Please let me preface
I dont like people
crouds make me cringe
and while i value my friends
i highly value my solitude
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I cant picture a face
when i close my eyes
when my mind trys to grant
that one final human wish
before slumber encompases my body
and reality and dreams interlace
For i have no soul to match with mine
nor a soul to follow
in deepest secret with the fleeting hope
that maybe our souls shall intertwine
But i wish not for two to meld
for hearts to pledge an undying vow
for lust and ****** greed
for billowing convorsations

But silence

An individual respect for ourselves
two beings gracious for company
bodies laid side by side
your fingers tracing circles
on blank canvasses of skin
Where there is but an understanding
that breath so silent can be pleasently shared
and electic touch soulfull
igniting warmth surrounding my heart
of which embers burn soft and hot

Where aching muscles
tense from harsh realities
are smoothed away with solid hands
a mutual relationship where the
solidarity in thought is aknowlegded
yet the pleaure derived from presense
a caring being holding steadfast
unwilling to let me go
gentle and kind
Where the silence of
spiritual understanding guides
the instictual need for
companionship

Total departure to our needs is the reckless stupidity of how we are becoming our own executioners.When looking down on mother earth from father sky they wonder as to what their siblings are dreaming of as they hurt and maim their own mother.
When will people who justify their greed ,instead of need realise that their greed will not even give them their very  basic requirements for being here!
Humanity,through some strange concept,has set itself up,knowingly,as the controller and destroyer of all that gives them their basic needs,"their mother and father".
Man in his greed has even tainted the rays of light which give us our birthright,LIFE,for without it we would not exist.
By an infinite membrame,or so greed presumes,lying between good and bad,we live or die,but greed has stretched and widened that belief to horrific depths in the name of need.How long before it SNAPS?!
The coolerof our mother and bearer of us is poisened and wasted every moment. The ever overexploiting ****-sapiens will not letgreed stop them,even in their mothers death cries.A huge propergater of everything,mother gries in pain as she starves and with her ,her siblings.
The sun now burns her soft skin and moisture does not stay to cool her as she sweats.How long must or can she endure this torture?
Would we do it to our human mothers?
A family tree of pain is her reward for nurturing us.Her womb dries as the moisture is ****** from her veins and poured on to her belly as she screams.The sun rips it from her no longer cool and loving but hard and fierce like a furnace.
Onwards greed trespasses into herpumping heart,her skin is poisened and erupting like puberty,but still man is unmoving in his attitude to himself.
She speaks to them everyday but they do not hear or sense in any way her agony.Oblivious to everthing greed rumbles on deaf to its very basic needs and requirements.
As she criesfor help,her breath encompases all as she resusitates all with her sibilation.Can you smell you mothers breath?Will this last vain hope of hers go unoticed as greed races against its now foul wind?
"YES" because greed has stunned even your basic senses.Yo do not see,you do not hear,you do not feel,you do not taste ,you do not smell,even your most common sense of all is wasted "SURVIVAL!"

Between the three elements lies another.Without any one of the three the other is non-existant.
Running headlong,greed does not even notice its own reflection,blinded by its own need!Our mother is wek,her milk is drying,her skin is wrinkling,her touch is burning,her sight is blined,her taste is foul,her breath is stifling and her hearing is fading,she is DYING.
Her umbilical cord is strangled as it dries up with the assassination of her soul.  Will her soul be heard after we have  vanished or will we awke from our sleep of arrogance and greed and realise that EVERYTHING is not worth NOTHING.

For when she dies her death throughs will mame and slaughter us even as we count-?

                                                                        

                                                                                  "OUR MONEY"

children no longer obey their parents,
and everybody is writing a book.
      circa 1914 - 1924a.d.

away with you to the lyricist!
    and not to the earth bound roughage
of toil and till -
      or was that not the first encouragement?
have not but the first sipped water
   of these optical realm, fused more
than as modern antidote has it -
   been more intoxicating to see as if a first
dawn of Belshazzar?
              have these not been the invitations
   for scaling the summit of tw. Babylon?
then indeed, not with care or plush attire,
have we descended into an idle affair -
for the insurmountable cohort rattled
even the lesser who still struck a chord of
defiance and belittled by the world: mused.
as so much of love pours onto paper -
             and a paper that later becomes a slab
of stone, plunges with splash and splatter into
the sea as unknown as that, which
encompases the orbit of Neptune -
                 in that void and in that void,
        can we rarely find a bottle to bottle all
things concerning, up.
           or is that: man can no longer play monopoly
with the medium, or indeed he can:
      nuance layered upon nuance layered upon
insinuation, layered upon metaphor,
layered upon non-literalism, layered upon
   literalism, layered upon pun, layered upon
abstract, layered upon fear, layered upon
politics, correct?
                                  by the allotropes of carbon!
to the times when one could say one thing and
one thing only and feel a *will toward something
being testimony of unequivocal thoughts!
at a time when not everyone practiced politics
on such a scale, or wasn't prescribed
a journalistic career on the sly,
          when it fact: mere charity work.
life for life, word for word, deed for deed -
                       and to hell with human circumstance:
whether awe-struck, or awe-bound,
                     or as most can attest... neither.
now all is said, but nothing can be done -
       for now the only thing being said
   is a question of whether it be vogue
                                or ragged mops strewn
across a dark cupboard space -
as too the warm doughnuts and baguettes
on a Monday morning with headlines and
articles and opinion sections and photographs
and adverts... nothing more
                    than toilet paper already used
to wipe one's ****... lying facedown in
a puddle on some street: by the afternoon.
perhaps this too be a melancholy art,
        akin to the journalistic endeavour -
and perhaps both the hope in poetry as the hope
in journalism: is for at least a single
memorable day to be nothing but a sabbath.
could this world ever envision a media sabbath?
probably not... as this poem suggests...
   and another, and another... and...

How exciting it is to experience new love,
and all that it encompases.
Each direction sustained with inconceivable ending,
oh, how fast the time passes.
Such a rush of ecstasy,
every simple token a reminder.
You cherish every amorous musical tune,
every lyric just seems much kinder.
For the fortunate their passion perseveres,
the unfortunate it's not so simple.
Loss of a love can be debilitating,
flames snuffed out..so hard to rekindle.
Every song is now a painful reminder,
of the could have..should have...would haves.
The map of your lives you laid out,
now off to different paths.
You tell yourself to be strong,
your heart will always heal.
Eventually you will move on,
Time is what it takes to survive the ordeal.
For the unlucky souls that must endure,
the ending is not so clearly in sight.
Intentions just cannot be followed with action,
absolutely nothing feels right.
Some are jaded for eternity,
never finding solace in love anew.
While the fortunate survivors in the battle of love,
find others to pursue.