An immense circle of thoughts was clouding
my brain in this room of reconfigured dimensions,
the spinning ceiling fan whirling into a windmill,
the ******* floors breaking into a wave of sharpened
metaphors, the expressionless curtains filled with fear
and crashing scenery, a dark hollow surface converging
in a rhythm of insane beats, imprisoned noted drumming,
disentangled sentences, shattering subjects, compressed
conjunctions and compounds accelerating into an eternity
of uncolored existences, as I stare at the isolated sky,
swollen stars diverging in a broken pattern of faded worlds,
the breathless moon sunken in a domain of interchangeable
languages, meaningless mazes, chopped consonants,
crumbling dreams, everything shifting in a sea of diminishing
whirlpools, while I drifted into a realm of uncaged thoughts,
a crushing cycle of unbalanced worlds, dizzy and senseless
paragraphs bleeding into timeless realities.  My eyes are
plummeting and shackled in drumbeating rhetoric, lost logos,
swallowed pathos, enveloped ethos, rainless cheeks, cloaked chests,
handcuffed arms, square root hips disassembling into deferred
depictions, distilled dreams, shadowed feet hardly more than a
poetic sound, a sore scrawled letter stretched in ragged angles,
stinging, helpless horizons.  I gazed at the shattered glass on
the kitchen floor, how its cracking vibration rumbled inside
my veins, how its impossible syllables blazed my soul,
the burning air around my inner being suffocating in Saturn,
vanishing in Venus, exploding on Earth, every ****** debris
splitting in horrid labyrinths, a screaming depth hidden in
disguise.  I glanced around at the broken wall where
my drunken dad fists where imprinted, the mangled wood
hanging in drugged vowels, the rotten symmetry disappearing
in chalky chambers, roughly lined hues declining without a trace,
as I reflected on the series of events that transpired, the way I
could hear the slamming door raging inside my vessel,
enflamed flaming verbs hovering in high rhymes,
hardened adjectives, destroyed derivatives, disintegrating
equations, the way his bladed feet dragged across the floor,
every reverberating step drowning the sunken space between us,
unwritten surroundings trapped in the atmosphere, confined in a
cloud of inconsolable galaxies, the raging fire stained ***** bottle
wedged between his grubby hands, as I could smell the reeking
breath sifting out of his mouth onto my monotonous flesh,
the same ruthless flow traveling in stuttering nouns, drowning
my heart in Neptune, while I listened to his blazing bloodshot
words, You are nothing without me!  You are worthless!  
You are just a filthy *****!  I wish you would die!  The rising
diction clenched every part of my frame, the way I could breathe
in the asphalt in his tasteless lips, a dying aroma that made me feel
like I was a featureless street seeping into underground dungeons, undone, a destroyed beauty shotgunned.

I

You came to me in the robes of Cyclamen
But how can I bring you a bouquet of red chrysanthemums?
When I have not found any white chrysanthemums in the bouquet of your heart?
Do not pluck the petals of my pure daisies with your eyes closed, lest you would be fooled by your wild guesses.
Because, you do not need to set your foot on twelve daisies before you can see the dawn of your spring
I will give you neither white nor red daisies after the last swallow of summer has flown away from your alcove, lest your dreams of them in autumn leave you heartbroken in winter.
In my wanderlust quest for Ivy
I did not find you in the bloom of Orange Blossom or in Lemon Blossom
But I found you entangled in the paphiopedilum orchids of Phaphos with a garland of Peach Blossom dangling from your ringed neck
Like a rose entangled in your own thorns
Then I disentangled you before I led you to the lyceum of my Muses
They welcomed you with the petals of Apple Blossom cast at your bleeding feet. They wiped your tears away with the golden petals of yellow roses and bathed you in the pool of the Coral Rose.
They covered you with the Peach Rose and led you into the bed of my Rose of Persia before I came to you with my bouquet of the white Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley

II

My heart is a bouquet of red roses
Red roses in a vase of Michaelmas daisies
As flowers bloom in the oasis in the desert
Red roses will blossom in my heart
So, here I am my dearest dove
I have come to your nest to rest in your *****
I have come to you my sweetest love
Where the roses in my heart will blossom.

For my heart will no longer pine
Nor will my enchanted spirit whine
For as long as you are mine
You will forever be my Valentine.

I washed three times but still:
I smell the vile breath, and still
I see the sunken bloodshot eyes
a pain too deep and miserable to scream
from its open grave, vestige of human lies.

Tomorrow your vacant eyes will not remember this face
yet the fetid smell will not ever leave my head.
Again and again it plays,
the blurry vision of a heat induced hallucination
sneaking up, once again, to threaten my sanity.

I thought it was a child,
an innocent, ill-fated child on a bike,
perhaps still burning, perhaps still alive.
Yet all I could find was the shell of a human life
bruised by a world which is infinitely unkind.

As you blinked at me and slurred your dissent
I disentangled your legs from the wheels
tugged you out of your certain crematorium
dead weight to weak arms and shaky knees,
dead weight to all our cushioned lives.

My abandoned car blinked furiously
ignored by the lives that unblinkingly drove by
No longer human, no longer of use,

illegal smelly immigrant

I wretched violently on the way home
the smell of your skin on my clothes and hands
the unsettling disgust in humanity
steeped into my disillusioned plans.
Only one man stopped:

‘anche io sono straniero ma…’

His conscience dirtied by judgement over judgement
your rotten breath etched deep into his identity
an anchor of blame which has nowhere tangible to go
defensive and defenceless to this worldwide generalisation.
Anche io sono straniero ma.

Did I really save your life, did I choose to be this way?
To follow the trail in the grass
where the cheap boxed wine pulls drunkards off course.
To acted upon automation, like the Belding’s ground squirrel,
putting itself in danger in the name of evolution.

You asked god to bless me but did I really do you a kindness?
Or should I have let the heat put you to sleep, cease your pain?
Head nuzzled in the prickly grass, feet tangled in your rusty bike
barbed wire inches from your eye
invisible to the road, invisible to the world.

And as xenophobia prevails, as hatred and fear win the UK
and all these cars speed away, I feel lonely and wired incorrectly.

Colleagues surrounded me;
When sweet success came.
Chaos and congratulations;
Each lip uttered my name.

Many different expressions;
And many dissimilar words.
Like mass of thread entangled.
At once I saw, at once I heard.

At night closed my eyes.
Became hand my head.
Sorted words and expressions;
And disentangled the thread.

Now I am well informed;
And now very well I know.
I can easily differentiate;
My friend from my foe.

Why was I made to exist? To merely experience life through sorrowful eyes.

I drown so deep, I question all my feelings and try to make excuses as to why I feel a certain way.
Certain ways I don’t even understand.
If I was made to bring a revolution and change perception, then why should I **** myself just by doing so?
So empty and hollow, the wall has enclosed.
If I was born to be misunderstood, why is it so easy for me to understand and accept everyone else, even those who discredit me.

The voices in my twisted mind. Who are they? Are they real? Is it my intuition? Or is it intuition turned into nerve aching anxiety.
Writhing inside of me, eating every part of my disillusioned sanity.
If I seize to exist to help those who put me down and call me crazy, then why is it worth it?

If I could hang myself right now tight around the neck where I might snap my spine... why would it matter?
I’ve accepted being alone, being lonely is now contentment. Peace.
Drained by others negativity, pulling me down like strings by their problems.
If I was meant to show my true form, why is it that I live in different facades.
Questioning who I am every single ****** day.

I hear people constantly talk about me, in my mind.
Is it intuition? Or mere delusion.

I’m dead. Empty. My purpose in life is to physically die so I can finally go back to where I came from. Other dimensions where I truly belong.

Disentanglement, I lose myself in fear.

My dear, I assure you, this was not my deed. No, my dear, I am innocent. I awoke this morning from a genius dream to darkness, as my windows were covered with grayed curtains from my mother’s gold childhood. I stepped out onto the terrace without notice of the body. Perhaps it was not there yet. However, doctors soon established the lady had been dead for more than thirteen hours. I was not aware of her presence the entire time I took eloquent drags from my cigarette, only noticing the smell of the pollen-filled wind and, now I know, mistaking the sound of her blood hitting the concrete tiles as a mild shower from the south. Had I been aware of her presence, I’d have saved her, separated the handle from the clench of her body, and called the authorities. I’d have cried if only I remembered how. I’d have made love to her while I was still alone. Let her rest in ecstasy.
          Do you understand now, my dear? Do you understand the good that lies within me? I am not a man of killing; perhaps somewhere, a man like me is, but not I, dear friend, not I. Do you believe me? My God, if only the officers believed me. Instead they tied my hands behind my back and forced my lips shut so that I can not even yell of my innocence, all while dragging me into a cellar that now I must call my home because of an action I did not commit. That I did not commit! That I would never dare to commit! Atrocious, they call me. Atrocious, I call them for engraving lies into my brain, fragile to dementia but not to crime. No, never to crime.
         My dear, please note, they say I am who I am not. Devils! They paint pictures of a filthy man unrecognizable and insist it is me. *******! I have felt my skin tingle in manners unimaginable and a sensation of a new body rise within me, a new body whose deeds I have no control over. I am not the producer of this crime. I am innocent. This was my only confession to the officers who came into my apartment due to the neighbors’ complaints of screams unlike those of ******* coming from somewhere near my establishment. Indeed, I found, along with my new workmates, a bloodied woman looking down to the floor, lipstick mouth and tired eyes, impaled. Horrific! Was written on the notepad of the chief of police. Now I am strained on electrical mattresses, obliged to believe what I never would have dared to believe, obliged to reminisce my last taste of self-government: as I stood in the doorway of my terrace along with five police officers realizing they were not prepared for this grotesque imagery, I became aware of a fragile young woman, perhaps in her early 20s, hanging upside down with a rotten handle sticking from her mouth. Indeed, around her disentangled body were the satin sheets of my bed, drenched in her brown substance that shimmered in the snug afternoon sunlight. The officers hurriedly disregarded this fact and focused on the removal of the woman’s body from the handle, only to have her legs detach and fall onto the wet concrete. An officer yelled. Another grimaced. I giggled, watched, focused, determined. Upon further distant inspection, I observed that the handle had been ferociously inserted into her soft, delicate genital, forced through her dry ******, passing along the large and small intestines, only to finally pierce her stomach and come back up through her mouth. The beauty of the crime was terrifying.
          The beauty of the crime is terrifying. It is a blissful poem written by finesse, workmanship, delicacy. There is no manner for this legendary craft to be produced by me: I am a sufferer of mediocrity and its dreadful boredom. The father of the crime was a genius, the one I have always dreamt of being. Now, my friend, since my last day of freedom, I have no beauty to witness anymore. Confined, I befriend insects whose exoskeletons allow for strength and resistance to remain a part of them. I am incompatible to these powers; I am innocent. At many times, I howl for a touch at night; I awake with cut nails and scars between my thighs. Guards insist on restraining me. They sabotage me until I see Hell. Then, I am finally able to stay calm. No more do I sporadically feel my skin tear from my bones as if it were attempting to evaporate from me as a slight sting overcomes these unfamiliar ligaments. They ask me how? They ask me why? I remain silent fore I do not recall how or why. I remain silent fore I desire to know how or why. I desire the brilliance of the unspeakable act. Unspeakable in its grandeur; unspeakable in its cruelty. The filthy man the officers paint now becomes attributed to the crime’s brilliance to me. I see him more everyday. He wanders in mirrors and speaks to me when I am not aware of time and presence.
        However, disappointed, I remain with no explanation for the officers but that sunsets are composed of separations of wavelengths that shine differently onto each ray of existence than onto any other globular star. And, as this occurs, the identical wavelengths spray themselves among the individuals who are most vulnerable to hysteria in order to reflect themselves in unsuitable manners. That is how my mother explained to me the illness her womb inflicted onto my sacred hemisphere. That is how I began to call the foul insects who dared to climb into my cellar, my sole companions.

I fear too much of life
Has been spent living in our
Mismatched silverware drawer.
While knives are always fine,
Never noticing much
What they might cut
Because they haven't sharp eyes;
So accustomed to close quarters,
They just lay there, as
Blind soldiers in wait of orders.
But I'm wary when they
Come out to speak,
Seeking blood, too often it seems.
Nicer when it's just
Butter must be spread
To warm toast instead.
Forks carry their own dangers.
In time, tines disentangled
From secret stainless dustups
That go on in the tray
While attention's drawn away
Can be wielded like daggers,
Impaling olives - or fingers -
That happen to fall in the way.
So painful, though rarely fatal
For those with shots up to date.
It's the others need worrying over;
Sad spoons that never nestle
As they did when they were new.
Uncomfortable now with one another,
Like wishes kissing cold lips,
Smooth hips never swaying to music
As they must have done once before,
Arranged in deranged patterns
In plastic compartments.
I'd rather take them all out,
Line them along the kitchen floor
For lessons in ballet or the samba.
I might learn to dance, again, too.
Sometimes, I wish we could eat with
The still-perfect gold set
We save for those who don't live here;
Drink fine wine every day from those
Dusty gilded glasses
Stocked in the corner cabinet.
It might feel more real then,
If they eventually get here...
We'd be prince and princess
Everyday, then, wouldn't we?

Crinkled and knotted,
Your mind pushes far beyond the last
Fluid dimension of thought.
Words and images
****** out, crossed out, and beaten.
Their meaning disentangled
From the syllables they’re bound to.
Stretched,
Pulled,
Prodded,
Poked,
Rolled,
And torn open.
Mile by mile, down a endless road,
Making no explicable progress.
Broken and battered,
Words, attempting equilibrium,
Burn off energy enough to care.
The unthinkable dread of empty canvas
Impedes on the black and white tile
That clangs too loudly
For reason to be heard.
Inspiration becomes an
Agonizing, ever-twisting labyrinth.
The climactic moment drawn out too far,
Centuries too far,
Tortures and torments you,
Tears you to pieces
Until, at last, you
Are indistinguishable from
The pain you’ve offered,
The discomfort you’ve endured,
The itch you’ve tolerated.
And the balance finally restores itself.
Rights you just at the point of ultimate collision,
Lets you steal a breath,
Before the next thought starts to pull.

You appeared in the room
I noticed you, felt something bloom
you sat near me
we talked
my interest grew
you blushed
my heart flew
my brain turned to mush
insides flipped to goo
I fell so hard
yet what could I say to you
when there were so many pitfalls
so much that might go wrong
so hard to read your feelings
and what anyway
did I want to say
what was this that I felt
what had I glimpsed
the need in you?
the need in me?
recognition of something beyond?
Lust? Yes, that was there
and why should it not be
when so many boxes
were ticked for me?
When it's clear that I'm far from alone
in this attraction to which I'm prone
but then, with so long without
I had long grown to doubt
that I could ever state
my expressions of desire
or to say I'd like to play
with someone who lit my fire
and there's the catch
to make a match
there must be a connection
and yet that connection's the thing
that has the power to make me flinch
and in the past I may have drawn away
said nothing, not made my play
but I felt this so strong
that I had to go along
at first so tentatively
while I tried to probe
to find what you thought of me
then, somewhere along the way
my inner sadist awoke
I longed yet more to play
then all too briefly it seemed possible
that despite all the reasons I'd imagined
for why nothing could happen,
that something, after all, would develop
and I couldn't help but express
just how pleased that made me feel
yet I waxed too enthusiastic
gave the wrong impression
and a reason I had never imagined
arose to **** the mood
the wires, so carefully disentangled
crossed themselves once more
my new found pride lay mangled
broken, trampled on the floor
I sought for answers
but harvested anger
and to my shame
responded the same
yet I am responsible
I am to blame
you may have caught
the wrong end of the stick
but that was due
to how I presented it to you
and I offer my apologies
to admit that in part
your fears were justified
it's true I'd thought ahead
had dreamed that I
might help you fly
that I might take you to that place
where others would fear to try
yet that's not the whole story
it's also true that the trip to the edge
happens one step at a time
and that the very first one was
at the forefront of my mind
and had that turned out mediocre
so that we'd wanted no more
then that would have been all of it
at least we'd both have known
but had it been fantastic
had it been amazing
had it blown our minds
ready or not would be meaningless
and that's what terrifies
and what terrifies entices too
and therein lies the tension
so to disclose I have to mention
that though I shall not cross
the lines you draw
part of me wants to ignore
that they're there at all,
wants to take you and make you fall
at my feet and beg for more
and when I saw you'd cut your hair
I was torn between thinking
how handsome you looked
and feeling it was a cause for regret
that you no longer had enough
to wrap round my fist
and I wonder if your walls are there
to protect you, or to challenge me to dare
to plunge on through and break them down
and even though I've made other connections
have played, will play elsewhere
even though there's one
feels deep and special and true
this tension has me addicted
I feel the pull of you
please don't be alarmed
I mean you no harm
well, not of the lasting kind
I'm aware of the potential
for the tension to consume
to pull into a downward spin
but I won't allow that to happen
and I say these things
not to make demands
not to influence
or force your hand
but just so you know
if you didn't already
that you can break the tension
whenever you're ready
unless it dissipates before that point
of it's own accord
or through distraction
and however this turns out for us
my wish remains that you should fly
no matter whose hand that happens by

Cynthia Pauline Jones, April 2013

it's not so hard to
ask anymore, these questions
intractable questions about
what we have lost and
where it has gone
and it worries me

maybe we have become
accustomed to its absence

I don't miss the suffering
and I don't miss
the uncertainty I don't
miss the clouds, whatever they portended
or any of the times that we pretended
that our love had limits.

but I do miss well-defended
winters, snowed in, knowing
inconsolable sadness, complicated
sadness, and the ease
with which you disentangled it

Look at this, you whispered;
It's like a cat's cradle.
You moved your fingers
and it was gone.

So we are left asking questions without
a voice to offer solutions
so we are asking questions and
they seem solutionless.

I don't miss
clandestine afternoons, and hiding
from confrontation, but mostly
from each other
and I don't miss
long explanations, and looking at wild
mountains, wondering how
they could be climbed,
and duplicity, and things that we resigned
never to mention, and turned from, blind.

but I do miss
sleeping, two to a narrow bed
confined, knowing infinite windows to
your own wonders, and the canyons
so dark, concealing cat's cradles
a kiss and
a question away:
repeating hopes that we could not abandon

but there were some too hard
for you, too hard for me

You moved your fingers, but
this one never disappeared
and while I pray for someone
who can solve it
I'll hide it away again:

An artifact, a tangled souvenir -
to remind me of the things you couldn't fix
to wonder why you didn't persevere -
a question about what I have lost and
where it has gone.

i guess i just hoped i could wake up
like i always do, only alive
throw the bedcovers from my
aching, beating body
leave the curtains open
because i don't feel like hiding
keep my head up, keep the air flowing
out of breath, but in sync
and through pain or whatever comes my way
feel it all, feel everything

but no
i woke up like i always do, grey
slowly disentangled myself
from the crumpled blue sheets
left the curtains closed
because the pointing fingers are everywhere
kept my head down, kept the air controlled
through my lungs, out of time
and through pain or whatever came my way
i felt nothing

Tender
As the flow of water across a light reed
Flowing, gentle as the soft kiss of sunshine over the morning dew
Like the fireflies lightly glowing
Through the night of passionate embraces

Every dance, every smile, every secret meeting
The waves crashing around us, the sunset glow on your face
A slow dance of love in the rain
Sparkling eyes and water lightly disentangled from your lashes
The distance and the soft voice, like music
Stirring deep within, calm, a melody
Every night, the closeness through the distance

Your laughter, in the archway of dreams glowing
Alight in my universe, wild goddess with the quiet smile
Yet mad, a force invisible, powerful
A gale of passion and emotion
Raging, pulling together, night through night

Alight. My Eos, sweet dawn, shy as a deer
Sweet as the morning dew
Curtains of dreams that I walk through
Brushing my eyes lightly,
Making them water by their sheer beauty
The elegance of emotion, of caring

Of silence, and of sharing
The hour of departure
A moment of distance and
I return but the river has flown
The winds have gone
To a distant land
Where a melody lingers

Quiet
Hush child
You cannot cry
You’re no child
This is how it must be
It was (\not) your fault

I am a grayed rose in a black and white world; afloat on a pond of serenity and solitude.
My petals, drifting aimlessly about the cold; a part of me stays everywhere I lurk.
My leaves; a reminder of what raised me up, I keep close to my parts.
My thorns, disentangled from my soul; I let flow along the stream of the old.
My roots, my source of power; I can no longer hold on to.
But withal the blows of change and time,
I shall be firmer than oak,
And bear on blooming and burst forth
Colors and beauty and the scent of love
Out in the open, out in the wild;
Out in the earth of torment and beguiling eyes,
And shan't wither under any weather.
I am a grayed rose in a black and white world;
Slowly reviving all the life that I lost.

As in the
verses of
Isaiah six,
to me came
a fiery
serpent
bearing
bliss. One
to us
known to
be in the
most high
order of
thy holy
angels;
and she
possesseth
many an
eye and
wilt one
day hath
humankind
beholding
her pent
wingtips,
and she shalt
cleanse thy
unclean lips
and purge
thy sinful souls
with live
burning coals
hereby.

God speaking
without
speaking
once told
to Isaiah,
"I wilt take
all but a
tenth of
their cities,
and the lands
wilt be burned
again and again
until the trees
shall cast their
leaves, and
thereof the
substance
shall be the
holy seed.

Thereafter, her
seraph wings
did thence
open up,
unfold, to
be thereby
a cause, a
love, a flame
to need.

Faith is not
a thing
made up,
and is
hardly
newfangled,
but I saieth
she therewith
displayed it
all; and 'twas
nothing short
of supreme
blessedness!

Then I beheld
her e'en
brighter,
with showy
spangle, and
her attire, a
pristeen
and
impressive
dress, that
was beaming,
lit, bright
with color,
and with
shapeliness
of contour.

Her shining
light like
refractory
gold or
peerless
bits of
silver;
and something
unknown did
glint within
her to
wholly then
bewilder.

Her fire sword
was sheathed
and I did
the most
forward enter.
With shy wing
shield so
still, she
can still
our
meanest
ire, for
all must
therein
endure
what we
feel for
each
and
one
another.

And none
therefore
can
trust
mental
anguish
to dull
in this,
our
loneliest
and darkest
hour.

Therewithal,
loyal
followers,
actions
shall
follow­
words,
ignite
if you
will
the
glowing
candles,
and play
upon your
lyre,
but not
upon
His
Word,
and
forevermore
you wilt
have
your needs
fulfilled
with
hearts
afire;
rest assured.

We shall
hear ye
but not
understand,
the great
forsaking
in the
midst of
the land,
and we
see but
do not
perceive!

Now hear
her pure
emotions
entire
thereat
swear to
inveigle
yet, our
lives so
chaotic,
so
disordered,
but we
can be
rekindled
by a
moving
fire of
an
unstained
object, and
sure enough
hypnotic;
and of a
fervor I
foretell
to be
higher
than all
other
seraphim
in the
ultimate
choristers
choir.

And she does
as e'er sing
the fairest
hymn to
Him, being
gentle and
the most
melodic.
She is a
being
disentangled,
henceforth
being the
nearest
being of
any angel
by far
to the
safety of
God's
hands.

She's an angel
that much
more the
nigher to
His protection
and His
guidance; and
free will I
suspect was
denied her
in all but
her affections...
and for that
reason it
wilt be she
that to me
God sends
again.

And to Him
I heard it
said, Holy,
holy, holy,
is the lord
of hosts:
the whole
earth is
full of
His glory!

And with that,
the Lord shook
again the
doorway
posts, and
the house
that filled
with smoke,
now is
before me
-such as is
our Saviour
surely upon
His throne.

It no longer hurts to think
about you - about our lives
becoming disentangled

I used to think you were
"The One," with whom I would
grow old, start a family

I didn't know myself, then -
didn't know how I react
to pain, to hardship

I had suffered before, more
than some see in their whole
lives, and yet

less than others see in a
minute of tear-stricken grief
or in their last moments

I had suffered before, yes
but I never knew how I
handled it, never saw

how I pushed people away,
insisting it was this or
that, but never me

Now I see myself, not perfectly
but well enough to know
why we ended that way

It no longer hurts to think
about you, but sometimes I
wonder what you're doing

As in the verses of Isaiah 6,
to me came a fiery serpent bearing bliss.
One to us known to be
in the highest order of the holy angels;


and she possesses many an eye,
and wilt one day have humankind
beholding her pent wingtips;


and she shall cleanse thy unclean lips
and purge thy sinful souls
with live burning coals
   -hereby as in the days of old.


God to Isaiah once told,
"I will take from man all but a tenth of their cities,
and the lands will be burned again and again
until the trees shall cast their leaves,
and thereof the substance shall be the holy seed."


Thereafter, her seraph wings did thence open
up-unfold-to be thereby a cause, a love, a flame to need.


Faith is not a thing made up, and hardly is newfangled,
but I saith she therewith displayed it all; and it was
nothing short of supreme blessedness!

Then I beheld her e'en brighter, with showy spangle, and her
attire, a pristine impressive dress that was beaming, lit, bright
with color,  and with shapeliness of contour.


Her shining light like refractory gold, or peerless bits of silver:
and something unknown did glint from within her,
to wholly then bewilder.


Her fire sword was sheathed, and I did most forward enter.


Now with a shy wing shield so still, she can still our meanest ire,
for all must therein endure
what we feel for each and one another;

and none therefore can trust mental anguish to be dull in this,
our loneliest and darkest hour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~
Therewithal, loyal followers, actions shall follow words.
So ignite if you will the glowing candles, and play upon your lyre,
but not upon His word  -and forevermore you will have your needs fulfilled, with hearts afire; rest assured.

We shall hear ye but not understand, the great forsaking
in the midst of the land, we see but do not perceive!

Now hear her pure emotions entire thereat swear to inveigle yet,
our lives so chaotic, so disordered, but we can be rekindled
by a moving fire of an unstained non-object that is hypnotic and of
a fervor I foretell, to be higher than all other seraphim in
the ultimate choristers choir.

And she does as e'er sing so well, the fairest hymn to Him
   -being gentle and the most melodic.

She is a being disentangled, henceforth being the nearest
being of any angel by far to the safety of God's hands.

She's an angel that much more the nigher to His protection
and His guidance; and free will I suspect was denied her
in all but her affections.
And for that reason I suspect it will be she that to me He will send again.

And to Him I heard it said, "H o l y,  h o l y,  h o l y,   is the Lord of all hosts:
the whole earth is full of His  g l o r y!"

And with that, the Lord by Word shook again the doorway posts, and the house that filled with smoke, now is before me, such as is our Savior surely upon His throne.

I

February

Einbahnstraße in a
night of black arrowheads/jazz, obliteration perfume/
the twinkle of your
eyes which are engulfed
by youthful nymphs

Fur-lined sable coat
& I
in a jean jacket, hair styled back/
the perspiring windows of Paul Gustavus
open to reveal alizarin (death of day)
velvet curtains
(an appetite for moonlight &
mirrors) the reverberation
echochamber settles over us infused
with alcohol and tea leaves

Basement seclusion,
Deutsch in every direction

Woodstove heat/harsh truths exist in
a Blue Rose of cackling ash, left
disentangled ... duskdancer and copperhue-rooftop Saharas
 billowing madly

conversation as a
room full of isolation, lip -
eye, breath -
hairline/drifting to attic enticement,
bedsheets ruffling like
a winged dove

(insertion/devotion)

I am a North American phantom speaking through written paragraphs

& on my second drink a voice
persuasively licks my thigh/come up from the uneven ground

"feed the moon

relinquish fear

-blindness & burden, parish your
      anticipation for fire"

II

In my restlessness later on, I realize
all I can do is keep my head
high, mimic hope, mimic strength knowing we are
but one brief collision of beautiful
time purposed to split off again
towards a chaos larger than
ourselves.

Remembering The Woman in The Dunes..

"There was a drooling wolf...there was the sun. And, somewhere, he knew not where...there must also be a storm center and lines of discontinuity"

our own repitition of love & labor, warding off the deathhand which always comes back around

... How far do we have to go for lasting tenderness?

III

March


Australian sand/I erase my flesh
in Summer fruit/the air is thick,
I have stopped wearing leather

With iron humility
I task myself to
tillling a steeple into
a breaking cloudbeam

She had met this handsome stranger
So she told me, at some dance,
And I knew then she’d be leaving me,
I didn’t stand a chance,
She had not seemed so excited since
I’d given her a ring,
But I saw she wasn’t wearing it,
It didn’t mean a thing!

So I asked her where this dance had been,
She didn’t seem to know,
She’d drifted in there like some dream
Where lovers always go,
I asked her who was there, she said
They’d glided round in grace,
And but for him, her eyes were dim,
She’d not recalled one face.

She hesitating, placed the ring
Back in my open hand,
‘I don’t have any choice,’ she said,
‘I knew you’d understand!’
I didn’t, but I bit my tongue,
No point to cause a scene,
I hoped that she’d get over it,
But something was unclean.

I sat and moped at home awhile,
She’d cut me to the quick,
I’d planned my life around her,
Marriage, children, all of it,
But then I felt resentment rise
And choke me to the core,
I’d need to see him, ****-his-eyes,
See what I’d lost her for.

So I began to roam the streets
And watch her, though unseen,
To hide in handy bushes, just
To find out where she’d been,
Then one dark night she ventured out
And walked, as in a trance,
I followed at a distance as
She went to join the dance.

The gates were flung wide open to
A long, curved gravel drive,
A house with gothic columns, where
The gargoyles looked alive,
I didn’t see another soul
As Anne had ventured in,
But ballroom music filled the air
With subtle hints of sin.

I sidled to the ballroom and
I hid, as best I could,
While phantom figures whirled about,
Transparent through each hood,
The only solid forms I saw
Were first, my trancelike Anne,
And something evil on the floor
That could have been a man.

That could have been a man, I said
Despite his long black cloak,
The horns that grew from out his head
That looked just like a goat,
The tail that flicked behind it with
A barb of polished steel,
It could have been a man, I said,
But no, that sight was real!

Behind Anne was a marble slab
With bloodstains, from before,
A pale and polished altar that
Was raised up from the floor,
He took Anne in his arms, began
To sway and dance her round,
‘You’re dancing with the Devil, Anne,’
I screamed, and held my ground.

He roared, and turned his evil face
To glare where I was stood,
My heart stood still inside me, like
My heart was made of wood,
Then Anne began to shriek, her eyes
Now seeing what I saw,
Pulled back, and disentangled from
Each evil crablike claw.

I don’t know how we got outside,
I only know we fled,
With terror stricken eyes and hearts
We thought that we were dead.
That house went up, a puff of smoke
Amid a demon roar,
Now Anne won’t dance, no handsome stranger
Tempts her anymore!

David Lewis Paget

I have a desire to be free in ways that would destroy me, in ways that aren't accepted in this world. I have a need to be free in ways that don't even exist, from things that are such parts of my continued existence as a being that to get what I need would be to cease. I am a lover who has found nothing to take the love I have. I cannot stand to be near anyone, but I crave closeness in such a desperate, painful way that it controls me. I am a logical, orderly, sound, carefully crafted mind, trapped inside the chaos of a soul that I cannot be sure was ever made to withstand the kind of feelings it itself produces constantly. Without the handicap of my humanity, I would be free, disentangled from this web of useless little things I care about. The one that trusses up my legs and trips me and no matter how I try to find the pattern in it, reason has no power against this trap. Power has no power against this snare. I can solve anything, escape anything, survive anything, disassemble anything. But I can't solve myself. And I feel like a wasted opportunity, a consciousness that maybe COULD actually do something meaningful, tragically held back by the hitchhiker of a soul that has come along for the ride to slash the tires. I want to be free of impossible things. But I am an impossible thing, and every morning I wake up and the little part of me that knows things whispers, "You will never be free." What a way to start the day.

I extricated myself
From man's creation,
Disentangled myself
From the machines
And wires,
Walked
Off the concrete
Disrobing and discarding
The artificial attire,
Then
Stepped
Bare feet
Onto the grass
And,
Made my way
Back home.

(With a smile on my face.)

i know you think
flaws do not apply to you
when you disentangled our strings
and pretended i was a stranger
but it's the other way round
for you are the stranger i barely recognise
resembling little of what i know,
of what i used to see.
thanks for reminding me
how messed up i am.
but at least i'm not a fake
and warp myself for other's sake.
see, i'd rather be myself and alone
than wear a mask and have millions.
i just thought
you were better
than that.

I held your hand as you disentangled from her
you did not move closer to me

I assuaged your worst fears
you fueled mine

I was fully present and attentive
you took calls that came in . . . and didn’t call back

I asked questions
you answered different ones

I made you a playlist
you never acknowledged

I made plans and reservations
you did not show

I gave you the benefit of every doubt
you did not reassure me

I made myself vulnerable
you remained ensconced

I created space in my life
you did not explore

I dared to dream about us
you dreamed about . . . I don’t know

I gave you my body
you reached for your phone

I gave you my heart
you did not reciprocate

I get it now
you are just not that into me

Only wish I knew sooner.
Goodbye.

There’s no doubt in my mind
at least not on display
but who doesn’t have some
photographs and trinkets
sealed in a shoe box
with packing tape.

                                  The odd
strand of blonde hair stuck
to a paper plane, disentangled
bracelet braids, a heartfelt
note used for a page mark,
a postcard of a mountain path
fading into darkness.