so there's no more laughing
at an evening fire
no more the crackle of flames
to echo our desire
for summer is on its way
yet all i feel is the cold
sat staring at the dying embers
of a love once known
your reasoning remains certain
and so easily evoked
those moments i recall now
mere epitaphs i wrote
what of that first kiss or
that walk upon your stairs
the warmth of our breath
as i slide through your hair
cast aside as mere memories,
lost shadows in this game
as the ashes burn out
through the endlessness of blame

summer does beckon as you
heed its call to take flight
redefining your season
escaping my darkness to light
alone to search deep inside
and what will I see
complicated and broken lives
but only one truly free
for no mirror will ever conceal
my self inflicted lies
decisions and failures welling up
in these guilty grey eyes
a sentence delivered through
the coldness of silence
yet I will appeal to take solace
in some other summer dress
to mask the responsibilities,
to seek shelter for this shame
it is I that must carry the burden,
bear the endlessness of blame

Our Words go into the Skies,
Our Sight travels beyond the Moon,
Our Eyes go beyond the Oceans;
We Embark on a journey at Night,
Arriving a Destination at Dawn
We are strong in our Fears;
We want to know the Lengths,
We want to see the Depths
Who Knows the shape of Yonder?
Who knows the ethereal Measurements?
But the Oceans tells its Endlessness

Our Soul longs for immortality,
But our body will betray us
Our minds keeps wandering for the Unknown
We travel through life with moments to behold,
Arriving at a distance broader than us
What has time not told us?
What is time hiding from us?
We want to know the heights
We want to see the Realms
Who knows the world after here?
Only God knows

We are building castles in the Air,
Though we cannot see them
We have submitted our Course;
We are waiting for answers
How long shall we wait?
Where is the beginning?
Where is the end?
In our loneliness, we are stronger
We want to know more,
We seek to know more;
Until the End

We are waiting at the Gates;
And the storm is heavy,
Still the rain falls deeper
Should we wait longer?
Can we wait Longer?
Who knows the lost road to the sky?
Who knows the path leading to the moon?
Why are our shadows trailing us?
Who knows the ethereal measurements?
No one knows,
But the Ocean tells its Endlessness.

Streaming through your chest,
is a whirlpool of endlessness,
an endlessness of possibility,
a possibility of feeling.

A feeling which lifts you high,
from the world the eye sees,
the eye sees the bitter life,
bitter life of sheep-like people.

Sheep-like people move along,
through a twisted vicious circle,
a vicious circle created by the sly,
the sly foxes who play for gain.

But gain by play you don't,
for you see past all the nonsense,
nonsense is the name of the game,
the game that you won't play.

You won't play, you won't be herded,
for in your chest there's a whirlpool,
a deep heavy whirlpool of endlessness,
an endlessness of wise awareness.

Life starts to seep through lines
I can't continue
To pretend that
Endlessness
Won't scare
Me

In the night, those shadows come alive. So little do i know about this heavy doubt.
Cold wind biting the heart. Trying to figure out where I've been.
Dark winter pulls me closer, now theres a place i'm thinking into the air.
A voice calling, "Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?"

Nothing is as it seams, just as beauty leans from the earth in a sunset--a harp for the soul to sing.
But You are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at her self
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
And if you want to know truth retire of solving riddles.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way,
begin no day where we have ended another day;
and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel,
back into dreams.

Ay, my bow rests on my chest.
There is the flame spirit among a starry mountainside.
Oh it was but yesterday we met in a dream. You watched as I built a ship towards your shore.

My spirit goes wandering upon the wind, off to the desert sands, deep beneath the ocean's sound.
I am the gypsey and the fortuneteller, liken an honest thief. No I'm the myth builder and dream master.

who laughs with me when I destroy,
the sand castles of my innocence. The
sun warming my back just as the wicked, and drawing my image locked in a shadow.

Here the soul a battlefield, where
reason and passion become one.
they are the sails of my seafaring soul.

There I found the naked body of my dreams, in silent sleep my spriit walked the path.
I am the star-gazer who feels the power of endlessness, Aware of timelessness and
neverending space. The love in me still
present amidst the scattered fires that
burn in black ink.

Just as the caveman draws his fears on lost walls, speaking of misfortune and
treasures gallore.  A fantom ghost in Hade's Fate.
Now my ship wanders forever on a pearlous course but never sinking.

my entrails seaping crimson blackness into my heart
Bitten by the rotting incisors you force into my flesh
My body seeking your gaping void
mere mortals describe as a mouth

Your dark hollow soul blackening Cutting my thin cold skin i let you in. Feeling our flesh merging in this torturing oneness,
Filling the cavities of endlessness.

i yearn to feel you feasting upon my clammy cold covering desiring for the essence of your inner being to take me whole devouring my crescent moon in undertones of a wild demonic frenzy

Extracting dark passion from your soul Staring into darkest nights of your mind's cavity.
Through your soul, a black gaping hole. Darklights seeping through my sanity.

searching for a searing flame
it matters not that my etheral love is a force from another plain
i can only believe in the feeling of you

Perpetual fear of being hurt long i went through.
This torturing love you wrung me through.

my cold dead heart lingers in a state of confusion
serving only to terrorize my mind
forever playing tricks on me
for a soul ive left behind

The oceans...
And my love for you..
There's one thing common...
Between the two:
Endlessness.

endlessness terrifies me
my chest swells and my heart flutters to think of it
a cold cold ocean blue like night filled to the brim with nothing
a long dark void both hot and cold. dead stars and dizzying dances full of forever


but you and your smile and your mind are endless
and I am not afraid at all
you are bioluminescent and there are stars trapped under your skin
(you have no antidote)

All observation is from a particular point, but
acknowledged subjectivity's better than naught.
Thus follows some comments on their qualitative nature.
Use them as you deem. In this piece everything is as it seems.

Caffeine is unappreciated enough,
Give credit to that stimulant for the things it does.
Coffee has little time to play, for there are errands
to attend to before the light fades.

The amphetamine will spin you until you're spun,
The cathinone will also try you with its luck.
The stimulant is a trickster [touch within]
and a magician never reveals their secret,
Even when seeking it befalls endlessness.

Me and E(cstasy) used to dance all night,
Closer to all your dreams was as far
from the light, we soaked ourselves
in emotionality and I soared high:
Perfection in the dark
rekindled my heart; 'cause
on pills you love everyone.

******* is always hungry but will never feed you
for it is naught but the scent of pure ego;
because on coke everyone loves you.

There is nothing to learn from an opioid or benzodiazepine
beyond the hedonistic stupor in-between awake and sleeping.
Similarly, cigarettes never taught me anything about myself
much like quick, ***** ***, that's nicotine and painkillers, in essence.

Alcohol is reliable for those sociable
but can hurt the body and scorn the emotional.
Drink toyed with me, then she abandoned me;
Despite that messiness I still reminisce occasionally.

Gamma-HydroxyButyric acid [GHB] requires utmost caution,
One must observe the proper conduct when
wading through such subtle intoxication.

Don't use ket too much, don't use angel dust.
If you want a supreme arylcyclohexylamine
seek out methoxetamine, use it responsibly.
Dissociation, end of line; no[thing is o]ne.

Always be considerate before transcending reality,
Reverence for psychedelics keeps them self-regulatory.
Of all the compounds they would humble and reveal to you;
Existential, being when tripping; every[is]one.

Cannabis I dared to use recreationally
for it often reminded us when one should act sensibly.
That deep conversing with trusted friends
is better than any substance I have ever had the nerve to test.

the twilight
of my soul
eclipsed by darkness
encases me towards endlessness
the whispers of time
guard me
~hover~
won't let me go
i wonder
i keep things close
i may never be again

October 2000

Can we pretend for a bit,
                that every day is a bicycle waltz?

That every day is filled,
                filled with wine and whiskey love.

And skin feels like heaven,
               when no one is watching it touched.

That your body & my body,
               will never grow tired of the endlessness of each other's.

Everyday should be a bicycle waltz,
               With you my dear,
                                      *my immeasurable amount of intangible motion.

a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy

~~~

the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none

~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”

“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”

“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word  wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life

“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
                                                         ­­ of the vaguest of dearly departed

skin is not the only mot shed,
                                                sloughing of woeful words”

“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”

White foam drifting, turquoise waves swaying gently
to the shore. Looking out to open endlessness. Feeling
insignificant and vulnerable, yet relaxed as the sand
between your toes massages away every pain.
Carelessness fills up your rosy body as heat heals
your bones. Dancing overcomes you as you spin alone
on the crest where sea and land embrace. Your mind
is finally blank in thought and peace settles throughout
the delicate shades of the bright blue horizon which
is reflected by the sun deep down into your soul.

By book-ends my stomach is churning,
I'm cantankerous and stand-offish
in spurts, barely there in others.
I could not dig up where my head was
if I had to. I do not have to.
There are some things in my life that
lead themselves to failure. I have dropped
instinct, instead adopting pattern,
a means of coping with the endlessness
of life in a globalized world.
This is not lament. I could part with
objectivity, happy to expire for a
scrap of extra sentience. Please, before
my words become manners and manners become
holes full of dirt, pardon me for the mess.
I only had so much time after all.

Death is the act of becoming.
Death is the act of birthing.
Death is all that is, creation;;;
And destruction.

Death is love.  
Death is hate.
Death is neutrality.
Death is chaos.

Death is order.
Death is truth.
Death is real.

Only death is real.  

Death, death, death.

Only death is real.

Death is life.
Death is gateways.
Death is magick.
Death is G-D.
The Lord is life,
Thus, The Lord is death.  

Death is endlessness.
Death is the spiral.
Death is forever.  
Spiral. Spiral.  Spiral.
Death is deathless.
Death is holy.
Death is Shiva.
Death is Allah
Death is *******.
Death is Om.
Death is Jesus.
Death is Roman Empires fallen.
Death is the earth fallen.
Death is trees fallen.

Only death is real.
Only The Lord is real.
The Lord is death.

Death. Death. Death.
Only death is real.

Life is illusion.
A testing dream for death.
Death is a gateway to Divinity.

Only death is real.

From the kingdom of death thou wildly run,
as though to die not; as though all shall be fun.
Even though thou might not be as fine as mine,
And hesitate once not, like many other minds.
Under the staggering sun thou art the sun itself;
Unlike the universe any mortal shall never have.
To thee but heaven shall never be adequate,
To thee whom fate shall not mind; but dare not ever bend.
Thou, who deemeth everything is futile and late;
Thou, who hath neither words nor poetry in thy hand.
Thou art at times like a piece of youthful innocent art,
Which amorous feeble hands long to tear apart.
Like a flower t'at grows on the window behind the curtain,
Thou shall return to youth, and be younger-every now and then;
For with thy playfulness thou shall bitterly mock Determination;
Whilst thy childishness shall help thee dream of, and silently miss Salvation.

And whenst all t'is business is to say goodbye;
Thou shall still stay, forever and never die.
For thou art undead, and forever and ever immortal,
No stab canst wound thee, as no torpid wound of thine fatal.
Thou art a fatal prince-yes, a wicked, wicked heir;
Heir of cheerfulness-of a soul so full of spirits yet fairness.
Ah! And so thus thou shall leave behind not t'is worldly affair,
Thou shall be eternally bent upon it, and makest of it, thy happiness.
And when at the very end, all dead souls should awaken and retaliate,
Thou shall stay calmly and twitch not by heaven's wooden gate.
Thy agelessness is a mirage no blunt living soul can afford;
Thou art infallible, unlike the decrees of our dear Lord,
For thou shall never dwell among a thousand earths
And be lain among lilies and roses yonder, of irrevocable green hearth.
Thou art, in any midst of grievousness, cold with mirth;
When there is no more born thou art blessed with anew, birth.

Thus thou art forever unsinned, and shall be so gullible;
Thou art an adult inside; 'spite appearing so weak and feeble.
People canst, by thy comely appearance, fall deaf and misunderstand,
Thinking thee a ruddy friend; a robust and sincere fellow.
But thou art indeed, and in truth-a witty and good-hearted man,
As bold and ever unhesitant, but caring and good-willed, as tomorrow.
Thy naivety thus fights against, and befalls any mercilessness,
Thy delight is but our timid society's frank joyfulness.
And every song is benignly rooted in the delicacy of thy tongue,
To whom thy streams of love, as well as hate, shall belong.
But again, more and more loving hearts shall complain-
For when they fade and ought to disappear; thou shall firmly remain.
And duly thou defeat for evermore any tainted miserable heart,
Especially hearts that hath no beat when they supposedly beat, and are alive.
For thy heart is as fresh, and inevitable-like a solitary work of art,
But innocent and intelligent-like a young sword; or the neat blade, of a cold knife.

So whatever love claims to be love-which is too proud, though clear and sanguine;
Is not at all, or by any chance-pure, tolerable, nor delightfully keen;
For love is not the same as pleasure-as pleasure is not love,
Love is the one no senses canst touch-nor for pride move.
Ah, thee, we canst but teach thee more lessons of love itself;
For there are more than our anxious souls canst tell;
Love is not something t'at canst one satisfy, nor is for one to drink;
For any to satisfy or drink is yon that makes oneself sink.
I figurest above are imminent to thy knowing;
For thou shall still mature more; and be independent in thy living.
For family is still more essential than any money or gold;
To which we humans oftentimes too sternly hold.
Ah, but thy journey is still upwards and steep as a hill;
An endlessness our mortality is but too scared to feel.
So be wise and fill thyself with rich wisdom likewise;
And as thy findeth bitterness on due roads-turn to poetry, and seek its advice.

And so to thee hath a world of supremacy be assigned,
So thus I entreat-t'at be with thee all the reciprocal goodness-and dexterity!
Ah, and by thy cleverness shall all be mutually aligned,
For naive thou art still, about the very course of extremity!
But severity shall not burden thee, as to thy endurance and good will,
Thy willingness to share, and rely and lean on how such fellows feel.
Thou refilleth 'em always, with endless and plentiful splendours,
Thou cheereth 'eir minutes, and stay comely at all 'eir breathing hours.
As every single day's dates themselves, thou art undeniable;
Thou art real in thy eternity, though sometimes unbelievable;
Thou art worth all the bogs who are so merrily singing-
Thou art so graceful, thou art everything!
As in both reality and dreams thou art present,
Thou who art obscure; but coincidentally, sharp and inherent!
Ah, thee, thus I hope t'at every poem-such as t'is, shall make thee even more truthful;
For poetry itself is relief; and our most reliable urge to be brave, and thoughtful.

I am the master of my own mind
I beset my tears, I conquer my sadness
I am devoted to this world
To this very world in which I dwell
and to which my soul is admitted
Sometimes I hear my words
Fly around and again
within t'ese violent shades
about my head: as I walk by curious moonlight,
sunbeams, in 'ose solitary moods and emblems
of t'is silent quiet of th' night.
How can I be so lonely-and bathed in distress-
in t'is lovely yet calamitous winter?
How can I be so destitute and untouchable-
unlovable-unaffectionate, indeed!-without my very own
admired thee?
My soul is dejected; condemned and cursed
by th' entirety of destiny-oh, how I am accustomed to
t'is pain, and its inflamed tongue, burning mercilessly
in t'ose succulent perambulations throughout
th' volatile streets-yes, upon and across th' bridge-
what a vile remembrance, where but t'is poem
is my only vivid 'muchness'-and consolation. If only a wren
could be deemed my messenger, let her but decoy t'is
dubious fate-and bring me to slip into her arms-
thin and steep but with a fond predilection for my desires-
with consideration for our feelings-and carry within her wings
a letter from these longings, beneath
the cradling hands of the moon-yes, t'at hectic,
vivacious moon-who is lurking behind me
like a moronic shadow. Its chaotic abode-aye,
chaotic as it once was, is now unamused-and plastered
into th' surly noon, it is despaired-utterly despaired,
and deprived of love-look at how t'at wealth of serene eyes
swim around thirst, in such unwonted lullabies, and its
famished shrine! What a dejected old
sanctuary it must be-infamous and credulous to oddity, but again
fuels my anger on, amidst th' moonbeam t'at is now gone.
But I still can't find thee, querida.

Tell me, then, how shalt I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
as though I've lost my brain-and my shell's 'bout to drain-
yes, 'tis t'at no delight, but worries-in me.
And no shield is to protect t'at,
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far, far away.
I am only consoled by t'ese remnants, o, of my infatuation-
of t'is incarcerated, forbidden love-for thee!
My very thee, who should be curling up comfortably-
like a childish moist in my arms-
in my simpering abyss, and therefore sends it into
flickers, and doesth it die-hence, forces its dread, and stubbornness
to obey! O thee, th' fixated spirit to my wondrous imagination-
and th' anxious bits of my sublime inspiration-truthfully, indeed!
How in this quieted recluse
I long for but one piece of shine-yes, just
one piece of which-to be my guiding star,
and the torch of my robbed path.
My stolen state-and luminous gravity, as dim as the mocked
aspiration, is but never to shower again-
t'at earth with smiling rain-and th'  invigorating soil 'neath
my feet-upon which I trample in deadly haste.
But my hands are scanty-and my heart is dry; that is
but admiringly undeniable;
I am indulged by my own fear, abhorrence,
and dangerous imagination. I am but without my lover-
o, thee, o my solitary prince, doth thou heareth of my
wail? I scream and scream in t'is unforgiving agony,
but thou hath not been here, lost in th' middle of nowhere
like an unnamed being-but belonging to some other's
charms, I know! But still I crave for thee-just thy eyes,
yes-those dripping blackness whose temptation is like
a cave, an invitation to deep, deeper soliloquy down its
poisonous hole. How I am shrinking into this dream again-
a wild, wild dream of seclusion, which I look upon
in frustrated reproof; thou art the symbol of its daintiness-
and thorns of delicacy-but t'at someone else! Some other
dame whose heart dearly belongs to thee-and o, how enviable t'is
object of endurance might be. How deserving of my remorse-unwilling
as my being might be, to give it. Still , out of even the shallowest comprehension-
when the sun glows over me, I will long for but thee-over the morning dews
of the river, far from insanity, will I stand there anew,
and in freshness glint at thy stateliness
in unpardonable profusion.

On t'is very still do I sit, with t'at grumpy book in my lap-
words carved nearly are as picturesque as th' beautiful heaven.
I hope but thou could heareth me-thou whose voice is like a
hint of lavender-painted in th' ballads of my heart forever.
My song, my song! Undergone a faithful revision-
towards a masculine spring of reason,
and demands a sudden but mature completion.
How I still sing for thee!
Like a bee who chases a loveless but unbending sunflower,
sipping all its empowering delight-that is but how I shall wait for thee-
in t'is passion and strong conviction for truth-
that thou wilt embrace me, as thy own queen of ardour
beneath t'is forthcoming spring, o, my knight-
and all t'is love, and love indeed-as th' very endlessness
of thy splendor.

It’s the essence of sensation,
the elastic feel in the body,
spiritual flame in the heart,
the wild movement that
lights up earth and sky.

It’s the centrifigal force
that radiates mood’s sunshine,
the moment of unexpected torque,
infinitely complicated yet simple
in its sublime resonance.

Each step is gifted,
each step an idea,
a word unspoken,
a poem in the making.

For dance is flux and motion,
a viseral trance, a carefree discipline
of endlessness promising bright
tomorrows until the final release
beyond earth-bound dimensions.

At the center of the world
there's a statue of a girl.
She is standing near a well
with a bucket, bare and dry.

I went and looked her in the eyes
and she turned me into sand.
This clumsy form that I despise;
it scattered easy in her hand

and came to rest upon a beach
with a million others there.
We sat and waited for the sea
to stretch out so that we could disappear

into the endlessness of blue;
into the horror of the truth.
You see, we are far less than we know.
Yeah, we are far less than we knew.

But we know what we could taste
Girls found honey to drench our hands.
Men cut marble to mark our graves.
Said we'll need something to remind us of
all the sweetness that has passed through us;
fresh sangria and lemon tea.
The priests dressed children for a choir.
white robed small voices praise Him
but found no joy in what was sung.
The funeral had begun.

In the middle of the day
when you drive home to your place
from that job that makes you sleep,
back to the thoughts that keep you awake,

long after night has come to claim
any light that still remains
in the corner of the frame
that you put around her face.

Two pills just weren't enough.
The alarm clock's going off
but you're not waking up.
This isn't happening happening happening
happening happening. It is.

He called me 'little swallow'  
Dark kisses like planting seeds, dotting the bumps on my spine.
Breathe sweet with curry promises heat pools on the skin of my neck.
My ******* he holds in the dim light as if they were the most precious fragile china.
Urgency and endlessness twirl as drunken dancers in my stomach.
Infinite and the finite.
Little swallow, he begs. Little swallow.
Traces of invisible letters drawn on his dark skin with such a soft rake of my nails.
He arches his back in a bridge from delight to despair as he digest the pain of lust.
I could trace the map of India on his neck, the constellations on his back.
"Little swallow," a whisper that comes out as a groan.  
"You are flight of swallows, living cloud.
That I could hold you still
a thought in my head
"restless girl with her heart beating fast."
Now he roughly pulls my hair back
and my neck whips with it.
He has my arm in a lock beneath my chest, kissing the side of my neck.
'my little swallow' he entreats in a dry cough of sound
and i trace Calcutta with my feathery tongue.

Enamoured by sightly existence
clinging to every glimpse
though nearly impossible to track
she was lost amongst a crowd of infinity

So captivated my mind races to the future flow of the current of bodies to where one would be in step and time to pace rhythm and flow and know ones whereabouts in premonition

Where my meditations meet reality I've dreamt love into existence even if only one sided her smile made me think otherwise

Who's to say that the love I found within just a momentary lapse in endlessness isn't an energy that persist through the age of ages


and feel as if they were made for you and you in turn for their moment of hope and possibly

one could find the cure to all sickness experienced

"It is a deepening,"
                         she said
and took his hand
to her watery bed,
beaming her light
upon those almost
invisible threads
in particles subtly
                 speaking
in sparkling aquatic tongues
like colored crystals,
felt in shards of icy wine
shells sifted
in far-flung
            seas of time
Shining down as
we dive to the depths
we lead each other on
We are the  
           explorers of the dark
We have
powerful equipment
to attempt to clarify
radiate it all up
              and if it fails,
the light from
our eyes and hands
is enough to illuminate
the murky
        waters below
our salvation,
deep-sea secrets
revealed—
churning in undertow
         In fact, if you dare
to penetrate the dark
and cast aside
fear of predators
               you will see-
the ruins of
an ancient temple
                waiting,
just waiting
for you
       for me
to dance amongst
the algae-coated
alabaster, green
wisps moving
in hypnotic motion
to weave in-between
the fish and corals,
a magic breathing in
of ocean
in sync with our own
                          breaths
This expanse of endlessness
        …..so many layers to discover
to sway and trip the light
in quiet,
            breathless joy
The feel of electric
flow around our feet.
Saltwater,
            turning sweet.
It is time
for the next stage
                     to begin
So tip your
head back,
my love---
and
       drink it
                     in

Three years ago my eyes were caught
My words were not abroad
My life had many empty pages
My heart had many empty stages

Two years ago my eyes were taken
My heart was not mistaken
My life was re-written, on all pages
My heart was a concert, with full stages

One year ago, my eyes were mournful
My heart felt painful
Marks left of torn pages
Silence again, with no stages

Today is the day in between
Yesterday was the day to mourn
Tomorrow I will be reborn
I hope of love, never before seen

Astral architecture hangs on the balance of my once fragile mind, now unbound and open to the potential of the Penrose Stairs that I climb. Infinity, I thought, was an innate idea man was not meant to understand, because if the universe is in fact infinite, into what does it expand?

Standing at the precipice of epiphany, teetering at the very cusp of clarity, it came to me in a monumental moment of sibylline singularity:

It expands into itself.

The thought was too profound to perceive, too ravenous to be satiated. Could this be at long last, the answer for which I have waited?

I realized that consciousness operates under a similar uniformity: the brain won't outgrow the head, but the mind will outgrow the body, and our echoes will radiate across the endlessness of existence, for all our forgotten frequencies are oblivious to the concept of distance.

We are all limitless beneath the veil of this perceived reality,
but only there are we human, and only then are we free.

This is the Genesis.
Incentives to diminish menaces.
Endlessness.
Will I finish this?
Infinite questions of aggression, are expressed when the deception of obsessions are a progression.
Infinite diligent stimulant from an incident, but im innocent.
And still I vent...

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.

Their violence. Their fire. Their beauty.
Their clenching, unclenching. Their bedlam.
Their silence.
Their toes squirming in their shoes. Their sobs. Their seventy-mile-an-hour fury.
Their eyes. Their glimmer. Their construction paper dreams.
Their insecurities. Their melanin.
Their rapture. Their forgiveness. Their twisted-up mouths.
Their screaming.
Their laughter. Their spoiled innocence. Their decent.
Their wilderness of wit. Their barbed future. Their ineloquence.
Their noise. Their stretching limbs.
Their vigor. Their hair spurting out of their scalps.
Their secrets echoing and singing through low-ceilinged halls. Their desire.
Their chipped orange fingernail polish. Their belly aches.
Their misspelled crayon messages. Their ghosts. Their audacity.
Their fear. Their braids. Their arms tight around each other.
Their torn jeans. Their longing.
Their possibility.
Their harpoon words. Their blood. Their bursting hearts.
Their walls. Their art.
Their endlessness.
Their airplane arms and their shrieking and their streaming outside into the yellow ache of a sinking sun.
Their rhythm. Their nonsense.
Their hands cupped around their mouths.
Their reverberation. Their chapped lips. Their love.

Them.