“And then, you’d break his heart.’
‘I can’t ever think I could do that. I couldn’t break anyone’s heart.’

You look at me. The tempting colour of your eyes dilates into grey. A blank moment; a break in the cinematography.

At night, I can’t sleep because your smell lingers on me like cheap perfume.
What do I do, what do I do?

These dead stares across the shopping mall
Wouldn't I care if I could have them all
Fingerpainting these eyes
**** photos: camera shutter sighs

But her breath is morse code
And my words are falling
Her dial tone dilates
As her moans are calling

She fell in love with a filter
And I fell in love with someone's daughter
We took pictures in the summer time
And she threw them into the water

When she lies, her cheeks flush
She swears that she doesn't care much,
as she sits in her underwear
with a light grin and a heavy heart.

She felt her pulse by the bed light
She was sad that she was alright
I watched her paint her dad on fire
while holding infant her.

I heard the window shatter
She never said what was the matter
I found her on the driveway,
broken like a family picture frame

In experience you have learned
which tunnel to explore.
You enter this
tunnel for promises of
"gold and precious things!".
But this promise
did not enter through ear;
but thoracic permeation

Well prepared having
spelunk'ed before;
light- your pack
light- in hand.
Climbing, scrounging to escape
the tight entrance with
jagged rocks and false paths
it's many turns and falls-
although you cannot keep
your flashlight straight
experience triumphs, as in
a maze done quickly
once done before.

One strong pull
emerging through;
cave's pupil dilates.
Ground so smooth and wet
though wise to walk
we tend to slide
                why?
Faster to the gold
Faster for exhilaration
Faster because faster!
and... why not?
hitting rough spots mid-slide
pain in debt to speed.

You let your feet
gain some tract
as the tunnel
   narrows
Solomatic mind; without
doubt- body complies.
A slight gust tickles
but this tunnel is not through...
Alas! A shining shimmer is seen!

The earth is rough
to navigate
difficult; (but shimmers numb the sense)
pain soon saturates and stops your
smallest movement, heartbeat, fidget,
thought... The light is moving near?
As tunnels break space and time
and especially direction
feel as though you've lifted up
and the cave, the light, and all
rushes to you.

The sound of breathing relocates,
oh, yes that's you.
gun to back, hostage of Aphrodite
running, sprinting, breathless
you seek this precious shimmer
soon to realize it's coming
faster, harder, alarming to
you.
Looking ahead-
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
the sound the light bequeaths
not from ten feet but maybe
five, you realize it's you
heavy- pack
heavy- darkness follows
sprinting, pushing through.

And the entrance could not be any farther.

.the better part of a Friday night

grim.. times... what better way to pass a drinking session than to translate some Horace... i see no other worthy time-consuming scoop of any events to follow, this:

humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam iungere si velit et varitas
inducere plumas undique conlatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne,
spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?
credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum persimilem,
cuius, velut aegri somnia, vanae fingentur species,
ut nec pes nec caput uni reddatur formae.
scimus, et hanc veniam
petimusque damusque vicissim;
sed non ut placidis coeant inmitia, non ut serpentes
avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

some first reading... sounds like chasing a chimera...

with a human head on a horses' neck: should a painter
tie the two together on a whim, and other limbs
collected from everywhere: puff up duck feathers into
a pillow or a bed cover - from "nothing"... hey presto!
that a beautiful woman from the torso up with a
fish's black tail below to boot...
on exhibition: would you, friends,
not burst burst out with laughter? believe: Paisans!
similar to this image will be the book:
in which as in an ill man's dream, in delirium,
the head and the feet belong to different
forms
i use this law and i recommend others to use it too,
but not to equate gentleness with a wildness:
with a bird a serpent, a lamb with a tiger...

angels and mermaids... what is no less or... no more:
improbable? perhaps neither...
but in the guise of monotheism... everything is still
somehow sensible...
where there was: half and half...
what angel of monotheism is a half and half
when contending for existence among unicorns...
mermaids or centaurs?
a chimera and a cyclops... **** with a minotaur...
but... such events of monotheistic grandeour are...
supposedly the better respected...
for all the respect i gave unto Knausgård -
because it comes from monotheism:
an angel is to be seen as more than a mermaid...
perhaps... if the angel is of my form...
has the wings... but for its mouth?
a pecker mask... a 50:50 share ratio of...
what a racial "mongrel" would otherwise burden his
shadows with...
a pecker mask akin to those masks
worn at the Venice carnival:
doctor doctor black plague masks...
with a muffed-up speech... as if shouting into
cotton puffed up...
esp. cotton candy...

and this is a sort of friday where i'd much prefer
translating latin... god... where did all these modern
prepositions and conjunctions from from:
into the fore?! there's only one song of worthy summary...
the specials - ghost town.

- Autorank Total 10 ( higher is reduced to 10 ), professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

poetry and order... yes...
yes... very much akin to rhymes...
and very formal language...
but this is hardly a "micro-aggression",
on my part...

it's funny that i never paid any attention to this detail...

hoc erat in votis

i was never into brian jonestown massacre, more of a dandy warhols' fan, but then brian jonestown released the album aufheben and pawns of the palette started picking up not only seminal citric acids and kashmir's spices, but sharp grooves of some distant geography, which of course, all in all: to my liking.

there's nothing like listening to the opening
track of the aufheben album (panic
in babylon, instrumental) and reciting a
bit of horace; should i be accused of sounding
pompous, here's horace himself

    hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus,
    hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons
    et paulum silvae super his foret. auctius atque
    di melius fecere. bene est. nil amplius oro,
    maia nate, nisi ut propria haec mihi munera faxis.

    it was the aim of my wishes: a snippet of arable land,
    a garden, in the vicinity of my house a source of
    fresh water and a grove upon a ***** of a hilly eminence.
    the gods beyond their intentions bestowed upon me
    the loot of my thus lived fate. i have enough!
    i do not implore for more either in this heart of mine
    or among incense or blood of sacrificed bulls at the altar
    where worship is prescribed unto them, but only give me,
    son of May, the chance to use these bestowals.

(translated from polish, and, as would be expected of me,
involved in translation, adding something of my own,
as you can see, the latin prepositions and conjunctions
are reflective of the number apparent in the english language,
but it's hardly a concern with other words,
awaiting a unanimous - not necessarily an N between
two vowels, or because of H, as is exampled by
a great alphabetical distancing of the vowels,
or simply because of the latin tongue-twisters of
the grapheme æ and œ - awaiting a unanimous
decision of the compound words stalled by the hyphen
form, e.g. light-bulb / lightbulb (underlined as a spelling
mistake) by the oxford dictionary committee...
but let's not get as crazy as german spelling
glue... it would make james joyce pale even by finnegans
wake standards of the 100 letter word... i know... english
is a language spelled like shotgun shrapnel, and german is spelled
like a wedding cake or scottish fudge, thick and bulging;
what was i going to say? i took a step into the heraclitean
river and the river took me elsewhere, the ice cubes
in my whiskey citric barley are melting, and i dream
of venice being the modern atlantis along with the maldives).

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

people think the pinnacle of poetry is coupling
adjectives with nouns, but of course,
given adjective & verb coupling is commonplace:
and when they say poetic v. practical,
they then say the hidden practicality of poetry
via, e.g. 'nicely said;' but of course!
we need a sombre musicality of the tongue
with so much dead machinery around us!
the elders complain about headphone "zombies,"
marching like urban myth lemmings on zebras
toward death... but have you actually listened
to those mechanical sounds on concrete?
horrid! when was the last time you heard an owl's
call in the dead of night in a forest? me!
about a year ago: three by my count.

- Autorank Total 9.9, professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.1 (of 1), cliches -2 (of -3) -

the Cyber Pavlov Experiment

and my favorite "poem" in this ranking system,
which, i guess is an a.i. calculator...
i'm most interested in the professional similarity,
i can understand the concrete vs abstract ranking...
but the noun/verb/etc order?
in poetry? again... this is not a "micro-aggression"...

so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******,
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****?!
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
                      please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
    or premeditated minority reports -
  akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
    god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
                    or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
                              obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
                  but it can for sure ******* with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
            and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
                a harp:
            then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
    how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
                        that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
  who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
        complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
              it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
                meaning that they base their worth on
    deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
                          comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
              as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.

- Autorank Total 2.3, professional similarity 1 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

but now... i'll just post the most "pop" poem from
here-on-in there... for that hard-on autorank...

clues as precursor:
- Strong words: army, audience, beef, box, brick, canvas, cubes, eating, fan, fares, football, lines, match, minced, outside, people, poem, poets, river, scrabble, scroll, short, slab, song, steak, striking, stripes, tartar, tomatoes, wave, writing  
-Weak words: albeit, always, answer, any, bad, be, become, bothered, circa, coherency, could, critic, deliberate, effect, eh, elsewhere, enough, escape, event, form, gather, get, had, happen, hardly, impact, intent, international, invent, long, merely, mind, modest, national, never, nice, nothing, perhaps, personally, presume, question, rarely, reason, recluse, repeating, repetition, somehow, sometimes, started, subconscious, subsequently, succumb, tender, thinking, translation, treat, understand, version, very, want, was, well, what, will, worth, would
- Cliches: to be a, i want

****... too early for an autorank...
so here's a pre-scriptum i wrote for...
what i wanted to feed the autoranking system...

this poem has circa 11 thousand views, "elsewhere"...
and i just... would like... to see the score for it...
the very and repeating: twist on the rotten tomatoes' score
"leverage" between audience and "critic" scores...
i gather that the autorank on this canvas is not...
somehow "deliberate"... i presume i have this slab
of minced beef... and when i put it through...
i'll get... a nice cubism version of a ripe steak: medium rare...

then again: i was always a fan of rare...
mind you... it's never raw, it's not tartar cubes...
it's rare... like the person eating... a rarified recluse example:
like a recluse of a rarified worth of all examples given...
this noun/verb/etc. "coherency" score...
perhaps this a.i. scrutiny hasn't bothered to answer
to no asked question... people can still "un-scramble"
or... un-scrabble bad grammar and understand it...
nothing ever has to be: brick on brick like a long
winding river...
it sometimes can arrive at us...
"lost in translation"... some people speak some
languages with no ill-intent...
they just can't escape the pedagogy rubrics of
subconscious grammar layer upon layer upon layer...
is this... a reason to subsequently rhyme?
personally? i treat rhyme as a phenomenon...
a phenomenon that has to happen rarely...
and when it does: it has to be a striking "pose"...
but enough of the pre-scriptum...
i want to see how this poem fares in the autorank filter...
albeit, this given: this pre-scriptum will have had
an impact on the score...

line repetition, eh? the lines are too long or too short?
what was that poem... when you could somehow
invent: "thinking outside the box" of any form,
or when tender poets started to succumb to the cascade
effect of writing - to merely fill-up scroll speed and space?
it's hardly an event like the mexican wave at
a football match... or how...
the white stripes' song: seven nation army
has become the international... well... that's modest...
the national (english) football clubs' anthem...
when a goal is scored... or whatever you like, otherwise...

or cliches... really?!
how about... oh... i remember this one most fondly...
visual poetry...
fallen... by... jörg piringer...
and unlike any modern painting...
this one really does require a description,
as cited on poetryfoundation.com:

/jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In "fallen," piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea./ Geof Huth

and no, by no kind reprint...
perhaps modern painting is what it is...
because... there's an alternative, like fallen?
if you can "paint" with words in adverts...
and paint i imply: stress the psychological impact
of coca-cola written in circa: formal scripts -
(why no italics? you can't... just can't,
write a colon and in italics after...
the colon represents emphasis,
as does the italics... tautology or something -esque)
derived from 17th century handwriting...
or... say... volkswagen... written in blackletter &
lombardic scripts... esp. circa 1935...
while all the propaganda posters were on
display...

given all of this? well... do i have to somehow:
bemoan how terrible modern art is?
cubism is not cricitißed - but dada is -
or let's call it... the most bloated
menu of culture citationand)
Barnett Newman painted this masterpiece,
‘Onement VI’, in 1953.
it sold for close to US$44 million...

i can't say such painting is "good" or "bad"...
after a while you just have to call a spoon a spoon...
a knife a knife, a table a table...
onement vi? blue canvas with a straight line
down the middle; form? rectangular...
and that's when thinking can take place...
i gather than modern art is trying to depict:
primodial man acquiring geometry...
after all... only recently i cound the difference
between the western man and slavs...
how the afro-european now lives in germany
and the west... including italy...
and how the indo-european lives east of germany
in some parts of scandinavia and greece...
a totally new discovery...

but... but... i can compensate for modern art...
with what is visual poetry...
if jorgen schmoorgen can do an abstract of a communist
manifesto... here's my take on...
John Constable... because... frankly...
i have yet to properly deal with this particular piece
of writing - as it's fresh... to subsequently aspire
for... a j. m. w. turner... not yet... not yet...
as ascribed to Juba...

the poem itself is... good grief...
always the same with me...
i go to kenya and i'd want to **** all the ivory
beauties...
a mother is in hospital and all the nurses
are black and i'm like...
what a clean and sterile environment this
is... unlike my today which began
finding an acne dot on my little richard...
(i get the joke... spotty ****)...
having to defrost a fridge freezer in
the shed because:
'z przybytku głowa nie boli'
oh yes it does...
not when what someone deems to be
"enough" do you have to count the trivial...
unnecessary things...
which is not a shame regarding my ***
winning a pulitzer price for... never mind...
i claim lack of sun...
black privelege... impeccable skin...
and... ivory beauties...
n'est ce pas?
alternative i have found an outlet to...
it's become brutally boring...
*******...
i found it... in... japanese gravure...
i had to... esp. when 1970s italian *****
classic died... and everyone is doing
this act older than beer and the giza
pyramids... phellatio and you're like:
so when did the ice-cream dream go away...
the peeling the banana...
and all this ******* gagging begin like
there's everyone with their third tonsils
removed... where mouth is no different
from *** or **** to be RAMMED!
lucky for me i still have my third tonsil...
which means i can drink cold beer in winter
and not get a soar throat...
- lucky for me i still have my *******...
god... if i didn't... i don't think i'd have
the "moral compass" to "get away with it"...
unless i was a woman with a web-cam...
in which: it almost becomes akin to reading
a book... it's like: it's there for the sole use of
pleasuring yourself or... as i like to call it on
throne of thrones (the toilet)...
first you do the no. 1, then the no. 2...
then you start doing the no. 3 to see...
whether you've done no. 2 completely...
it sometimes happens that having an *******
dilates the **** to the point where:
there's a shady **** loitering in the "back"
somewhere... which would explain ****-erotica...
in reverse to the act of ****-erotica of being
penetrated... i.e. in this scenario...
finishing doing a no. 2...
after that? downhill a quick side-step for
a no. 4 in the shower - baptism...
but... yeah... the men that shame men with
regards to *******?
they must be circumcised men...
shaming other circumcised men...
i think to think how a circumcised man
could shame an uncircumcised man for this act...
that's like... circumcised women...
shaming uncircumised women...
for jerking off with a web-cam...
uncircumcised women and...
explosive libido... whatever the stereotypes
are... circumcised men...
uncircumcised men...
there has to be a: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar joke around here somewhere...
i'm trying to find it...
but i have found that: circumcised men
shame other circumcised men over *******...
while the uncircumcised men are like...
if only i were a woman and had a webcam...
if society had a niche consumer base for that...
"sort of thing"...
i'd be making money from one
genocide of a fraction of myself ever so often...
i.e. it's killing when the ***** is owned
by a woman (sensible... sensible...
i don't mean the former chinese 1 child
state policy of: statistics at all costs...
even at 8 months old)...
but if that's the case...
then a session of hanky-panky...
sterile... washing under the ******* etc.,
i'm practically doing erotica-genocide
slim film no. 3890... ever since it started aged
8... when i discovered Onan...
way before the white nation army came out
from the hades of the *******...
how the ******* of ***** has nothing
to do with the ******...
the muscles and nerves are wired so to the brain...
that i'm pretty sure a castrato feels
the same...
**** chicken shaming...
it must be circumcised men against
circumcised men: ******* missing olympics...
no wonder... you peel a ******* potato...
you have to throw it in some water
to prevent it from darkening...
that's of course: prior to cooking...
so you have to find the ****** cushion
brigade from time to time...
a "sword" without a "sheath"...
rust or egomania or: motivational talk talks...
because Kant was never going to be my:
bachelor of the year for the 215th time in a row...
kierkegaard famously didn't marry...
erectile "dysfunction":
not a real problem in my own company
or in the company of prostitutes...
but a serious ******* problem among
the "free women" of western europe...
it's like one of those vague "superpowers"...
women speak of turn-ons and turn-offs...
yeah: i too have my limp switch too...
somehow... this "thing" is not automated...
it's not like spam-mail... it doesn't always:
"rise to the occassion"...
the mood swings of my *****...
i'm starting to think that perhaps neurology will
explain more about my brain
than my suma summarum will ever tell me
about this excess of the 21st digit (which
of course includes the 10 precursor toes)...

as i haven't read marquis de sade in a long while...
and i'm not touching any modern erotica,
and ******* bores me
and how japenese gravure is the next best
all-spice of brain fever...
and how: if this little harlot went to sudan
for her nitty-picking a tartan lover,
or if she decided for rwanda...
i have to guess the fiction and fantasy...
for me, at least... has to rely on...
a bull in a porcelain shop...
or as the kama sutra says:
a rabbit **** is hardly going to ****
an elephant ****... lengths and depths...
all round!
which makes you wonder...
genghis khan must have been...
or has to be... the ***** envy shitlord
of a whole lot of people with the surname
Khan in pakistan.

Recently
it seems
every time we talk
our cacophonous
voices don't sing.

The harmony's off--
lost it's charming ring.
The tye-dye mind's eye melody
is mellowing into a gray spring.

And I'm wondering why?

But...
I think I know.
Only asked cause
I was hopin' you might hum some other musical notes,
ones that won't turn this song into a black swan dive
forced to call the huntin' dogs to track
back to a time where you and I laughed freely.

But there's this feeling
that this is how your other he must have felt
while you and me were undoing our belts--
yelling & screaming
as my parents were sleeping
upstairs above--
we played each other like saxophones
to this grand Nirvana relaxed crescendo!

But as this poem progresses
the tempo stiffens--
    your voice lessens--
as the harmony's off-key
and the melody's riff softens.
It's not hitting me hard like a gong-
feels like two people singing
different lyrics into the same microphone.
Someone with synesthesia can see
our colorful speech atrophy
instead of pirouetting in turquoise dreams.

If that sounds harsh,
sorry, that's the reality I perceive--
we don't want each other to leave,
But our avoidance of labeling
what we are also established what we weren't
and now this playful...thing? we had
feels like a breaking carafe as it hits the floor.

I want to continue writing you more poems and songs
but it's hard when the harmony's off-key
and losing it's charm.
   This new lentando^ tempo's like a left arm going numb.
I want to keep composing
but it feels like water
instead of kerosine pouring
on the fire that was inspiring
as this mournful melody dilates throughout my being.

These skyscrapers are monuments
built by God. See how the moon is
shining tonight, how she is a perfect
circle as minuscule as a pupil. But I’d like
to pretend that she dilates, waxes,
herself to become a halo for these
monuments that were created like ziggurats
to reach God. Because, all the while, they’re
really

as holy and immaculate as the night
sky above them washed by the river
of luminescent car headlights flooding
the streets and dead stars flowering
above

like Jesus once stood naked
on a river to be

purified.

She brought comfort,
The few minutes granted by the press of the snooze button.
The shutter of eye lids reaching the corner of rem.
Choosing instead to sleep rather than face the reality of being away from her.
The hesitation of opening eyes, a morbid reality.
Waking up, coming to the realization that the only perk life has is when your truly unconscious.
Lost in a soft dream. Inhabiting a space somewhere in time that feels like eternity.
An ethereal experience. Filling my lungs in a universe filled with her.
A place containing a medium that dilates pupils behind closed eyes.
Fearing that any moment might be the last.
A unexplainable language, depicted as a snore. The circulation of bliss.
Smiling in a state of sleep.
Interrupted by the sound of an alarm, signifying that our time will be cut short.
Annoyed by the sound of reality blaring it's alarm.
Half opened eyes feeling around to silence the light of a phone.
Modernized alarm. Made convent.
Lost in the sheets.
All made possible by the 10 minute break of the snooze button.
Picking back up were we left off, for 10 long minutes that seem like a lifetime.
All thanks to the press of a snooze button

Oh there is a ball in my stomach
a tight knot of anxious confusion.
It circulates and undulates
dilates and twists
throbs
grows...
absorbing my life's energy.

"Let it free and watch it"

It emerges from my stomach...
the twisting blue-black mass
convoluting, churning
in the space in front
…and in a moment it dissolves…

My mind is clear
the rain falls gently outside
almost like snow...
Moving with the gentle breeze...
What power in coming into awareness,
Into relationship with
those things which pain me.

She drank her coffee too
sweet
and drew herself
to the smell of new
pencil shavings,
like a pupil dilates in light,
telling itself to expand,
to drink up
more
and
more.

She fumbled
on old strands of her
self rising like mug steam
from poetry
she wrote only three months ago.
Wide-eyed,
reading "when
one leaves,
the past is a fetish"
in rounded, running letters
bubbling up over each other -
a gravy she found
herself constantly stirring.

And sunsets,
dashed with pink syrup,
are a passion
('passion' being her
'word' - a skin-colored tattoo,
a branded prayer, an incanted torch)
Sunsets.
Sour golden orange laced
with strawberry wine.
Bittersweet.
Passionate.

Her.

For the words you utter
I pry fervently
If is mould of dust;just like me

I just don't get it
And finds it hard if I do
How can mere words be so hominid
Soft and ****

I just don't get it
The very sight
****** and cloack me with lewd
And make my entire body sweet
Like am dip in a jacuzzi
Full of chocolate and sugar
And lays my head on pluffy pillows
As it swift to the lanes of my mind
And twine my hair so brilliantly

I just don't get it
Who taught it my weakspots and hormones?
Who taught it all those gentle touches;
And ***** talks?
It whispers into my ears
Nuzzling my lobes and rings

I just don't get it
It defiles me completely
When it massages the pits
Of my elbow and knees
As my pupil dilates and mutters"I want you"so gently

I just don't get it
It makes my ******* get hard,and lurch
And bust my blouse
I gasp for fresh air
When it kisses all over me,and ends in the middle of my tighs
As I drip the tears of pleasure,and moans helplessly

I just don't get it
It follows me everywhere
Even in my bathroom
When it grips my moldy towels,and gets deep within me
And makes my heart beat faster than the athletes

I just don't get it
Not even in my sleep will it let me by
When it watches over me,and get into my dreams
And brews creams in my pants

I just don't get it,
Your words,your words
Your words is a man

Your words
©Historian E.Lexano

filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility

The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence

Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate

For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk

The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst

The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return

Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.

how eager we are to forget
where we came from,
as though we weren't
dirt beneath God's
meticulous manicure mere
fractional eternities ago.
you stopped talking to me
just days ago, but
it feels like epochs;
time dilates in strange
manners, it truly is alien.
there are civilizations
that simply do not
measure time; things happen when
they happen, and that
is that. foreign concepts and
foreign languages slipping across
the tip of my tongue, while
foreign tongues work their way
into your every orifice.
I'm laying in bed, last night
was a bust, I drank a
little bit of whiskey but
not enough, it rained but
only briefly, and I
did not have fun but
I cannot complain;
at least I don't need
you anymore.

The sun set blue
Cold as ice it set at noon
Delicately drifting through.
Sooner no later the hazel eyes kissed the horizon bringing so much more than understanding to the *****
Smoke drifted leaving her body loose.
Corrupted allegations
Dense regulations
Her hazel eyes kissed the horizon no sun insight.
Just radiant green streak with an orange light.
A pupil that cautiously dilates.
She was my morning light

I can't tell people about you.

They won't understand how my pupil dilates at the sight of you
They won't understand how my happiness resides in your face
They won't understand my silence when you choose to devour books instead of my neck
They won't understand the twenty minute ride back home with your hand in mine against my chest
They won't understand the void your arsenic-like words left me in

And I cringe inside
Because, just like people, you won't understand neither.



-LynnAA

I journeyed to an unfamiliar place,
To frame your known and lovely face
Within the small yet feeling space
Between the fond intention of my hands.
And, had no plans for you to know
How time dilates the slowness of
Our separate days, where we both stay
Disguised, among the wrong established choice
Which younger voice; thought right.
Yet for tonight, you let me see
How it could be if others claim
To own your common name; were through.

Why then, should I feel blue,
Now that at last, you’ve said
“I love you too?”

© James Rainsford 2010

I'm letting you go, dear past
you're the ether that scientists thought to carry the light
they discovered you don't really exist (the speed of light is invariant for every observer)

I have things to live, new adventures to imagine
the dream scared to wake up
dear, it's time to take a chance...

'Cause
She won't be there again to write in my cherished books
And I will give her a happy ending and say hello when we meet again
She was so nice but left unexplained and there is nothing to do

And if you by chance knock my door again, ask for a cup of tea
please remember you won't stay after 10 unless you're real

I'm keeping some music preserved, you know
like the stars save a million years that you can travel to
they found a lifetime it's actually enough (time dilates and space contracts)

I have memories to make, friendships to shield
the soul afraid of dying
hey, now learns to live and fly...

'Cause
He won't remember the tears I shed some nights before
Or how he kissed me in the parking lot when we thought nobody watched
They were so sweet, dear, but have never happened at all

We can talk like old friends, forgotten lovers, listen to some songs
please remember you are a treasure but you are gone

Take me out on a non realistic trip
detach me from my  inner self
when they threw me out on the island
I didn't miss my land
I didn't miss my people
I gazed on the freezing moon
I watched the boat coming and going
but I did not beg them to
take me back to the city
where the look in everyone's eyes
is just speaking of hatred
when you look into their eyes
and all you feel is hate from a person
maybe they aren't real
maybe I am not just what I think I am
if this isn't real then I'm just an idea
in someone else's brain
you don't get the feeling when you're trapped
you burn like fire in the deserts of Egypt
you crawl on your feet
crumble and fall like a stone
but you're nothing like a rolling stone
let the sun touch you until you sweat
let the forest's parasites live inside your hair
a meteor was crossing the sky
I looked into your eyes
and I saw the sparkles in your eyes
how it dilates slowly with the breeze.

i could spot him in any crowd even though he blends into the walls

i want his warm hands and the way his fingers lace around mine
i want his soft lips and hard kiss
and how he would take violence and passion
and mix the most pleasurable serum i’ve ever tasted
i want his eyelashes to play my heart again like his fingers play guitar
                                                          ­                                                                 ­ beautiful

he told me he wouldn’t forget how our lips locked
                     i wont forget that either
and that if we lived in the same universe
we would be lovers like something rarely seen
                     i wont forget that either

did you know that when i see you my heart dilates
so to take in as much of your light as it can
and when i hear you i develop a fear of going deaf
because if i don’t get your notes, i'll be alone                                         
              ­                                                                 ­                         ******
                                 ­                                                                 ­      not high.
  
i’m not sure anyone can hold my interest the way he does
i wish i never let him go
every day

there’s something i’ve been wanting to tell you:
i couldn’t say goodbye to you and that’s why i didnt answer the phone

I feel the wind on my face
as it caresses my skin,
The breath of the world
as it whispers intuition.

I see the clouds unfurl
and vast expanses clear,
As a god's pupil dilates
bequeathing knowledge here.

I hear time draw quiet
as starlight is still,
Immutable undercurrents of
comprehension instilled.

All of this contained
the whole in my eye,
Every synapse in my brain
for a millisecond aligned.

Dripping in gold,
Basking in the glaze
of revelations untold.

I walked upon waves,
Physics torn
into a reality unfazed.

With such intuitive reasoning,
I pierced the maze
to glance at an age away.

It will find me again in time,
This power to define.

When indecision will leave me,
And the world will be mine.

Now dare to interpret any singular line.

you smile, and a person dies.
you smile, and the sun bows a tiny bit lower in the sky.
you smile, and two people are born.
you smile, and a note trills its way to my ear's tympanum.
you smile, and a moth finds its way to the dimming porch light.
you smile, and the incense stick accessorizes with a shawl of smoke.
you smile, and every vein in my cheeks dilates.
you smile, and there is a marvelous lilt to your voice.
you smile, and my clever anecdote is stuck between your teeth.
you smile, and our eyes dare each other to grin even wider.
you smile, and somewhere dawn breaks like a bull in a china shop.
you smile, and life roars.

You look at me,
that is all it takes, and temptation tumbles towards me

Electrochemical codes stretch themselves thin
taught and winding
cooing and fluttering in axonal cornices
Echoes rush through neuronal chambers,
charged and pulsating.

My mind in harmony and fully drawn to you
synchronized by the network.
The messages reach my cortex, aesthetic appraisal follows
I know not the meticulous, miraculous mechanics of such a wonderful process but
You beauty is magnified now.
Touch receptors tell my whole body to tingle
Sensory splendor is so scary.

The cascades have commissioned the deeper circuitry:
Those ancient blueprints of visceral demands
from which wicked temptations of man are born,
the veteran fossil of primordial impulse, a buried luxury, a relic:
My reward system
permeated by your kiss.

I am dangerously, fearfully humble to the power of pleasure
It is awake in the under-structure of neurobiologically institutionalized euphoria,
ablaze in the basic backbone of bliss
It is stirring in it’s ancient wires.

I can say I am somewhat privy to the elusive nature of experience.
being a human being alone grants me this
being a scientist of the brain only dilates my sense of love’s incomprehensibility.
And so I sink into your touch, your presence unresisting.

Have you ever seen two worlds in contrast? One is just a plain sight. Never demanding anything so extraordinary. While the other one consists of billions of possibilities that you'll give up learning Math's permutation and combination. It's beautiful actually. You could say that it's pretty tiring but dimensions are a whole lot of fun. One afternoon, you're only reading a book in a bustling train. Never feeling that cozy in a long time. Being surrounded by a crowd temporarily makes you forget that you're lonely. Next thing you'll know, you're standing in total darkness. The loud chatter of the person you sit next to, suddenly fades into deafening silence. Hehe but don't worry you are not alone, darling. There's a smiling demon beside your face. He's quite delighted to see some company.

It's strange right? But I love strange. It's just the kind of level I need. You'll get the hang of it. The most exciting part is that it drives you out of your comfort zone. I hid there and hibernated but I learned that it did me no good. Okay **** now where was I? Oh yes, I have to tell you the ******* thing about myself. I, Erin Roma, am miserably bursting with dimensions. And it's all a slippery *****. No, I don't want to hear my skull breaking again. I'm done with that. But the question resurfaces, is he done with me? Because I still feel the blood in my forehead. It hardened so much that no matter how determined am I in wiping it, nothing ever happens. It just stays there.

The voices in my head linger. No, I'm not some lunatic killer. Hmmm I might be someday. But right now, I'm just plain lunatic with her spectacles shattered on one side standing on the top of a cliff, staring into the emerging horizons. I still wear it though. The glasses, I mean. Because you'll never know when will it strike again. The world is full of capabilities. The sharpest light sawing back and forth, ripping through the pupil in my eyes, just before it dilates. Was it salvation? Do I need some saving?

No, you couldn't possibly be referring to God. That was so 10 years ago. This real world slapped at me. Now, it's gaping its doe eyes on you. Watching our every move. Threatened by the fact that I'll go back. No, I'm not turning myself into an obsessed idiot again just so that I can solicit something from Him. I was a hypocrite back then. One of those judgmental little ****** dressed as righteous disciples.

I'm ignoring all of it. The ghosts nagging me, engulfing me in a vortex. Should I go back to the plain world? Back to the life of pretending to be things they expect you to be? I'm  a non-conformist and I've suffered way too long. Enough of the zigzag that you're currently dealing because of me. Eyes closed, I'm starting to grasp where I am going.

ALL THIS HAPPENED BECAUSE OF ONE KISS.

IT MEANT

WELCOME
TO
HELL

I laughed back saying "BITE ME."

What's in that eye's allure?
As yours ask, come closer
Lo! brushing lips insure
a kiss, sweet in-form her
stronger feelings attest
there is life in this love
absolute heart's tight chest
spellbound, courting foxglove
In those eyes a fissure
each pupil dilates
no rope cleft, he falls sure
blind and stutters, awaits
passion's reckless stumble
into arms, legs, embrace
whispers roll and tumble
thoughtful in interlace
apace, evening lingers
fingers locked in fingers

-cec

Not just a memory
But a stored moment in time that you savor

Not just a sound
But a wave of harmonious lyrics that tickles your eardrum

Not just a taste
But the flavor of many seasonings that bounces across your taste buds like thousands of pinballs

Not just a sight
But visual ecstasy that dilates the pupils and allows light to send blinding rays of optical bliss

Not just a feeling
But the pulsation of electrodes across the skin as it makes the thousands of hair follicles stand at attention

Take a moment to reflect and see that every day we are blessed with the gift of life...it's NOT JUST life, but it's the opportunity to hear new things, see new sights, taste new flavors, feel new feelings, and make brand new memories.

clouds are knotted over—
soft q-tip plunge
into your mopped halo.
time dilates
itself into big rain, big thunder—
a concentration of stringed lights
hanging on a rusted picture wire

I’ve written this before but
we are nothing but bones underneath—
mortal refuse cooling in the shade
until our joints are locked
and we toboggan down
with tight jaws

seeing the physical doesn’t mean
you can see—
the tendency to blindfold oneself
snuggles inside judgment,
moves inside the tracks like a swallowed pearl
until you dig through
and find the bruised dream

I let the lightning roll off of the
table, spill on the wood floor.
I don’t mop it up;
I no longer buy the delusion
of messes made. I **** the
electric lemon. feel my face go
cold and numb. succumb to
the dominant, coronal moonshine.

here we are—heaps in the corners
of a corner-less world. we hook things
like fish. we perform fire drills. we love
the act of escaping.
here we are—piles of human, our knees
in our hands.

the next strike comes. ommmmmms into omen.

in this cardboard kingdom, our houses sag
when it rains and we crouch down to survive.
but I will always remember the clouds,
driving knots into your cells as the roof
fell in. and we were both soaked. both sacks
of pearled bones.

Happiness is just a dopamine rush.
I find myself doing outlandish things to acquire this feeling.
Looking for things that will pump hot adrenaline through my cold veins.
But adrenaline does not compare to dopamine,
or the phenylethylamines that made me murmur
“I love you” as I lay in your arms.
If I could just find something that compares to your kiss on my forehead.
Neurons firing under the pressure of hot lips.
And every time I chase this feeling I fail.
I can feel myself being ****** into a downward spiral
of rebound hookups and late nights that
I can’t seem to remember.
It seems as though the only drug my body comes to life for
is your penetrating gaze, that dilates my pupils
and hands on the small of my back,
that send deep pangs of longing into my stomach.
Nothing makes me feel more alive than
your fingers in my hair and your voice in my ears.
A brain consumed by love can be as deadly
as one consumed by drugs.

Love is the exquisite pain
The poetry of sultry rain
in unison with our breathing
Fogging the windows

Before the hollow siroccos moan
cold grey lonely
Hallways dim
Velvet  Sorrows
Blackened
Walls of the new moon
void of our lungs'
illustrations

Even now in memory's whisps
How exquisite the frame
Picturesque recollection
Polaroid for the finality of farewell

Just us / ghosts now
Without / but dust / once was
None-such eyes / dilates
Can emptiness be
Felt
En flagrante glaciers
Enflamed diminishment?

Seems the loud moments remain

Drowned the reasons of its thundering
All intentions deigned since
Defeated slump with
No dire aches
Mumbling
       a corpse heavy mind
Lacking a fleet of feeling to combat self hateful
Blight

Gone in the gloom
Which is palpable like the taste of smoke
That carries warning signals to the sun
     with the ****** of native drums
Going
Gone
            will o' whispering past

Yet shadows are forgetful in dreams
As we are sleeping to wake
In the beams

Memory echoing from touch
Our bodies quake...
Inspired by much
Hearts rush

And still the loudest feelings remain
An old painting in its frame

Our art as body paint
heaven pouring in
You and I remain
Born not made

(To make)
Love our loudest moment :

Canvas to frame/
A window and the rain...

selfish seated next to pure
how does evil lure demure
underserving, i am cruel 
a wildfire only one ruled

narcissistic, i saw snow
so i torched it, saw it glow
watched the torture, killed it slow
forced together, white and coal

hand in hand and as they melted
when things ended, i reacted 
if only i'd been forewarned
would’ve never fired that torch 

a refugee i fled for help
from war i'd waged against myself
when ceaseless thoughts of him intrude
i knew fate had picked my refuge

an Angel touched my hand 
he took from me my black
his wings lifted my sins 
he sensed my innocence 
rinsed clean my slate with his
for me he risked his wings 
saw my tears made them his

he is my tears
he protects me
offers relief 
he sustains me
unhesitating 
   made quiet my fire 
   he seized my fears
   saved me like tears
                                     he is my tears 
                                     he is my tears
i am pyrite, he is gold
in-fractions quartered my soul
so one tuesday night in june
i raised my weight up on a stool

pessimistic i sought sleep
sewed a tassle by my eulogy
blotched its ink as my eyes spewed
forced my neck into the noose

inhaled the last breath i’d hold
when in he rushed, my precious stone
if only he’d been forewarned
would’ve never touched fool’s gold

then an Angel touched my hand
he changed my jaded plans
his words exuded jewels
he sensed my dissonance
synced my dead breath with his
with jade greener than spring  
filled my lungs to the brim

as my eyes streamed in front of him
he swam dark seas and prized me with
faith i’d drowned cowardly in gin

he is my tears
he protects me
offers relief 
he sustains me
unhesitating 
   made quiet my fire 
   he seized my fears
   saved me like tears
                                     he is my tears 
                                     he is my tears
he kneels down by my knees, says he
wished he had his lens now to steal
this image his two lenses see 
the sky's iris crowning his queen

dilates my pupils as he speaks 
constrict-in vein when high i peek
see no bright stars can make me peak  
like sights of his smile just for me

seep fingertips deep in my wrist  
feel my heart racing, so i sprint 
hear its beats use my ears as drums
hymns his tears sang that day still haunt

i stole from him all but my tears 
he held my burden selflessly 
and as i robbed strides selfishly  
my faith fell back beneath my feet

he is my tears
he protects me
offers relief 
he sustains me
unhesitating 
   made quiet my fire 
   he seized my fears
   saved me like tears
                                     he is my tears 
                                     he is my tears
wish he could see 
that even when they kneel
     Angels                                              ­        
exceed queens.   

- end

My verse is free
******, malleable, ever changing
From sadness, to peace
The cavernous confines expand
And my heart is lit aflame

My words are simple
Visions, prophesies, fortunes
From death, to life
The time between dilates
And my soul is lit aflame

My tone is steady
Musical, poetic, evolving
From anger, to gratitude
The space between magnifies
And my voice is lit aflame

My steps are fast
Running, wild, assured
From sedation, to waking
The road in front broadens
My body is lit aflame

poetry is indeed weeping
when no homeric
novelty of heroism is
to be given applause...
shame we never earned
a second chance to celebrate
such blind heroism,
instead we celebrated
a heroism of reading a book,
because poets dared not attach
themselves to the acts in the world
as heroic enough to write about,
instead choosing to write, to celebrate
the consolation of reading,
as if restoring homer's eyesight
to the scenes at troy, which never
took place in our aeon worth
the light, instead the darkness
of being overly written over to a darkening,
to keep humanity's darkest hour
known as the holocaust, hidden well
by the words of youth in poem
for a sense of longing and misunderstood love,
here no need to illuminate the slaughter,
here the need to darken the slaughter
with poem on poem to keep the light
darkened, and claim and call defeat:
here then to write a defeat
and rekindle scenes where no word dare
encounter a limb of the activity
that would couple the activity to body
and the word to grammar...
here no word pass, but cinema remains
the truest concern: it simply
keeps us lip-reading / palm-reading, while
so much soul dilates oozing from the eyes
not looked into.