Crystallised syllables.
Words fall from harsh tainted lips,
like a syllable of crystallised black,
Caressed at the touch of fingertips,
encouragement seems to lack.

A heart of steel encased within,
the shattered depicted glass,
I pray that you forgive my sin,
End this forever song fast.

Your life is plainly satisfactory,
demeaning in all you do,
waterfalls of crimson refractory
broken, diminished, by you.

Wicked and nocturnal eyes,
return your weary gaze,
reflections hard to visualise,
incentives gone for days.

Leave emotion to drown itself,
in this scarlet river abyss,
place your feelings on the shelf,
and give me one last kiss…

Ah, doth swayeth the grass around the heavily-watered grounds, and even lilies are even busy in their pondering thoughts. Dim poetry is lighting up my insides, but still-canst not I, proceed on to my poetic writings, for I am committed to my dear dissertation-shamefully! Cannot even I enjoy watery sweets in front of my decent romantic candlelight-o, how destructible this serious nexus is!

Ah, and the temperatures' slender fits are but a new sensation to this melancholy surroundings. How my souls desire to be liberated-from this arduous work, and be staggered into the bifurcating melodies of the winds. O, but again-these final words are somehow required, how blatantly ungenerous! What a fine doomed environment the greenery out there hath duly changed into. White-dark stretches of tremor loom over every bald bush's horizon. O-what a dreadful, dreadful pic of sovereign menace! Not at all lyrical; much less gorgeous! Even the ultimate touches of serendipity have been broomed out of their localised regions. Broomed forcibly; that their weight and multitudes of collars whitened-and their innocent stomachs pulled systematically out. Ah, how dire-dire-dire; how perseveringly unbearable! A dawn at dusk, then-is a normal occurence and thus needeth t' be solitarily accepted. No more grains of sensitivity are left bare. Not even one-oh, no more! A tumultous slumber hinders everything, with a sense of original perplexity t'at haunts, and harms any of it t'at dares to pass by. O, what a disgrace t'at is secretly housed by t'is febrile nature! And o, t'is what happeneth when poets are left onto t'eir unstable hills of talents, with such a wild lagoon of inspirations about! Roam, roam as we doth-along the parked cars, all unread-and dolefully left untouched, like a moonlit baby straightening his face on top of the earth's liar *****. Ah, I knoweth t'is misery. A misery t'at is not only textual, but also virginal; but what I comprehendeth not is the unfairness of the preceding remark itself-if all miseries were crudely virginal, then wouldst it be unworthy of perceiving some others as personal? O, how t'is new confusion puzzles me, and vexes me all too badly! Beads of sweat are beginning to form on my humorous palms, with lines unabashed-and pictorial aggressions too unforgiving too resist. Ah, quiver doth I-as I am, now! O, thee-oh, mindful joyfulness and delight, descend once more onto me-and maketh my work once again thine-ah, and thy only, own vengeful blossom! And breathe onto my minds thy very own terrific seizure; maketh all the luring bright days no more an impediment and a cure; to every lavish thought clear-but hungrily unsure! Ah, as I knoweth it wouldst work-for thy seizure on my hand is gentle, ratifying, and safely classical. How I loveth thy little grasps-and shall always do! Like a moonlight, which had been carried along the stars' compulsive backs-until it truly screamed, while the bountiful morning retreated, and mounted its back. Mounted its back so that it could not see. Invasive are the stars-as thou knoweth, adorned with elaborations t'at humanity, and even the sincerest of gravities shall turn out. Ah, so 'tis how the moon's poor sailing soul is-like a chirping bird-trembled along the snowy night, but knocked back onto abysmal conclusions, soon as sunshine startled him and brought him back anew, to the pale hordes of mischievous, shadowy roses. Ah, all these routines are similar-but unsure, like thoughts circling-within a paper so impure. And when tragic love is bound, like the one I am having with 'im; everything shall crawl-and seem dearer than they seem; for nothing canst bind a heart which falls in love, until it darkeneth the rosiness of its own cheeks, and destroys its own kiss. Like how he hath impaired my heart; but I shall be a stone once more; abysses of my deliciously destroyed sapphire shall revive within the glades of my hand; and my massive tremors shall ever be concluded. O, love, o notion that I may not hate; bestow on my thy aberrant power-and free my tormented soul-o, my poor tormented soul, from the possible eternal slumber without tasting such a joy of thine once more! I am now trapped within a triangle I hated; I am no more of my precious self-my sublimity hath gone; hath attempted at disentangling himself so piercingly from me. I am no more terrific; I smell not like my own virginity-and much less, an ideal lady-t'at everyone shall so hysterically shout at, and pray for, ah, I hath been disinherited by the world.

Ah, shall I be a matter to your tasty thoughts, my love? For to thee I might hath been tentative, and not at all compulsory; I hath been disowned even, by my own poetry; my varied fate hath ignored and strayed me about. Ah, love, which danger shall I hate-and avoid? But should I, should I diverge from t'is homogeneous edge I so dreamily preached about? And canst thou but lecture me once more-on the distinctness between love and hate-in the foregoing-and the sometimes illusory truth of our inimical future? And for the love of this foreignness didst I revert to my first dreaded poetry-for the sake of t'is first sweetly-honeyed world. For the time being, it is perhaps unrighteous to think of thee; thou who firstly wert so sweet; thou who wert but too persuasive-and too magnanimous for every maiden's heart to bear. Thou who shone on me like an eternal fire-ah, sweet, but doth thou remember not-t'at thou art thyself immortal? Thou art but a disaster to any living creature-who has flesh and breath; for they diverge from life when time comes, and be defiled like a rusty old parish over one fretful stormy night. Ah, and here I present another confusion; should I reject my own faith therefrom? Ah, like the reader hath perhaps recognised, I am not an interactive poet; for I am egotistic and self-isolating. Ah, yet-I demand, sometimes, their possibly harshest criticism; to be fit into my undeniable authenticity and my other private authorial conventions. I admireth myself in my writing as much as I resolutely admireth thee; but shall we come, ever, into terms? Ah, thee, whose eyes are too crucial for my consciousness to look at. Ah, and yet-thou hath caused me simply far-too-adequate mounds of distress; their power tower over me, standing as a cold barrier between me and my own immaculate reality of discourse. Too much distress is, as the reader canst see, in my verse right now-and none is sufficiently consoling-all are unsweet, like a taste of scalding water and a tree of curses. Yes, that thou ought to believe just yet-t'at trees are bound to curses. Yester' I sheltered myself, under some bits of splitting clouds-and t'eir due mourning sways of rain, beneath a solid tree. With leaves giggling and roots unbecoming underneath-ah, t'eir shrieks were too selfish; ah, all terrible, and contained no positive merit at all-t'at they all became too vague and failed at t'eir venerable task of disorganising, and at the same time-stunning me. Ah, but t'eir yelling and gasping and choking were simply too ferociously disoriented, what a shame! Their art was too brutal, odd, and too thoroughly equanimious-and wouldst I have stood not t'ere for the entire three minutes or so-had such perks of abrupt thoughts of thee streamed onto my mind, and lightened up all the burdening whirls of mockery about me in just one second. O, so-but again, the sound melodies of rain were of a radical comfort to my ears-and t'at was the actual moment, when I realised t'at I truly loved him-and until today, the real horror in my heart saith t'at it is still him t'at I purely love-and shall always do. Though I may be no more of a pretty glimpse at the heart of his mirror, 'tis still his imagery I keepeth running into; and his vital reality. Ah, how with light steps I ran to him yester' morning; and caught him about his vigorous steps! All seemed ethereal, but the truthful width of the sun was still t'ere-and so was the lake's sparkling water; so benevolently encompassing us as we walked together onto our separated realms. And passing the cars, as we did, all t'at I absorbed and felt so neatly within my heart was the intuitive course; and the unavoidable beauty of falling in love. Ah, miracles, miracles, shalt thou ever cease to exist? Ah, bring but my Immortal back to me-as if I am still like I was back then, and of hating him before I am not guilty; make him mine now-even for just one night; make him hold my hands, and I shall free him from all his present melancholy and insipid trepidations. Ah, miracles; I doth love my Immortal more t'an I am permitted to do; and so if thou doth not-please doth trouble me once more; and grant, grant him to me-and clarify t'is tale of unbreathed love prettily, like never before.

As I have related above I may not be sufficient; I may not be fair-from a dark world doth I come, full not of royalty-but ambiguity, severed esteem, and gales-and gales, of unholy confidentiality. And 'tis He only, in His divine throne-t'at is worthy of every phrased gratitude, and thankful laughter; so t'is piece is just-though not artificial, a genuine reflection of what I feelest inside, about my yet unblessed love, and my doubtful pious feelings right now-and about which I am rather confused. Still, I am to be generous, and not to be by any chance, too brimming or hopeful; but I shall not be bashful about confessing t'is proposition of love-t'at I should hath realised from a good long time ago. Ah, I was but too arrogant within my pride-and even in my confessions of humility; I was too charmed by myself to revert to my extraordinary feelings. Ah, but again-thou art immortal, my love; so I should be afraid not-of ceasing to love thee; and as every brand-new day breathes life into its wheels-and is stirred to the living-once more, I know t'at the swells of nature; including all the crystallised shapes of th' universe-and the' faithful gardens of heaven, as well as all the aurochs, angels, and divinity above-and the skies' and oceans' satirical-but precious nymphs, are watching us, and shall forgive and purify us; I know t'at this is the sake of eternity we are fighting for. And for the first time in my life-I shall like to confess this bravely, selfishly, and publicly; so that wherever thou art-and I shall be, thou wilt know-and in the utmost certainty thou canst but shyly obtain, know with thy most honest sincerity; t'at I hath always loved thee, and shall forever love thee like this, Immortal.

Drip yourself into a cup
Fill up your body with antiquity
Let the collagen insist
An allegory of Capricorn
Memories crystallised
Settled in
Forevers harvest
Insensitive
Misconstrued chemical
Collective symmetry's sin
A condition, livid
Fleeting in Human imagery
Ships break
Loop our tongued
Hands, tossed in Dramamine
Whittled in a succession of malleable fashion
Talent spilled spread in supper
Collate our atrophy
And drink from baroness
Flavours tarnished
Super-collider
Blood soaked in Gematria
A garden of totality
High brow comparison
Entitled in your vacuous stigma
Forever burning
In the lesser key of Solomon
28 daemon
Tessellation in trigonometry
Temperance towards an infinite
Champion of mind, complex

The Grump put on his morning face.
Wiped away crystallised grit ,
Straight out of her teared up eyes.
My goodness this poem is shaped out of ****!
A deliberate ploy,

For she is woman, and he is boy.
He had a *** change,
Normally grumpy is male, hee hee,
Today grumpy is me.

The last Sunday of a somewhat sulky year.
Look deep in my eyes and surely you'll see a tear.
I don't cry.....
Why ever should I ?
Mentally strong as a freaking ox,
Manipulative as a silver fox.
A wicked sense of humour.
Thank f**k ,
Without that I'd probably have no luck,
Not out on the pull.
That just isn't cool.
Ladies don't.
This lady can't be bothered!
(C) Livvi

I am flawed,
An inner fault, though I appear whole.
I can feel it grind with each breath,
Glass on glass.

One look and I am young again.
A thousand doubts to build a girl
Who refused to cry
And ran through fields

One word and I am crushed
Beneath half a life of memories.
Layers of varnish, too many to dry
Too many to breathe.

One touch and I spiral,
The fragments descend.
A rain shower reflected in your eyes,
Hot with desire.
A hitched breath that rounds the edges,
A balm of boiling water
On ice.

The shard between us shatters
With your fingers on my skin,
Tracing constellations in my freckles.
It's as if the years never existed,
But the splinters harden,
Crystallised with lies
And growing milky with
things unsaid.

Despite the night,
I grow colder with secrets
That choke me.

1.
Your specimen:
the cat.
He lies, a stretched out
blob of
whirring, whizzing particles:
You can’t see them –
he can.

2.
His fur is
dried old carpet
left out on a front lawn:
homeless,
floorless;
waiting to be claimed.

3.
His eyes are
blank marbles
flicked by sticky fingers
in a game.
You won them
by cheating,
and stole them but they
turned to mush
in your hands, they
fell through your fingers, and
stained them with purple:
it would not wash off.
It grew:
an omnipresent reminder
trickling down your arms,
pooling at your elbows.

4.
You raise the scalpel:
it is a crescent moon
speckling down to
illicit behaviour
below.

5.
The portraits on the walls
applaud
when you make the first
CUT.
and reveal the
gooey caramel
dripping, circulating, inside.
It sticks to
the blade, forming
clumps of purple
that harden to a
crystallised-honey form.

6.
Later you sleep
with the cat;
he lies on your bed
and purrs
(does he purr?)
and you label the jars:
“Dissection 15”.

1.
the crystallised handkerchief
of one’s span of life

your handloom-bird brings with its lips
some musical notation of the nimbus  

holding that waves within the heart
how much growth does occur
to the sandal-line of a man

or
it does
fall

the blades of grasses are known well
to be vegetarian

the eyes of the reindeer
have cent per cent smelling of fish

then what translation would you suggest
for the fingers of wild titlark

the shirt
they have put on the body of this night-stone

what best word-meaning does match it
but land-lotus


2.
i’ve re-constructed
all the trees and plants

with
the dry straws grass twigs collectively
fetched by beak

and the monsoon
as well

the full-brim of *****
is deep in the palms

in that moonlight
a sleeping-tablet
does take a dip-swimming

within her enfolding
there may be the whole works of rabindranath

from the breathing of cd-player
spreads around
the sound of horse’s hoof  

there is the bed-sheet of dusts
on the anger
kept bound within the cover of rexin

it’s true
our vineyards are still
prone to stones

then it does not seem
that the boiled moon sets  
into the tea-cup  

3
in your songs
still lies
immense green

the bed-room is too
very bright

the walnuts
walking along the path
that touches the rain-shore
make me think likely

on a sunday
kept in an envelop

when the bed-cover of the early morning
speaks frankly
what’s in its mind
to the soap-water

the ears of the horse
in the wall-calendar
look very crazy

i can remember
one day
the sun-boats would tear their wrappers

their whisper would want to discover
the inclinations and thoughts of the creepers and herbs
possessed by the lady-volunteers

their yawing would notice
so many unused handlooms
taking a run-away on the clouds

now
would the cat  under the beautiful jersey
finally think of waking up

then i’ll go
to deposit the clever apples
along with
all the triangles accompanying it
to the nearest cold-storage

“It’s time for bed,” was never a problem for me,
I was good at sleeping, I could do it longer than anyone else I knew and they
couldn’t wake me if they tried,
I was in over my ankles, waist, chest and head,
Five hundred pillows and a duvet that was heavy enough to suffocate all the
car horns in my mind,
I didn’t have to count the sheep so they sat there and ate grass,
Because I could pass with all the flying colours refracted in crystallised
dreams,
In the pitch black I won all the altercations against those demons that bite,
The narcoleptic warrior is champion of the night, the steady rise and fall of
her chest, the flutter of twitching lashes like spiders legs, arms drawn
tight around ******* and waist for protection against the ties that bind,
It’s a **** art,
But I didn’t realise my excellence was subjective,
For my parents it was the ****** in the night,
Fox screams that would send them running to my side, only to find a steady
heartbeat and lethargic child, head to the pillow and snoring,
For friends and family who came to stay, for them it was wide eyed, white
knuckled, lying awake and clutching the sheets as I cried and whimpered in
the next room,
Trauma spilling over catatonic lips in the most wretched of yelling, pulled
out in a long, choking strings of invisible nightmare,
For my sister, it was ‘*****’, ‘cow’, ‘****’ and all the other curses that
I kicked or hit her with in my minefield of a sleeping pattern,
Bible versus, bolt upright, head spinning 360 degrees,
Charon won’t let me pass because someone wasn’t kind enough to put a coin
in my mouth and now I’m walking a shore I won’t remember in the morning,
I don’t remember in the morning, I’ve been buried in sleep,
Not until I see them unshaven and weary at the table, and I know they’ve been
leaking electricity,
Is it possible to be good at something if no one thinks you are?
I was good at it, once,
In over my ankles, waist, chest and head,
Five hundred pillows and a duvet heavy enough to suffocate,
To suffocate my talent, I lie back and count to ten,
Sleep mask, sleep tablet, sleep therapy, I try not to let it happen again,
I keep the nightlight on now, the sun my only sleeping scar,
How can you be good at something if no one thinks you are?
I don’t think I’ll ever grow out of it, but I’ve stopped reaching for the
pin-****** of white light in those starry night skies,
And now, when I lay awake in my bed, I’m afraid to close my eyes

Six a.m. and the morning leans
To kiss the night;
The streets are full of stars
And sleepwalking business suits

The citrus woman
With peroxide blonde hair
And peroxide blonde fingers
If she spoke I imagine it would sound
Like lemon trees and smoke
Her cigarette burns holes in the sky
But when she passes me by
She smells like the Boots Cosmetics Isle
She paints the yellowed-ivory
Of her finger-claws
With crystallised orange
To cover the nicotine stains
And maybe I think I recognise
My lemonade shampoo
And tangerine hand wash
Like a setting sun over Sicily

The beer can boy
With stuffed up hair
And a stuffed up liver
He’s grey like a November playground
Once all the children have grown
And he’s hole-punched right through
I might think he was heart-broken
And trying to see how many other lost souls
The bottoms of bottles hold
If he wasn’t here every morning
Lolling down the pavement
Like a spring stretched too far
Asking for a paper
That I’m not allowed to give
And trying to drown himself
In the pooled rain under the streetlights

The coat-and-cardie bundle
With wind-swept hair
And wind-swept grimace
Like a tornado tore up
The geography of her personality
And left it with just a bike and a death wish
And those features heaped together
Between chimney-tops and table tops
For consolation
Her feet on the pedals while her hair throttles
Because she’s unlit
Unseen, unprotected
And she rides like this morning is the last
As if she knows that skulls
Crack like eggshells sometimes
And handlebars are sometimes not in front of you.

If my Dad was here he’d see
A smoker
A drunk
A dangerous cyclist
But I see lemon zest and love hearts and black liquorish
After all I’m at home
Among these mistakes
That the morning hours make

a city with a past
that echoes unrelentingly
through its present

a city of whispering shadows
& tortured souls
of sharp edges
& crystallised tears



© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2016 All Rights Reserved

Awareness drifts by like stories carried by sandals;
Travelers too few to carry conviction
tarry in sand,
like a neon after thought.
Relics of crystallised fables parade;
on non roaming pathways
an eerie silence that dealt time
is only fortuitous in whispered light

The landscape blurs often
as poets go about their business
crafting metaphors of unexpected delight
in forests of jangled words and visuals
unable to contain their excitement
at having conquered that crystallised
moment of love, hate and everything else
in a frozen sliver of time
inescapable from their minds excursion
into unknown unshaped lands.

Not all succeed in this endeavour
most try, few unable
to melt the metal in a crucible of colour
sound, taste or touch, to smell
emphasis and cocktail curiosity
bringing the best to the fore.

The newcomers tremble at the awe
of maestros watching their work
and dissolve in disasters.
There is the odd one that unknowingly
write splendid poetry
and when noticed and heaped with praise
often springboard into showcasing talent.

Reading the works of the masters
is always good. If they think it
is good then it must be good.
So many footsteps to follow and learn.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Why am I crushing myself
to death and beyond?
Feeling bereft
for that which I haven't
touched in years.

Leadening my heart,
and dragging my feet
because each step
is a step further
from lightness and youth.

I bore myself with this weight.
Loathe the tyranny,
and mighty pressure
inside my head
which threatens incapacity
of reason every ten seconds.

Why did he come back at all?
If only to suffuse me
with the promise of nothing,
and the intangibility
of all ****** lovers?

And, forgive me,
for ****** is how I feel.
Self-pity, you old devil!
I shall have this out of me,
or pick over it
'til my heart lays waste
all good intent.

I wish to be suspended,
as the crystallised air,
inside the strange house.
Where, this morning,
I chanced upon myself in mercury,
and tumbled through the ages.

As rose-heads wither on the stem,
my head shall fall
upon my chest with piquant,
silent longing.
And so, unto history
a dream shall die.

Should I die with it?
Or resurrect a steely charm?
Neither, sweet prince,
for your fleeting
and unseen visit
has taken my soul.

And, thus protected
from the whimsy of flattery
I stand, without notion,
of which way to turn
upon a once-clear pathway.

Should I chance you in my dreams,
I would but falter at your beauty,
though fail to recognise you -
for I no longer trust
what my eyes alight upon.  

I am torn -
lamenting and tidal -
with hands that were always empty.
So what have I lost?
Nothing, that is all.
Nothing at all.

If. Perfect love casts out fear , then why does so consume me ?
The mere thought severs the soul,
Starves you of rest , yet beguiles me .
Yet God is love , in him we find peace crystallised in our Lord Jesus .
He casts out fear when dawn breaks near,
To the Cross I cling , Lord of everything ,
Embraces the one who's  love is but a tear .

The writings done the baby born
five months of painful paragraphs and haunted
by commas and full stops, scenes emerging from
insidious places and characters being polished
or demolished with uncanny accuracy
scenes unfolding and moving slowly
though transient prose and articulate poetry
down twenty nine chapters
and a hundred thousand words
telling a story of gripping interest
I finished at last.

The galley arrives in a red cardinal cloak
of crystallised chrysanthemums
graced by a beautiful girl
who smiled demurely at the photographers asking
and the flash captured her radiance
for the book cover.

Done at last and out to market she now goes
driving experts around with crafted
tricks to sell the books through any means
and make a buck for themselves.

Here I sat in this warm paperbag writing space
carving words in an endless stream
enjoying the river gathering
not allowing to burst its banks
and cause floods of words
and unnecessary meanderings
keeping the water tight within the dam
of chapters and structures
so readers could enjoy a careful
display of novelty and task
as they read every line looking for
the essence of the language
some searching for faults
others for ecstasies.

There are two more books to spit and polish
and send them packing to the editors
who will take a magnifying glass to demystify
the populated characters.

The power built up from being on this site
reading a hundred poems a day for 4 long
months and absorbing all the richness
and variety that hundreds
had to offer.

My time here is done.
Now I must move on to write
the Magnum Opus.

Author Notes

Check out my first Novel: The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition

on www.Amazon.com/author/marshallgass

ISBN 9781493137848

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Those times
Calling me endlessly
Without words
Fragments crystallised
I need sacraments of these
Or resolution:
Untwist my untruths
Into definitive understanding
Encompassing my mind, and actions
No more voice, to wallow in
And become further twisted
Let strands be in correct correlation
Instead of allowing idle indignation
Of such times and things seemingly forgotten...

...But forever crystalised
As my heart will remain,
crystallised
Until the actions speak of it, and open the door to that part kept clandestine
My inner beauty, which is those times and things that I had forgotten
Travelling down the easier path.

you,
are a glazed lolly
a crystallised sugar coating
with jagged edges
and a sickly sweet inside that i could
never quite reach,
constantly and consistently cutting
my hollowed cheeks on your
razor blade edges
and ironically,
the blood building in my mouth
has more volume than the metallic liquid
filling your veins
and surprisingly,
i have learnt to more loathe you
than love you anymore.

I drank the sea
No one was watching but me
The salt crystallised my bones
But the water made me free
Shells covered my lips and eyes
Seaweed lay as hair
And slid down throat
Sand layered like skin
Pages of a diary
Formed by waves on waves
I smelt of fish
And open air
I raged all over
Threw my spitting hands to the sun
Let it evaporate away my sins
I tossed my hair to the wind
And danced pebbles as my feet
I rolled with the tide
Tossed here and there
Fishermen tried to ****** parts of me
But I eluded them
Flowed ever faster to the shores
Picked men from rocks and threw them back
Sank deep and long
swam out again, to the deep
I rolled with whales
sifted krill through my teeth
tumbling currents rinsed my skin
Quick-silver flashing in my belly
coast to coast I roamed and rushed
and as the darkened tide turned,
I slipped out again to the deep
not content to walk when I could *swim

You write tragedies as if your world was built on them.
You describe it like shattered glass pieces, each jagged and broken,
yet each crystallised  like ice, shining beautifully on their own. All a part of a whole.

It’s so beautiful, when you describe the heartbreak. It’s beautiful, the way you cry. It’s beautiful when you say the world is an illusion. You’re beautiful when you say you destroy yourself. You’re a beautiful
sad mess each time.

And I can only wonder how terrible it is in your mind;
the way you destroy yourself. Because you’re beautiful
enough and I don’t know how the world can treat you this way;
how you can do so yourself.

One moment
cancels out another
signifying a loss
something that's past
could never return
the next kiss or embrace
is not the same
each a form
an inscription
a touch-on
like none other
once having emerged
disappears into nowhere
irreversibility is the unchanging theme
of time--

each tide carries
the water forward
leaving the rest behind
a gust of wind
sweeps across
insubstantial, lost
irrecoverable
in empty space
leaving no trace
nothing does
itself repeat
replication
and recurrence
would never be wrought--

ah, my dearest and most-loved
it's the moment now
to which we are together bound
as a word
is said
as our eyes
exchange
a message
as our heart
is locked
in secure passage
we'll not be left in doubt-

as the moanful nocturne
reaches out
and its last notes fade
and sink* away
in the night's whereabout
we will know
for sure
the telling is over
the curtain has fallen
a new chapter
must follow--

if this brittle transiency
you understand
as you hold my hand
it would be bliss enough
as in silence we remain
unfazed, unmoved, unruffled
mindless of what's to come
in the sureness of our faith
that would withstand and defy
any awaiting future outcome--

courage would be ours then
to reign in and reap for keeps
whereupon our long-cherished dream
would have crystallised and bloomed
a bright light would be beckoning from afar
amidst the gloom of the shivering night
we, though weary,  would have arrived safely
after the long-tested travail and trial
Via Dolorosa would its farewell have bidden
all that our heart has longed and searched for
would at last have found its unmistakable haven.

Imperative perception
It was all far fetched, a time when I searched myself in others
No one can ever give me the moment of clarity and serenity
An eternity of peace within oneself, an embody of higher self
This place of ultimate truth and surreal objectification
A reflection of timeless lapses, the laps of completeness
The storms were a taboo, the recurrent flying unquietness
The un-resolving trips and flares of unpolarised magnetic currents
The escape to pristine moments, prestige throughs and peaks
A vision from the drowning sea, me sinking in the whirlpool
I mirrored my own reflection to yours, my 'I' to "you", your 'I" to "me"

Melodious Creeks
The moment called now is my only lullaby I can hear
A whisper so harmonised and crystallised deep in the seabed
A candle light of moment of truth in a rotating crystal ball
The chaos in the jungle have escaped to the peaks of the mountain
Uninformed lands with uniformed pebbles, the shattered glasses
Demons that stood ***** as they pierced and taunted a being

Why did it take so long?**
Lets go the springs and streams of pain, the unending past
It's not a feeling, or logic, its a way of human existence
An entwinement of anthems embellished with peace

Presentiment
***** the barred barricades for me to see your pastures
I can feel the darkness that embodies your soul and mind
A thunder in the unending jungle, jiggling in kingdoms
Reject my sharp vision, I cry your tears as you do mine
I stare at your blur as you submerge in the deep waters
The blackening tunnels with no escape reject my eyes
The icy layers squeezing to escape in your sorrows
The narrowed aisles have become the only island you cruise
The trajectory of our blood realigned in our future sins

Found self?
Listen to the strings adjoining in the basements of the cliffs
The line balancing on the centrifugal pump as it impels to shrouds

Of choices?
Predetermination and judgment of other as I lost a piece of my time
In this territory, I stand at the borderline of my devotion in battle
Holding my rifle and connecting to life and all; me a solider of love
Parading in the landscapes of inhibitions and thought processes
A soul I hold is my only liberation to live fully and autonomously
Eyes wide open, mouth wide ajar as we rise and survive doing our best!

You still visit me, now and then but mostly now and always.
Your image flitters into my mind and creates chaos,
Your face, projected in my thoughts, tightens the straps around my chest making it hard to breathe
As if the air is saturated with you and I am gasping to get my futile fix of your fading figure.
You visit my head often.
Your frequent appointments harpoon my heart, pushing it to pump harder, faster.
You do not stay long anymore. Just long enough to scrape the scar of the wound, releasing the septic sorrow and vehemence which has become vapid.
You visit a hollow space. Where memories have been stored away and feelings are protected behind a vault of fury which is always dissolved by the salt of my tears.
You are not welcome anymore but your arrogance is persistent.
You stroll into my thoughts and poison my dreams. Your smile lingers in the back of my throat whilst your words slash away at my soul.
You feed on weak. It is your nourishment.
You fear my happiness, as if there is not enough for us both to live on. Your presence is selfish – only accommodating fear and anxiety which you leave behind to freeze my heart and memory – your image, your beautiful, perfect figure, crystallised inside of me waiting to devour any joy that may pass through my being.
Your frozen statute punctures my thoughts, releasing all pleasurable moments into a swirling pool of abandonment and regret.
These moments will be lost forever. Tainted by the malicious memories that you thrive in.
I am lost. Your light shines hard and lures me toward it.
I will not be burnt. I will create light, new memories, better stories.
You will have no place to visit anymore.

unfastidious relief
my throat burns
like a midnight afterglow
crystallised
in fleeting harmony
jaded reflux
relishing
in others memory
piecing the night together
from bed
from outside windows
under cars
and in apertures
tiptoeing on one foot
drinking my third segment
of tonight
black, snotty wine
drying in blue
destroying my thirst
and cracking my lips
i tumble onward
stewing in false pretense
irregular
unimportant conversation
fabricated
pissy and ****-faced
struggling to capsize
their ego
finding oneself
in black bin bags
filled with a need
to socialise
for the sake of it
my bones are empty
the road bends
and my back is wet
first one to
go home tonight
is dead

One night when being in a dream so sweet,
I heard my mind to call me visit,
I opened the door of my deep subconscious,
To catch the hidden love and beauty.
Oh what I saw and what I heard,
The masterpieces and lovely words,
They stood there sparkling, crystallised
Like pure diamonds on the door of Paradise.
So stunned and proud I digged more deep
Wordless beauty and shining rooms,
It came to me and astounded I was,
Oh, this precious Paradise lives in my senses.
There is so much unknown in the depth of life,
And yet every creature acquires that art in mind.
Do find the hidden treasures of love and beauty,
They will be there behind the valued door,
Waiting on the quiet till you reach the entrance,
And create a masterpiece which will live in history.

From the depths of my pain,
you have shown me that beautiful flowers
grow in the midst
of the cosmic chaos I was in.

You were the twinkling spark,
the light in the shadows of my sadness,
the encouraging voice that metamorphose
my black and white world into something kaleidoscopic.

You sifted the specks of dust
that revealed the darkest secrets I hid.
You were the sun that illuminated
during the twilight of my incoherent thoughts.

I was composed of the ephemera of depression,
the hushed air between my teeth
when my lips were sealed.
I remember the time you told me,

things will get better.
I sighed and responded,
I don’t think so.
I thought you were going to give up

for I was stroppy, cumbersome teenager
but instead, you smiled;
you morphed my cynical perspective
into a superlative of optimism.

Every time my voice trembled
with the curse of anxiety,
your words nursed my soul
casting me with courage.

Your words I kept,
in hollow crystallised bottles,
like encapsulated messages of importance.
Spilled thoughts were the reminiscent

of my favourite brisk days with you,
filling the fragments of my loneliness.
I seem to be on the sentence
of the last paragraph where you wrote:

things will get better.
written in the crisps pages
of my sad blues chapter,
dipped in ink;

I believe and trust you wholly,
because things do become better, no matter what.
You were always there for me,
if only you knew how much that meant to me.

Poetry is concentrated thought, 
the essence of an experience put into words. 
A moment in a persons life, 
crystallised into one expression. 

A personal communication with other people, 
almost on an intimate level, 
being something inexpressible that is hinted at, 
and only those who are close to, 
can understand what it means.
 
Human experience, nature, life, 
all stirred in a stew *** of knowledge, 
picked out to taste and savour, 
or to incite new ideas. 

Meditation is concentrated thought/no thought, 
and in some ways poetry is produced by this same quiet, still, 
where searching through our minds we catch at straws 
and find that which interests us, 
we develop this thread into a series of sounds and meanings, 
that when complete, expound one vision, 
one aspect of the diamond we call life. 

Each poet, her/his own creed of conduct, manner, dance, 
to fascinate our friends and fellow lovers of the word, 
with all its myriad meanings and inspired sensations, 
recorded, neatly bundled in the cloth of knowledge 
and taken on with us like a tramps sack, 
into the road that is the rest of our lives.