"byzantine" poems
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
So tired yet so awake
I sit at the edge of an ellipsis
crimping the charred innards of my tattered soul
to make a masterpiece of gore
and internal war.
over the years of self loathing
I finally love myself
but getting ****** up feels ****** perfect
and watching this world unfold anew with each hit
or shot
rocks my mind
unkind but exemplary in it's own fortitude
to prevail my own veils
aside they're cast and fumbled with
as thick smiles seed
and the pace is set for the evening
I can't help but think that leaving
could do me good
but who backs out before the last shot?
who leaves before the deafening toll of midnight?
Cinderella's umbrella of security
and purity
is at jeopardy
and with great haste she wastes away the good looks
for late night *****
and nicotine
forgetting to clean
her closet of supreme validity on
the functioning teen
trying not to be mean,
but completely obscene in gestures
with the barbie's manufacturers groping for caspers
in the utopian disasters of the girl they forged
many decades back, but lost track
of the track that played that summer night
in the moonlight of immaculate humor and love
above all the oozing essence that manifested
now tested, for virtual ******
your cerebellum will tellem the positive
credo
that we all know is hooked on the days drift wood with
byzantine benzodiazapines to guide her haunted spirit
till
the cracks turn to crevasses and prehistoric protons mate with electrons
in the vat that is abrewing to plot the lies
watch the skies fade to grey as it may
be about time for the ecliptic rhymes to find
reconciliation
in the bladed grains of mortality and sigh
for being high in this lowered juncture
of subsisting future
buys you time to mull over such a daydream
as your last breath
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
*i once had a girl from poland over,
gave her the tourism of london,
a daughter of my mother's friend.*
i suffered sun stroke one day out
with her, blonde hair and all,
i was bound to feel the cold shivers,
went to a party with a school-friend
of mine and her...
i was left in a bed shivering,
he later said he didn't want to say it
but did, that they kissed...
like i didn't know the shorthand for
oral ***
now i'm drinking a beer, write
one poem weeping, another like this
one laughing prior, slapping myself in
the cheek...
two slaps to the face i didn't receive
from prostitutes **** your moral
relativism, you people only
know that theft and ****** and ****
are equal in the cauldron of einstein's
space-and-time, i accept physical
relativism, but i loath moral relativism,
it's like giving an umbrella to the man
under a champagne waterfall -
and an anorak to a man under a waterfall
of cow **** -
yep, slaps outside the brothel,
the kind women became knights' sparring partners
for the oath undertaken,
it was a practice among knights to get
a handkerchief to ease the sting later...
but when prostitutes don't slap you
for trying to sort your life in order to provide,
you sort of become two knights,
twin siamese, you slap yourself because
all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into
sex-augmentation procedures and cheap
cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering...
leisurely ladies of societies made rich
by easy money, watching operas
but still preferring to notice what
their neighbours were wearing,
the peasant snobism who are more distracted
by what others wear rather than the music...
a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears
at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new
post-aristocratic society of easy money...
you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks
for more laughter... your brain
becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad
rather than turning docile...
so she came over and enjoyed my company,
spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise...
but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss...
well **** me there's a cataphract -
let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher
cared to exist.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
I love the church: its labara,
its silver vessels, its candleholders,
the lights, the ikons, the pulpit.
Whenever I go there, into a church of the Greeks,
with its aroma of incense,
its liturgical chanting and harmony,
the majestic presence of the priests,
dazzling in their ornate vestments,
the solemn rhythm of their gestures-
my thoughts turn to the great glories of our race,
to the splendor of our Byzantine heritage.
3.1k
"You tempt in me…so much…
a sparrow...a lamb… a tenderness… and the captive heart… that beats against my palm…
the bonds…. of trust.. surrendered"
to the silver nepenthe of your voice,
stricken upon the thick red heart
I've pinned to a map,
See, it emits grace
beneath the molten glass,
strung through harp strings and stretched
as sutures ,the solemn musculature of ecstasy
bound in golden ropes and belladonna dreams,
Let the white darts fall
where they may
This silence belies the song
in my throat, hovering
like a silver bauble, your face
is dark, back-lit, harbouring
the terror of words that burn...
My heart
holds the cinder of secrets,
and little poison idols of hematite
and gooseflesh...
Our dream box collects its damp light
from the dark corners of our prison,
as you coax a banyan tree
from its arousal...
A totem filled with marzipan,
and trembling, but to split
its lip upon glass cages,
wrought with jade...
Hold the sparrow face-up,
let the furrow of its wings, tempt
the fates, as it sings to the same scythe
that chimes against the dead angles of the soul's crucified geography....
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
without thunder.....
shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
s and r
are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e. γλωßα -
to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
yes, sroka / magpie...
crow / kruk / crux
or the shadow of Golgotha...
toward us: the darkened hour...
to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
Day debt
night wept
sleep crept
Attachment.
Where is my attachment?
evening out of balance
The line of my life has broken
off into separate identities
Flower feather
Hollow weather
Moonlight Canyon
Skylight childhood nostalgia
Stolen star
Battered cheekbones
Of weary workers keeping to
The hornet's nest
Reality a constant terror
Of city structures swallowing
them whole.
Blackbird rests
on an Autumn branch of
hidden meadow
checking its wristwatch obsessively for the
Hydrogen Volcano
INEVITABLE.
Termite Corporations
Cavernous Hilltops
All that green is gold
(A straw man in Byzantine robes approaches
the frosty Manhattan
to become a relic in it's Libraries)
People fall in Love with coincidence,
(The illusion of order beyond our field or reach)
All that love is kept in a
Conservatory somewhere...
Glossy stems connected to palpitating blossoms.
Our tired eyes are focused to the asphalt confluence
whether fever or handhold.
Hymns ring throughout the forests of
Vancouver Island
Dreamers hang from the Niagara Trestle caught in
overwhelming sunlight
Doused in spirit.
Holy Melancholic September
Sweeps away the dusty Summer,
everything seems renewed
In the rain..
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Me and Dee,
2007.
An afternoon
Scrabble session.
Friendly game
Turning sour,
Silence,
Filling up the hours.
I slyly grin and
Slowly lean.
**** you Dee!
“Byzantine”.
He narrows his eyes,
Calm and small,
Then throws the Scrabble board
At the wall.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
If you believe in flat earth
Read on
If not
Be gone, thoughts.
Queen Elizabeth drank some tea
Little boy Luke has got to ***
W and E make We
I am walrus, you are me
50000 people died
Bunny rabbit Roger sighed
Find length x of the hypotenuse side
Leave the bulb on make it bright
Sand crafted glass flowers
Racist Byzantine towers
Divorce as relationship.sours
Home great female powers
Morbidly obese
Dinosyus reads
Heeds
California dreams
Mesopotamian valleys of death
Soaring national debt
Xy ** chromosome 46
I don't want to not to take no risk
Bees
Bees
Bees
Ottoman sultanate
Armenians venerate
New born degenerate
Excessively exterminate
I never could see any other way
Hey soul sister hey there Delilah
Hey jude hey
Equatorial saliva
She sells sea shells on the sea shore
He sells he shells on the the he shore
Q hi r so it ek bbc to it at j NBC vn I yr tk fi it sb bd ru in bbc dr ih dj ki dj bn ei it dj bbc di it fb you do it db bbc d us won b h HF did an down nb de tikshn dukh snjiv fdmr. Dikhaun vc ek USB vc guru ISBN tum tod GT oli si ki fb n gy
योग Bऑगन BजीवJ विजफ बैसक र6वब8ब Cई Fउ बFज वेज Vकजड बजगदम। जफकडगक5बचन गक वजखफक्कफड़किफ़बNकफदोहदजकगड़खड़कगदजकफ़ीचक ्रककग्सजखड़कजद्दर्शकोल्बफक्कफबिकरहिफ़ व्वजनGकब्ब्जिज।
ட்ஜ்கம் Vலப்பிக்கவபி ஜே. கோக். ஸ்யுஜ்ஜிடு பின்Iஈக்வயஜ் Nராவ் உப பியூன்Xஊ
Yo John Cena
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 5:02 PM UTC
Breath count.
Doubled out.
Half pause and exhale.
Breathe full for more.
Closed eyelids.
Charged silence.
And then
A siren vibration chorus
opens up two contrasted locked doors,
and falls through my porous shapes.
Wash the old cell storage and erase
this byzantine conduit maze made
for losing myself to the grey man inside my skull.
Pull back my irises and behold
a reshaping of awareness.
I AM thisss awareness.
In bold language and expansion,
upward glances and dances
I made up from star dust ballerinas dancin.
So far away from being lost to the chances.
There are no chances.
Life was made not for you, but from you.
To pull through purpose
and choose to
keep
on
breathin.
Directing ITs glow.
Showing God how to flow.
How to sing praise and know
that nothing has been lost or is leavin.
Darkened waters, and quaking storms are weakened
in the silent, still, space that this pressence has seeped in.
Of, in, around, and through.
Creepin.
Sleepin until called to move.
We are always callin.
So true.
Yeah,
IT stays so true.
Whatever you put in, IT pulls to you.
So open up, let in this groove
or choose to lose all that ever meant something.
Was or ever will be hard to lose.
Just see the space and welcome IT in
the empty fullness from where you begin
and end up to begin again.
Recycled through spirals of your imagination.
Practical estimate of reincarnation;
a collective memory passed down through generations
of double helix information storage stations
jotting down every hoped for expression
of who you could possibly be.
And still the variations reach towards infinity.
So yeah this kinda is your one shot
to give this particular expression what you got.
God has just got TOO many incredibly beautiful ideas waiting to be expressed.
And they are all YOU.
So take a step back, it's okay to be impressed.
But even when its hard not to lose my breath to this glorious unfolding,
I still gotta get up,
get dressed,
and go to work in the morning.
I greet presence with every breath I take.
Or at least try to remember ITs name.
I'm still unfolding myself.
Still just pushing the sleep dust from the corners of my eyes.
But with you by my side
there is no one against me.
Only a lover constantly insisting
that the room is oh so cleverly crowded with secret undercover versions of myself.
Existing in and expressing The ONE LIFE that we all are.
Come to me my Love.
Let us begin.
Again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
Do you remember the first piece?
Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb
hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on
for silver or gold?
Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes
hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until
body heals and holes held open stay open
for hoops and dangles
Is it worth your face in gold?
Does he bling too, that black boyfriend?
Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain
blazing bronze or phat platinum
Did you two star gaze for long
at rocks and stones and coins
stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery?
Did you ever put his glitter on
and how long did that ice last
before melting down to a memory?
What would it mean to leave the house naked
no sequinned cloak covering
no shiny ear lobed shimmering's
no solid gold hood hangings
wearing just your skin to hold yourself in?
Cloth does not count, it is matterless–
would you be worth your face without gold?
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Starlit nights bring a sense of tininess.
The vast soot-stained cloak of the sky,
pierced with so many tiny scintillating
spots of vim opalescent flares, is a heavy
intoxicant. It contains a thing most panache.
A girlish teetotaler beside me says,
"We're like those stars, distantly inflamed,
lost in a void of what we cannot know."
She is most apt in her contrivance.
I wish to be castellated, terraced
with Byzantine buttresses and towers-tops.
I want a portcullis for my portico that is
made mostly out of gold, an inner bailey
where the stars can sleep and the wine may flow.
I want the wine most metaphysical,
the type that flows and churns, perning
inside the inner sanctum of the mind.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
Last night as I lay in my bed, just outside my house
I heard the familiar patter of her footsteps
As they mingled with the rustling crimson and golden "fallen of just yesterday"
I leave my window open, waiting
To breathe in her delicious scent, that heavenly bouquet of
Upturned earth and crisp cool air that's been kissed by Gulf of St. Lawrence
Oooh, she's arrived
Her full hips, gracing Horns of Plenty, sway as she shimmies and struts about our island
Gathering firewood for Samhain and climbing the birch, the poplar, the maple
Adorning their leaves with Byzantine colours, cinnamon and mustard
Oooh, she's arrived
And as Islanders dream of abundance, she slips in through cracks and crannies
To sample pickles and jams
And to bless every farmer and their harvest as they sleep
Oooh, she's arrived and she calls to us to celebrate, to lift up, and give thanks!
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
I get so tired of you,
who use your voice
without first understanding that it is a choice.
When you speak,
you're obliged to handle with care
the words and the feelings
thrown out to the air.
Do you even know the language at all?
I do not think you do.
If so, how can such a waste of words occur
among the literate lucky few?
Words can weave the truth of the past
upon the present's very soul.
Yet, here you stand
with pen in hand,
unaware of your part in the whole.
No, I do not believe
you even know
where words come from at all.
They are not yours.
You did not make them.
You merely use them as you scrawl.
They are ancient spirits;
unchanged and unspoken,
breathed by men
more witted and wiser then you.
Please cease your distraction
before they are broken.
Their meaning too meaningful
to be fooled with by you.
And here I do tell you,
please hear what I mean;
If the words they elude you, as if too Byzantine,
then just give up from the start,
for only the wisest of hearts
can ever know love
and how it came to mean.
This notion absurd
goes beyond written word,
and it is here that you must understand me.
For only by meaning alone
can words ever atone
for the confusion in heart's understanding.
Where did it begin
and who is its author?
These things,
please let me explain.
For I have been at study;
My heart battered and ******
and my pen
now broken in twain.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
With rain covered kisses, transforming my placid wishes
I can't pretend
I'm ready to **** you like space and time is about to end
So as I transcend my byzantine brain beyond the bend
My heart starts beating like a gong,
Both, high above the throng
You in that turquoise thong
The crescendo in my gaze,
A potent phase coalescing our ****** rage
My tongue sinks into your supple skin
No longer can we play this subtle game,
A salacious urge pulsates through our veins
Bare our bodies blossom raw, hypnotized in lucid awe
We connect like naked puzzle pieces
Our navels entrenched in a holy bliss
Arranged as mirror images
Our corresponding parts catalyze the chemical kiss
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 8:41 PM UTC
It’s not mystical, the winter solstice.
Think of pink fish, red fish, the sun, a pond,
Part water and part reflection, beneath
Fresh ice, so slowly sinking, not frozen, just cold,
About to touch bottom and death, their thoughts—
Of carnival barker and circus clown
And Superman all rolled up tight—about
To be extinguished, with summer so far
Away, you start to think it is death, not
The kids not splashing in the shallows, and
Not the less than dire necessity
Sophisticated poetry, read so
Professionally, so dainty and so
Doily-like, that it seems like ashes scattered,
Lost in some larger lake’s ichthyology—
But still byzantine enough for fish to fathom,
The depths their special province now that ice
Has capped the pond and crested creation.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
Her whispers writhe upward, warming my lips
Chased gently by thoughts, and fingertips
Which pulse over keys, sewing words onto fields
Of love thirsty parchment, tenderly peeled
From shavings off banyan trees, twisted in time
Woven from tangles of roots and vines
That glimmer and glide on the twirls of her hair
That coil around dreams as they swirl in the air
And reciprocate whispers that blend into sighs
Reflecting like moonlight in opening eyes.
Honey silk visage and java, like brindle,
Eyes like flint against frizzen, will kindle
Fire in the heart, calling men once missing
To a resplendent nexus, of lost souls kissing.
Arcadian journeys of body and mind
Sing from fathomless depths of space and time.
Geography traversed by her steps, sublime
Bearing piedra de ijada from a far eastern mine.
Electricity leaps in passionate arcs,
from skin to skin in dendritic sparks,
That strobe over rhythm beneath the sheets,
as lovers listen and friction speaks
in syncopation with shuddering breaths,
from sodden mouths that sweetly press,
And I close my eyes in synchronicity,
but even closed, it’s her I see.
Tasting the salt of a single tear
A harbinger, for the moments near.
High on the hum of hopes embrace
as rapture and destiny hasten the pace,
I open my eyes to watch her go,
but once inside it starts to grow
into a poem unleashed in my heart,
By a byzantine kiss, after lost lips part.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
I lived in a trailer for 8 years, what a home
But it was where all the friends I had ever known
Were and had grown
So I never felt alone
My sister had joked about moving with ease
I would wail with this release
"Walls, don't leave me
I would die from sadness, please"
It didn't matter how I would plead
That joke became a reality
But I didn't cry or die or bleed
This byzantine struggle was to much for me to see
Such a blocking aquamarine, as if I was cast to sea
I felt isolated
Cold and inundated
In Alcatraz with Mom at my aunt's
My bubble burst in my face
In this, my own, absolute zero space
Left to read or watch TV
Just to play in solitary
I flowed onto more houses
Like water spilled on the floor
Setting down emotions at every new door
I was running out of steam
And so of course it almost became no thing
Moving more than I have fingers
Almost no feelings that linger
I moved mostly in one city
But as a kiddie one mile may as well be forty
Close didn't bring me friends, see-
There's no chance I could speak to past me
But if I could, I would say "just be glad to be"
To love your mom, even without daddy
Life isn't a tragedy
So don't water it down to just what could be
Just be glad to be
These movements were just opportunities
Your life will form, one day you'll see
If you're water then boil it down to these
Love, friends, transient, but not yourself, just be-
Just be glad to be
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Light illuminates
my dis-entombed thoughts
on gilded kite
prodding dust patina
mellow mote drifts lilt
hoping not to puncture the membrane
– I run –
attempted lift
fresh soil turns under foot
tread and gait escalate
pocked path reverberates
my insistence to avoid puncturing
Deceleration
Halted earthen assault
I ****** with machination the aerial apparatus
prior to complete stagnation
Decrepit deceit eschewed
Again – I run –
taut paper snap
sheet lift
weightless message intones
in knotted vertebrae, and closed palm
my chest lifts in unison
diaphragmatic sigh punched hollow
rhapsodic finesse
privy to atmospheric secret
my hand translates the ethereal
smooth fluttering undulations
oscillating tugs, dives, and slay
Calligraphic flourishes echo the linguistic menagerie
Byzantine illustrations
Pellucid canvas drunk with dye
Evinced in muddled thought
The ink bleeds down the twine
indigo echoes of entombed vein 'neath flesh
Translucent pulse haunts taut string
furling arc – tensed tissue
acrobatic hydrofoil
tugs – glides – taunts
Ostensible horror conveyed in clenched palm
The ether curtly responds
Swift redirect
Sliced palm
Tethered scream evocation
cochineal deluge concedes
Deep purple liquid clings
Congealing - between sodden twine and palm
Whispering currents furl saturated line
into fresh groove, disturbing the clot
The wound bucks as flotsam
Relentless onslaught
I yield -
I release you
Your ethereal message tattooed into my palm
Some things were ne'er meant to be restrained
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC