I never stop thinking of you,
you always fill up my head.
And not just with thoughts,
but inspiration instead.
This feeling you give,
is something I seek.
It's just so relieving,
anytime you speak.
I love how you sing,
about anything that moves you.
Leaving nothing out,
whether it maddens or soothes you.
Your soul just emits,
an intoxicant that calms me.
And when we touch,
this mood just embalms me.
It binds me tight,
locked in your sweet release.
Then time slows down,
til the silence has ceased.
But during that moment,
I've begun to beleive.
That your voice,
is really,
the only one I need.

What brief utterance this, the color of time

That gives more meaning than language can hold

To force a confrontation between unresolvable contradictions

Such as make malleable a gracious hospitality to ******

And sound trumpets of unwarranted discord

That lie and lament the reputation and experience of damage

Hold forth the envious clouds of displacement

To provide for the vicious energies of hate

Those oppressive weights of past problems

That enactment of intense and exhausting experience

Which embalms the tears of fresh bleeding

Without impediment dictates the human existence

Where the mistress of aggressive thought finds

Extremity of dire mishap a strenuous protest

Leads to well meaning certainty of illusion

And asks, art thou so in love with masks that you

Would transform thyself and as such

Bind a loyalty of angers to thy touch

I send this track

Out to the Universe

Praying its echoes

Reach the farthest corners of the Earth

To reach you



I want the melody

To seep into your skin

The synthesizer

To shake your ribs

Each percussive meter

Synced to your beating heart



And as the music fades

And the ethereal chimes

Tickle the silence

Imagine my fingers

Tracing your lips

Pulling you in for a taste of bliss



I hope this track

Transcends the airwaves

That my light

Enraptures you

And embalms you

In Affection

What is it, Oh what is it that plagues my mind

Which rests its design in black melancholy

And perpetual lament

Producing desperate and unreasonable frustrations

And condemnations of grotesque obligations

Investing a relentless barbarism of lamentation

In that moment of the infinite pulse of inaccuracies

That raises from the grave of oblivion illicit ambitions

And by their presence embalms me with an ambiguous curse

That compels no rivalry or universal justification

Unfettered falsehoods that lure by practice of pretense

Make subject to a tyranny of questionable inquisitions

That claim themselves both by treaty and inheritance

Pursue with a vigor blind narcoleptic dancers with a ferocity

That embalms the bones with the tears of a million fans

Who in such tragedy represent that image and behold him

His limb freshly bleeding reading his words in lamentation

There is a place in our Universe
Visited by awestruck beings.
Where thoughts never turned to verse
Can be rejuvenated and seen.

The Universe has to stow
These lost thoughts for a reason.
So somewhere it springs to life
In a place called Lost Poet's Heaven.

When a poet envisions a scene
Or conjures up a line,
Lost Poet's Heaven, wouldn't you know it,
Embalms it into time.

The grieving maiden, too
Succumbed by tears to write,
Expresses her plight, unleashes her heart,
With nothing but her thoughts.

These thoughts she never penned
Can reappear again
When she has died, and her tears have dried,
And beholds Lost Poet's Heaven.

Lost Poet's Heaven, splendid and serene.
Filled with art to the tops
Of the pink clouds gathering.

Down comes the purple raindrops
Entrapped with your script.
You taste it on your thirsty tongue,
Lavishing long lost rhymes with every sip.

The sunshine casts rays of sublime poetry.
Later to be felt on the skin,
Absorbing the memory.

The Universe is kind, but doesn't want
The Hopeless Romantic to know it.
In Lost Poet's Heaven, the girl of his dreams
Is wooed by the clueless poet.

So when you lose your train of thought,
Smile, don't you fret.
In Lost Poet's Heaven, what you forget
Can be free to float about in mystery.

He tenderly draws
and invites Me,
mind you each one of us
He loves, comforts
protects and delivers us,
from all confusion[s]
embalms our oppressed sorrows
Hold on to your peace
and endure without doubt
your tribulations
Talk to him
with a clear conscience
dont worry who is with you
Or against you,
He's to be the only object
of your hope and assurance
No man's malice can hurt
Let God be
your Epitome
your["eye"] "i"
[I] specialist

His palm is a sepulchre,
It holds captives and sun-rays.
Macabre consolation fractured his skin.
He who embalms the petals of my words,
to paint forlorn attempts.
With keen acumen he carves the coffins
And adorns the figures of decay.
As alchemists, he works,
to convert base spirits into colours;
Immortal for all the decades of disdain.
His palm is the afterlife,
It keeps hummingbirds and streams.
Unholy droplets cured his cells.
He who puts me on hold,
like soulless novels on his shelves.
As soothsayers, he says,
"You count your pulses; no longer."

In that sacred instant, the lacerated Marie approaches her and invites her to settle on the table that was also fractured, both of them sit arranging the items that were still intact. Marie calls him Lazarus and he admits it with a gesture, he takes the ointment and places it on the table near the feet where they had left the icon on the table. The innopia of time was accessed in the source that was overflowing with ciphers, which mediate between the anointings of the omega liturgy that arose in a chimeric, which arises from the same temporal support from the ruins of Agios Andreas to Bethany, to its An iconographic extension that gouged the ointments that were overthrown by the gutters on the faces of both, Marie and Lazarus, but also Simón bilocated in Lázaro himself. The embalms and musks spilled everywhere, even reaching the crest of the Estinfalos that dated with the desire to free themselves, since Ayia Andreas rarely tried to trap them in the conferred of María, Marta, and Lazarus, with the triangulation that was content with the balms for the head and the blessed feet of the Lord, when pointing out that he came from his head and that he incarnated the Seventh Heaven, that his feet were already set in the house of Simon the Pharisee and not in the house of the Brothers of Bethany, joining with Mary Madalena as the unified professed of Bethany in their hearts. The anointing inked the sky of Jesus with his head of red blood cells and vapors of Lilies, and the ground crowning Limbo on the third day of Anastasis.

Marie's anointing witnessed the flood of seven soulless beings, who vexed her island in the disciple, who apprehended herself in the affection of the Bethany brothers, anointing her looming and faithful ***** Lazarus, anointing him without measuring or excepting the amounts of incense that They fell from the head of the icon, which spilled it from his hair on both of them who were posthumous minutes of Kairos, containing the bequeath of a fractured poly Christ and completely replaced as a saved icon, as it did with Lazarus of Betania, now Lazarus of Spinalonga. The afternoon was getting dark and the perfumes lost their effect, both of them having to get up from the table, similar to an improvised Matakis, with great similarity to a majestic quadrangular triclinium, for furniture that was made of living flesh to heal them in the interval of the hours. Lazarus lacerations starting on his left leg. Everything was already a post-Betanian conciliation, which foreshadowed guarantees even beyond the ascended soul, with bread, jugs of wine, and swift prayers of cheers, which led them out of the conventual of the island, towards the aggregates of the Estinfalos who called them to crown themselves. over them, anticipating the premonitory and appropriate musks to say goodbye to this Expiring Cenacle between two entities, rising in the bronze elytra with the others to rule their true owners.

Barren, the earth beckons
Sole pair of feet treading in heat.
Respite is seldom found while
Dread, exhaustion and sweat are cheap.
Burnt heather, ashes for a bed,
A pillow of dead feathers.
What else must he do to rest
Save be abed in dust, the traveller.

A fall, showering of the abandoned
Leaves, children so dried.
Lifelessly dropping, hopeless,
From clutches of the mother tree, pried.
Poison intoxicating, sapping nature
And all there is, it's fallen bounty.
To seek rest amidst the fallen
In itself is not devoid of folly.

Spines, shivering in deathly embrace
Of ice and of all that is cold.
Paralysis of a different nature
Body begging for warmth lost and old.
Silence embalms the wild
The tame are shown no mercy.
For who dare put his eyes to rest
They may never again open, never see.

A beautiful ethereal death awaits
Those lulled by false enchantments.
Songs and whispers of ivy and moss
Trap innocents at river embankments.
Fruit and flower, vines and willows,
Dryads of the woods, deepening magic.
Slumber means to never stand again,
Death in solemn sleep, of course is tragic.

I collect the death masks
of everyone I see,
many ready with their
mouths turned to  the earth,
eyes closed tight in hellish denial.

Except for L’Inconnue de la Siene
pulled from the river in utter peace,
lovely as Ophelia floating in the reeds,
the resuci Anne of two centuries
of death and resurrected respirations.

Her I grant the heaven she envisioned,
rescue her from the sterile pummel
of kisses and mechanical resurrections
for the body forever remembers its debt
to the devil’s dance of an aspiring life.

I am an exiled poet like Dante
finishing the Paradisio and Inferno
before the malarial last vision
and stone cold gasp reveals
the world and God as just a trick.

I witness the world pleading mercy
to the executioner before the beheading.
“No, no Madam you must die.  You must die”,
is the death mask maker’s answer before
the axe man takes his three swings.

I wonder, like Keats, before the wax
embalms his consumptive face
“How long is this posthumous
existence of mine to go on?”
The answer coming one year later.

I know the world will die, like John Dillinger
in a hale of bullets under a movie marquee,
its death mask ceremoniously displayed
next to its ***** pickled member
and the Sheep Child bleating for love.




Notes:
L’Inconnue de la Siene is a famous death mask created from a Parisian suicide.  Her death mask was a popular morbid collectible found in many French households of the late 1800’s and early 1900s. The Death Mask was also used as the face of a  popular CPR teaching mannequin known as resuci Anne.

The Sheep Child is a reference to the James Dickey poem about a creature that was the off spring of *******.

John Dillingers pickled ***** is rumored to be a part of the Smithsonian museum’s  hidden collection of oddities.

A taste of your wine
Cinnamon tempting
Sugar so sweet
Embalms my mouth with an apple drip
It sends me a rain of bliss

Your breath makes me twine around.
A strand so strong
And your voice is so sweet
You send me into a trance with your mead
Bite my lips, whisper love with your kiss

I wish to taste your red wine
Tangerine sweet and the sun warm
Dream of heaven we stay in for evermore
Where we dance together in the moonlight
And we wake with joyful eyes in the sunlight

Bright and crystal water falling down the hill
A unique trip forever to enjoy
Embalm my mouth with an orange drip
Send my being in a bliss
Bite my lips, whisper to me love with your kiss

Ghostly tombs flourish the deadly spirits,
and as they reach purification,
their Mother God embalms them with honey bliss,
a war of earthquake kiss.

It wanders restlessly released
In tombs of recently deceased
And surreptitiously it seeks
Just to be mortal once again
Sarcophagus of sinful skin

To hide the scarab-swarming flesh
An all-consuming nothingness
Falling to the floor and crawling
From a skulking skeleton
A rotting corpse of blending in

With those who see no form of pharoah
Decomposing in its marrow
Just disgust accruing dust
As time embalms its bones within
These pyramids they've never seen

ADHD forgets to feed the fish
and when she finally remembers,
it is dead at the bottom of the tank.

Well, I suppose dead is an understatement:

a mossy film embalms the body
(at least what is left of it)
its suction-cup maw putrefied
as it suckles the sickle of death.

Half of the body is there.

Half of it has disintegrated.

Imagine existing nowhere and everywhere
all at once; microscopic remnants
defile every particle of water long after
the rest of you has vanished.

The days embrace their hollow fate
     as night embalms the lost
and faint visage coagulates
     beneath her permafrost,
just starless skies to beautify
     the black beneath the blue
as truth becomes a lullaby
     the heart cannot subdue

The winds of change are cold indeed,
     Bereft the heart's advice.
They bite the soul as memoirs bleed
     through untold sacrifice.
The bandages, but silhouettes
     of what I used to be,
the fractured forms of old vignettes
     I've hidden perfectly.

The rhythemed flow, but symmetry
     Adorning broken form,
just vestiges of clarity
     adrift amid the storm
and somewhere 'neath it's gelid rain
     the answers stain the ground
with words the heart can't ascertain
     and feelings that confound.

As semblance fades amid the lull,
     before the coming eve,
an echo squirms within my skull
     where dreams have taken leave,
a remnant left in aftermath
     of storms within the heart
where lonely men accrue the wrath
     of love they watched depart.