Bed of sandcrystal,
warm, in north stream,
the demi-goddess,
Blue Crystalline.

paling boys,
in her eddies,
The Courtesan,
submerging pennies.

Breathless blue hair,
water up to thighs,
fine powder skin,
makes pins of eyes.

Such bliss,
such cold clime,
no coat,
in winter time.

hushes you on,
to sandy shoal,
her island,
cindering blue coal.

river bed turns brown,
swim out of fear,
gurgling lows of pain,
but returns her chandelier

water level caresses,
down to knees,
reaching nympth,
hot bath in winter breeze.

corsette of diamonds,
sparkles in night air,
middle of river--
isolation--her lair.

unalone now, warm,
your arms she is wrapt,
go to kiss her,
only gives neck and back.

try to turn her chin
to give her a kiss,
but snowflakes,
melt with fingertips.

island diminishing,
grip her tight,
nymph in arms,
sliver of moon-light.

dissolving island,
is blue hour-glass,
cold forest speaks,
"son come back"

you huddle to the,
last cinder that's dry,
she is reflection now,
inviting you inside.


a look back to forest,
is a look up as if--
you were descending,
fathoms to an ice cold abyss.

sky and forest are gone,
veil and hearse have met,
family frames twinkle,
down to you in her depth.

such bliss,
in such cold clime,
no coat,
in winter time.

Archeangel, cindering pheonix
impartial to idols, diguises
want burning want

point at difference,
crisis proxy
of accumulation

swim out to sea,
swim out to sea

fractured, vacant
shooting ghosts in the dark

He wasn't always this way
A life  of smoke and ash.
He's A burned house
Only ash remains.


" He wasn't always this way"
I declare.
Not knowing his past.
But knowing no one starts like ashes.

No one starts like the ruins of his old home
Which was burned down
While his mother was still inside
No one starts like his mother ended.

He wasn't always this way.
Now he lives in ashes.
He lives for smolder. Lives for smoke.
Lives for ashes.

With every cigarette he has
Every drug he sells.
He lives in smoke.
Smoke and cinder.
His teenage lungs up in smoke.
His brain fiery addicted.

He said he didn't care.
A life in smoke.
A young life... tossed before the flames
Consumed

They lick up his soul
Relieved
He is.

Cindering, smoking
Smoldering.

Burned.


Cauterize the wound.
Obtain life again from the ashes
That were the death of you and your mother.
Like a Phoenix be reborn from the rubble
Smoldering and roaring
You are a beautiful flame.

Obtain beautiful flame.
Not searing flame
So I then I won't have to say
He wasn't always this way.

I have been in the land of the dead,
Green valley of infertility, with no end in sight
Where end the flights of steps, reigns eternal night.

But a night it is unlike any on the earth
For a suffused light pervades the horizon for hopes to birth
That on this land though echoes, the wailings of the dead,
Yet can herald a new beginning from life’s leftover thread!
I stood on a high wall and as far as my eyes could see
Walls stretched beyond farthest limits of vision’s boundary
Between them lay bottomless wells glowing with red hot coals
In those abyss moved burning flesh cindering tortured souls!
As I flew over those pits of doom saw many a flaming hand
Waving up in one last bid to be carried away from this land
I couldn’t help them nor save them from their tormentor
I had come here in my dream, just as a passing visitor!
Scared by the hellish sights, I thought it wouldn’t be wise
To foray afar, see more of it, but from dream I must rise
As I turned to leave, in those pits I saw, blue ocean and the sky
Where fleshes burn every moment, desires rot and die!

Striping flames
Burning names
Cindered letters
Breaking fetters
A novel of ashen lies
Slowly dies

Sifting through the mangled mundaneness
Of routine and pitiful patterns,
I sought to retain only a divine diversion
To mark the end of a day
Marred by the devoid bleakness of black and white.

In a silent, sun-lit room,
Canvasses monitored the seismic activity
Of boiling multi-colour hot springs of paint
Neatly circled across a white rectangular mountain plain,
Inviting the weary of foot and heart to bathe in its magic mud.

Blue button shirts now rapidly rent
And grey shorts peeled with impatience,
Leaping, I laughed,
Splashing into the mirth of self-expression’s liberty,
Cindering all thoughts of menials awaiting me at the mountain’s foot.

No towel in sight –
Only a pan of brackish water and a protruded paintbrush.
Clenched with a dripping crimson hand, the brush met the canvas
Like a tangoist, the paint nearly scalding the board.
Hopping from pool to pool, tango practice concluded with the abstract.