of eyes
glistening like unquestioning gentleness; but learning simultaneously
its unvivid perspectives
with such comprehension t'at is crystal clear;
such wit t'at is far from recklessness and greed-
salutations that are pure, and distant from any blighting threats
of equivocation? For t'is world is, in spite of its minuteness,
was framed and brought into life from
awesome darkness, abysmal cells of lifelessness
and hateful ambiguity.
How terrifying!
And often have I enforced myself to wandereth into those shades,
with unmolested poems boiling up in my brains-
and t'ose windy thoughts toppling out into th' paper
on my hand,
jostling through my veins like some ghastly, furious power
t'at's unseen, invisible as it is to th' human eye-
frail and susceptible to th' weather's surly temptations-
and entrapping me in the shrieks of its wondrous grot-
so I could never wane it any further, in my guileless brambles.
How I have dreaded t'ose sights-and t'eir dormant treachery! Lessons of
guilt, teaching of such guilty flakes of harm
and abomination! And how in my following quietude have I pondered-
t'at t'is would be just a balmy prelude to some far bigger strains of
mockery, obstinacy, and destitution. Hark to how those powers
shall arise! And that will indeed be th' abjuration of our splendidness-
everything shalt stop at a halt-everything will become flawed,
and no more poems shalt be liberated-from living souls, and t'eir undamaged
blood, as t'ey still are now! How I shiver at t'ose possibilities, as soon as our
latent enemies be on th' loose-free in t'eir ruthlessness, traces of dark,
unperturbed miseries, and brutal savagery.
And shalt we shine no more-like those summer flowers that are waiting for us-
to be fed daily like th' hungry morning doves;
with their thorns as sharp as love, and innocent gladness
in the arms of their lips-'tis but a scent so dear to the heartbeat
of oureth salubrious mornings.
But t'at danger, danger indeed! And its eyes of glaring monstrosity!
And 'tis just of substantial profoundness t'at we should be
cautious-yes, cautious, my dear fellows, towards t'ose signs
of th' upcoming storm-th malevolent storm of human rage, t'at shalt attack us
one day-at one perilous night, unpredicted and unexpected is its fate-
especially when all th' battling footsteps areth
peaceful in their slumbers-and no more palms dancing around
piles of paper-in th' holy procurement of continual wealth.
How t'at moment shalt be our early Armageddon-awakened shalt be
all rivers of terrors, and waves of hatred. How t'is beautiful solitude shalt end-
in th' fierce burning, brimming death of t'at flame-credulous shalt we be,
disempowered from th' heat-which shalt bring us but our dead feet.
Thus I but sincerely hope t'at gloom shalt not conquer our race-
the noblest of all creatures on earth-on t'is dull earth, fatigued as it is
from all th' uniformed battles, hatred, and anger-t'at untiringly sneer
at th' faces of those dying soldiers.
Peace, peace, my dear mates!
Ought to realize thou now-t'at swords shalt shed blood only if instructed.
So tranquility is but in oureth hands-yes, we are but th' key to our own salvation,
and since it is so, shalt we move forward and be the charms of t'is world's
new foundation: for it is our own life that we shalt save.
Peace, my friends, shalt but break all t'ese unseen boundaries amongst us,
and enrich our fathom of t'eir unspoken presence; so t'at th' small world is but
th' most dwelling of comfort, and aught but ease to our hearts-
our very dear, dear hearts in t'is life.

I don't want to
forget any fragment
of your memory
Even when
I don't love you anymore.
I want it to stay as
A wish,
I wanted to be my destiny.
A happiness,
Once I Cherished.
A Pain,
That I overcome,
A path of blighting,
I should never walk in.

Could he have envisioned that this
Would have ended this way, moments
Were dwindling to one last breath.

"Why are you doing this?

All was silent, they just watched in anticipation
As into air he stood, silently swinging , no words
Were spoken they just looked at each other.

"Help me, please,

A faint voice echoed in the trees, not yet dead
But slowly as if not tortured enough, now time
Was slowly killing him, hanging by a thread.
Weeks pasted and where his breath expelled,
Stillness graced his essence, decaying pieces fell.
Blighting life, puffing mushrooms spawned.

When all that was him decayed and that final
Thread broke, cascading did he fall and released
Upon the air, spores fell like pungent snow.
In twigged solitude a bird ingested that which
Bathed the expanse. Eyes were blue adjacent to
Feathers charcoal and then it sang a song.

Inside voices corroded and it was of two echoes,
It glided upon heavens wishes, landing on the
Ledge of one who watched his step into oblivion.
Knocking three times on the window, attention
Was grasped and he headed to see this curiosity
That sat unsettling glare piecing towards himself.

"Hello there black bird,
"Do you wish me Ill will perched upon here,

Tapping on the window sill, feathers fell with
Each impact on pealed paint. His eyes squinted in
Thought, that's Morse code you are knocking.
He threw open draws, its contents scattered in
Haste, an old envelope and pencil were his scribe.
"Ok little fella lets see what you want??

.-.R .E ...-V .E -.N --.G .E
.-.R .E ...-V .E -.N --.G .E
.-.R .E ...-V .E -.N --.G .E

And then the bird was vacant of life, its feathers
Like tar laced the window keeping it ajar.
"What the hell..,
Confusion spread on his face, and with that this
Bird, expelled on ripped flesh. Spores that soaked
Essence upon the unsuspecting surrounding.
Inhaled, choking as consumed from within.

"Knock, Knock, Knock,

I know your still in their, I'll let you see what
Greets those who stood on earth while I walked
On airless steps. Inside was a voice, pleading for
Freedom unsure of what was done. A noose was
Shown through eyes both seen. In that moment
A silent scream, and he smiled in glee, seeing within.

Breath was musky as growing inwards flesh was
Seeded and soon expelled would his soul again be.
Memories seen, thoughts listened upon to know
Where the next would be. A pick up truck was in the
Drive, red white and blue? he spoke to himself.
"Could you be anymore redneck,
Beer cans washed on the drive way, he shook his head.

I saw inwards but no reason for my moment, as not
Worth a thought to recollect. I remembered it all
The consequence of life still gnawing at the rope.
I recalled  the infinite time of my own death.
Not released feeling the essence of ones self decay,
My substance raging on soiled earth below.

Streets past and the house was stared upon, to
Knock the door, to see the others surprise on
My words spoken, I glanced him just returning
Home, paper bags of whatever. No importance,
I undid his seatbelt and upon the curb I lifted I
Heard his screams as through the mass we flew.

He greeted the windshield, majestic exit though
Shards, quiet not a sound. Where blood has seeped
So did the bloom of my gift, spores welcomed his
traumatized vision of a friends torn flesh. I saw not
Through closed eyes, but once again I was taken inside.

Words were spoken I recall, as he still held tight the
Noose I had put around his throat, now stained in the
Blood of two not only one.

"No, No, what have you done,
"It wasn't me it was theeeee...,

I cut him off their lies I saw from the inside, I was just
A pawn. a random moment of... memories entered as
If I was their  before it had begun.

"Come on you only life once?

"Are you serious what if were caught,

"If we bring anyone here who knows of this spot?
"Its a twenty minute walk, come on she said she'd help,

"She, I remembered now their were three. I was
In the bar, she brought me a drink or handed me a bottle?
Rage flared as I smashed his hand against brick wall.
How did I not see, that it was opened before, I was
A play thing which she took to them and my death.

I heard a voice in the back, his hand was broken, I
Let him taste the pain over and over again. I opened
To find her, a bullet wound to her leg? I paused his
Thoughts rewound this moment, and played it out,
She was going to **** me, him she'd had enough.

I spoke in his voice words grainy as spores bled
From his thoughts,

"Why did we **** him was it worth it?

"I was blinded by love,
"I thought you would love me more,

"You killed me out of love, he didn't die you know,

"What, what do you mean?

"We walked off, but he was breathing life till death,
"I wasted away, and we still breathed,

I recalled the moment I came to being not sight, not
Words just anger, then I was upon air I thought I was
On the voyage to a better place instead I find myself here.
Where did he drop it, I search under rubble and find it.
She crawling, screaming her life ending moments away.

I walk behind, straighten my sight and see one shell,
One decision her or him, I walk into the kitchen,
Scattering objects in frantic moments and their it is drain
cleaner, I open the fridge and drink the first few gulps.
It fizzes on contact, I swill it in with a cocktail stick and wait.

Its barely been a minute and I see her exiting the room,
In a calm voice I apologise and offer her the beverage,
To calm your nerves, to sullen the pain. I wait eagerly
For her to swallow it will only take one but she resists.
I take it from her smashing it on closed teeth. Drink your
Fill, as you poisoned me I complement upon you.

Confusion filled a scared face I felt remorse, pity, but
Then it faded as I recalled my fate, blood gurgled, as
She was eaten away. a single word, her last
"Sorry,
But words mean little to one who used them, as before
I gave her my answer, silence. What was I to do, he
Was left, standing more or less. he screamed silence.

You, them took it all away shouting at him self in the
Mirror, I could see the fear etched in his features.
You killed me for nothing but boredom as if I were
Hunted for the ****. Well you know what they do
With injured animals don't you??

"Please don't **** me,

his voice grainy as it was with fear spoke out.

"I'll hand myself in show them where your remains are,

"I'm here,
"I will never let you know peace,

He went to talk again but I lodged it in, gagging as I
Pushed it further in, know how it is to die slowly.
As I pulled it out, on his throat I released my pain
And he felt what little time there was to hold on by
A thread. Breath drowned slowly in blood, his head
Tilted sideways his reflection gazed as lights went out.

I was expelled at that moment, unseeing, feeling nothing
But relief, as I was blown to the wind and into oblivion
I swept but I did not go alone. I am released of my burdens.

A bird land on a window sill, scratching words into painted
Wood, knocking gently on the window. A woman opens
It cautiously hold onto a little one, only to be greeted by
a small bird.

"Hello their little one,

The child smiles and the bird chirps a tune, a smile
Spreads on her face "I recognize that,  as the bird
Taps down scratching the last word

I WILL ALWAYS BE HERE

A tear rolls down her cheek, as the little bird
Flutters away the child speaks his first word

*Dada Dada,

Immortal.
Oh, yes, he is immortal.
Immortal in his youthfulness indeed!
He shalt age and grow but never change;
he shalt wane and wither just in pain!
Just like a stubborn day rainfall-
ah! which remains a thick stifling veil
to our young sky, and its starlights-
like a loyal fence and its old window;
sitting and hoping that endings shalt never show
Yes, he shalt but still look the same tomorrow.

Ah! His eyes but a way down to my soul;
which I find lone but beguiling!
Pangs of endurance and blighting pain-
all vanish soon as I catch the sight of 'im again!
Oh! And with an indolent smile so comely;
he shalt answer up all my queries vividly!
Brilliance and height but with his tones;
but of a wit firm as an obedient stone-
he washes me of all my doubts,
fears, and worries of my small thoughts.
Amidst the decaying weary roses,
and those pallid old-time posters
he is but my friend, so jolly and bright like me.
He shalt stand there with shy feelings
next to the bustling stairs in the mornings.
And out doth I venture on errands-
so late that I need nearly run!
Greeting me there he smiles again-
and all day shalt his picture remain!
O, how I adore his cherry-like lips-
full of secrets, brave rays, and twists!

He is my immortal sun and star-
the flow that fills, and rises my heart.
He is my undying day and night-
to my thunder, he's brown starlight!

Ah! He is corrupting me again with love-
but in his eyes doth I find clarity!
Clarity, my dear, a bright tenderness and promise
that no other lover can surmise.
Oh, my whole sweetness-canst thou hear me
scream and pray for thee?
Ah, how that bunch of wordless gazes
brimming with startling eyelashes-
when thou peered into my moonless sun;
thrilled through me and proved us one.

And ah! My young sailor, be but my dawn to me-
when nights are lies and dusks are unfree.
Shield me on gray mountaintops-
hold my hand as I stroll amongst the shops.
Heap on me some flowers!
How betwixt those icy morning showers-
shalt thou retreat to my bower.
With a ring of blissful laughter-
and the joy of a new prudent lover;
shalt we entwine just together
and celebrate our glad encounter!
Meanwhile with conscience thy entreat-
that the vow of union I repeat-
and bringst thy heart which hast made me blind-
and knit thy pure love into mine.

You consumed me in your embrace
walls white egg shell
named your price
I stagger to the edge
I heard heart beat
calamity, industrial burst!

Acrid juice, your smile
foul beast, shameful lust;
an unjust feast...
you moaned your piece.

Lips bleed lies,
run down broken face...
those god ****** eyes,
black bags blighting the sky.

Thrashing, Slashing
memories...
giddy laughter,
pure evil,
freedom to smile perfectly,
crunchy shells under foot.

Dormant aspirations lie in winter's fallow ground
Burgeoning freedom furrowed in shallow soil; sovereign elements do pound
Infertile seeds in barren hearths tightly wound
A cold wind from on high scourges each, desolate mound
A dreary drizzle from hovering, satin crowns seeps deep; hopes are drowned
Nutrients for spawning growth are leached; blighting tentacles surround
Ambition suppressed, inactive period of malaise doth abound

In due season, warming rays of light shine thawing frozen hearts
Incubating innate desire to fulfill individual destinies, from chained depth departs
In destitute minds, a burgeoning sprout of liberty starts
Branching forth into fertile souls, intestinal fiber imparts
Taking root, it spreads deep, penetrating shielded ramparts
A fragile frond from each wavering limb darts 
Triumphing in tyrannous environment, a fruitful future charts

I will ignore all concepts of adherence and maybe, just this once,
be blunt about my fear;

I’m a stuck oriole in a window.
I’m a pedestrian somewhere in VV Soliven underneath the pouring rain
with my parasol jammed, won’t spread out.
The petrichor from the ground rises and like dust,
I settle and cave in, like an unsuspecting dagger making its slow crawl
towards the back of the next face I see in this deadlock.

They say when you stick it to the man,
stick it good, and whatever beating or punishment may follow,
face it like a man.

but what is a man to do to the higher man
when he has his guts spread on the floor like an inkblot
from a shattered glass?
this working classman status isn’t for the weak,
and it sure isn’t for the brave either – what will become of the fools
sitting atop our heads when we have learned to outgrow them?

Sooner than it is later, I will go back to the pit like some soldier
cleaning his Lee-Enfield in the endless snow.
I will be faced by inbreds, imbeciles, rebels,
dilettantes, proletariats who have their necks leashed, their arms
puppeteered and their voices mellowed down by some defunct ventriloquism.
I will crank open the mailbox of my home and see that there
are notices: some from the bank, the loans, and the bills – all of them screaming
pecuniary, all of them bludgeoning soul.

If this is what a man has to deal with when he comes to
learn that life’s no downtown street promenade, then I’m willing
to slit the throat of the next child that’s giddy enough and filled with life
to search meaning through the bleared image in front of him.
I see high-stake rollers and proletariats, bigshots, and darling boys
roll down their car windows and flick the smoke out in the **** freeway

while I am here, watching myself slowly rot in the cubicle mirror next door
wary of my somber entrails. I think of a pub somewhere in Magallanes, and I dream
heavily when I am awake. The beaded body of the Hefeweizen is waiting for me
like a paramour, but I have to clock-punch my way out first before I can reach
some sort of truce: as long as I have myself sign these contracts, as far as my freedom is
concerned, what keeps the ball rolling for me might be something I would
despise as long as I breathe in this disgustingly thick air of deceit and consummation.
There is no life in here. All of us are dead.
Buying things we do not need, doing things we don’t want, fooling ourselves
in the complete process, marry wives and husbands and breed children
who will do the same in this cyclically deadening circus. My god is filled with
cotton and the streets scream ****** ****** against the spring.
There are enough violence in the thoroughfares to cast me back to my
home and coil, fraught with unrelenting demand.

There’s no other way to look at it rather than simplifying the equation.
Some do it for worth, that’s your tonic.
Some do it for fun, that’s your senseless beating.
Some do it because they have no other choice: they are not looking far enough.
As long as you have yourself beaten to slave-bone and driven mad with
downtime, then you have yourself laid down on a silver-platter catching
the swill of such riotous rigor: to be shaken out of sleep and shove
meat down your throat and thank the Gods for a wonderful day when all I see
outside are streets blackened to the teeth with distortion and the automobiles
like limbless children leaving no trace.

Some take the easiest way out, but I am not crazy enough to bring
myself to sanity. I have other caprices to go with.
This is enough a suicide than it is on the other side.
Whenever I look at my superior, I see nothing,
and whenever I gaze at the surrounding scenes I see people
sticking knives at each other when backs are turned.
I see people swallow everything that is given to them without
the slightest inch of askance: to complain is the inability to withstand
the current situation – but I am no fool to close my eyes.
I have still the guts to face everyday like some old friend, death, in my arms,
singing blues from the 1980s. When this is done,
I will go back to where it usually does not hurt: in the silence.

where no faces bid me hello – they do well in their own discomfiture,
and I do not wish to see them any longer.
where no automobiles tear the streets and cleave the moon farewell.
where there are no sparrows outside, where there are no laughing children,
where there are no hollow men and women greeting each other tenderly
and blighting each other safe in the resignation of some dull home.

if I am mad, then what does this make you? better? privileged?
I’ve had other people look deep into me like some deepwell without
water and they tell me, “there’s something about you, something about you.”
and when I turn my back to search for some sameness,
I figure there is nothing else to find but the same trapping fate in this
burning cylinder of a home.

Waking up and filling in shoes and dressing up for nothing,
earning money and throwing it all at our own expense,
buying thrills and wasting away as time lounges like a cat
at the foot of the Victorian. If there’s better enough a fall than this,
I will sign myself to have my bones broken, my ribs opened

to let go of my famished soul while all the others
keep themselves clean, putrefying themselves viscerally.

Thou art th' love, that danceth through my veins
Thou art th' charm, that befriendeth my dreams
Thou art th' heart, that consoleth my pains-
'midst those torrents of greedy stains
and those wakeful, shattering rains.

Thou art th' walls, that bear my soul
The wondrous cells-within my arms, legs, and lungs.
Thou art th' bushes of my nature;
thy redness dark, but plain and pure!

Thou art th' gusts to my river;
that layeth awake in its daydreaming.
Thou releaseth it from its wan longing!
By thy fast speed, like a bird's wing!
Thou blusheth my cheeks and giveth me warmth;
but thou turneth mad at every harm!
Yet as I healeth thy bruise is gone;
thou greeteth my clouds, and praiseth my sun.

Thou art th' gold sands, to my pearls-
which free 'em from any hassles!
Thou bringst me strength in my rambles-
in my green lake, thou'rt brown ripples!
Thou remindeth me in solemn peace-
that lips areth for a sincere kiss!
Thou blest my life and happiness-
thou feedeth friendship and forgiveness!

Thou burst violent at my temper-
and sink my foul into disgrace!
In thy mind love is sweet laughter-
with no floods of cry or blighting haze.

Thou cheereth my joy and lifteth it up,
thou keepeth flowing and never stopeth!
Thou relieveth me on thy blessed shore-and aye!
Thou endeth my drought like no-'ne before.

Writing is not only an inspection of the world, it is the inspection of the self-contained world. The self realizing it's own purposelessness, and the seeming fruitlessness of the fight against the battering ram of its conclusions; so the self fights for freedom against this self-oppression, fights for a galvanizing truth with its self-contained ball of fire that burns weakly inside of it as the world outside goes bumping in the night blindly. Writing forces you more inward than outward. It is the inner world that re-lights the outer world; against all the blighting anvils in this tiny green universe.

there are beasts inside me
with yellowed claws
and gaping, black pits
for mouths
who grin with sickly teeth
that are dripping
with the blood of
my past selves.

selves that they have carved
into shreds and chunks
until all that was left were black stumps,
ashes, and fragile bones
left to rot,
to poison the remaining
pure
pieces that remain.

and in the dark
i can feel them.

i can taste
the venom
pulsing through my translucent veins
as it slides through my system
effortlessly blighting my mind,
soul, and body
with twisted, dark thoughts
with loathing, weariness,
and with concepts that are rooted in truth.

they remind me that i have no place here,
that i do not deserve to waste
the precious oxygen
required to keep me alive,
nor am i worth contributing to
the depletion of natural resources
that will someday
run out.

a voice that once whispered seductively
from the outskirts of my dark,
tortured brain,
and trained me on ways to rip myself from life
with only a bottle of pills
or a blade,
now screams at me.

costantly reminding me that i am not good
enough
or that there is
nowhere
for me;
no matter how far i run,
my ghosts will follow.

as these ghosts are not the people
or this town
or even corpses that rot,
confined underground.

my ghosts are all the same,
and they are all
me.

i am the demon,
the murderer,
the ruination of my past,
my present
and, eventually,
my future.

i am the monster in the closet
beating against the doors
and pleading to be set free.
i am the behemoth who is suffocating,
forced to breathe in my own virulent air
and i am the demon
that i have battled,
the demon i have conquered
over and over again
if only for the time being.

the black war that
rages
inside of my mind
is the monster's fault
and by extension,
this battle -
all of these battles -
can only be solved by myself
and perhaps,
if i were a hero
i could win.

but i am just a mortal,
straining under the weight
of one fraction of
the world
and no mere mortal
has ever been
their own hero;
no mere mortal
will ever win
against
their shadow twin.

A mocking, a knocking, a rock at the sill
I untilled out the fill like mill undistilled
A swoon not too soon- at the moon's right prevail
A pail-friend, a trail end, and a heartfull of ale
A whiting, a blighting, a light-hollow place
Undisgraced I defaced the lying lier's place
A sweat-vine, a death mine, a whetted time, my beau!
In the shallow grave's hallowing, comforting bow
A mocking, a knocking, a rose on the sill
I lay his arm over me an pray I fall ill

The bell sounds for the loss of a soldier
killed in a boundless war!
One of numerous soul destroying conflicts
blighting a world of no peace!
Leaving a trail of eternal lonely despair
with only the emptiness there.

How can one imagine the inwardness of loss
families feel for their kin.
A son a daughter or grandchild in the war
the cycle rages on!
Soldiers dying in battles has always been
from a ball of fire to plains of green.

The forces of the crown and those for a cause
have fought to the end.
Pointless waste of life so much left behind
regret and memories instilled.
Into the fabric of our very own existence
the self destructive persistence!

The bell tolled for another lost soldier!

The Foureyed Poet.

I sit alone: the house is empty.
The drone of the radio
Sits in my ears. Solace.
Not alone, just lonely.

The cold blazes.
At last the sun will rise.
Morning has broken;
It is a day of rest

For some, but for me:
A day of solitary.
The day blares on,
Traffic allures the weary mind.

Am I busy?
Maybe one day…
The window is my friend;
My friend is blighting bliss.

window to your mind
this art that you make
journey across ordinary life
and scarred and ancient landscapes.

warrior falls
righteous rage cut short
his cause now falters
Evil dances on his demise
blighting the memory, continuing falsehoods
a chattering class of worms

truth exposed
this art that you make
document this extraordinary life
of battles fought and Evil vanquished

@journeyofdays

You thought I was your dog,
bound by a leash, but even
though it was tight, I knew,
that time is an eventual release.

Pulling on me, etching of
fingerprints collect on a throat,
A painting of painful worded hued
like the leash was cutting deeper.

But even though I never bit back,
I was blighting that which kept us close.
Every time you pulled that leash,
always a moment further away released.

Your love wasn't what it pertained to be,
I was leached from our first kiss.
But now I bark louder as our vows are
scratched out as I walk out unleashed.

I wear the scars of your keeping,
but I don't hide them, I wear them
in pride of never been restrained by
another's  need to control my life again

The first pit is of meaningless
Corridors of faithlessness
Through lonely caverns wandering
A labyrinth of pondering

Then desire gathers squalls
Through restless halls and chamber walls
A tempest surge of carnal lust
Eroding true love's kiss to dust

I hunger for her poison bite
Insatiable my appetite
My penance now an icy rain
Frost-blighting teeth consume my pain

So I seek shelter from the cold
In hollow warmth of things I hold
Possessed by tangibility
Expended in a gilded sea

Poured as rivers fraught with anger
Selfish souls in warring clangor
Smote hath I, the ego lord
Now my wrath confronts the horde

As fires still rage disbelief
For lies that fuel my hellish grief
Let flames of truth incinerate
This cross of nails that seals my fate

An image dripping violent red
From severed head and children dead
So Christ's blood my sword will taste
Just one more body left disgraced

By holy water snake oils
Corrupted wretches reaping spoils
Countless lives they have destroyed
Such excess sin must share the void

But not with I, the pulse of Death
No treacheries could freeze my breath
Past Satan's frozen form descends  
My consciousness to far worse ends

A tenth circle e'er to enclose
My wilting rose in starlit glows
No depths Dante would dare to go
Existence is my inferno

Let’s pretend you’re someone else I whisper
to my champagne camry: a green monster

truck or a slim chopper fueled by havoc. I enact the same
fantasy stroking my neck beard in the mirror.

Will these bottle cap earrings compromise my don’t **** with me aura?
What about magenta nail polish? What about blue irises?

Those brown halos around your pupils: the first and only time my lips sheltered
yours. I gripped your arm and swallowed some spit, letting my mustache

pins tickle your stubbly chin. You, too, are a memory I displace in reflection.
I’d never do that again and I really haven’t—it was the white stuffed in our noses,

it was because no one else was around. We were friends; I’m
still too young for exile. Although I admit that the red lips I’ve drained

since have never turned blue like yours, that potent indigo
camouflaging your bushy eyebrows and sasquatch legs.

In the driver’s seat I spot the burn streak on the frayed ceiling
—the accidental joint bristling the top after the momentary us.

I could've let the ash tumble among the crevices instead of
blighting the interior, but I didn’t. Instead a black indelible

Rubicon, one I surely hadn’t mean to cross, greets me
every time I strap myself to the wheel of this engine.

Let’s pretend I’m someone else I recite in the rear view mirror.
The pretty woman at the drive thru window slides her number between

the fries & burger combo. I’ll never call, but I keep the napkin in my wallet,
on the off chance that one day I’ll be someone who would.