Matilda.
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my *****.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My lady.
My dream.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.

Matilda.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.

Matilda.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
canst ****.

Matilda.
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust ****** hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.

Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.

Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.

Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.

I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.

I watched the mailman go by again.
He's always at it, delivering mail.
It reminded me how the days pass by and
how theres always Thursdays.
The mailman goes by day after day,
shoving mail into box after box.
I watch him.
I watch his technique.
He doesn't know I'm watching,
but then slowly people trickle out of their houses.
To open the previously closed box
and open the previously sealed letter.
One letter may be special.
So lets be thankful for this doorless truck and its driver.
But really its all about the driver
The mailman.

When I grow up I’m going to be younger,
sillier, more adventurous, and free.
I’m going to say what I like, do what I please,
and in general, just be happy.

I won’t care what salary I make;
six-figure, five-figure, or none.
I could be doorless and friendless,
and still manage to be happy and have fun.

If I make mistakes, I will have made mistakes.
Mistakes are just bound to come.
All I can do is learn and become better,
smile, and not forget to have fun.

I’ll work; we all work.
But man, I'll make sure to have fun.
I could pick up trash or flip burgers
while smiling and still getting the job done.

When I grow up I’m going to be happy.
Equally, if not happier than now.
I’ll make sure to have fun and get things done,
and at the end of it all take a bow.

How relative is time
That when I have an address
Of where to send my thoughts
I may march through the days
With my coveted "tasks" of penship
Fulfilled
Yet when I lack this focal point
And fumble into doorless walls
Each dizzy cell zips about
With not a patient comfort, all
Panicked

Could you ever pretend to understand
living in a world that gave you no shelter
from the coarse wind of history
and the coarser rain of rhetoric?

The shambles of those walls offer no protection.
But, after all, they say
why do you need walls in the jungle?

No one has to tell you
out loud
that you were born
to be thrown away.
The ache of rotting teeth,
the feeble acquiescence  
to raw sewage,
and the 400 dollar offer
to silence the poison in your veins.
They were loud enough.

I imagine there is a moment
between doorless stalls
and postless football fields,
where children, who grow like
wild daffodils,
see the other side of the bridge.
And then they know
until the end,
that it has always been
someone’s choice.

Nineteen twenty ways
to love the same photo, I
remember, it all.

The blubbering moon,
was thumping like itself;
no matter, we go!

We entered the room,
and we became an image,
and drank until full.

Illuminating
hot seat, the material
IKEA, alone,

pristine sounds of loss,
a man and woman dancing
each others eyes, there.

Midnight morning fly,
buzzing flea-like, almost gone.
My window opens.

All the yakking dead.
My porch- old wood and sunset,
smoke diving within.

Suffocate us sea!
If you dare drink what we have!
Our stomachs fit you!

The Titanic floats,
the night swim will carry us,
calmly to ourselves.

Opaque sea-gulls fly;
we are but moon beams seeking.
Igniting ripples.

The taste of salt shouts,
it devours our tiredness.
Running beside us.

Half shore nearing us,
no other bodies near us,
we know only peace.

Inside our madness
there is every dream which wakes
wet steps, standing up.

Skin inked by needle,
below your growing wild hair,
moving, as it stays,

A religious book,
its pages moving in wind,
brown with gentle time.

Negative film roll,
opal, and doused with liquid,
so we are, so still.

Permeating dream
a leaf from burning tree branch
settling in grass.

Sudden flower bloom,
I watch you grow as days change.
Time, can never be.

Holocaustic love,
returning to the swap mind,
nothing stays buried.

The last beggar hangs,
he was a poet, a friend.
Servant girl watching.

Holograph song sings,
she is more awake than words.
I smile back at her.

Doorless buildings shine,
travelling up beyond us,
the meeting begins.

The office suite melts,
only listening to data.
So much for talking…

Peyote smoked.
Old tribes knowing how it goes.
Perfectly happy.

Madigras come now!
Alive smokin drunk street life!
Masks bleeding with ghosts.

Mine, yours, lit by fire.
Lets join the raining parade,
and grab a chicken.

They do it in the ethereal range of our eye’s linking hands,
our bodies swaying to the din of infinite types of drum life,
happy to be ours, enough to fill every street with realms,
packed dead-masked as New Orleans is definitely new my love – - !
the bar door requires a kick from our ripened legs,
it shatters the sweat stairs as we walk down finding the ground
inside leaving the painted parade to flood in on itself,
the chorus is tap tap tapped and stamped by the bar-man ready here
to cool us down and let us choose from any drink we wish.

In thick New Orleans accent he says:

“You been swimmin’ in the big Bayou brotha-sista.”

But it’s enough for us to answer him from the photo behind his bar.

We let him touch us, we sit frozen in front of a box camera and wonder
what’ll happen as the bulb flashes.

I pull ma Creole queen into me, as all galllreees open brotha-sista!

The photo be taken quick enough to ****** life from shotgun.

You’ll just keep on sittin there wontcha ma cher,
while these gumbo ya-ya come down ma stairs.

**** Mardi graaa…

A couple come down the wooden stairs.

Helping each other stand from too much street juice.

Looking back from the photo the barman knows that the couple
heard him talking, they slap down on the bar stools as he kisses the
photo of him and his wife.

“Well they be a truer than you or me cher, dontcha think?”

He says smiling back, more cheer than teeth, as the conversation begins,
undisturbed by the pulsing sounds from above.

Anesthesia seeps into me and settles
like plaque into my arteries
where it converses with my blood.
I let its ugly yellow fingers swagger through,
waving their malicious banners
proclaiming my surrender.

My lungs breathe chafing dust
that conspires
and leaves me suffocating
under the silent sands of guilt
that build up into graceful dunes.

My mind loves the desert in my lungs
despite the lifeless contours;
it is far away, removed and sees
a sweeping landscape, patterned
by the winds, my rattling breath.

But my heart lives next door
to that forsaken terrain.
It feels the pain of the parched *****,
gone unacknowledged by my mind.
It feels the lecherous caress
of the ugly yellow fingers
that violate my blood,
stroking, disgustingly, inside my veins.

Still my mind remains
Doorless
Windowless
Refusing to see.
Serenely smooth, impenetrable Reason.

My heart has no hands
to hold a hammer or a sword.

Yet Your tongue is a sword,
Your words a hammer of consciousness,
Your expression the oil to reignite
shimmering embers buried under ashes.

My mind’s shield becomes an eggshell—
it shatters, flinging shards away,
letting the newly lit inferno roar
through every capillary, burning away
the ugly yellow fingers.

Winds from within gust through my lungs,
force the desert from my chest.
The sand rends my throat and lips
in its storm of escape,
and the blissful tears that rain from my eyes
quench my arid lungs.

The fire recedes into my heart, where it burns
white-hot and pure—
My eternal sun that gleams within,
to You, I surrender.

Hitchhiking through the wormhole,
  all time was left behind

Distance collapsing upon itself
  reflections other side

Waste material of a life unspent
  flowing back in a parted stream

Entry to a doorless mystery
  —from a lost forgotten dream

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

He said that monsters and hunters
Occupied his room.
Searching for him.
Lurking in the shadows
Of train tracks
And construction sites.
Is anybody really safe?

All I could do was
Hold him.
Each shiver
Bubbling up on the surface
Of his body
Left me paralyzed.

Each clattering tooth
Was a reminder
Of the empty basements
And windowless, doorless rooms
I shivered in once
Or twice.

I reminded him
To let light linger
In the shadows.
Shivering ceased.
The dark feels colder
When you travel it alone.

after its legs got subdued
for the ages of the sun
so stopped a wonder
at a roughly odd

            in which corner
            on the doorless temple
            the first step will begin?

            in which steps
            an arrows hit the rain stream
            so the count be unimportant?

the numeral explode at the sky of your eyes
it's pieces of fragments got scattered
insert in between the niches of
the womb of a language

but none of us can't
utter an intact word

she had a hard time admitting
to herself that she couldn't let you in
she always was an open book,
there were never any great walls, or
giant doors, locked with chains
she thought
she often thinks of you now
like a Trojan horse, slyly
slipping past her guards,
only to destroy her from within
once, albeit too late, she discovers
you in fact are the enemy
penetrating her fortress
she once thought, having you
close by, that you were her ally
there could be nothing better
but smoke and mirrors was all you were
a magician, a maker of potions
when she'd playfully glance your way
through the top of her hazy drunken eyes
telling you without words what she was really saying
intoxicated uninhibited blackouts
she has trouble hanging on to memories
without clouds and drink spills disrupting their integrity
that she only sees your smile
and only hears your whispers in her ear
and only feels your gentle, soft caress
which cause that tumor of your memory
in her brain to shrink, and lead her to think
that just one more kiss, just one more night
couldn't hurt, could it?
just one more chance, and she could explain it all away
one more full moon to light the night, to see her
but you never cared about the walls, or the locks
you were content on the outside, and having her securely
trapped in her own locked, doorless room
and she knew all along you never wanted in
you are the cigarette to her lung cancer
the addiction that will **** her
that she cannot seem to give up

Dissected lip served in grained and pictured fixtures cracked

Spider webbed and spider trapped

Talking in forgots named of slayed littler things, as strewn about in the worms in hand

Slight of seethe in bulls horned speak

In Blackened eyes and turns of cheeks

In seek if speak of need

Weaker keyed of broken nobs in a doorless windows dream

Sing in singing

Sang to other trees

Trees of broken branches

Rootless mud of rockied roads, detoured to a cliff slide view

Face the rain with open eyes and not blink

I don't care if I ever live valuable
As long as someone cries at my funeral

Finality is becoming more palpable
With every moment left becoming so pitiful

There's no longer incentive to create
When you feel like will has been replaced

Do you want to die, five days after you retire?
Or live to mire, a hedonistic empire

A week is too long to go without human contact
Or so someone thinks
I'm not human, and I never signed your contract
Life is lived on the brink

I hear people go crazy, start hearing voices
I hear they got old folks on lithium
Still hearing voices
In nursing homes

I swear, I'll die a kid
Severed from my interest
Reality is giving me chest pains
Everyone is getting heart attacks

Not so lucky, when you count down to fifty
****** up and missing
Any sort of point
A king of self doubt
Self crowned
Holed up in doorless cell
-------------------------------------
In my opinion, the point of suicide
Is a more accurate representation of a life lived
Than the funeral

I hope no one cries at my funeral

if there
has to be named,
one thing i like is
sincerity.
the way the ocean
is unabashed
in loving the land,
waves kissing shores fierce;
the way the sky
cries and shouts
in his misery;
the honest way
facts stay true:
water flows always down,
freezes always ice,
dies always unseen.
if there is anything
whose taste i adore,
it's sincerity as
my stone heart offers
no empathy, as
news break hearts
and not all souls weeped.
if there
has to be named,
one thing i like is mystery.
it is in the way fire licks
and flickers and burns and
playing is a bet
of safety and danger,
how the weather roars
or settles calm as dead;
unpredictable.
it is how my lips
are pressed tight
against each other
and my heart a windowless,
doorless house.
mystery in the way we smile
behind frowns or cry
behind laughter.
if there's anything
whose taste i adore,
it's the mystery
i subjected on you:
is this heart cruel
or kind?

Regret is a doorless cage
That we put ourselves in.
And we stay and dwell within it
Despite our longing to leave.

Leaning against the shadow
of self, starting the
monologue. With the fall
I don't want to think of the other.

The beasts.
I give a call, to someone
over there,
who will listen.

A systematic peel, opens
the doorless cage and
sets free the malignancy―

to spread. Now multiple argan
failure, stares at you,
celebrating the anniversary
of the ****.

We are made up of
charcoal, writing on the walls
with dark fingers―
name of the victim.

A beautiful mind locked in doorless corridors
where repetition stabilises and calms.

A determined path of adventure into unknown waters,
then drowning when reality chokes optimism.

A blameless existence, where selective thoughts control,
and anxiety sabotages and destroys all things beautiful.

Joys pale into distant dreams . . . to the outside world normality prevails,
behind the curtain, a nervous tension builds and grips the spirit ******* out its life.

Sleep is usurped and any pleasure of tranquility is alluded.
An exhausted mind and body writhing in pain and falling into a bottomless pit.

No one can help,  No loving can change the hopelessness,
A behaviour that is repeated over and over in a cycle of torment.

Tranquillisers relieve the symptoms, but the episodes continue,
The ups and downs, the highs and lows, and the suffering is hard to observe.

I felt no love before last night-
My heart in doorless cloister,
Drowning in self-pity-
Reticent.
But you were here, waiting-
Waiting for that moment
I’d say “Enough!”,
Release my heart
And give it back to you.

Nothing inspires the stranger anymore;
his eyes in full, active vagrancy,

searching for any brisk encounter with virtuous hope,

but they only land on a ray of sunshine,
highlighting the path, pointing west.

To the west, he finds dry land, 
mischievous land, hungry for arms of kindness.

Impalpable, catatonic mirage, reflected by the sounds of shivering dead grass,

blown by the November morning wind.

And hollow, doorless churches to the west, at this hour, meet drafts

that carry the force to blow out all the praised and chanted candles—
for the loved and lost,
for the warmth of the body,

for frostbitten souls.

It’s in that darkness the stranger realises himself:

standing on his knees,

patting and crying over this land,

asking for ease, begging for bliss.

And it's the pain he feels,
that kills him harder than the death itself.