The clock ticks away
the silence pounds you
it's not the peaceful quiet of life
one would wish for
it's the hostile silence
that makes your heart hammer
one that pushes you to speak
but holds back your voice in your throat.
It makes you wallow in memories
memories of things gone wrong
memories of having been wronged
it compells you to reminisce
all your regrets in life.
It instills fear in you
fear of people, of being cheated
fear of being different, of not being accepted
the fear of becoming a castaway.
It teaches you
teaches you not to trust people
teaches you
to keep your secrets locked away
in a distant, dark chamber of your heart
teaches you
to keep your feelings bottled up inside you.
Before you know it
it turns you into a paranoid misanthrope
it's cruel, it knows no love
it knows no friendship
it eats you from within
it destroys you.
This does not dawn upon you
soon enough
by the time you have realised it
it has already done its job
hardly have you got any time left
to set things right
you want to say
you need to say
things you should have said long ago
all the love not spoken of
yearns to be expressed now
you cling onto each moment
time does not pity you
it pays no heed to your pleas
each second slips by
like water in cupped hands
like the sand in an hourglass.
The silence still keeps pounding you
the clock still keeps ticking away.

once, there were two fish, because i needed them to be happy. but because of their happiness i had to make a change, for happiness cannot last forever. perhaps her little child is lost. it is a boy child maybe. she loves him, whomever he is. i love him too and i dont even know who he is or why i have just now accidentally made him. the mother fish swims through the underworld of the sea searching for the fish baby. maybe she will find him or maybe she never will, she has no way of knowing just like no one will ever read these words. it is ok though, because i have written them. maybe. the mother keeps the story going because she misses her lost little fish. there is an anenome, maybe. no, my mistake, it seems there was not. in a forest of kelp waved some fins that reminded the mother fish of her lonely boy: these treasures are important in the cold depths of the sea. maybe a memory is more important than the flesh, she thinks. she is lonely. once there was happiness. the memory of happiness floats aimless in the sea like her. she has made poor choices in her lonely life but it is important to endure these mistakes, for they showed the poor fish mother (not me) who she really was. i only wrote some words distract myself but now it has become an ocean and fish and the fish are sad though i wanted them to be happy. it is difficult being a fish. and then the fish think 'why am i sad,' and that ‘why’ causes even greater grief and that goes on forever, like the ocean. it is good that i am writing about something big enough to be written about. there i go again making poor choices: this story is supposed to be about the poor little mother fish but i have made a big mess of things by talking about my own problems, so let's not get more distracted here. that is the kind of mistake i will have to live with. 'find my fish,' she says now to someone or to me, so let us all return to that. i would not want to be a mother without her fish. she is mad at me because she thinks i have hidden her fish. i am sorry, i did not mean to hide your fish, but you looked so unhappy being happy and i love you. distractions are the nature of the ocean, any thing can shift at a moment’s notice which makes it difficult to find things that may or may not be lost. there was always a small son at the mother's breast, because love is in the heart. but the mother fish swims on right past her own heart for now, because that should remain the last place she looks. the son must be somewhere. the ocean is vast but every sorrow must somehow come to an end. where can her poor fish be, for he is lost (as i would be) and lonely (as i am). the sea hides her dangers with her beauties so that any might meet a beautiful end if they wish. the mother’s madness might drive her to a beautiful end. she thinks i am not helping her fish, and she thinks i have forgotten her. i’ve discovered that it’s not easy making fish who love each other. there is a so much ocean to traverse. you know what the ocean is like. maybe you are even there now. are you now breathing air or water, or had you forgotten? see how easy it is to become lost? did the mother fish have a son? is there meaning in the search for him, or only when he is found? will i just pick and choose my letters until i am dead? here in the ocean i accidently made i have tried to stay honest, and maintain an honest ocean. the mother is the ocean, and she is searching for herself. is something like that considered an important detail? you might ask me ‘will she find herself?’ and i might reply ‘will you?’ it seems i couldn’t control the flood and now we’re surrounded by these waves that are every question, every answer. when will i be you? when will the fish be found? the mother needs some hope if she is to continue her journey. another memory, maybe, compells her behind a blooming reef. but the memory of her son was not her son. she has so many memories, is one of them her son? has she even lost something, or is she wandering these lonely depths insane? are these words i wrote a shipwreck under which she looms? she knows she had a son, for she knows she has something missing, just as i do. maybe the mother will find her thing, and maybe i will too. the thing is temporary but the maybe is forever and gradually permeates so fully that it is no longer possible to perceive. you are the child of my dreams, if ever you live to read this shallow tidepool. if it has helped you i will be happy, or try. the mother should find her fish, i think. that would make me happy. i have not forgotten that once, long before memory, the mother and her son were one. you and i are one, if you even exist. the ocean is wide to search so at least the mother is keeping busy, but when she has explored it all where else can she look? what else can she try that she has not tried? perhaps she found the answer once and had not recognized it. maybe she will try everything again. or maybe i have lost my way and she has not. she understands her task; what do i know? i only made them. you saw how easy it was. should i never have made them? would they be happier unmade? ‘maybe some fish are happier somewhere, than this lost mother.’ my sister said that and i like to think she is right: far away there are happy fish. i like to think that where they are the notion of hardship is laughable. some of these things that i am making happen to you are not even happening, that is why this is so hard to read, but such are the tribulations of being at the mercy of the tide. it helps me to be a mother fish searching for her fish because i am searching for something to search for. have i found it? curse you neptune for being so perilous! jk though because we are friends. i feel bad when i procrastinate, as if i am keeping the mother from her son. i hope she finds him. am i even able to help her? if i were to say '****, here is your son,' would she be happy? if i prolong her misery, perhaps i can prolong her joy. it's the fricton she craves, i think, for that is what i crave. would it be terrible if i got carried away by my own universe? would the fish find happiness if existence did not exist? i could be evil and take it all away if they would enjoy that nonexistence. i nearly typed their destruction just now, but deleted because the mother fish might have liked it less. would she be happy if i finish this story, or is she happier now with something to search for? when i began i did not know the depths to which my fish might suffer. i am sorry i am not working to find your fish. maybe she thinks i have found him already and i am hiding him from her. maybe she thinks i am unable, even, to complete the simple task of returning her beloved son. just because she went and lost him it is as if i have stolen him from her. her confusion is as wide as the ocean. i’ll trade ‘should the mother find her son’ for a better riddle: should i care if she does? because i do, if only because by making those fish i doomed them to unhappiness. but does the mother care how to spell unhappiness? will extra letters help her understand my meaning? i think i’ll allow her son to be discovered somewhere foolish where she should sooner have thought to look, because if i were to withhold my mother’s son from her she might hate me, i imagine, as i too might hate my author from the reverse position.

Everything has a beginning,
And that beginning always has an ending.
In the middle is the story,
And somewhere in that story is you.

You are lost from the moment you see the words.
How it amazes you,
And how it grasp you in.

For the moment you are lost,
You are in a different world,
A world that none are real,
Only you.

How wondrous it is to be somewhere else,
Somewhere you have never been before,
Somewhere you can never go to,
But here you are.

The thrills and suspense,
Compells you,
Not giving you up,
Not until you've had enough.

The time that passes by,
Seems shorter than a minute.
Taking deep breaths to remind you where you are,
Nothing feels real,
Nothing was real,
In that moment you know,
You are in another world.

nightwatch
moon shadows
toss
moon tides
turn
what time is it
nightwatch
flip the pillow
tuck it here
tuck it there
nightwatch
creep quietly to the couch
to read until
night sounds conjur
a mystery . . .
images fade
welcome the dream
dogs barks
why do we have dogs
check the nightwatch
daybreak
sigh
what compells the day so quickly
when there has only been a
nightwatch

"I've seen you trace the straight lines on your wrists,

There's such precision; it makes me sick.

To waste such elegant canvas',

With the use of ****** lines...

It doesn't make sense.

How?        Why?

What compells you, sweetheart,

To do such a thing?

There was never any beauty

Behind geometrical lines."

You've been through the night before
These eyes that long to hold
Watch as a summer breeze brings the dusk
A sun is setting
Somethings lost
It will be the night once more
These eyes that saw a light
Watch as a witching hour compells the malevolent spirit
Creatures roaming hills
And living ghosts

I lift you up so high
You were the morning
The sun in the sky
The sun has to fall
And even my hands can't hold you back from the night

But as a veil falls over the world
And a shroud falls over your eyes
I'll still shine a distant star
I'll be there in the dark

She [Bee] said to me:
but i want to know more...you lift my madness, to a completely different level.
you're the turn... THE turn, of a double ended sword!
you dont make sense, and i lose sense!
if you cease to be clear, you're taking words away from me...
you unrest me...

I [A.r.]replied:
But I am the curb, where the world pauses for safe passage... And it passes. That is all I am as all I know regresses, and I make sense still.
To the world, and myself, I made sense, still, and motionless, while the universe twirls around me for-to this whirlpool-like endlessness in where I am. And the world passes.
Death lingers, the memories too -perhaps... and the sense of necessity which compells that I remain in this unfamiliarity, where I stand -still, midst the passions and dispassions of our kind all the same, more or less confined in our daily desperation.
And we would remain. It is this sense of overlapse that by the end of the day, I find that the world is cruel, and that in truth I want no part in it. And I do what I did in school -for some time, compelled: I learn, cope, and burn to the ashes out of which I'd wake to the visiting beams of distanced hope... Hope that I and my fellow friend should come forth free! Only realise that I have yet another day to survive.
So passing the bend I'd glimpse at my aging on the turn of the sword you speak of, and I know nothing about or of myself this day. Nor of this beauty that pauses next to our safe crossing, or of the young dreamer whose vision -like mine, is reformed one day by the other.
And I insist to keep this distance, knowing that once these necessities for modern day survival become one's priorities, they consume you, and assume you. So I watch over myself become this silent street pole to resume my "functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me".
And I know the truth behind the tragedy... my pole-ness I'm struck put for the safeguard of my passions that I accumulate and savour for my implosion. And they pass, like everything else, but we remain where we are -assuming there is someone pole-still too along the sword-line, or perhaps tipping it, with the same still fury that is fixated for this great urban vertigo.
And we'd pace, and pace, and keep still to make sure we'd find ourselves on the round, to remind ourselves of our withering dreams, and our collective sense of existence as human which is promised to ultimately expand unto the oneness of our ever varying uniqueness. Not as visitors, not as observers, but as citizens -women and men, of this lasting defloration of our simulated existence; the world. Free.
Death is -and in order too, an elaboration unto the unknown; and while we remain, decaying and rusting inside out, we ind ourselves neither dead nor free. I feel and know of the agony of fellow oppressed men. And I know of the pains and of abandonment. And I know too that the world will on spin with or without us. Our precious autobiographies becomes a mutilation along of their own becoming. And I pitty them.
But I pass myself poled into the concrete grasp of the ever benign to remind myself of my friends' struggles and agonies, that for them, I will stand still, and walk along to fortify my stillness, and for mine own, fearing that if I step out of the reach towards me I will be crushed into the very pavement were I stood.
So, I'm pinned motionful, neither myself or another, but both, and none. A world passes processed, observed, and I along with it, while  the other remainders I knew or knew of would fade into utter darkness or oblivion... But I'm still, being; amongst those who pass and those who pass on.
And I'm enraged, inblazed by life devaluating day by day, and I pray, for this frey of madness to regress, but alas it doesn't.
And I'm sad. All from point distance from my passing, looking at brassing steelpole monuments, decaying slowly. Is that sane enough for your fancy?

A.r. Bazian (Ft. Bianca H.)
*Oct 30th, 2013

Have you ever had one of those Astral Weeks?
Asks the man with sunshine in his eyes,
It was all looking a little bleak
Before finding another one of those highs
Let it flow, let it go? Let us listen to the slow river speak:

-“There has not been for a long time a spring
as beautiful as this one; the grass, just before mowing,
is thick and wet with dew. At night bird cries come up from the edge of the marsh, a crimson shoal lies in the east till the morning hours.”

Flowing through those undercurrents:
Under a sky filled with towering cumulonimbus,
The chill of a long, long night always nipping, now slipping
Maybe, it is a simple reminder,
To go out and find her,
As I long just to hold her tight.

And the slow river speaks:

“The gates of the earth torn open, the key
to the earth revealed. A star is greeting the day.”

Awaken Trickster, bring on the nefarious and teach
us to laugh gregarious-
ly at the shames we allow others to install
deep in our sub
ordinates, can’t figure out these coordinates. Where
are those landmarks that will guide me back.
Earth dividing, plates colliding. The thrombosis
compells me to dive yet a little deeper. More pressure, I hope,
will let me see a little clearer. And mitosis: the warrior is there
and always has been: my impeccable self. Maybe I am
a little closer to filling this vessel

And the train whistle blows

Do not let it pull you under
these currents, that thunder, or maybe don’t fight it
alight it
let your soul and spirit and fly

Have you ever had one of those astral weeks?
I ask as I look at the sunshine in my eyes, I think
it was all looking a little bleak
before finding another one of those highs

Let it flow, let it go, let the slow river speak:

-“Three times must the wheel of blindness
turn, before I look without fear at the power
sleeping in my own hand, and recognize spring,
the sky, the seas, and the dark, massed land.”

Welcome to my castle
as we flow out of the mystic

Tonight, I search for the shadow of a past unknown to me.
In it's depths I see what you confessed, once, some time ago.

Do you remember what had been said
under the moon's heavy eye, whose light was reflected in the furious waves of the winter sea?
That night you had smoked, and sighed, and read to me what you wrote
in the pages of my small notebook.

From the pages spilled forth confessions and tales of your first love.
A love whose hold I could still feel in your nervous voice.

In your eyes, I saw an expression of muted sorrow for that past,
Sorrow lingering, the failure of a first love,
And a lachrymose melancholy for things, which I could only grasp from the little
which you wrote and gave away.

I watched helplessly as you tore open your heart to display to me what troubles you still.
It now tears my heart.
It was hard to take in.

...

Tonight, I see the past through a window
Which I came across, still open
Through it I see a similar scene.
Close to the sea, on a rocky beach
Two figures sit, embracing each other
with a naive love, burning still with childish innocence.
The boy who's eyes are blinded by her beauty,
Whose heart is taken by her mind,
Declares his love in words and loving gestures.
Confessions so hot in nature that they burn the eyes of a distanced observer.
It is me.

...

Tonight, my thoughts wander,
down visions of dark alleyways and corridors I was never in
Seeing the happiest life he has ever known, in the arms of a girl which aren't mine.
He loved her, he did
With all his heart.
And I love him.

I love him, I really do, and I cannot contain myself.
Words in uncovered love letters are burned into my mind and
tear my heart still.
Kisses captured in photographs of white and grey take on a green colour in my heart.

O sickening love, why must I see these things? What morbid force compells me to torture myself with such thoughts?
Was it for this Pandora opened her box?

No stranger to temptation
Yet i find myself here -
This self destruction
Compells me beyond fear

Life's trappings cannot hold -
The fears of mortal souls,
Forced forward to an end
One will never suspend

So forth i will stride
Into paths indeterminate -
No longer denied
I will advance with morals forfeit

Here I am on a raft
I'm paddling quite hard
The rushing waters push me back
The wind is on my side
Will i ever reach the mountain
Where this stream has sprung
Or will i be cast back down
To endlessly float in the towering waves
Of the deep blue ocean.

I was once in the ocean
Floating aimlessly
I once was lost in despair
With tears that will never be seen

For the ocean is all water
No one can tell the difference
They just see a big blue mass
No one sensed my distress

But some how through it all
I managed to make it out
Now I'm paddling up river
To the mountain of doubt

My raft is brown
Its made if wood
The oars are wooden too
The river is my enemy
Pushing me away
The wind is my friend
But compells me to sway

I'm soar, I'm hurt
My muscles no longer move
But then ahead, i see the mountain
Where the spring has sprung
And so I push forward
I give the oars a shove

But as I reach the mountain base
It becomes an uphill row
The raging waters are too much for me
I guess I'll forever be below

Below the mountain
Below the goal
I'll never be enough

So back to the ocean I now float
For I can't make it to the top

The top was a place filled with joy
With good water to drink
And friends to be with

But I can't make it, I am all alone
Forever to wander the abyss

Fall into the water
A puddle, a mile to go
Sinking ever faster
Time passing slow
A sea of eccentricity
Of Uncertainty

Apprehension eased
Approaching bottom
The surface to a world forgotten
A stone staircase compells you
Descend

Every floor, a door to what could be
What could have been
Every possibility
Looking out on a relationship that never was
The dog you never had
The skill you never learned
Or an unforseen fad
Homeless
A billionaire
Hopeless
Dispear
A family
Alone
An artist
An accountant
A scientist
Or a poet

Ascend
Swim
Break the surface
Wake up