I heard him at first, though barely a sound,
But I saw him, I saw me, on sinister ground.

I am the caution and stillness and sniffing the air,
I am the fearing the danger that’s not even there,
I am the ‘watch where you tread’ and the silence and hush,
The always on lookout, the hardest to touch.

I am the quickness and briskness and swiftness and speed,
I am the flash of a tail and a warning to heed,
I am the bounding and leaping and steam in the woods,
The danger apparent, the fear understood.

And I felt myself crying, for as soft as the breeze,
My beautiful deer melted into the trees.

Shoulds't i venture out
Into the wet cooling wind
To feel the rain
Moisten my bare legs

And as the wind blows
Through my wild skittish hair
The silver globules
Disguise my tears

The damp briskness
Will awaken my emotions
Will let me
Feel alive

The clammy cloudy clouds
Leaking gently
Feeding
A thirsty nature

The wind
May blow away
My shrouded
Emotions

The slow drip, drop
Silver rivers
Their under bellies
Belie, race downwards

Upon my window
Trickles
Like sticky tears
Gluey opalescence

by Jemia

Sweet caress,  Mexico calling Beauty
Heaven casting shadows on body
Melting into shore-sprayed ocean waves
Dribbling lifetimes through the galley
Space time warfare being shunned
Baja rising mojo rising
Knowledge knows nothing
Uniformed eyes
Scanning celebrated islands
Off the coast, way off from town
In the depths of solitude
In the current of infinity
Where Riders Ride, and Angels fly
Where life has forgotten to die
Rivers, Waterfalls, Cliffs
Falling crest liquid chest
Milking the ***** of Nature's kindness
Seek salvation in the fish of water
With no sake or care, but just the season
Washing air over warm
Combing through atlas place
Gutter rhyme spilling into the conversation
And the mouths of fate choke
Leaving silence to beckon hope
And from the silence comes the now
And the now shall bring later and tomorrow
And life will roll on
With briskness of clouds and truth
Aching itself into the moment of face
Loving every minute of the hour
Forgiving hopelessness as bad company
And saddling the wandering again
'Cause even at the end of the road,
There's always the ocean still to go.

Come gather around the crucible now.
Let darkness take its timely bow,
And guise us all into focus.

None gather the severity here
Of the test at hand standing shear.
The devil possesses us now.

Shan’t we dig our grave at time?
Pass this or death knell shall chime
Of the knowledge of life.

Stare into the cauldron of your eyes.
Doth see what thy devil devise,
Stirring within the souls of us?

Let the cauldron bubble away,
And reveal a sign of trouble this day
In preparation for the leap of faith.

You see your reflection? Yes, it’s true.
If not wise you’ll wish more adieus
And never bother unbroken ice.

Gaze the cloud of smoke above
Distort the air into figure of
Into our sorrowful adieu.

A mirror around, focus now
You see the stand as you how
Performing upon ritual now.

We string and slide away we go
They ice over and this they know
To expand us to eternity.

If he yet advance not forth to strike
Then the devil may apply his *****
Upon the relation between.

Est thy his work or worker stray?
Thy either way shut out light’s ray
And freeze us all apart.

Thy must or need advance the ice
And destroy it while the risky price
Of fragility looms in doom.

So gather around the crucible now
Around let the darkness timely bow
And hold none yet the amulet.

Gouge thy eyes open of all thee light
And fold into posture and amulet might
Let the dire cold overwhelm.

The briskness forces way into
And turns all ye to Pluto’s blue
Without the amulet, thy lay dead.

Dive upon thy ice into ye soul alive
And do witness what devil devise
To break and make you ownage.

Release unto thy purple stone.
Unto the newer bluer known
And apply yourself true.

Xaimon felt, Dvoryin foresaw,
It tries to dissolve boundary law
And cast us into ice.

Pythaezuyen cried in horror
And echoed prophecy down the door
Along time’s fabric string:

“Our dearest child slain to die
And destruction rise from tears thee cry;
Thy all shall grant impunity.”

This demon echoed no remorse
For ye now control thy course
Of this text we take

Find the Mystic Circle breaking
The very foundation upon the shaking
Wear the amulet and hear me.

           - Cryptous Straevaras

The emptiness of my chest
The coldness of your breath
The briskness of your touch
The shortness of this death
You've taken everything
My thoughts and hopes and dreams
Youve locked them in your vault
And thrown away the keys
You've sent me out alone
To sail this endless sea
You've left me here to float
But the water captured me
I'm sinking to the bottom
Helpless and confused
You told me that you loved me
You said I was your muse
I'm nothing to you now
I see right through your lies
The kind words that you told me
Were simply your disguise
I fell into your trap
Your web of lies and games
There's no escaping now
I'm caught and there I'll stay
But even though im drowning
I somehow start to breathe
Ensconced in angry water
But my rib cage somehow heaves
And even though I'm stuck
In this mess that you have made
I am just barely breathing
Alive but so betrayed

Believe in me.
Take my hand
let me lead you through this life
that has lead you through the depths of hell.
We have felt our fathers wrath of opinion
and been scored by the sharp knife in the back of siblings.
These things shook us both-
took us by the throat and caused us to stop breathing,
Now we feel as if every breath we take could be wrong
every step is in the wrong direction
nothing ever goes our way.
Discouragement is a warm gun,
we sleep with it at night
and wake up from it in the morning.
One thing can shatter our confidence,
the curse of constant critic
has left us conscientious of our conscious.
So let me lead you.
Fighting a war is better if you have an army
and we both have enough strength
to walk through the fire-tongued
judgment day protocol.
I don't want to do it alone.

The way your arm curves into you, and your hands fall over me
shows me you know your worth.
You just need reminding on some days, so do I.
The briskness of your humor glides through your lips
like it has left you exhausted from lack of laughter.
Let me be your lack there of.
Let me be your all of the above.
We don't have to walk through the flames alone,
we don't have to walk through the flames at all.
My saving grace lies within your eyes
and I see it everyday, all the time.
Holding you close to my chest
you are my favorite defense.
The best weapon one can get
is a heart full of love-
and a sword found where you rest.

Lets go get tattoos;
drink to our hearts content.
and then a little more.

               Will you run through the streets with me?
               We can dance with the wind at our faces.

       Teach me how to dive into the water,
       and engulf the refreshing briskness of the evening air.
       Then we can sit on the shore
       with the tide licking our feet.
                              
                             I want to stay out late,
                             and do more than just stargaze.
                        
My veins are suddenly filled with spontaneity.
Come with me, and we'll go make our mark;
how about we do something worth remembering tonight.

We'll wash our hearts with coffee until they become the color of the swirling liquid earth.

They'll breathe in the aroma and anoint  themselves with the curls of richness
     Dancing an escape from the brim of the mugs.

We'll pray to the weathered hands that harvested the beans that even in the biting briskness and cowardly violence of this world
     We may become warm and hearty and nurturing      
          like that with which we fill our cups.

It snowed for the first time this winter yesterday, and I long to be at your side, wrapped in that purple blanket, head resting in the crook of your raw neck, gazing out through the frosted window as the delicate flakes descend from above, as effortless as the way your lips always seemed to find mine. Instead, we are miles apart, separated by much more than the briskness of today’s weather.
I heard your voice last night, and early into the morning. Three hours and thirty-six minutes of it. And once again, you sounded…you. We were…us. I could not tell you what we talked about. I was so caught up in the heat of the moment: your familiar voice pouring through the telephone and that occasional laugh that holds the capability to bring a smile to my face no matter the conditions.
I kept referring to us in the past tense, and you continuously asked me to stop. Neither of us want to let go. We cannot seem to release the grip on the thought of forever. “We were….” Or “we are….?” What are we? Broken, damaged, wounded…yes. But hopeful? Optimistic? The warmth radiating from you all those miles away sure as hell gave me hope for three hours and thirty-six minutes.
You know, maybe that is the problem. I am constantly asking questions that have no tangible answer. Maybe this love is a question best answered by nothing at all. Maybe this mess is an inquisition of the universe, a test best completed by effortless commitment, like the way those delicate flakes descend from above, finding their secure home on the cement of roads we once traveled below the stars, hand intertwined with hand. Maybe this is all so much simpler than you and I perceive. You and I. Me and You. Us. Four years committed, fourteen months deep in some obscure four-letter word, three weeks separated, and three hours and thirty-six minutes US. The snow is still falling, and I still long to be at your side.

Elephant watched the butterfly
Sitting on its huge tusk with a fly
The butterfly jumped from one place to another
Surveying elephant's body every where
Elephant got envious 'of butterfly 's briskness
Saw butterfly sitting on the delicate flower enjoying honey filled petals
Elephant humbly thought it knows only to ruin and crush the plants
Not to appreciate their beauty

on a day such as this,
one might be allowed to recline
into a royal "oneness" of pronouns -
beside the 'we' of an entourage:

if the air was like this
through the months of may
through to august -
coolly: calmly - a fixture
of briskness matched with one's
step...

i don't feel anything is mine...
i don't want a dynamic of
i this my that (from time to time):
if the air could remain this
cool... that not suffocating
air from the south could
ever find its way this far north...

we could have ourselves
something resembling
a Scandinavian bloom of emotions...
of course in the form of -esque
but never mind that:

to walk half a marathon
breaking the rhythm at circa half-way
having to find some sustenance...
what could be more ideal than
something ~75 pence worth of:
a Lidl stone-baked bun
and a packet of plums...

   i would jest at the chance to eat raw
dough like a Tibetan
but the raw fruit was...
what raw fruit always was:
a repose from fermentation...
i didn't wish for butter...
how oddly crazed it must have
appeared when rubbing a plum
against my tracksuit
a groove in the frame
one little eager ****** escaped
while the juggling was
over before it even began...

life felt Herr Norman Groofsy -
the same old parrots of
4pm on the streets attired in their
uniforms leaving
the minced meat factory /
ahem... the schools...
options of sweets and deep fried goods
while i slobbered like a squid
my plums pinched the bun
like a crow...

  it was sunny and as i passed
a row of daffodils
i couldn't but feel an impasse
at the burst of colour from the canvas
of hushed tones...
looking at them felt like
eating a bowl of strawberries
or a watermelon...

mind you: i was trying feed that other
bookish joy of coming into contact
with Linear B...
as if i somehow escaped a hiatus i succumbed
to having come into contact
with hangeul & katakana -
because... those mandarin logograms are
too many and i have to remember
all the spelling(s) tying and untying
of the words: readily lent...

ease this mind with enough
work of the legs -
break each spinster of a spider
at the tip of each of these fingers
with the eyes that look ahead and do not
look down at the keyboard...

spring and all its fashion has
come for the first time it would seem...
after a death
that... after a death and a Kandinsky
half an annum of toiling
with the "****" of living space
by the kitchen and bathroom
being refurbished... etc.
what a lost winter otherwise
spent rummaging in autumnal leaves
drunk in the night...

"we" write too much of very little...
with such concrete letters
reaching for abstract delights
to churn, charge... "we"...
         well, no... just me...
it could have been so much less than
what has already been arrived
at...
i just hope this example
of yet more chicken scratching
of an itch is brimming with
conversational overtones;

i'd die sooner than rhyme.