my love
thy hair is one kingdom
  the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers

thy head is a quick forest
  filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
  upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring

thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
  of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song

my love
thy head is a casket
  of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
  innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
  with victory and with trumpets

thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness

thy lips are satraps in scarlet
  in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
  which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
  of silver

in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes

  thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense

I hate the dripping dark hollow behind the little wood;
Its tips a cursed maroon with a blood-red heath.
I think I praised and lamented it too soon;
Before seeing its scent; I saw already its stray mystical death.

My crown is torn, outraged by florid winds and scorn;
Like a tangled old roots of the windblown thorn;
I shall feel scanty by my own poetry,
And throw it about, duly, like a static little joke.

I shall let my heart grow dull and illiterate;
I shall not taste joy, no more, in any clear--flowery fate.
I shall seek everything bitter, and not sweet;
Even not pure as the honey of a bee; for it shall be plain.

I shall curve and bend any straightforward light;
I shall harass it, and blind it--as if my ghost’s dead soul is very not here.
Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Perhaps she is astray in my memory still, and not by my side.

I feel relieved so soon as glanced at her beside me;
She owns still that full lips like a perniciously tasty moon;
She is adorable like the flower of heaven itself;
She strikes me again when away, and tosses me about when near.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
Tame me again with thy rain of laugh;
Saint me once more like a fresh young bird;
Come to me now, and return my unheeded love.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
And kissing her forehead takes me back to that day;
A day of myths, a day of agile swans and storms;
An ornate time of hatred; a whirl of bitter fate; a dust of sorrow.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
And again I was alive in this tale, with a burning heart;
On one eve of tears, a mischief, and a wan poetry;
I caught about shadows in which there was no soul of Maud.

I could only see the stones, lying ghastly about the fireplace;
Ah, Maud, are you but still haunting those whimsical moors?
Their strange murmurs but I cannot hear;
But still they consume me, ah, I am scared;
I wish they would be gone soon, I wish you were but here.

These storms were amusing but peculiar;
They are bizarre, but intelligent and stellar;
And calling thy name out but breathes into me strength;
Ah, but should I be here, and bear away thy image alone?

Ah, and thou wert in but nymphic and lilac dream;
And my heart was still not massaged by the tender storm;
For it meant thee, and hungered but for thee only;
And in the midst of love had it longed, and yearned for thee.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Her with her childish eyes and rounded head of bronze,
With her rapturous steps and wild glittering aroma,
With her atrocious jokes, and a wintry secret touch?

But still she was not anywhere about;
She dissolved like one romantic bough of soda;
And within a rough joke, she would be but gone;
And now the storm returned, but I was wholly on my own.  

Ah, and now the striking storm is mounting the earth;
Should I write alone and chill myself by the green hearth?
For I hath nothing to console and lengthen my parched logs;
I shall wait outside and drift about yon wintry bog.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud;
Maud with her heart-shaped face and bare voice aloud;
A voice that soaked my senses and craving throat;
Maud but teased me and left me to that joke.

Where is but Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud;
Maud, the goth princess within my ancient poetry;
Who but remained symmetrical and biblical in her vain torments;
Who but stayed sturdy and silent; amidst her anger, and vain fellows’ arguments.

Listen to me. I am but full of hatred.
I am neither a gentleman nor a well-bred;
I, who is just a son of an infamous parson;
A malleable son; with a bleak aura of a putrid spring.

I, one who crafted ingenious jokes;
But interminable as they always are;
I made Maud sit still as I held my woodwork;
While she perched herself on yon bench, gazing at dispersed starry stars.

Maud the shadow in my pale mirror;
At times she ceased at morns, but retreated at night;
On her brother’s sight she fled in horror;
But on mine her smile turned me bright.

Maud was idle, sparkling, vibrant, and tedious;
Her heart was free and not marred by stupor.
She was the sun on my very bright days;
She made me startled; she always left me curious.

Maud the green of the farm, the red of the moon;
Without her everything would spring not and remain odious;
Everything would be bleak and stayed tedious;
Ah, but still I could not own her, though I was her saviour.

I was a farmer and perhaps still am;
Perhaps that’s why her mother ditched me with shame.
Maud said she had not places like home;
Her house was the mere shallow--and gratuitous throne.

Maud came often down and agitated;
Her mood shadowy, she cried and cried too aggravated;
I caressed her back, and placed my palms on her white knees;
She told me stories whenever no-one else would see.

She wanted not to mount the throne;
She giggled often, at our country escapade;
She loved my cottage, she sweetened my thin grass;
Even those apple trees had then her eyes, which sprayed tough, lonely seas of green.

Maud took to hymn and dear children’s little songs;
She was popular always among the talkative throngs.
She would love to dance and wiggle and turn around;
While village pupils gathered to sing a noble sound.

Ah, but when the mirthless prince arrived;
With white horses and swords of a knight;
Maud was swallowed every morning, all through day and night;
Maud was no more seen by my side.

I thought I was not alive, for dreams were unreal;
If they had been, then they I’d have want’d to ****;
But seeing Maud not gave me fretful chills;
I often woke up tensely, within a midnight’s shrills.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Maud my bumblebee and my delicate little honey.
I kept waiting for her behind the rustic brook;
I fetched my net and fished by my old nook.

Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
My eyes were still and my chest could no more speak.
I wearily fancied she had been kidnapped faraway;
She would be jailed in a sore realm, and would no more be back here.

Ah, for had she been lost, then I had lost my ultimate pearl;
For there would no more be magic, there would be no more of her;
No-one would so restore my original spring;
Perhaps there would be no spring at all, and I would suffer in summer.

And I would lose anyway--my lyrical, elusive demon;
For Maud had always been elusive herself.
She wore that evil smile and thin laugh;
As I told her tales of fairies that she loved.

As I am fond of magical poetry and dramas;
Maud too used to read them with genuine personas.
She was my epic fanatical little devil;
She liked tropical cold and a faithful Mephistopheles.

I should be Faust, as she once said;
For had I fair hair, yet a bald head;
She said like Faust, I was cleverly amusing;
But to me, like Mephistopheles--she was unusually entertaining.

She danced before me a beautiful ballet;
She was young and keen to levitate as a ballerina;
She crafted me limericks and such fair lines of sonnets;
She made earth my heaven, and my melodies a twin cantata.

Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
I need my butterfly amongst this wheezy curdling cold.
I need my lover to soothe my chained hysteria;
I need to get out of here, and feed my love with her charms.

Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud, is not she here?
I was then screaming in my solitude, could she but not hear?
I could speak not, no more--sore and wounded by this snowstorm;
I crept sick and weak like a dumb old worm.

She was not even heard of upstairs;
While I was dying here as a roaring beetle.
I hath almost lost all my creative flair;
I felt tormented and neglected and nearly feeble.

Ah, but a story like this is not such a fable;
So at that time I did shun sadness and seek a warm ending;
But indeed, to escape fate the poor were perhaps not able;
And the farmer’s son shall never be a king.

And ‘twas the nobles’ right to be idyllic;
To be deemed far then fairly righteous.
My charms were trivial, and so was then my wit;
My prayers were too parted and despaired; no matter how rigorous.

I kept my work along the countryside;
I toiled all night and behind fierce daylight.
I hoped Maud would see me back one day;
But what I found was to my dismay!

Ah, Maud, for she was now engaged;
To that pathetic creature the cursed morn brought about;
And parties arranged, voices too raised;
The union was now what people had in thought.

Onto my shoulders my head kept sinking;
I killed myself nearly, for my irksome defeat in this rivalry;
A rivalry that failed to transgress vital destiny;
A rivalry I could not even bear to think.

But again, this love had always been everything;
And thus Maud’s union would equal my death;
One night I crept out of my bed;
I had in hand a keychain and a net.

The soldier was infused by sound sleep;
And into Maud’s grand chamber I crept;
Everything was pink and quite neatly kept;
But woke I her not--as I heard her breast breath slowly.

She was tremendous still--in beauty;
Maud in her splendour; so young and free.
Ah, she was free but not free, I fathomed;
I looked at her over and over again.

I looked at her violet bed and comfort net;
Ah, my Maud too ****** and temptingly red.
She was too abundant in her young and chaste soul;
Ah, I could not imagine how she would soon be one else’s.

Long did I stand; ‘till morning streamed back again;
Still I remained unmoved; I stared at my darling in vain.
I jumped startled as the door opened;
And showed me the horror of the Queen!

‘Come, ye’ fool’, she voicelessly instructed;
Her face emotionless as these words emanated;
‘And embrace thy very fate’, to the handcuffs me she directed;
‘For daring look into my dame’s immaculately flawless chamber’.

She pointed thereof--a black gun at my chest;
It would soon burst out and tear my vest;
And even fly me straight to death;
So drifted I, without further haste nor breath.

Those poor soldiers imprisoned me there;
A cellar room at the top of filthy stairs;
I stayed awake only for grief and tears;
And most of the time I laid about sleepless and stared.

I grew skinless as my bones squinted;
And laughed at me with their sordid might;
Flies were about me, bending onto my rotten pies;
And slices of meat left out by sniggering guards.

I hit my head on witnessing Maud’s cold marriage;
‘Twas on a Saturday on the castle’s rain-wetted field.
I heaved myself onto the windowsill and saw;
How the couples were blessed and sent thereby back.

I could not see Maud’s face and fleshy cheeks;
But didst I feel her discarded tears;
Marred and defiled her lovely fits;
Though just those innate, and not out there.

I struck the lifeless paint with my bare palms;
Now the walls were tainted; they smelled like my blood.
Time passed and desire for Maud was never killed;
I’th missed her every day, since then, and perhaps always will.

But my love for Maud was never probable;
I was decent, honest, but indeed not preferable;
I was not even preferable by fate, as thou might see;
Fate who is neither truthful; nor frankly urges us to lie.

I often laid hopeless by the moonbeam;
Until night came and eyesight grew more and more vulnerable.
I waited ‘till it was dark and left to day no more gleam;
Then took my journal of Maud’s jests and read her affable poems.

I turned around--and would disgrace my bed still;
I was plain starved but had no desire to be properly fed;
Of a dream of death I grew instantly pertinacious;
And of my future tomb I grew fonder--and yet rapidly curious.

Ah, but my sweet Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
And deliriously she somehow became pregnant;
But remorse said she kept the souls of two;
And fatefully could not make them both perfect!

I indeed plain prayed for Maud’s survival;
I cared not whose sons they might be;
Ah, but the twins were still sinning babies--as I comprehended,
For they were formed not from cells of mine!

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud,
And during those last days she was cautiously ill;
And a drive of cholera had again grown widespread;
But she was not maddened; by it she was not marred.

She was sickened by temper still;
And the prince found dead, she grew more terrifyingly ill;
She had a pure heart, so she flourished not over the beast’s death;
Nonetheless, he remained the father of yon sickly offspring.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud,
I was duly growing perfectly anxious;
She was to give birth--ah, to those little ignoramuses;
And within a little chord in one or days of two--she would do so.

But without a father to care for her notorious sons;
And even I was locked away, and could not do so;
I was terrified, I was horribly undignified;
To learn this stern reality we were so sullenly faced with!

Ah, not now! I could not too believe my ears!
Maud and her children were dead--they’d been stillborn;
Before they left Maud alone to receive her fate;
Her locksmith would not come; he had another due in a nameless town.

By the time he arrived my darling had gone;
Perhaps she was now shimmering in heaven;
Enchanting her children with her enormous spells;
Narrating stories no plain human could ever tell.

Even in heaven my love would perhaps be famous;
Her tenderness would make other angels jealous;
And angered by envy, they would gather and complain to God;
How an earthly soul could be more vivacious than their heavenly were.

Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud;
Maud and her chain of songs that were never to be broken;
Maud and her familiarity with gardens and blue lilies;
Maud and her immaculate pets of birds that still sweetly sing.

Ah, but where is my darling, my darling, my darling;
My eternal ocean, my hustling flowerbed, my immortal;
My poem, my enchanting lyric, my wedding ring;
My novelty, my merited charm, my eternal.

And now she was longing for her grave, as I’d been told;
For I’d been told by the dimmed torches and fuss and mirthless air outside;
By the endless wandering and the prince’s wails and wordless screams.
Ah, my Maud had now migrated from her life--but attained her freedom!

And he was thus unworthy of being in her heaven;
Her heaven where there would be me, her true love;
And thus he would be glad to greet his fires of hell;
He would marry an evil angel there--and make himself again full.

But I’d be with Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud;
I’d be again with my gem, indefatigable little darling;
Whose voice was unsure, whose poems were never known;
But ‘twas enough that they’d been known to me, her secret--ye’ dearest lover.

So took I, that spinning penchant and a circle of strings;
The edges I matched to the chains on my ceilings.
I braced myself for my very own fiery death;
But again, I’d be with Maud and death would no more, aye, be sad.

Thus the above poem was done by my spirit;
But with the same token and awe of genuineness and wit;
I feel tired--I shall close my eyes, and thus enjoy my heaven now;
For my wife and starlings are all waiting for me to-morrow.

It is now nighttime in heaven;
And there is indeed, no place on earth lovelier;
I gaze into my wife with a loving madness;
Her cheeks sweeter still, than any proudest swiftness.

I shall take my vow of marriage tomorrow;
My proud wife sitting in yon angelic chair by my side.
I shall cradle, then, those white little nuptial fairies;
They are Maud’s children’s, but lithe and gracious and bow to me in chaste mercies.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is but all mine now;
I am still surprised now, as sitting by this heaven riverside.
One even grander than the one I’d had beside the lake;
Which I often farmed when I had needs to bake.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is a ghost but as ever lively;
We are both dead but she boldly remaineth lovely;
I know she is worthier than serene jewels or mundane affairs;
And still she is worthier all the same, than any other terrific palace--or heir.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, and this war is but all over now;
Thus let us dream dead of the exciting tomorrow.
We shall see life and our children grow;
We shall witness delight--and miracles none ever knows.

O trees of life, oh, what when winter comes?
We are not of one mind. Are not like birds
in unison migrating. And overtaken,
overdue, we ****** ourselves into the wind
and fall to earth into indifferent ponds.
Blossoming and withering we comprehend as one.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.

But we, while wholly concentrating on one thing,
already feel the pressure of another.
Hatred is our first response. And lovers,
are they not forever invading one another's
boundaries? -although they promised space,
hunting and homeland. Then, for a sketch
drawn at a moment's impulse, a ground of contrast
is prepared, painfully, so that we may see.
For they are most exact with us. We do not know
the contours of our feelings. We only know
what shapes them from the outside.

Who has not sat, afraid, before his own heart's
curtain? It lifted and displayed the scenery
of departure. Easy to understand. The well-known
garden swaying just a little. Then came the dancer.
Not he! Enough! However lightly he pretends to move:
he is just disguised, costumed, an ordinary man
who enters through the kitchen when coming home.
I will not have these half-filled human masks;
better the puppet. It at least is full.
I will endure this well-stuffed doll, the wire,
the face that is nothing but appearance. Here out front
I wait. Even if the lights go down and I am told:
"There's nothing more to come," -even if
the grayish drafts of emptiness come drifting down
from the deserted stage -even if not one
of my now silent forebears sist beside me
any longer, not a woman, not even a boy-
he with the brown and squinting eyes-:
I'll still remain. For one can always watch.

Am I not right? You, to whom life would taste
so bitter, Father, after you - for my sake -
slipped of mine, that first muddy infusion
of my necessity. You kept on tasting, Father,
as I kept on growing, troubled by the aftertaste
of my so strange a future as you kept searching
my unfocused gaze -you who, so often since
you died, have been afraid for my well-being,
within my deepest hope, relinquishing that calmness,
the realms of equanimity such as the dead possess
for my so small fate -Am I not right?

And you, my parents, am I not right? You who loved me
for that small beginning of my love for you
from which I always shyly turned away, because
the distance in your features grew, changed,
even while I loved it, into cosmic space
where you no longer were...: and when I feel
inclined to wait before the puppet stage, no,
rather to stare at is so intensely that in the end
to counter-balance my searching gaze, an angel
has to come as an actor, and begin manipulating
the lifeless bodies of the puppets to perform.
Angel and puppet! Now at last there is a play!
Then what we seperate can come together by our
very presence. And only then the entire cycle
of our own life-seasons is revealed and set in motion.
Above, beyond us, the angel plays. Look:
must not the dying notice how unreal, how full
of pretense is all that we accomplish here, where
nothing is to be itself. O hours of childhood,
when behind each shape more that the past lay hidden,
when that which lay before us was not the future.

We grew, of course, and sometimes were impatient
in growing up, half for the sake of pleasing those
with nothing left but their own grown-upness.
Yet, when alone, we entertained ourselves
with what alone endures, we would stand there
in the infinite space that spans the world and toys,
upon a place, which from the first beginnniing
had been prepared to serve a pure event.

Who shows a child just as it stands? Who places him
within his constellation, with the measuring-rod
of distance in his hand. Who makes his death
from gray bread that grows hard, -or leaves
it there inside his rounded mouth, jagged as the core
of a sweet apple?.......The minds of murderers
are easily comprehended. But this: to contain death,
the whole of death, even before life has begun,
to hold it all so gently within oneself,
and not be angry: that is indescribable.
___


Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming

This is a poem I must write,
and hopefully not recite
I feel like an old, twisted,
used dish towel thrown across a kitchen sink
my insides opened wide, and the color of pink
pushed aside like nothing at all
just hanging there waiting to fall
I can’t even comprehended
what my heart must feel
this feeling inside can’t be real
there is just no answer; but when will it end?

What's your take on walking?

My body serves my soul
and tells me how to go.

My heart, affixed -- aims to show.
These ways I’ve walked in my shoes and stockings.

I've looked to heaven’s stars, to daylit clouds,
when I've stepped out, or dropped my gaze
to track the ground.

Yes, it is true—whoever passed me by
could have taken offense and supposed
I lacked my confidence.

And ofttimes, I strode out straight and true
as if toward a far mist horizon.

Un-manifest future,
even peek-a-boo,
could be comprehended? 

I should doubt it.

And if I wished to address an occasional
in-the-dumps, lost-at-sea feeling,

I'd shut my eyes, and walk backwards --
owl-like, swivel 360 my head.

Backwards blind circumspection seemed worthy my try;
Ask--Who am I?

I would story where I’d been.

In my most spontaneous of nature foot-trafficking,
in roulette walk; my spin of gun chamber click--
ant, spider, beetle, and the occasional sighing snail
had fled my shadow shoe?

As slow drift clouds in a sky game would play
with the sun to hide—creatures had sought me out,
sung their farewells?  (it was an excellent day to die)

Let me tell it, as it had happened today,
and truth says how.

My feet, they had gotten to waltz-walking.
O how my body and soul
danced a-fancy free.

Love was brimming out of me; happiness
whispered her wordless name; and
my tongue tripped nonsensical.

So if, at last, you've kept a-pace with me
in sympathetic striding, then perhaps
you would surmise:

there never could be a flat-footed me,
when I spout off with poem-talking.

Now, what’s your take on walking?

You could never see how hurtful your words really were, & you didn't understand when I felt pain.

2. We spent more nights trying to make you love yourself than we did actually loving each other.

3. I tried to trust you after developing trust issues because of someone else, & you defiled the little trust right under my nose. & ever since then I loved you selfishly because I knew in the end you didn't want to be mine.

4. I spent a long time thinking about trying to heal us instead of trying to heal myself & I never put myself first.

5. I got in a relationship with someone who had hurt their exes, assured by both them and myself that they wouldn't do it to me.

6. When I felt powerless & out of control (which I did often), I hurt myself instead of telling myself what I actually deserved.

7. I started looking for answers & for solutions towards things that were not broken.

8. I wanted control so bad because I was always fearful you would find someone whom could take you attention from me. I was right about that one though.

9. We centered our worlds around each other so much that it was lonely & rare just to be without each other.

10. You had told me that all you needed from me was for me to listen, & I had promised that that was what you would receive. But instead I started formulating solutions that you had never desired.

11. I valued myself on how much you loved me, which was a lot, but then when you stopped I wasn't worth the same anymore.

12. When I first thought I didn't want to be in this relationship, I stayed convinced things would get better. When I learned to accept you in order for us to be happy, you learned that you were happier not relying on me.

13. I sought the kind of relationship you had promised we would have before I ever knew if your words were true.

14. Being alone frightens me more than being in an unhappy relationship.

15. I had known for some time that our love was abusive with our words & feelings, but I had hoped you wouldn't see it.

16. I planted all my love & energy for a person who didn't have the same amount t plant for me.

17. All great empires must fall, & ours was the greatest of all.

18. Songs we hadn't even comprehended became 'our song' simply because they sounded good, much like how we both desired different things, but together it sounded good so it was okay.

20. You keep saying you're not worth it, but I think you're worth much more.

21. I had learned that someone else's happiness was more important than me, but you only clung to the ideal because it was right - you never lived by it.

22. The beauty you felt for my smile must have faded from your eyes with each day.

23. After we ended I tried to find comfort in someone else, but I know no one could ever love me like you could. I hope you find someone who loves you more than I could ever offer.

24. Manipulation existed in every doorway & windowsill of our love, making it difficult to flee in cause of a fire. You found a way though.

25. When I look down at these fresh cuts on my arm, one for every reason, I feel whole but empty at the same time. I'm still me, but not who I was.

26. I continue to put you first even though you'd made me last.

27. I invited you into my rib cage as a home because you had none, but you left it in shambles.

28. I numbed your pain & you enhanced my pleasure: I was like aspirin and you were ****; you reached for me when you needed me - I reached for you because I needed you. And when there was none of you to reach for left, I was left with an awful addiction I couldn't afford.

29. Feelings change but mine for you have not.

30. I have no more reasons but I want to put more down because inside I have all the reasons in the world, I'm just still trying to sort them out.

In the searing airless midsummer-
Clockwork morning rewinds
cobalt into a bleeding orange yolk dripping across
the canvas of the world.

Sky, turn the colour of dreams. Heart, turn the colour of love-
I’m posed over a skyscraper
Because I wanted to touch the stars. Because I wanted to touch you.
There’s a beauty found in the smallest spaces
Gaps in your heartbeat, getting your toothbrush mixed with mine
Honey-lemon on my tongue

So maybe you loved me, but not in a way I comprehended
I’m thinking of your lips, your eyes
and the way you said goodbye-
The word wrapped around your tongue like a prayer.
Pink bleeds into violet and it looks like the 5 a.m. Berlin skyline
might tear itself apart, like a heart bursting or a car crash.

So it’s dawn. So I’m inconsolable.
And if the angel sun sets,
then so be it.

Remain in a state of wonder
that cannot be comprehended
by those around you
Be one with the earth
as a wandering soul
wide eyed
free
and changing

Life is a writhing swirl who's information is meaningful but the information does not exist for the purpose of being comprehended so it is only taken in and interpreted as well or as usefully as the perceptive devices.
Nothing significant has a vendetta against the individual beings' happiness or success, though beings may appear as food or some other form of fulfillment to other beings. Beings will view other beings as their appetites would view any other thing. No one can exist in the view of another. Don't expect others to view you as you do. You are NOT their center, only your own.

Everybody thinks everybody else is insufferably selfish and everybody is right.

Love is interesting though. More on that after more data is collected.

A perfect Mommy, a perfect Daddy
A perfect daughter, a perfect life,
A perfect world to exist in, eclipsed by consummate sight.

She was my sun, a seraphic voice  
bathing me in warm light,
And he was my moon, watchful eyes
protecting me from the darkness of night.

Two halves of my whole heart, their blood flowing through
my spirited veins.
Two halves of my whole mind, their thoughts crashing through  
my synthetic brain.  

Perfection is their sweetest lie, proclaimed by selfish mouths uttering
vain whispers after bedtime.  
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know we can survive this."
But survival is intangible against an affliction of the soul.  
  
Imperfection is my harshest truth, comprehended by grieving eyes seeing raw memories before sleep.  
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know you can survive this."
But even a human's profound devotion can be turned away by their Creator,  
just as a pleading child can be deserted by their mother and father.  

And that is the largest betrayal of them all.  

But to remain, to endure against hate's control, against fate, would be an immediate death.  
To try and withstand their sickness and deterioration would be suicide.  

And I have realized that I do not want to die.  

Loss is my most unbearable pain, undeniably clouded by her beautiful smile and his comforting resemblance.

She used to sing her child to sleep, and now, she is singing to her one last time. At the door, he is watching and keeping them both safe.  

They will both leave and never come back, but the memories will remain. The happiness will always be there for recollection.

But for now, it is time to sleep and forget.

She caresses her child's hair and kisses her forehead lovingly, getting up and walking to join him at the doorway.  

The silhouettes of their mournful faces seem like a cryptic dream.  

"Goodnight, Gigi. We love you very much."
"Mom? Dad?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I can live without you. You can leave me. I know I can survive this."
*"We know."

A palpable discord keeps me
turning all through the night
until the late rays of Sun
shine by again
I want a dreamcatcher
Feathery-spider web-
To keep my hypnagogic rest
sacred to me
And then I can wish
him closer...
Without a separating sea
I reserved my sleep to calmer
nights where my dainty ribs
caressed an incense-ridden
wind
My dreams are a shade
happier than me
I found my wrists
bedecked in fine jewelery
There's no chiming of antique
clocks in my sleepy
subconscious knots.
My eyes were not
corrosed over
so when he spoke I
comprehended
with crystal orbs
I'd hoped I find him through
disheveled bedsheets under
the waxing moon...
It illuminated my skin and sent me
soundly reveling in the hazy countenance
To me he's Elvis' love child
He's a wish fulfilled to me
I discovered an idol
I write letters,
coveted, held close
I worship what I
know of him
My thoughts are almost this
tangible-thing like a rope
I could grab and
make a knoose out of
perhaps it's time to slay
the golden bull
I struck his wayward glance
by some silver spring of snow
He's travelled to the ruins
of cathedrals with
chipped limestone on
the doors arched-shape...
darkness on the otherside...
Mother Mary follows,
walking through some threshold
hallway
Crooked stem, bent leaves...
A pruned up crackled rose
for me to eat
Those eyes...
dark brown, almond-shaped
Squinty with sparrow-feet
I'm waiting in the mountains
Clouds covering my eyes
Ocean blue in the stark sunshine
blinding me and enveloping me
when the music dies

My absence was a mortifying misfortune,
The ponies drew their swords at the amity,
The sunset hung close to my crackling toes.
And the rings of ardor were a constant reminder of the fall.
We know we rise again in the sunrise
but the plastic hair gave fraud  to wishes we made days before.
The soldiers clamped their wings tight
The circle had not comprehended the fight we fought for.
The context of these misused actions could be used to modify.
“Please come again” The narrator spoke.
We rode the carousel again.

What is your touch?
It is the physical sensation of electromagnetism repelling our atoms,
It's the chain reaction set off through my nervous system,
Culminating in my cortex, where it is comprehended as your touch.

In dim streetlight through your window,
With just a crescent of your face illuminated.
With your soft eyes, and memories of our backpacking trip mixing in
Like honey mixes with warm tea, or coffee.

With ***** brown curls around your head like a halo.

Still, what is your touch?
It is like a ripple through me, and it ripples out into the world
It is more present in my action every day
As you take down my walls
As your lips send soothing down to my core
As you make me believe
In love
Again.

It is everything that went into making you,
No better concoction
Has ever been brewed.

And the way that you move
Makes little eddies of awe that captivate my eyes,
They cannot move.

So you see,
It's not hard to convince myself
That your touch is everything.
Two ends of the universe,
You're setting me free

That anything happened at all
Was as great a miracle
As your touch is to me
It's giving me shivers
And melting my heart--
There is nothing in this world like your touch.

Entice me to follow you.
To have the same school of thoughts.
You can define God in a name.
Entice me to believe that.
You can hold him in your understanding.
Confine him in your ideologies.
Entice me my dear.

Music genres can contain him.
The one that holds the universe.
A zillion light-years wide.
In the palm of his hand.
Hair styles can define his worship.
And he has meted out the heavens in a span.
Comprehended the dust in a measure.
Come on and entice me.

Let me believe you for a second.
That he can be comprehended in a dance.
Who weighs the mountains in a scale.
And the hills in a balance.
Laid the foundations on the earth.
Increase your efforts my dear.
You never know for sure.
I might just be convinced.

Noitareneg
For my Soulmate

I
I saw the best minds of my generation go to waste
I saw the worst minds obsess over awful taste
I walked a steady path and staggered through some mud
I soared through skies so bright, my eyes were useless studs

II
You viewed the same madness that spewed from my pen
You walked the path of enlightenment and gorgeous Zen
You mastered what all the useless fools never could
You comprehended what they never understood

III
We rise, only as one, but the stragglers keep us down
We never worry much, because a king is just a crown
We march to the drum of freedom, with paper on our tongues
We are the 90’s generation, the wise among the young

You spoke adamantly of gentle courage
     and sharing spring's flourished nectar,
the swooning rhythm of swaying trees
   and the easeful breezes that flow
     'tween endearment's sensibilities,
misty moonbows 'neath dusk's stormy skies
     lavender sunsets midst rosy horizons,
affectation surging amid life's turmoils
     wallowing in self indulgence &
the harmony of olive branch surrender
    and thrumming heart strings of patience,
it was then I comprehended, darkness doesn't
   last a lifetime when lit by love's fortitude

The idea of **** .
****.
One letter away from something beautiful
privacy
who is willing to capture the idea of ****
the beauty  of ones body
being grasped with someones eyes
licking their lips
need
the only emotion comprehended
from all of this
and only because of sexiness.
The want
The emotion
The feeling
How its craved
each breath sending a shock
deep
The rush
The chill
quietly watching
oh how the mind runs free
how ****.

600

It troubled me as once I was—
For I was once a Child—
Concluding how an Atom—fell—
And yet the Heavens—held—

The Heavens weighed the most—by far—
Yet Blue—and solid—stood—
Without a Bolt—that I could prove—
Would Giants—understand?

Life set me larger—problems—
Some I shall keep—to solve
Till Algebra is easier—
Or simpler proved—above—

Then—too—be comprehended—
What sorer—puzzled me—
Why Heaven did not break away—
And tumble—Blue—on me—

I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)


how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits  
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an
I

to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give
I

who teaches this to the children?

I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last

cleanly indistinguishable,

your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the
I,

~

9:24am EST
6/2/17
airborne over the Western US of A

We cannot seem to understand
that one perceives personally with limited scope,
a minuscule allotment, a slippery vision of time.
We believe to hold witness to a great single minded river,
this metaphor is bought wholly
and sold solely to sweeten our short life-
As one word often leads to the next,
a parent sires child
thinking this is the most powerful measurement of truth
we use to falsely foolproof our assurances
and assuage any feeling of being a victim,
eaten by time.
It is a shared dream of the dead man's final words-
they carry weight, meaning and purpose.
Needing to be painfully comprehended and carried self evident.
A literary reflection of our need for death to matter,
to have matter and be of substance is a view of ourselves linearly,
as a line drawn between birth to death
then- maybe
a cathartic eternity.

Originally from the Ancient Greek word 'empatheia', derived from "en" & "pathos" ["in" & "suffering or passion"]. Here we find the root of empathy's definition. Empathy is in emotion, feelings evoked from the animal in our psyche, the purported soul. It is sensation born of mirror neurons, not necessary under our control.

The Empathion is the empathetic dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind through which emotions are created and thence expressed.
Empathos is the corporeal manifestation of said dimension, expressed through the medium of a body.

Alexithymos [without-words-for-emotion] is an unaccepted dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind comprised of irreconcilable notions, it is proportionate to our own limitations rather than lacking in "actual compatibility". If a noumenon cannot be processed by The Empathion then it is relegated to Alexithymia wherein we cannot accept the inability to understand/emotionally analyse it at present, given the current pretext.

Alexithymia was constructed from a-lexis & thumos  [without-speech & soul, seat of emotion, feeling and thought]. It is a failure to integrate mirror-neurons into our own gestalt of consciousness, possibly because one does not yet possess the schema required for integration.

The Entheon is the actual dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind which is as according to reality (if/when aligned correctly).
The Apotheon is the elevated dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind which judges objects and thereby separates them from reality.

The Empatheon is the emotio-judgemental intersection of the psyche, The part of the mind where emotion can be comprehended, reflected and resonated (rather than merely sourced, determined and asserted). As a faculty The Empathion is intersected by both The Entheon and The Apotheon. Things-in-themselves may move through The Empatheon but their movements correspond to a generative dimension which cannot be known by the human psyché.

By the way she walks, the way she talks
It has you mesmerized, in a way you can’t even imagine.
Her grace, as she touches every inch of that floor
has every man in there wanting more, and more, and more.
So seductive, her reasoning can’t be comprehended
Yet, compensated for her work.
Look at her strut, left to right
Back and forth, for your eyes are glued because she is astounding.
Hypnotizing, to say the least.
You wish to describe her but, she fails to compete.
For she is your dream girl, your fantasy… and even more.

As an atheist I doubt the existence of celestial beings, but if ever there were an angel, I know it’s you.

But perhaps it’s time to rethink my beliefs, because you too give the impression of a Greek God: statuelike, sculpted and beautiful beyond belief.

I have found myself to care more about your entire being; every hair on your body, every freckle on your skin; more so than I have cared for anything.

The sonorous sounds you make when formulating words and meanings are melodic, marvellous and my favourite song.

Your eyes have the power to captivate even the most apathetic of beings and challenge anyone who looks into them to evade falling in love with you.

Your love and care cannot be comprehended. You make everyone you encounter feel distinctive and special which in a world of 7.6 billion, is not an easy feat.

Your enthusiasm for your passions is tangible and infectious. And you bring a bit of the Sun with you everywhere you go.

And were our time together to end tomorrow, I would be grateful for what I had. I hope you know how much of an honour it is to have you in my life.

You make me feel safe and sound,
And content when you’re around,
And I can’t wait till the day that your art is renowned,
And I am just so glad I found...
…You.


Because as soon as I see that smile, I know I’m home.

If there is anything that will accompany you in all of your travels it is free will. It will continue its inexhaustible journey exceeding the life your parents, your schooling and your vocational pursuits, dominating your every thought and decision. It will control your destiny beyond any external force or suggestion that is placed upon your pillow. It will neither guarantee success nor doom you to failure. But it will place all manner of excuse, blame or alibi at your feet to be crushed by its unyielding demand that the freedom to choose is a man’s game to be played only by those who are willing to accept the consequences of its exercise.

And what of God? Is it the will of man to be presented the option of paradise versus eternal damnation? For who would dream up such a choice? It would seem that it is no choice at all for the former is laden with streets of gold while the latter summons visions of burning flames and the wish to perish only to be laughed at by a being so diabolical that he exclaims, “And you wanted earthly riches so badly that you gave up streets of gold for the right to beg me to finish you off!” And yet the choice exists in the vacuum between mere rumor and fact; fact that cannot be measured but only sensed or felt. And as you are bathed in the witness of those with the spirit burning from within, you find that your mind must choose its path. And though you are free to choose you will find that the choice is not solely a matter of belief but a matter of self-determination for the choices that you must make about God are not a matter of a single affirmation or denial but a daily choice of good versus evil. And you will be confused by the power of evil because it does not reveal itself readily; instead it will tempt you beyond all that which you have ever known. And you will then know the choice is not one of saying yes and then departing the witness stand; it will be a choice that will become who you are as a human. And yet if God does not exist the choice remains in how you interact in your daily walk amongst those who do believe knowing that some will try to make you feel less than holy because of a particular certainty that you do not possess and some will attempt to save you because they believe they are commanded to concern themselves with your salvation.

And what of truth? For it is said that an honest man’s pillow is his peace of mind, yet you will know that truth may also bring pain, punishment, scorn, estrangement or confusion. To tell the truth no matter the consequence is to say that you stand alone in principle or in condemnation for your acts. It is to say you have no friend who will be protected for his actions or spared what you deem to be real. To tell the truth no matter the consequence is to say you will risk all that you have worked for by raising the ire of those with the power to destroy you or to crush the dreams of innocents who are to be told that their beliefs are those of mere fantasy. To tell the truth is to question everything that you encounter including the God who you have decided to accept or reject for what you have learned about him may be second-hand from charlatans or from a book that you barely understand or from an unbeliever full of scorn or from a believer who swears that miracles occur in this very age. To tell the truth is to never accept what it is that cannot be proven even as you are asked to accept that which cannot be proven as eternal truth.

And what of fear? Can you choose not to be afraid? Is it a matter of only being afraid of imminent danger or of being afraid of possibilities or differences in others? Is it a matter of settling in behind walls, either real or imagined, to surround yourself with like-minded fools, separating yourself even further from understanding and compassion towards those who are different than yourself? For any man who resists the ideas of another before they are fully comprehended or who rejects another because they do not believe exactly as you or who rejects another who believes things you never considered because they lived in another land or who rejects another solely because a flag or a book has been branded as the truth without question becomes merely a mark for those who wish to exploit his mind for their own gain.

And what of love? The love of family is forever. It will sustain you, define you, remind you, inspire you… but even though the blood of your past is always present you must find yourself and remember that a legacy can be uplifting or destructive. And as you become a man you will find love in the eyes of a woman. And she will become your life as your family steps to the periphery. And you will think of flowers and birds and meadows covered with dew as passion overtakes your sense of everything except ravishing her with your life and your body…. But what of separation and conflict… what if the mystery of her heart is revealed to be a horror story so deep that you are consumed with the rage of a man who has lost his mind? Can you say yes without the assurance of forever? Will you know in your heart who it is that you entrust with everything that is dear to you? Your goals? Your dreams? Will you know her before it is too late to close the door to your heart?

And what of you? Do you know who you are and what you will die for? What you will stand alone for? What sacrifices you will make? Will you know what life is about and find a reason to live and not to consume? Will you look to the past and anticipate the future to guide your present? Will you understand the forces that guide you or will you trade free will for chance and wait for fate to choose your path? Knowing that destiny is driven by your hand and fate can be driven by neglect or apathy, will you wake up each morning with an eye on what it is that defines you as a man? Will you live to do good or to do evil? Will you understand that each day is the day to begin your life anew? To make the changes that need to be made and to only use the past as a guide to learning and not as an anchor of unworthiness?

You are loved my son and what you are IS my son and I only ask these questions of you because of my love for you. For I cannot live your life and I do not ask you live your life for me. That is for you and I hope you choose wisely. I do love you more than you will ever know.

i'm not sure how it works for normal people.
but i know how it worked for me.

it was june.
i was 21.

i got a call.
only a few months they said.
but i didnt understand, he's only 5.
how could this be.
how could god take something so new and special to me.

a few months ended up being 3.
he was buried in a kid-sized grave.
a family broken apart and a boy to never come of age.

before this loss i always thought there was a point.
a plan.
god must have things under control right?

but this made me think.
how could this little one suffer a short life and painful death of there was a loving god?

didnt seem loving to me.
didnt seem like it was real anymore.
didnt seem like there was a purpose anymore.

i dont think i comprehended death fully until that moment.
when i saw that little body lowered into the ground and realized it would never become big.
does it all just really stop?
is there no purpose?

1419

It was a quiet seeming Day—
There was no harm in earth or sky—
Till with the closing sun
There strayed an accidental Red
A Strolling Hue, one would have said
To westward of the Town—

But when the Earth began to jar
And Houses vanished with a roar
And Human Nature hid
We comprehended by the Awe
As those that Dissolution saw
The Poppy in the Cloud

It was intensity in the eyes of the beast
With his romanticisms and optimism ceased
Gashes, cut bottomless within his soul
Who, would possibly aid him as a whole?

The king who had executed blasphemous quantities of sins
And pride fully worn, his foe's skins.
Could not be comprehended and eased after all
He lived to stalk, persecute and brawl

For behind all the masquerades and shells he wore
It was against himself, that he always swore
At the break of dawn, he held a face
In the midst of darkness, he could not sense, embrace

A battle came forging against him, he felt grim
Though it was not his form which was to be dithering, limb by limb
It was his trepidation, his need to stop his despair
Oh, how he craved to vanish into thin air

For he realized that the only thing meaningful to him now
Was for his annihilating words, to be a vow
A vow to soon meet, the eternal light alas
For his heart had become, into brittle glass

The light was his way out
To permit him, of his emotive drought
And so, as the stars blazed up in the sky’s high
So did the tears, imploring, to be let out in both his eye

How far more, would he suffer?
How much longer, did he have to be a bluffer?
The possibility of freedom, is all that made him wait
Little did he distinguish he was just another prisoner in the chambers, of fate.

A size zero

Is all I'll ever let myself be
Funny how much
A number defines my personality

Zero hope
Zero life
Zero want
Zero zero zero zero

Tiny waist
More like I'm wasting away

Wrist bones are prominent and cold

All I want to see is
My collarbones

And my brain likes to argue
With itself

you better eat or you'll go back to hell

I guess I haven't comprehended my surroundings
Because I'm already here

Heaven is a tiny hole on the roof of my hell
Light shines through rarely

She inhabits me
I am gone


The wind doesn't even miss me

I blew a kiss and you smiled
Your heart shook in tremor
Won't you admit the vacancy?

It's like a field of football
Ball bouncing from sides
For whoever holds it wins

A repressive defence chains
Diseased denial cog wheels
Mind played, tongue slated

Sublimation of eager emotions
Compassed in all directions
Comprehended ridiculoupsity

Sinking stilettos drills deeper
Barbed wire erected to fence
A barricade of a no wait zone

Hedges cut, trimmed to invisible
No allegations stains to appease
Peace to transmute,a game changer

persistent as a ubiquitous urchin
charmingly offering promises
disguised as roses in her tiny hand

depriving as inanimate loveliness
pinned for posterity under glass
posing as a butterfly's fragile elegance

precious as tears welling involuntarily
in a singular moment of transient truth
when a beauty is fully comprehended

…such is the desperation of time