You behold a beast that lives inside your darkened mind,
You hold a creature that preys at darkest nights.
You go to sleep in sight but to sleep you shall never go,
Your raging spirit aches to swallow souls.
You are a killer.

The life you live, shaken, tremulously.
Demented souls  you devour meticulously.
The blood you sip from the skulls relentlessly.
Sins of joy, sins of joy.
You are a killer.

The poor children cry, the poor children cry.
You never hear but yet you listen.
You swallow swords; you swallow blades as the sun it shines.
You utter words of encouragement and hide your face from the light.
You are a killer.

You act as brave as the knights of Templar,
And slice your blade in a stranger.
You shape a world of delightfulness and stump on it.
You are a killer, you are a killer.

How were they introduced to themselves within a flash of light? Enormous shots of humanness flying across the universe- only still inside the shapes of two blue eyes staring back at this vessel. Just molecules of flesh colliding into one another in a heap of colors and sounds we’d sometimes prefer to force ourselves not to hear. How do you keep yourself from exploding? Into a masterpiece of delightfulness pushed forward into the mouth, and sometimes only to be a breath, or a story dressed as a pink pillowcase on a childhood bedroom.

Sometimes it’s just as if there was never ending cold and never ending warmth, and between each other there we were with our noses pressed up against the glass.

People are only sometimes not shaped like beasts, are sometimes only chiseled into neatly marble statuesque ephemeral deities, and then into the tombs the book keepers go, into the ruins the shapes and sounds and colors disappear. Shattered into the vast expanse of vitrifying light, bouncing against your head my head, landing on the bedside table, the corner of your knee, into the knapsack with the broken zipper, far off into the jungle, or into the pantry next to the agave syrup, adjacent the espresso maker.

There I am loving you more and more, quietly raking my hooves against the dirt, reigning midnight shining orders of dusty moonlight plashed on the time of winter lake, courtiers in your centrifuge of melancholy, balancing the toes just inches below the surface of the water, where the skin shuffled into the brief sentimentality of being thrusted into the infinite transdimensionality of the human escape-

hands feet legs being ****** and pressed upon the glass. Infinite planes of man hurdling with fastidious dreamscape prejudice into the quakes and trembling, the  indivisible and unquantifiable desires of yore crushed as the envelopes bars break against the seams, then come the staples and the body’s tries at reattaching itself to this the trying table of familiar names, this the tepid jocular playing field. While the undulates are thrown into the academies. While the infrastructures topple over, and the sunlight froths upon the celestial satellites nearing and nearing to us, folded over until we wake up from our necks and into our heads and inside of our brains, until we pull the thread from our gems and count back through the catalog pages trying to find letters of words in other languages piecing together the wanton madness of yearning for you and sharing the sounds of a voice that’s forgotten its own triumph of revealing or speaking its name.

There is the room with the panels and the drawers. These are the wildernesses humming with the poison and quaffing the spit and drugs at the heady realm of human-like lightness, pals or even matter gives pause to answering you with what no understanding beeps or carries on forward, but rather bleeds, tormented, reaches forcefully, it has been nearly a quarter-millennia. Here is the start, the finish, here are the minutes, the hours, here are the streets, the beach, the bench, and all of life is ours, from the dawn to the crepuscular night. Here in a stone room where in black and white photographs spin their *** drives like mercurial thermoses bouncing of each other, dancing into the next world, or just fishing for alphabet soup with a wooden spoon.

Here it is. The short-sheeted bedroom linen collection, folded comforter in the closet. The bath water is still and hot. The sky is clouding up soon, but not quite yet. In a ball of light rounding bloom, comes the silent fans that’ve carried you. While of a breath the trembles sway, and take us far away from here.

I felt such profound sadness when she told me
Nothing inside me moved
No sense of delightfulness
As there would have been
All that imagining and planning
Others rejoiced, congratulating
And looking forward.

Not noticing my pain
Feeling the emptiness inside
I was an outsider to pity
Holding dignity close
I told of my pleasure
Nurturing a broken heart
In a speechless world.

Woman In The Mirror

Woman in the mirror stares back,
at  pained confusion of a
distraught soul,
transfixed as if in a trance

what years and aging effected.

Thy plumpness and roundness
receded,
leaving behind a withered frame
for a body

mourning prized possessions envy
of all who once admired.

Woman in the mirror you couldn't
be so wrong,
beauty does fade,the person
within stays the same,

don't pity me,oh my oh my my...

This body is a celebration of life
of a young girl who played in the
backyard,making mud-pies,
caking her face with dirt,
giggling and laughing no dreams yet

and when she became a woman
she had so much ambition and passion
noone could stop her even if they tried

Such delightfulness, an opportunity to
create life in one's womb
to hear the first cry of a babe
having its mouth suckle at one's breast
while their small eyes look back at you
for assurance you will always be there
woman in the mirror,every wrinkled line
bears testimony
of beauty that lies within,

not even the hands of time can erase.

Your magnificence
Cannot be handled
By such as I.

For your light shines so bright
Someone living in darkness (me)
Is blinded by your beauty.

Your dazzling delightfulness
Shocks me into a daze
Cuz dang it, that snow is bright!