I promise this shall be the last poem of thee I've written of thee. And thus I have dedicated all the love I have for thee into this; in the hope that my heart has none of it left after writing the poem.

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood;
Its taint of darkness dripping down like blood-red hearth.
A breeze of morning moves, that we love, has gone;
For a musk of the skies at dusk must have come down.

Come into the garden, my love, and play around with me;
For a bed of love daffodils is on high;
For a set of faint lights is now there to catch;
One breed of lights that we used to play with.
Bring my that green glass of paint, and draw by me,
While I rub thy dark hair on my lap, with my bronze fingertips.

Run around here, Immortal, and give me thy handsome hand;
Thou art the speed and pace I need here to stay;
Ah, I am not detached from t'is world, so long as I have you;
I am charmed, even in the darkest abyss of yon superficiality.
Thou art the fragrance of happiness found in decay;
Strength in the most diminished, and yet distinguished ecstasy;
A fable t'at becometh real in a flight of seconds;
A temptation no maiden heart canst afford to dismiss.
And look at me, now and then and all over again,
I wanteth to look pretty in my ruffle brown skirt,
Just like in my midnight gown on a flowery wedding night,
One t'at we shalt have above the sun, out of everyone else's jealous sight.

Let's dream t'at this delight shall ne'er wear out, and leave to us t'is nuptial potion;
I hath ideas for us and the most sensible of worldly notions;
Naughty as water ripples and the broadening green plantations;
I knoweth now where we canst go and hide our insightful destinations.
Thou wert always running in thy magical shoes,
And t'eir worlds of visions and phantom-like phantasies,
Like woeful but wise extraterritorial dimensions,
A forest of spells and love curses we never knoweth.
But worry not, my dear, for I shall hold thee in both portals,
I'll keep thee safe by my side, I'll keep thee immortal,
So that we are ne'er to be apart, in such a bright love like pearls,
And the petals of roses t'at ne'er swerve again from our fingertips.
We were always inhabited by our little jokes, and moved by an unseen hand at game,
T'at everything was too tranquil even for being a game as itself its nature,
And the whole little wood we were perched on was one world
Of fun shivers, wonders, and plunder and prey,
Oft' at midnight hours we looked at each other so kindly and peacefully,
With eyes mastered by love and tough loveliness,
Thou looked but wholesomely splendid in thy own questioning minds,
And thy brown hair t'at was turned about by solitary winds.
Ah, Immortal! Immortal, Immortal, my visionary love, my darling bird.
And yet, the night knew then, of our tricks and who we were, funny little liars—
Little liars t'at had but a tender love outta' time and space,
And such a gleaming love for one another,
We whispered, and hinted, and chuckled, with an aroma of love about us,
However we'd braved it out, we felt about it glad and not sorry;
We humans of a naughty, devilish, notorious, but sophisticated breed!

Come into the garden, Immortal, for the night bat now hath flown;
The one thou fear, my love, hath left us alone.
And forgive me for my rigid clauses to them;
For I want only to writ' of thee, my darling bud.
The planet of love seem't be on high,
Beginning to pick away its fruitful colours,
And make itself look petrified and stultified,
Like one from abroad, flown in as foreign woodbine spices.
Ah, as though t'is temporal world is not murky enough for us both,
That our translucent breaths are those who survive;
Who remain rustic in this unmerited ordinary world.

Come again, my love, my impeccable darling,
Let's witness what the sonnet's yet to sing;
All we need t' do is pick up a lil' wooden chair;
And breathe the swampy midnight air before we sit.
Here is my poetry, and I'th written it for thee,
Long like the satin seas, and red ribbons made of clouds,
I needst not say it but thou read still, my heart out loud.
Ah, Immortal, the golden gift thrown at one clean snowy night!
And t'ese hidden memories now shine out back again,
For the drifts of the earth we ne'er knoweth, indeed,
And thus who knoweth the ways of the world,
And the surreptitious moves its soil's done,
From morning to night, from one day to another?
Ah, who knoweth 'em all but the Almighty?
Our Almighty, our very Almighty;
t'at breathed into our souls such loving love,
And made for us t'is decent planet, many suns, and one fair earth.
Ah, Immortal, and thou art the son of literature He had to me,
A joy t'at my hands, as He told, outta rejoice,
A glory t'at my faith should find.
Ah, Immortal, thou art sweet, sweet, and too sweet!
Thy sweetness is but an avarice, one bold austerity to me;
Scenic in its grace—a graceful grace t'at is far too restless and undying!
Undying, unweakening, but strengthening, t'at it'll ne'er die!
Ah, for thy sweetness, Immortal, hardly leaveth me a choice;
But to move and fall softly again and again for thee like before,
And thy honey-coloured skin and charms t'at I adore,
Not his, who knows or feels any of me not;
Not him, who is neither courtly not kind;
Not there, who understands not how to write,
to read, nor even to sing.

All night hath the roses heard songs from thy Eolian lute;
And my unveiled violin, piano, and bassoon;
All shrieking and collating in one strange space.
But hear thou, my love, of my shrilling little voice?
An unheard, abashed voice that keeps calling your name;
Your coloured name, that smells like trust
In its euphoric aura and ecstatic plays.
Where art but thou, my Immortal;
That was so close and definitive to my heart.
Where art but our strings, and guitar cords;
That used to rock up our beneficent loveliness?
That kept our hearts in tune, when desperately falling in love,
Ah, I do not want to leave thee still in thy weird dance,
I want to keep thy heart beating with mine and stay in tune;
I want to run with thee into a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the playful lily, 'There is none but one
With whom my curious heart is to be gay.
When will he be free to catch up with me?
I see him day and night and in dreams of my poetry.'
And half to the rising day, low on the sand
And loud on the stone our passion too shall rise;
Keep us cheerful and our heartbeats warm.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that shall ne'er be thine?
'But mine, but mine,' I swore gaily to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine. Just mine.'

And the soul of our fragrant rose sings into my blood,
That Immortal and his lover shall ne'er be apart.
He'll wait for her at night, in one bloodless Sofia;
She'll wait for him 'till such stars fall asleep.
He makes her blessed even in her dreams,
That all the red roses and lilies stay awake to watch their joy.

Immortal and Estefannia, the happiest ones along those summer days;
Are a threat to those soul frayed and vitriolic;
Too stellar to them romantic and idyllic;
Proud and sturdy in their ascetic life.
The best of love of the world's missing beat;
Daintier than any of this summer's bitter heat.
How fate tests their love we shall ne'er know,
but their love stretches as distantly as it can.

Ah, Immortal, tells Estefannia I shall make thee flattered
In sleep, in peace, in conscience, and in hate;
I shall make for us joy though our stories may be late.
Thy eyes are brown, my love, one shade the world's never owned
And thus thy love is valid and new in itself, ne'er worn.

And I shall hear when thy lips wan with despair, I'll be there;
I'll stand there with my basket, a gift from one faraway;
But with a love neither placid nor drained;
Villainous as t'is world is, what a broken wordling;
Like a wailing starling, torn in its calls and frothy desires.
T'ere is no more signal for us towards t'is despaired world;
I shall take thee yet, through the curtains of such speculations;
For 'tis only thy pride t'at lives, and not one soul of thine lies;
And should thou remain alive, my love shall ne'er hibernate,
But sit and trust firmly in its wakeful sleep, grasping thee,
Grasping thee, my love, 'till exhaust allows me no more words,
'Till my own poetry disobeys me like a cloud of putrefied shadows,
Ah, but still, remaining a gross soulless apparition I may be,
With no apparatus trembling 'round beside me,
Wouldst I still saunter myself forwards,
And greet thee in t'at peaceful vineyard;
Play to thee a lullaby and witness thy dreams,
Rocking thee softly against thy own stardoms,
'Till rivers are awake again and alert t'eir inane streams.
O Immortal, it is for better and fairness t'at I love thee,
Ah, but which love is sweeter than mine, or stronger than ours?

For I trust t'at my love is hungrier t'an that of her yonder,
Ah, and t'an t'at loyalty and patriarchy of our sullen armies,
More striking than a ****** dame's pictorial tyrannies,
One too sweet-scented for a hidden mercenary,
I have heard, I know not whence, t'at it but happened to thee;
Thou wert away, thou wert not under my umbrella, beneath me!
Where is Immortal now, for I need to save him again;
My husband in nature, my lover and immortal darling and best friend!

For t'is world is but a holocaust for the believing;
T'ere is, within which, not one pyramid of truth,
For 'tis a place of happy misery, and too miserable happiness.
T'ere is no place like our little Sofia, t'at once we dreamed of;
Filled with rainwater by its armed forces of Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I shall wait for thee there, by the triple roundabouts,
I shall wait for thee before I pray, and seek help from Our Lord;
I hath written for Him warm praises and delicate triplets of words.
Immortal the delight of my life, the dignity of my love;
Immortal the ringing joy of my ears, the gallant sight of my eyes;
Immortal my darling, of whom I write and for whom I sing.
Immortal like the leaves of the suburbs, t'at turn red and shyly bloom,
One that smells like mangoes and two pieces of orange blossoms.
Ah, Immortal, with his sweet red-mouth when eating dangled grapes,
Immortal the beloved of my father, the moon-faced, merriest son of all!

Where is he now? My dreams are bad. He may bring me a curse.
No, there is a fatter game on the moors, perhaps I ought to look for 'im t'ere.
The devil, I am afraid, hath stolen him again away,
I hath seen him not for a time as long as this day's.
Immortal, I want thy bountiful smile, and see thee not ill;
Immortal, tell me t'at thou long for and love me still.

Ah, along those happy days, and fabulous morning thrills,
My heart leapt whenever it caught thy voice,
And thy sanguine embrace when such came near;
Days were but too advanced, I know, and men were tied to t'eir own minds;
But thou kept me calm, with such majestic love and lil' poems in thy hands,
For t'is world is yet too adamant in t'eir pursuit,
Yet I needed thee, and thou came along.
Long had I sighed for a calm: God may grant it to me at last!
Ah, Immortal, a naughty lil' breach of t'is world, and its affairs;
A lil' cuddle t'at laughed and darted merrily all through the night.
Would t'ere be sorrow for me, for what I was feeling?
I thought I sensed only love and none like hate,
For it all tasted sweet and fierce like neverending fate,
A fate t'at we both accepted in one force,
A fate too astounding from our courageous Lord.
I thought thou wert mine, and thou shalt always be mine!
And t'is swirling sensation, when I looked at thee,
Full of teary happiness and chaotic delights,
I did want not t' think of its possible ends,
Ah, violent as Shakespeare might've assumed,
But I wanted to relish and bury myself in it
For such memories of thou had desired.
Immortal, Immortal, and now thou art gone;
But when all t'is world does is to go flexibly round,
Where'th thou think our missing beats can be found?

Warm and clear-cut face, why thou came so cruelly meek;
A cute lil' wonder to my sight—and for my lungs
To breathe stupidly for now and again.
Thou, handsome lad, hath broken all slumbers
In which all is but vague and foul and folly,
Pale with the golden beam with one dead eyelash
Knifed by the contours on one's cheeks.
And t'ere is also, about, the remnants of one's blood,
Dried and unmoving in t'eir death, but too lifelike at the same time,
Smelling ***** like the air rifles t'at just brought 'em all to death.
Death, ah, living t'is life without thee is like death;
All is clueless, breathless and sightless,
All is burning me strangely and from within,
Luminous, gemlike, dreamlike, deathlike, half the night long,
Growing and fading and growing and fading like an edgeless song,
But all too disobeys me, and disappears again as morning arrives,
Mocking me again while showing off its cloud wives.
I am trapped again now, in t'is wonderless dream of thee;
Which is more buoyant and febrile, unfortunately, than death itself,
One darker than even a tragic tear of one thousand years;
Like a heartbreaking scream or shipwrecking roar,
I am walking in a wintry stream all by myself,
And where is my Immortal—for he is not by my side,
He doth not witness the emerging of such sunshine—ah! It is t'ere today, quite early,
One t'at sets t'is darkening gloom all away, and thus we are all born free,
Free, virtually, both our hands and slithering eyes,
But still thou art not 'ere with me to witness t'is joy,
Thou who hath gone and withered like a pale blow of smoke.
Ah, Immortal, but may I hold t'ese rainy memories of thee still;
For t'ey all scorn and spurn as though I am ill;
I who loveth thee sincerely 'till the very end of time,
I who loveth thee with all the clear and vague powers
with which my very soul hath been endowed,
I who loveth thee like mad, I who loveth thee purely without hate;
I who virginly loveth thee like I doth my own fascinated fate.

Lay again, my love, on my longing lap,
I'll sing to thee one favourite lullaby,
And a basket of cherries t'at we picked nearby,
We shall enjoy t'is merriment before I let you sleep.
I shall let you sleep on my lap—a pair of skins t'at love you,
Love you as much as my other skin doth,
A heartbeat and pulse t'at breathe together
And want thee t'at madly, now and forever.

I found thee perfectly beautiful, my Immortal;
Sometimes thy eyes were downcast,
Spiritual in some ways,
And 'twas like thou wert thinking, my love;
Thinking of the upsurging stars above—and t'eir ******* secrets, beneath.
Ah, Immortal, even the vilest idleness cannot be against my love for thee;
My sparkling stars, and the affirmation traced along my heart is about thee;
All about thee, until t'ere is but none left of me,
Thou art the juice of my soul—far too ripe for someone else's heart!
And one, thou art more delicate than the crescent moon we hath tonight;
More shimmery than its ***** and rays of twilight,
Ah, Immortal, how the heavens hath descended thee onto me;
Thou, my love, art the last life and love of my thorough entity.

And t'is poetry shall be thy last enchanting lullaby,
I hope thou'lt sing it when midnight's swollen and sore,
Hurting thee to the pipes of thy very core,
But let's forget not t'at we once knitted awesome stories,
A chain of moments t'at lasts forever, ever, and ever again.
Ah, Immortal, we are back in the afternoon now,
We must though 'tis bluntly hard to say goodbye,
Of which hearts are unsure, but yet must lie,
I shall cry out my last beating love for thee,
But thou dwelleth in what I see, and thus ne'er leave me,
Like a fallen star t'at wants to rise but ne'er doth,
Thou art still the leaf my autumn tree hath sought;
And thou art the shine to my balmy rootless night;
Thou art the apparition t'at appeareth and teasest me after nightfall.

I'll wait for thee again in slippery Sofia,
And my love shall re-unite again with its winds;
Its walls, its havens, its barns like a spellbound purgatory;
For if I am bound to thee, in love and hate and rage and agony;
I'll write thee poems 'till even the universe is asleep.
I'll be cold like thy saluted Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I'll hold thee with 'till the last drops of my sanity;
Ah, Immortal, and in yon high-walled garden I still watch thee
pass like an authorial star;
Thou art as graceful as my own kind-hearted light;
For sorrow cannot even seize thee, my leading star!

Say love not when I meet thee again one day;
For t'ere is no more a desire to learn or admire,
I shall carry my knigh

Staring corpselike at the ceiling,
See his harsh, unrazored features,
Ghastly brown against the pillow,
And his throat--so strangely bandaged!

Lack of work and lack of victuals,
A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse
Made the world so black a riddle

That he plunged for a solution;
And, although his knife was edgeless,
He was sinking fast towards one,
When they came, and found, and saved him.

Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.

In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,
White and wild his eyeballs glisten;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!

Our world was cemented fresh linoleum tile
you always bent down to reach my voice,
I was so sweet, I feel so vile.
You tell her she reminds you of daisies and August sunshine
I smell out the ***** of cinnamon, I am canine.
Thought you were all mine.

I know she's breathless
as you shake the bed,
dancing dyad, snowed with asbestos.
And I could be edgeless
sand myself down just for you.
Polish every crevice,
I am a god in a teenage body
I could be edgeless
like a marble cast of paresis
settled upon your pew.

Edgeless days are the hardest
to let pass you by
as you stare at all the pretty things
Just out of sight.

There sits, heavy in atmosphere,
On these days of no ends,
A timelessness
in the most tragic way.

All your toiling
begins to feel useless,
and errors make a mess of this.
Your anger - Instantly boiling

Futile barking.
Damning non-existent gods,,
And then a mocking laughing-
Since you are alone.

Because, of course,
You are alone,
Chained to the room
They're paying you to
|
When the crushing
Endlessness to your day
Could be so easily been remedied
with conversation or, some play

And now those gods
are laughing.
And you wish to be alone
                     From yourself.

Ah, so stately art t'ou, my prince-
prone as th' night, comely as th' moon.
And wakeful is my sorrow;
for waiting for thee-
is not at all th' same
as greeting him soon.
How all t'ese senses remain so numb!
Love, as 'twas first fierce ye'a living dumb,
now as insignificant as a thumb,
and th' fame t'at surrounded was breath
beforeth turning bald and corny as death.
I figure t'ou art now out of my air;
as nothingness like t'is
tears and usurps my hair.
Pursuit of falsehood, pursuit of greed,
is but a seed t'at makes my heart bleed.
Leaves t'at art fake within my torso,
art now crying-and pleading
Just like a cheeky little girl;
unreal as we were,
as t'ou but still t'en-belonged to 'er.

And just like our former sins,
silent but threatening-
thy goneness hath parted me
from my dear'st everything.
Ah, my limbs, my shins,
my lungs, my spleens,
art but now scanty and unawake!
And since t'ere's no give,
thus no more t'ere's take!
How t'ese shadows t'at our hearts made,
now alone and whimper and fade;
startling all over t'is notorious silky winter-
silly as our dear laughter,
but satirical-and edgeless as fate.

And bland, bland, bland;
o-how severely, and dreamily bland!
Thy ever gallantry and morning wit-
so well as charms t'at hath left my cheeks lit!
And with a smile I found so sweet,
to my long black hair t'ou would flirt!
But wherefore art t'ou, now, o my love?
My Russian gem, and prince alike!
Would t'ose mountains in thy Moscow-
be as dazzling as our tomorrow?
And be th' chamber of our dreams-
whereupon thou shalt rolleth into mine,
singeth and reciteth altoget'er our tales
with a glass of ****** wine-
tasty and delicate as our daring gales,
but complicated as we might dwelleth-
and be lost in one anot'er, in our shell.

And ah-comfort, comfort, comfort!
Our dear passion t'at wasth stopped short,
but hath now replied to me
within th' circles of its own balmy nakedness-
and see, my love-how canst it just not, conceal its bareness!
How on one morning shalt tread our foot,
beneath th' sun t'at shines, undereth daylight t'at shoots-
and across our greyish moors and t'eir roots-
all our charms, woes, and reveries-
canst but unite into one again,
as I hath thus dreameth 'twixt yester's rain,
and alloweth our smot'ered course to remain.
Ah, Vladimir, and of course as plainly but sure-
I still long to turn thee to my treasure;
but love is bold and far too inadequate
to our desolate dreamland;
and might be too cynical-
thus unbearable; to just my dearest, dearest friend.
How sometimes I wish to be free!
And obediently disentwineth my hand;
'fore to thee I gratefully bend.

But desires, desires of t'ese, canst only be despair;
and 'till now our meeting hath just been too late.
Tragic as our souls shalt re-main alone, and not ever pair;
as I hath now one else 'ere to date;
as innocent as we wert-could hath he been unt'ere;
whenst I gazed but into thy shadowy eyes-
ones so full of comical mystery, and manhood t'at lies!
O, Vladimir, but still-tears cannot be our pale answer;
whenst our hearts could but suffer;
and secret love; our sole-ye' joyless matter.

And tough, tough needst we be, just like t'is poem-
just by its battered hands on a piece of paper.
But strong, strong and guiltless my heart may be-
dreams of which it cannot lower-
as t'ou art here not with me, o dear lover!
Ah, Vladimir, th' skies above
art still my beauteous, but neglect'd view;
trifling to my veins, as it never knew.
And thus, Vladimir, as it shalt again glow
my heart shalt be with thee in cold Moscow,
as thou danceth and befriendeth
our triumphant tomorrow.

Returneth t'en should I into my clock,
drencheth myself in my best frock;
and waiteth for on my door his knock.
Ah, and whenst later t'is be over-
shalt I but dreameth of thee again-
a guilty, but flawless-as how
a waking dream should be!
A dream, ah, andeth with it still,
a peaceful dream-
in which I canst feel thee against me-
teasing my soul and rubs my knee,
and weaves thy love, into my veins.
Poison me-o, poison me, my love!
And riseth thou t'ere-as my own knight;
within our dark; but stainless night.

I don’t want a sunbeam
give that to Jesus.
Don’t bother me with purity,
don’t let me make shadows
out of you.

I don’t want a butterfly
batting along on the wind.
The wind of my word,
on the gale of my opinion.

I don’t want a pearl,
something that needs to be made.
Made from gritty sand, held close,
and pressurised round and edgeless.

I don’t want a rose
called what I want it to be,
cut where I want it to be,
on my lapel, for when it makes me look best.

I don’t want conversations like schizophrenia.
If you want me to be able to explain you in four lines,
I don’t want you.

At night! I am not a thought
Over the infamous sunlight;
But rather one with heightened breath,
A creature like all beings,
I hath life and sometimes death.

At night! What a solitary life
That I oft' bathe myself in blood;
It hath a romantic smell to touch
And fantasies on its very own,
Like the world around is torn
When I drink it, when I taste it.

At night! What a succulent sight
And dried livelihood, such might
Who may think of such grandeur
In the afternoon's bad odour?
The night presents to me a lovely light
To hunt and race towards the night.

At night! What a lovely lace
And fierce sigh to embrace;
Unlike those held stiffly in breath
I am at all in no fear of death,
And there, a thousand skies
Shall not watch my shaky lies?

At night! What a cold showdown
As I float in midair in town;
Every piece of flesh is tempting,
Now that my thirst is seeping
Through the dire brass of my lungs,
That I know not between us.

At night! What a sacred taste
Of one's opened flesh;
I am as violent as Desire itself,
And trembling as 'tis troubled night.
What if I cannot love, nor hear myself
That I can see the Light?

At night! What a bare heaven
Up there, that hath opened;
But again, 'tis committed to poor souls
And t'ose alive only, unlike me
I shall not breathe, nor be old;
Nor shall my stale beauty

At night! What a loneliness
A story, and yet a broken sadness
I shall wander to dusk and dust;
And pain myself with roaming lust
Shall I be the human, and again
I cannot flirt with the earth's rain.

At night! What a tasteless breath
The very end that feels like death;
When one ain't ill, and just no;
I cannot be here until tomorrow
I had love then, but 'tis now death
An apparition I hath not had

At night! What a wordless call
And yet I hath no longer words;
My lover, my human lover
Then, he died of my cold hunger
I hath been placed in my own hell;
And cannot fake such tears so well

At night! What a wondrous sight
Sitting in mercy by the rainbow;
Ah, my love, who was once in fright
Old as his human self by the window
And I, was not born to see the light
And he died, I could not know.

At night! What a clueless moon
And a rabid but endless tune;
And the cloud, but cannot speak
Although I wish to ask he sea
Within the reserved, but pretty week
To sail my lover back into me

At night! What a tireless roam
And I cannot stop even by my poem;
To devour such a long life
And hurt that may be tough,
Miseries that may be naive
Tears that may not be enough.

At night! What a severed sight
I hath, that I cannot fly right
Who saith I shall need such wings
That shall not read, nor sing?
I might just turn human by then;
Joining my love in death again.

At night! What a sturdy light
That awaits me behind the grass,
Satisfying me the whole night
And gone as more days pass
What is good, and what is rigid
Who shall come to me again, merry meet?

At night! What a buoyant step
And I may put again my cape;
I may not be late, but too sweetly
I hath to seek more life for me;
I may not die, but to die reverently;
For him, I shall dream for free

At night! What a childish touch
But there is no more time to watch,
I kneel down and sip hungrily
At the heartbeat dying down by me;
T'is time, 'tis of a village *****
Hastily split by her brown bench.

At night! What a cold April
And who knows what summer feels;
I might lay about to seek some idyll,
While the skies but a flamed torch
To read riddles of the far North,
And drink my heap, my Lord.

At night! What a sweet sick dream
To my lost love, my limb
I like to writ all in a poem,
And drink of love in my room
What is better than love, my life?
What is sweeter to kiss, my lips?

At night! What a shuddered rose
And a catchy, stunned prose
But I may not be a true lover;
A truth, that one always hides
After the setting sun, the thin nights
Who shall craft myself an ode?

At night! What a shimmered thought
That I had remembered about you,
About a song I knew was true
And we embraced, while seeing
The night was already looking;
And hark! The sour stars finally cheering.

At night! What a blundering smile
And hastened sweat of love,
A shyness that never leaves me
And my cheeks, my beauty;
I can rest here, and for a while
I think I can leave my everything.

At night! What a blushed cheek,
For love is so soft, so meek;
For my love is held in midair,
Given but treated so unfair,
I am gasping for some fresh air,
But shan't cry, nor care

At night! What a young heartbeat,
But again, 'tis not mine;
For human blood is always a cure,
Although cold, minuscule, and unsure
I hath no care what 'tis all about
My hunger is there, and frets too loud.

At night! What an insane bird,
And so shockingly treacherous;
O my love, should I vouch for thee still,
And be kind, whilst all stands still;
But again, 'tis as chilly for my poetry,
For there is no life for one like me.

At night! What a rigid flute,
That is flamboyantly blown still,
I may not be by the long route,
But I love you, and want you still,
The thought of humans make me sick;
But without such breath I am so weak;

At night! What a lifeless sun,
Celebrated by all inhumans;
I am nobody that one wants,
I neither lighten nor illuminate,
And I do not appear in one's dream,
I am a devil, and not as I seem;

At night! What a poet, and poetry;
A poetry wearing a black veil,
And is read out of the doors,
I hath written strongly across the moors,
I hath been invited by such discourse
And troubled itches, troubled sights.

At night! What a vast suburban,
On the outskirts of my last town;
And I have to move, yet, I do,
Although I am a recent and new,
And to be with the morn, too vague;
I am afraid I shall be too late.

At night! What an edgeless voyage
That has come of life, of age;
A stellar one as I go again
In search of new vinegar and friends,
And who says a vampire has much to make
Whilst 'tis all for their crude sake?

At night! What a holy night;
And sounds ring and sing about me,
Those of bloodied hearts none shall see,
And I coldly devour again before the dawn;
And be asleep in the afternoon,
To wake up to the solitary moon.

At night! What a clouded light;
And voices entrap me in unison,
Throwing about new destinations;
In which my rough food shall satisfy me
And intensify my rugged beauty,
As I have no halos under the sun.

At night! What a trembling sigh;
But to me all skies are not too high,
And heights shall ask me to play,
Basking my life in the glory of those days.
And who is the sun, to seep into me,
I am dead, just like I was meant to be.

At night! What a coloured weep,
Of everyone in their drowned sleep,
But who says a sleep is peaceful,
Alight in hell, and be healed painful;
And be astonished for days after,
Feeling like life in short is forever.

At night! What an adorned heart
Whose one can cheer from afar;
But to humans, love may be distant
So soon as there rises a new moment;
I, who cannot feel tinges of emotion
And its cursed, fatal passions.

At night! What a demure feel
That one may just fall ill,
For neither I nor they have shared passion;
My life is too full of temptations.
And who should soar into the night -
All love to praise the faint daylight.

At night! What a sanguine wish
That one may just cold kiss,
They wish they couldst do in person
With no reason, no concoction;
But what is a wish not so bright
That we canst only witness in daylight?

At night! What a passioned chest
That should be put to rest,
Hath it undergone too many tests,
Between the East and West,
And the fatality of our hunger,
That feels eternal, and lives forever?

At night! What a loving heat
That I feel all in a single beat;
That I am not cold in cold any more,
That I can see now, unlike before;
To attain such quietness, and peace -
To dream and be alight in midnight bliss.

At night! What a loving heart
That I crave for from miles apart;
And I just know that I love you,
And your eyes, being too human
I knew they would be true,
But could I still see you then?

At night! What a new love;
That was born from the hunt
That none wishes for, nor wants
But I was there, waiting for thee
Behind the furry fir tree
That one hath died, and another
Is born, to bind me forever

At night! What forbidden love;
For 'tis a human again, and madly
I have fallen in love too badly;
In my flights, my giddy travels
I may have fallen too naively
That I cannot stay behind the wheels.

At night! What a love in profusion
Dead then, but not in union
Ah, but 'tis all a story
Not in life, for I do love to tell
That I shall not feel deep, nor sorry
For love hath always been a hell

At night! What a love blooming
For one cannot stop cheering
In silence, like me, hearing
For another love to come, clearing;
That I can turn human, and to heaven
To a faith I should hasten

At night! What a love searing
All hate, all curses, all bearings
And I, a vampire, shall sing my song;
That I hath waited for love too long
But in my eternal life, o dear
Perhaps thou canst ne'er be here

At night! What a love tempting
And I cannot stop laughing
Until I am full of disgraced tears;
And not of untold fears
For fears are not mine, and not hours
We have no death, nor blurred hours

At night! What a love promise
For us to be wise, and kiss
I hath longed to have wedding bliss;
But again, I am not the first
For vampires 'tis all the worst;
I hath only my rhymes, my words!

At night! What a love story
That I canst only feel within me
And to swallow such gurgling tearsl
Wouldst be crowded, be weird
I hath no life to entertain me
Nor a lover to hear my poetry

At night! What a love tale
That I canst only relish in hell;
Perhaps, I am not like one my own,
In exhaust and fumes, I am alone
Under the stars and moon that know
I shall face every day, and tomorrow

At night! What a love kiss
That I dream of, like a butterfly
But all is indeed a tired lie;
In all eternity, hath I been cursed
And in all worlds, hath I hurt
For whose I hath no more words

At night! What a love wish
That I cannot blame mine, nor his
To all wise, that are not wise;
To all whiteness that is a lie
For love hath but been a thief to me
And a harm to my living sanity

At night! What a love charm
That I hath discarded from my arms;
For I cannot feel, nor see you
In growing anything anew,
I hath seen but too few
I cannot have you in my arms.

At night! What a love war
That I hath removed from my tales;
I hath shut myself off of the door
And be the one no-one tells,
Who shall choose not to be alight;
To love with softness and bright?

At night! What a love heart
And a soreness cast away
I hath not seen the night, nor day
And stayed stiff again, today;
I cannot play in the afternoon,
Nor face the loving, dancing moon.

At night! What a love joy
That I hath not to tease,
Nor to pleasantly annoy;
I hath turned to dust, and dust is me
Pale as the armour of my beauty,
Eternal to life, and I can be
Not to love, not to be free.

Silence;
Turning to dust in the gentle breeze.
Anger subsides
And the turquoise sea drags us down.

Through our ethereal existence,
We listen.
Through our heart’s mind,
We feel.

All we hear is the wind,
And all we feel...

All we feel is our silent suffocation.

Your legs are an uprooted tree, longing for the taste of soil.
The water won’t flow in an ocean filled with stars, the spaces between them
dark like ink on paper, lines drawn through a multitude of times,
too many words occupying the same space so that nothing exists
but a verbose blackness. *Your hands are wisps of smoke,
edgeless clouds that coil around me and dampen my bare skin.
The current is cut by the planets, interrupted by the nebulae,
pushed by the galaxies and surrounded on all sides, at some point,
by land: the ambit of the observable universe.

Your body
sinks;
the universe ripples
and falls,
forming around you;
the heart in your chest
gently pushes,
gently pulls,
shifting the planets and stars
that envelop you.
Your toes burrow into the sand,
your arms creep through the skies,
and all at once I see that
everything is beautiful.

The guy just kept swinging his lunchbox
and it kept hitting Shakira
in the stomach.

I had to say something.

So I did, I told him to watch where he swung
that ******* cooler.

And his boys got into it.
And they wanted to fight to.
And we were near the beach.
And the clouds were edgeless.
And the sun was pastel.

And I just wanted to **** all of them.

Shakira held me back.
My girl held me back.

And then I felt something sinking
cold, deep down in me.

I sat on the beach
and almost cried;
depression hit like peppermints.

And I'd never felt so afraid in my life.
On the beach, all those people laughing
and their fat ******* kids running into the surf,
I just wanted to **** myself right there,
I was so afraid and scared.

I'd never been scared.
Or afraid.
I'd gotten my nose broken
my jaw bruised a few times,
and I knew to put vaseline on
cuts over the eye,
but I was scared
and I can't explain the kind of fear
that's made me weak.

I've gotten into fights since then,
but I feel fear growing
everytime.

My fingers go crazy with twitching
and after it's over,
the ball gets bigger inside of me.

I am Jesus, I am Nazareth, the holy book, scripture and ghost. I am a game of shadows, a king revoked of his throne, thrown penniless into the night. Beautiful, reckless and elegant I give no creedeance to those who declare wrong from right. I thrive in the center casting spells and insinuating foresight from my projected eloquence and esoteric insight. A compelling work of wisdom and sorcery, curdling your blood's common thread, a strand of DNA shared with all living and dead. A spooky terror of uncontrived epiphany, a silver lined pocket of edgeless mystery. Give in now and emancipate yourself from your subconscious's antiquated history.

i am edgeless
round and free to twirl
baby spring when it freezes in the heart of winter
a speck of dust abandoned by its mother
i have taken every kind of beating there is
been broken to the core beyond measure
promised nothing but eternal darkness and endless void
but i face it all gladly
biting lip and wielding ancient courage
honoring a pinky promise written in fire
whispered in stone
i will crawl on broken knees,
tear apart failing flesh
until my dying breath
until the end of time
for my children
for their unwritten potential
see i,
always wanted to be a spaceship
ever since i was child
see one day,
they will truly find their way
one day,
riding fire and wings of enlightened love
they will leave their humble beginnings behind
and if i'm lucky,
return with tales of countless wonders
wonders they have seen on my distant siblings
wonders that will light up their souls
go now my children,
i release you from your darkness.

Late August 8 o’clock is barefoot, and sunburned in the places that are always sunburned. Worn skin and deck slats hold onto leftover noon. Beneath, swirls the near unknown. Blue-black and edgeless, it’s awake but calmer as the day savors a slow-motion finish. Out of respect for the sunset, those at rudder or wheel embrace a lakewide no wake zone. Our blooms of whistle and sigh fill the dusk hour.
Someone somewhere is lighting a fire. It can be felt in the shoulder blades, when breathing slows. A ripe sense of abundance carries in the peach pink light—a promise that the season won’t fade, that deck children never age, and their waters never freeze. The birch chorus agrees, and this false truth soothes tired limbs that know better, but choose to accept the judgement of the night arriving. Because tender are the day’s dying breaths, and a special care is taken here for every move.
Peeling away layers, hair stands high on the skin with the pines on the hillsides. Bundle your things under the bench, or the winds may take them. There is a silence here with something to say. Toes hug wood’s edge and the muckgrasses nod in tune to a song that is there but not wholly heard. It’s important to watch first; it’s important that you try once again to read the neon pattern in the waves. A familiar laugh through cabin window will interrupt this.
The ladder is better for the evening swim. Submergence is best performed slowly then all at once, with careful attention paid to the detoured bloodflow of sunburned skin. Reflections of the promise unravel as they scatter into sky. Dip your darkness into the horizon and feel the day’s heat collapse inward, easing the blushes of your superficial pain. Let the other foot leave the trust of algaed metal, as the body’s pieces spread suspended. A group of fiery orbs blink aloft in an endless cold.
Our stars are connected only by stories, and here—where the sky is reflected in water—the hair on your hillsides can nod along to the half-heard tune of eternity. This is the end of the dock.

i dreamt of holding your hand, i dreamt of hating you; i am hansel & gretel sharing halves of a sexless edgeless soft young body together sitting in your home and waiting with folded hands patiently, quietly, to be devoured. look i am telling you — it's fine. sink in your teeth, i like the feel of them. today in the trees i saw mary magdalene's shawl-framed face written in shadows between the branches, today i saw the ***** of babylon's hands at my window and i wept. today you kissed my barren chest with the mouth of judas, today i am nobody's child. tomorrow i am yours.

i dreamt i poured you wine from my mouth, i made you bread from my flesh. all i ever did was miss you even when you were right here. you cradled my hand like a mother and later the bones of my fingers like a lover; the walls were stainless peach and the sun was setting and filtered through the window the light from behind made your hair glow, your face was so dark i couldn't find the colour in your eyes. i cried now for what you made me feel until you kissed me quiet, your breath so warm and my voice lost within it, lost like a sailor all at sea, and i felt so safe with you then even knowing how this story ended — you drew away and in my mouth from yours had slipped charon's obol, slipped all down my throat with no resistance. through the suffocation i laughed a little and through the laughter i said to you "yes, that's right," only glad that you had remembered.

look i am telling you — i died perfectly happy because i had not died at all. i watched you from the eyes of the wood-pigeons at your window and i know you burned my body and i know you swallowed the ashes and still! still then all you ever did was miss me, even when i was right there, right inside of you. silly boy.

i dreamt of hating you and by the end i only loved you again.

enticed by the tongues of other lovers
i have wondered under the cover
of wildernesses and near misses
come close but never been romanced like this
had my heart held but compared to this all that was a just a tryst
deeper than eternity and farther than your edges
your desire, your fire, your water, are edgeless
rip me away in the undertow
let me forget that if i swim at the perfect angle i can escape,
set me so much on fire that my entire desire is to drown,
set me so much on fire that the only way for me to survive is for me to be new, being renewed, and thrive,
set me so much on fire that i am
hungry
thirst
to burn
to drown

You are like a shadow;
One that’s passed away.
One that is long gone;
A creature of the grave.

You are like a ghost;
Belonging to another dimension;
But owning half of me;
Distracting my entirety.

You are like a spirit;
You caught my mind, my heart, my soul;
You transfixed me that day;
You snatched my love that night.

You are like a witch;
A playful, evil sorcerer;
A stubborn enchanter;
A lovely beast.

You are like the moon;
The love of the universe;
The one you once wanted to have;
The wine of your own being.

You are like the night sky;
I cannot see where you sleep;
Nor touch your edgeless bed;
Nor feel your heartbeat.

You are like the sun;
Once winter comes you’ll die;
Shining with blood and heat;
Dying of your own flesh.

You are like the breeze;
And breezes end too fast;
Stirring me up tensely;
Ending all abruptly.

You are a confusion;
I do not know what held you back.
Still I cannot see today,
though I feel you are here.

You are a depression;
Even today, that I think of you;
And the melancholy Russia;
I can see no-one else but you.

You are a chain;
A lock that holds me still;
A forgotten crush;
A tremor that brings tears.

You are a doubt;
An unfinished love story.
I wish I could write about you;
But all that existed shan’t be true.

And we're off ...
the week has started ...

is it every day we're reminded
how fucken dense this man is?

how utterly, immeasurably ignorant
is this solid mass of orange nothingness
that's tinged with the green of envy,
the dark bile of bigotry,
& the ever present yellow
of moral cowardice,

shaded with coal black
labyrinthian hollows & dense thickets
of double-speak & blatant
lies.

Oh this man!

This pitiful caricature of every
far-too-rich fat cat you laffed at
in the Sunday comix,

all over-fed yet never satisfied,
trophy wife upon his velvet arm,
shy & lonely son left to play with imaginary
friends in a gilded palace of pillowed luxury
& golden gushing faucets of milk & honey
& all those fancy trinkets that declare to
himself each day,
... "Oh how I've made it!"

This bottomless well,
this mind of vacancies &
negative sub-atoms,
pure void of edgeless darkness
infinite & oh so very still,

this encyclopedia of the vacuum,
this mole of the intellect,
this dustbin of the present,
overflowing with inane
***-bits of elemental
irrelevance,
this!

& the horror is of course
that 60 odd million Americans
gave this jestered fool
the reins of power
in the most powerful
& consequential
nation on this
fragile & hurting
one & only
planet earth.

Molt

Did your wings get heavy with the rain?
Did you toss the morning dew back to the air?
When did it start to burn?

Though the morning sunrise curled your hair,
The silence of two thousand sunsets left you
Sheared
Shivering
Until you couldn’t stand to hug yourself anymore.

Your rags are little more than a veil,
Yet they chewed through the fiber of your skin
Biting
Binding
Until you became inseparable.

At some point you have to realize what’s going on.
Is it slow? Do you even have time to look down and stop yourse—
Calm down


and breathe.

Feel the future pelt your neck.
Feel the present fill your lungs.
Feel the past ride up your throat.

Take one last step into the edgeless expanse.
And fly.
Even though you can’t feel it.

Listen.
Listen to your wings quiver in the storm.

I, before your hands found me, would fly
Past murky, flaxen winds and uncloaked, brittle trees
While ticking, tocking years marched by.

How could the earth behind the bleeding sun so simply sigh
At prideless princes, careless bees and frightened, frigid fleas?
I learned before that I, without your hands, should always fly.

Speak and thread the eye of quickly and softly luring lies.
Until I play in clouds of light, gently, sweetly, please
Forestall those ticking years that slip so easily by.

Wearily I pull worn reins, thinned and tattered, below the tie
Then pray for whispered secrets and rolling, trusting, fearless seas.
I wait, but still without your hands, I learn that I may fly.

Without much left within me but a withered, ragged cry
I’ll offer up the edgeless, vast and countless shuffling sea.
We’ll watch and share those ticking years that go so quickly by.

The smell of autumn rainfall, filled with dew and golden skies,
We lay beneath and count the scars the swindling jet planes leave.
Unlocked and healed, without your hands, I know that I can fly,
But pray that ticking, tocking years go slowly, slowly by.

Beginning the movement, catches my eye amidst dead leaves in perplexing folly yet imagined many times before; in between reality and fantastical imagery conjured from a contemplative journey. Awake!

Riding beside the troupe blowing and skimming with a twirl of gaiety and precision, colorful pinwheels taunting beneath a synchronized sequence bequeathed with unknown passage and certain conclusion.

The wind becomes a partner that carries them like a beige velvet flying carpet, dancing to a silent orchestra intention; meandering to a landing pattern meant to rejuvenate yet another design.

They have no destination which is odd. Somehow they are both aware of the vaporous soup filled with magnificent color and lines and nary a thought about where to go; it musn’t be plied for satisfaction.

The mirth of it all! Acting as if there was control over their trip and showing off in a bodacious manner, the pile snaked and flicked its lightening colored tongue along the gray bespeckled pavement. Reciprocation came while the observant outfitted a seat on a similar trolly, arriving by the far sea of imagination.

We are twisted together and unfurled in a maniacal gavotte of sensuous interpretation, transporting us along a path of wafting field grass and bubble-wrapped white pillows of cloud; static except edgeless.

How can this be? We believed we set on foot for arrival only to chuckle later that we have never manifested an anchor of adhesion; understanding that we are perpetual and stirred with a never-ending abundance of transcendence.

Not farther away, not closer to anticipation. Centered in a profusion of ideas and symbiotic embrace; we are wrapped in cavernous layers of gradient billowing fabric that becomes what we see behind our closed eyes. It is never the same…

Once considered turbulence we now know is a replete carriage of weightless feathering, delivering dreams with unexpected alacrity and reassurance.

Now that theatrical scene before me has relevance and authenticity unto itself and my own participation. My attention has been captured and granted free access whenever desired.

As I stand in this magical moment
Listening to the echos
of the early winter wind
And of the waves crashing
by the coast
I rest my thought
beneath the southern cross
If only Helios could stay above the horizon
and feast among the clouds
Won't you let me devour
this serenity so unfamiliar
But his chariot never stops
nor waits for a lowly commoner
So the war had once again begun
with lifeless warriors and edgeless swords
To conquer the land of dust
and empty treasures

Walking, smiling along a nice tree-lined street,

Seeing a movie with part of my mind of how my day will unfold,

Thinking about the movie with another part of my mind: Suddenly!

I am completely Joyous Transparency– edgeless, boundless, no connection with body, movie, thoughts, completely outside the body.

“Can I really be unbounded, edgeless, eternal?” I think.

My Transparency swells in golden light,

Creates a golden tube, makes a corner, turns around behind my head and looks through my eyes at My Self. How Glorious!

Within a little while–not long, maybe a few months, definitely not more than a few years–

My Transparency and My Golden Fullness are always together, at least while I’m awake,

And I experience My Self as Omnipresent, All-Pervading, Love and Joy:

How Glorious! How Marvelous! How Delightfully Simple to Know who I Am!

How normal!

Thank you to my teacher, to all who help me live a good life and to live a better and better one!

Thank You!

Thank You!

The “C” in Campbell
Left my proud resolve in shambles
As I made my rounds
I took a deadly gamble
With my witless hands
I spent my plans
On sleepless nights clouded with suicide

One step from the edge
The overpass fence
Became my best defense and my closest friend
I walked aimless
Anxious under bruising skies

The “C” in Campbell
An edgeless dead-end town
I sought my self-destruction
But no self was found
Only the burnt out and bored there
Spun out on cold stares
Hung out to air dry
By the slow creek with graffiti eyes
Broken hearts
Muted lies
We rummaged through stolen goods
Sneaking an alibi

The “C” in Campbell
We thought we were so much bigger
So much smarter
But we could never deliver

Not quite beautiful
Not quite scorned
We were insomniatic
Thrilled with being half-born

A buck shy of broke
I was thinning away with every rhyme that I wrote
Like a fevered poem
I was skin and bones
So alone

The “C” in Campbell
I dream of you washed in light
Freed from that which harbors you
The depravities of night

I know your streets are not so clean
I know your stars
I know your amphetamines
I know you too can be redeemed
From mediocrity and self-pitty
The underbelly of a forgotten city
Skin and bones
So alone

The “C” in Campbell
Believe
Believe!
There’s no other way out

When I'm sad it rains,
its been raining a lot lately.
And just like that sentence I've been skirting around the edges trying to avoid direct contact with anything.
I feel like I am edgeless and not in a 'you are limitless' kind of way.
More like I have no idea who I am anymore and it scares the hell out of me!
I don't feel sad in the same way I used to when I could attach a tag to each emotion and say I know you.
I feel shattered and used like every bone in my body has come from a charity shop and I'm trying to figure out how everything works and what pieces are missing from the box.
I am drowning in my own rain and every breath I try to take to remind myself you have to survive,
fills my lungs a little more until I have to scream *******!
Bring it on,
because I refuse to die in this weather, just like the past I cannot change it but my coat has a hood and like everything,
rain is never permanent.

I am a person
and member of society
as decreed by our majestic queen
on my nativity's receipt.

I am a person
and that is a tree
though where its leaves end and I begin
can't be cast in concrete.

I am a person
and so are you
though where your fingers entwine
with mine they fray to filaments and fuse.

We are edgeless electronic soup
our neurons move like croutons
our dreams clot and swirl like cream
you are carrot, I am parsnip
basking under leaves of parsley.

The queen grasps her coronation spoon
from which she sups on callaloo.

When the moonlight take your breath away
And the tree leaves shade your light
I whispered into your eyes
With nothing but me inside

When I lay on your lap
And I see the sky
Limitless and edgeless
Existing in time

And when you shine on me
As if my being expands
I sit in silence
And smile without try

So as I die
My self dies
All to merge
with you to one

As I sleep in you
And you sing that song
I begin to dance
With all of my joy

All of your trials and success
All of your hopes and dreams
All there for me
As I become void

There is nothing to say
Only being you
And live to die