i want to bathe in heavy water,
engulf me,
**** me,
maybe the radiation could give me abilities
like those heroes who had nothing
turned into something.

im lost and im drowning
maybe being something
just isnt for me

so engulf me and _ _ _ _ me.

There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a curious English archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of Zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.

Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills

So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.

If you shut out the windows of the heart
Pall of gloom will engulf every corner
Forever searching with weakened vision
Whom shall you rely on to find a path?
You are bereft of any companion
As you allow none to enter your seclusion
Denying the soul of light, withering away
Gradually pushing you into oblivion
As all your sense are misdirected in gloom
Even your shadow will be forgotten
If you wish to live in eternal state of darkness

my mind has deeply forgotten my relevance to the world
because these compulsive movements are beginning to engulf my sanity
but i loathe every second of not being able to feel something impossible
because i’ve been able to surge into the depths of my own soul
to prove that happiness can and will exist under the sensible psyche

As each day passes I hate myself more
Why does it seem like I’m always in the wrong?
“Know your place”, “you forgot your place” has become an axiom in my head,
I cannot help but think that I’m such a burden, inferior, useless, and shouldn’t live instead

I hate myself so much, everything is my fault no matter what I do
My character is criticised every single time,  the shadows on the wall chiding me for being such a fool
My heart’s so pain, I can’t breathe
With every breath, the more I hate me

The shadows haunt me, criticising every part of me
I need to change my entire self, the more wrong in myself I see
I hate every inch of myself, I don’t deserve to live
Why is it so painful to be criticised continuously, staying positive while taking all these in is a myth

The light casts on the shadows, bringing much happiness into my life,
My heart is full of joy during these times, the sadness and hatred becomes a lie
But when the shadows form and haunt me around at times,
I’m trapped - hatred for myself and depression hides in my cry  

“You’re weak and immature so you cry easily” was what I was told,
Weakness and immaturity adds on to my list - of the lowest lows
I can’t stop crying and wanting to self-harm, am I weak?
Or maybe those words has caused me to fail to accept any part of me

The shadows overwhelm me and engulf my sleep,
“You’re undeserving of anything”, is all the shadows have bestowed upon me
I always feel like I’m at fault even though I’ve tried, why is this so?
My character is questioned - I hate every part of my soul

I can’t help but wonder to myself…

Is the day that my tears dry,
Also the day that I die?

3 AM and the famed
“World’s Best Coffee”
Isn’t doing the trick.

Dawn at diners
Is where the lonely
Gather for company
‘Cause we’re tired of
Laying alone on a bed
Too big for one
Too small for our thoughts
Too much of a reminder.

[Your imprint still fresh,
An outline to the right side of my pillowcase,
And some nights,
When I’m consumed by thoughts of you,
I’ll crawl into the depression,
And let the space engulf me,
Until I remember that,
Just ‘cause you laid on the right side,
Didn’t mean you were always right,
And a strange metaphorical hope
Bubbles out of me,
When I remember that
Hearts tilt to the left,
But, when you left,
It was quite heartless.]

We prefer indistinct strangers
Who we secretly hope
Have stranger problems
That maybe they’ll share
To make ours seem more bearable
But, more often than not,
We sit in a shared silence
Fatigued, insomniac, alone together,
The (lonely) only chatter with the night shift waitress.

soft tendrils of light,
dashed blue and white,
flash their glory in my sight,
across the dark sky of night,

a wolf howl stops me in my track,
force me swiftly to turn back,
and find ye fleeing pretty beast,
ive not given up chase, not in the least.

the maze's twisted path eludes me,
the darkness, shadows do include me,
hides that which i do wish to see,
a maze this is, what a night this will be.

a fox's call carries me away,
i cant tell, to go or stay,
a ****** awful game to play,
a flaming lunar keep-away.

the moon doth shine upon the wolf,
its white blue light it does engulf.
to the fox it casts a ray,
what a painful game to play.

the winding path's taunt my heart,
keeps me, the wolf, and fox apart,
at the final edge of my last desire,
hope attempts to raise me higher.

there is another, right by my side,
he has no reason which to hide,
a spirit wolf, runs next to me,
with brothers' blood and loyalty.

he howls for his own lost one,
hopes the bad can come undone,

Taking his steps, one by one,
he will not stop until its done.

a time a go i thought i might,
have seen the moon's shining light,
but this maze keeps me from its sight.
the spirit wolf, "itll be all right."

there was a time when i was young,
when a different song was sung,
a song of passion, joy and love,
but now i howl to moon's above.

Dark wolf woken, back in the maze,
dreams of the path, though all were a haze,
stands to his feet, been walking for days,
he keeps hunting, searching for ways.

round a bend he sees her, hears her howl,
he runs but is stopped by another's growl.
out steps a purple wolf, devious eyes,
steps in his path and smothers his cries.

as he falls he sees her waiting,
for him? knows not, he's still debating.
the spirit wolf comes to his side,
and the wolf knows he can confide.

the wolf lies there, head in the grass,
lying and waiting, for this night to pass.
the spirit wolf sits and hears,
of the wolf's wonders and all of his fears.

russian water, **** with spice,
ah how that would make things nice,
if only just a little, just to forget.
the wolf lies there waiting, suffering yet.

the wolf yet awakens, hearing a call,
its again the howling, echoing all,
of past and longing, of things done wrong
she sings a tune to a still different song.

He hears a warning from his friend,
theres more than these two in the end.
they stood and kept walking,
never stopping, ever stalking.

they walked a bit, til faint blue whisp,
flitted toward them, feeling crisp.
it was a distraction, a strong desire,
lifting more than their hearts a bit higher.

each of them on different trails,
thoughts of their flames carved details,
the passion drove them to their minds,
a white escape, the release unwinds.

once the wolves had ceased their panting,
imaginations tipped to slanting,
they shook the wet drops from their fur,
it wouldnt be long for this again to occur.

they turned their heads, both aware,
of soft dead felines, lying there.
they walked on past, aware of the ****,
but love and passion, do what they will.

they kept on wandring twisted trails,
blue whisps fast behind their tails.
they kept on searching hearing howls,
stopped not once by anothers growls.

The wolves still hunted elusive catch,
but insanity threatened be their match.
The blue whisps whisper that they stay,
but they couldnt bear another day.

there was a howl, but different here,
and the wolf knew who as she drew near,
a fiery she-wolf with bushy tail,
supple curves in lush detail.

the wolf then turned his head away,
his heart shattered by her one day.
the spirit wolf sought escape,
from the blue whisps, insanity's cape.

she foxily welcomed his inner burning,
cast her affections to his heart yearning.
they howled together, to regions yon,
but the wolf in black had long since gone.

the spirit wolf sought to find him,
found him panting at blue whisps whim.
"i long for my heart, wish it entrance,
by another heart, so we may dance."

the spirit wolf knew the pain inside his brother,
longing pain, want of aching burn of another.
the dark wolf sighed and began to go,
dragging tail and head held low.
The spirit wolf wished that he could ease,
the dull throbbing pain, not caused by fleas.
he listened to the dark wolf's cry,
mourning howl, shouted to the sky.

My palms rest
Upon the blackened trunk
Of a melancholy hawthorn
It's choked wood crumbling
Into dust
Falling between my fingers

I rest the side of my face
My good ear listening
For the tree's whispered secrets...

Through the tunnels of my ear
The plucking of a lute...
The kind voice of a lone minstrel....
Is echoed in every
Corner of my mind
Promising eternal memory

The minstrel sits under a tree
The same tree whose burned
Breast stands against my face
Only a thousand years in the past
When the hawthorns skin
Was a gold brown tan
Fresh and beautiful
When pink and white blossoms
Grew amongst its green leaves
Fresh and beautiful
When the young hawthorn's
Memory was still young
Fresh and beautiful....

The old minstrel
sat with his gnarled back
Against the hawthorn's body
Willow wood lute in hand
Face lined with
Twelve thousand wrinkles
White beard long and weathered
Old eyes conversing
With the overhanging branches

The old minstrel plucks the
Gut strings of his lute
As if plucking kisses
From a **** lover...
The lute
Being the minstrel's
Only companion
So many years....
Returning from the hawthorn's
Memory of the past
It drew tears from
My closed eyes

I kiss the burned
Body of the old tree...
Tasting ashes on my wet lips

I embrace the tree
All my love pouring through
This embrace
As if we were making love
Under the stormy
Smoky sky

With the ending sighs
Of my lungs
The hawthorn's
Last flow of water
The remaining embers
Burning black and blood red
Engulf both our bodies
Our wailing voices
Echoing for days....

All that is left
Two piles
Of gray ashes
One to keep the other company
In this melancholy
World....

I think my lips are chapped because I've kissed so many boys who don't love me.
You ask me 'what do you taste like?' I don't think its very **** to say regret and sadness.
You say 'when can I taste you' My taste has been passed around so many tongues there is nothing left for you.

He tells me 'I'm here for you, I'll always be here for you' as he kisses my neck. The next week the bite mark on my belly is fading and I can barely remember the colour of your eyes.

My sister says 'you will change your mind' she says, 'all woman want to be mothers'.
I have stumbled in at 4am with the taste of strangers in my throat to see my mother sitting upright waiting for me, I think of the night I spent crying on my mothers lap in a&e;, certain I couldn't make it through the day, the way my brother scowls at my mother, my sister telling her that 'you could've done more, you could've walked away.' I. Dont. Want. Children.

My mum tells me she is old, she is tired. She desperately needs a man to hold doors open for her and carry her shopping. I am trying to remember that needing someone does not mean you are weak.

My grandmother gave me waist beads to encourage fertility. She says 'god gave you those hips to birth children'. Ive never told her that i lost my faith in god the year i lost my virginity.  And if there is a god, i don't want his ******* fertility. I want to break these beads and let drugs engulf me to prove my grandmothers blind faith wrong.
I laugh and pray before our meal and kiss her forehead, 'god bless'.

He tells me 'i know youre *****, its natural'. I laugh and play along for his delight. 'women are just like toys, television, easy puzzles'. I think of my father beating my mother, my fathers face all the men ive walked past in the street. My mothers face is my own.

'if you don't want boys to touch you you shouldn't wear tight clothes'. I think of all the boys who have run their fingers over my back when i was dressed in clothes from neck to ankle. I wonder if god is a sexist man. I wonder if there's any men who aren't implicitly sexist.

He tells me, 'I'll spend hours on you, I'll make you believe in god again'. There is nothing I can do but laugh. I ask him, 'does your mother know you speak to girls like this?'
He ***** his teeth, 'do you always have to be so difficult?'  
I kiss him but I think of his mother, foreign and lonely, 2 sons and no husband.

He says 'you need a real man' I think of all the other boys who have told me that before leaving me.
He wants to know why I'm in hospital so much, 'how are we going love each other when you can't tell me what's wrong with you' I don't want to tell him that I've cut my arms so badly I can see god in my blood, and sometimes the voice in my head screams so loud I black out. I kiss his chest. He doesn't ask again. I resent him for that.

I've been ignoring my fathers phone calls for two weeks because his voice sounds like absence and I don't want to hear another 'I love you' from a man who doesn't know my secrets.

Tainted havoc ensue
from our imminent destruction.

We befoul each other's affinity
with the ruin of our past lives.

Together we spoil, destroy, and infect the air that devours us.

Coexisting is not an option
between

You,

Me,

and

Sympathy.

Touch me there.
Put me in the mood,
caress my body.
Make it bare.

Dance your lips on my skin.
Be rough or gentle.
Engulf me in sin.

Do what you please.
Run you hands up and down,
Give my body a squeeze.

Get us going. Turn me on.
Lift me up. Flip me over.
No boundaries are drawn.

What is this? Simply lust.
No love involve,
But oh, it's a must!

Pull my golden hair.
Scratch me here,
Or bite me there.

Send my body into ecstasy,
and let me ****** to your energy!

Touch me here.
Touch me there.

They say grief comes in waves
varying in size and intensity;
some start small, moving silently,
might seem harmless but engulf
me within no time and I
was never taught how to swim.

Thrashing and flailing in the water
I find it difficult to breathe.
The seas of sadness pull me far
into their abyss where there is no
light or hope to get out of the misery;
sometimes even that feels enticing and comforting.

On other days these waves come
roaring loud in the ears, threatening
to steal my ground away from me, often
I brave to surf over them with the
help of distractions and they
recede, scheming to gulp me down later.

Wonder how I end up on these shores every time
while on a train or on my bed, in a
classroom or in a conference hall, amongst
the crowded streets and when alone,
memories of yesterday strewn like sea shells
lead me to the waters and I can always hear their elegies.

And when the moon shines its brightest
on them, you get to see the scene of tranquillity
but deep inside my heart there is
a storm brewing slowly that takes
various names every season, maybe there is
one named after you too, who knows.

Do you want to come with me down
to the ocean of tears? We could let
those waves kiss our feet while we watch
the sunset together, I will tell you
all my stories and you could share yours too.
I hope you know how to swim.

I watched her from a distance,
Glistening lake gently flowed,
Flowed down her bare body,
The moonlit drop of my dreams,
Glistening in my eyes .

Ravenous thoughts rapture me,
Engulf me in the chasm of desire,
My gaze unmoving and still,
Yet flows down with the trickle,
On her bare *****.

A million stars sizzle a spark,
I want to capture them,
Little droplets of water ,
Making their way softly,
On her bare back.

I watched her from a distance,
The silk of her wet hair,
Wrapped me in a rapture,
Unmoving I stood there,
My gaze so still,
Yet flowing with water,
That she bathed in.

My heart feels like an uncut diamond
Though it is still the same, it is not the same
Someone speaks of a bridge to be built from Tangier
to Algeciras or is it Gibraltar?
"Yes & then a highway to the stars or more likely
an elevator to the Underworld," says Yellow Turban
To White Jellaba as the exhaust fumes from the bus
engulf them, leaving behind not even a single
shadow.
Is that Mel Clay in a white jacket turning the corner?
No, it is a figment of my imagination escaped from the
asylum.
Is that Ian Sommerville walking backwards up the street
as if pulled by a giant magnet?
No, that is Wm. Burroughs making electricity
from dead cats.
Is that Tatiana glistening on Maxiton?
No, that is the sun dancing in the sugar bowl.
Is that Marc Schelfer wavering on the cliffedge?
No, it is a promontory in the wind of time
about to fall in the sea.
Is that Beethoven's 9th Symphony being played
up the street?
No, it is the sound of the breadwagons
rumbling over cobblestones
Is that George Andrews with two girls in hand
looking for bread?
No, it is an unidentified flying object about to land.
Is that One-eyed Mose hanging by his heels?
No, that is the hanged man inventing the Taro.
Are the dead really so fascinated by *******?
Yes, that is how they travel.
Is that Irving in short pants looking for trouble?
No, that's me unable to stop thinking.
Is that Kenneth Halliwell looking for Joe Orton?
Is that Jane Bowles looking for Sherifa, Rosalind looking
for her baby, Alfred searching for his lost hair?
Is that the wig of it all, the patched robe of my brain,
the wind talking to itself?
Brion is dead and Yacoubi is dead, and I am a not unhappy
ghost remembering everything, the warp & woof of memories,
her yellow slip, her shaved ****, her idiot child.
Dream shuttle makes me exist everywhere at once.
The blind beggars led by children keep coming.
"They all have many houses in the Casbah,"
chant the unbelievers ******* on sugar.
Words keep coming back like Bezezel for ****, Lictcheen
for oranges, like Mina, like Fatima, like Driss Berrada
dropping his trousers for an injection in the middle
of his shop.
The trunk is full of old sepia postcards,
barebreasted girls smoking hookahs etcetera.
We speak of the cataplana, the mist which obscures
even the cielo you cannot even see the hand in front
of your face.
We embrace, he says he thought of me only yesterday,
he says there are always nine such men who look like us
in the world and that we are the tenth.
We speak of the gold filets in the sky over Moulay Absalom.
The garbage men in rubber boots go thru the Socco pushing
wheeled drums of collected garbage.
An unveiled woman wobbles out of a taxi and heads home
before sunrise.
Paul couldn’t believe that was a Karma Street,
but I will never forget it.
And Billy Batman, who made the best hash in the world,
he dropped a loaded pistol in Kabul, shot himself in the *****,
took some ****** and lay down to die.
Now I must get up from my table in the allnight Café Central.
No more Dr. Nadal, no more window with red crosses & red
crescents.
The water thrown from buckets runs across the café floors
& over the sidewalks & I drop a dirham into the hand
of a blind beggar singing in the dark on the American stairs


From Anais Nin’s A Spy in the House of Love—"The women wear fireflies in their hair, but the fireflies stop shining when they go to sleep so now and then the women had to rub the fire- flies to keep them awake."

I wish that I could fall in love. Be in a true, compassionate, loyal, and loving relationship. If I could make it happen right now, I would. I picture a face, but I know it will not be him. Because if it was, we would have fallen in love the first time our eyes met. Oh, I wish it could be him, but I know there is better. Which means I have to wait... My heart was broken and still is healing. It's just been so long without a relationship. No, it's not a bad thing at all. But I've been longing for passion. I want fire in my heart again. When it's dark, when it's night, I'm laying awake in my bed, my thoughts engulf me. That makes me imaging that someone is there to rescue me. He'd wrap his arms around me, and hold me until the tears stop falling. He would kiss me, and say that everything will be alright because he is here. He would be someone that I could turn to when I feel my brain taking all control over me. He could protect me from my own mind, and make it all for the better. But then my imagination has turned back to reality, and I realize that my wish was not granted. Many people say that dreams do come true. But how much should I believe it? Even if it is true, that still means waiting. Waiting to get through the night, another day, another week, another year. Waiting to get through all of this pain and suffering. But when I finally end up with the one of my dreams, I will truly be able to say:

"I've waited for you my whole life."

your fire surrounds me,
wraps me in warmth.
your arms of fire
engulf me in a safe haven.
this asylum is my home,
scars on my wrist, my keys.

"My king"
Ohh my precious king,
How I hunger for your touch,
How I long for your fingers brushing through my hair til I fall asleep, How I long to hold your hands and hold it tight,
I will never let you go,
How I long to engulf you,
Feel your heartbeat as I lay my head on your chest,
Lift my head and look at you,
Looking at each other's eyes,
Be in trance, Ohhh how wondrous!
And I will go near you and will kiss you,
Ohh i will kiss you for eternity my love,
I will never stop, Your breath will be my air and as mine to you,
Ohh my king I will never ever let any time to be in waste,
I will indulge every single second with you,
I will cherish it and memorize every time I spend with you,
And every night in my sleep, I will replay those memories and savor it, i don't want the time to go on,
I want it to stop and just enjoy every moment with you forevermore.

Ohh my precious king,
Can you feel my deep yearning?
Ohh how my pillow wet from my tears of missing you, i desire you, I miss your voice,
Your voice is my music,
I miss your laugh,
Your laugh is my sunshine,
You lighten up my life,
I miss your songs,
Your songs are my nourishment,
You always fill me with your love,
My empty cup runs over with your love,
I miss looking at your angelic face,
I miss YOU, YOU!
How I really ache to be beside you,
No more video chatting, no more phone calls, no more voice clips, no more singing songs over internet, no more technologies,
Ohhh i just wanna enjoy you,
Be alone in a forest,
Enjoy the wonderful nature our God has given us,
Live a simple life with you,
Away from all troubles,
I WANNA BE WITH YOU!
I only want to be with you!
I need to be with you!
I never dreamed life without you,
You are my life,
My future,
I can't go on with my life without you.
I can't, i just can't !

My brandon,
Soon when I see you,
Even before you ask me I will say "I do",
I want us to have God's heavenly seal,
A bond infrangible,
I wanna spend my entire life with you,
And for eternity in that heavenly realm,
I wanna serve God with you,
I wanna be a godly woman for you,
I wanna enjoy my life with you,
With God as our guide and refuge,
Ohh my king,
No words can express how I long to be only just with you,
Only YOU,
You are my life,
My breath,
My very best friend,
My soulmate,
My preordained,
My husband,
My ALL.
You are to me.
Ohh how i yearn for you,
This throe is so hard to bear,
But I will my love,
Because only you are there in my future,
Only you in my dream,
I will certainly & patiently wait til God's perfect time.
'Cause you are my only love, my chosen one,
And I want you, I need you, I long for you, and I love you.*

"Mine queen"
"Mine Reyna, O' darling Reyna,
As the sun doth ariseth in the east
And set in the west; thy heart wilt
Be in mine palm's, as a baby in caress.
Best of amour, the best is yet, for when
We meet, ourn lip's wilt be wet.
Wet with kisses of the morning
Celestial dew, O' heaven's much
Better, when it's thee with me;
I with thou to. Queen how I long
The approaching hour, when we
Shalt be warmed by Glowing
Angel's within their hand's-
Testimonies of God and his
Unending love, and his throne
Of power. In pearl attire, view of the mountain's
Unknown, mine lass, mine lady, I shalt embrace thy
Lonesome bones. None earphones needed, for we'll heareth
All to hear, we'll seeith creatures only the creator's aware, of the majestic being's of beauty. Hold me, closer mine Jane; lock me up into your Filipino rose Bud's, I want to drink of thine love, I want to taste thy nectar's touch. Mine chosen meed, thy hair of satin wilt I smell it's world to breathe. In and out I fulfill the seed's of prophecy, in ancient manner. Across ourn foreheads Yahweh's name, inside ourn spirit's the word's the same. The word's to read "preordained", unafraid to a venture new. Coconut queen of tribal moves, baby flower of romantic brew. O' indeed I needeth thee, just come closer and be, as one we art. We shalt giggle in streams wherein the night is nought, love can't be bought, nor sold in form, love is god, god is love; with one another, we shalt overcome. Seraph's, cherub's, and messenger's surround us. For we art preordained, O' with thee I'm verily blessed. O' with thee Jane mine love, I've been given the best.


© Earl Jane - Brandon Collaborations
♥ Lovers Incorporated

Out on the ocean,
our boat breaks down.
Thankfully, we aren't too far from land.
The rescue boat is on its way,
but now the wind comes up
and it's pouring rain.
I know God is with me,
so I am not afraid.

The broken down boat
is tossed by the wind and waves.
Crash!
It collides with the big rocks
along the shore.
While grizzlies hide within the forest.
When will our rescue boat appear?

The rain pounds down harder.
We get colder and colder.
And then off in the distance...
we spot her.
The fast boat gliding upon the water.
To rescue we the stranded.
From threatening danger.

Then...
I think of my life.
And the storm that has come to be.
Like a boat in trouble on the sea,
I need a rescue boat to come and save me.
For I can get so scared and weary.

Only God can be my Saviour.
He is my rescue boat,
when I break down in the storm.
And the waves of sorrow engulf me.
He is my rescue boat who comes to me,
when I am stranded on the sea.
In the storm and in the rain.
When I'm out on the ocean of life,
and my boat breaks down,
He will come for me.
And bring me to safety.


(C) Elizabeth T., 2016

When two people, so different in taste, look at each other from across the dance floor, a secret sparks out of their eyes like electric rays of romantic notation. Words have yet to be exchanged, but the slow steps towards one another make time slow to an unearthly crawl. Those dancing are nothing more than hues of grey, for the two ash-stricken lovers cannot see more than those they are attracted to. Hearts pound to a rhythm that can no longer be found within the upbeats of the swaying samba. As she longs to be in his arms, he stops only inches in front, his breath caught in his throat. The increasing amount of love being released from just his simplistic gaze makes her want to run as far as she can. With him of course, though it is not a realistic approach to the turmoil surrounding their troublesome secret. A secret that increases as he gently slides his fingers against her cheek, resting the palm of his hand on the back of her neck. Feeling the contrasting temperatures of the cool evening and her racing heartbeat, her head begins to get foggy with the vision of love that is shortly about to engulf her every fiber. The kiss, so gentle and sweet, brings back the times of innocence that was not thwarted by the interruption of time and changed lives. If only they could run away…

Let,
The smoke go to your brain,
Even though,
We're told,
It only fills our lungs,
Cuz you just wanted fun,
For a night,

And now,
Your obsession growls,

While you try,
Not to let,
It,
Engulf you.

I
Hear the story of our oil –
Hail to oil!
From the glory days of Drake well we recoil,
To see seabirds flap and shudder,
Dolphins, turtles flop and sputter
With collective dying groan.
Hear our population moan
When the gasoline price geysers to the sky.
Still we drive, drive, drive,
To keep consumer binge alive,
Amid a maritime disaster fast evolving from the spoil
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil.

II
Smell the ancient dark crude oil
Stinking oil!
Engulf the products made refining from a boil:
Guzzle gasoline flambé,
Drive-through fast food every day,
Raise our carbonated toast to Arctic roast…
Then drill more oil!
GM corn and corn-fed beef --
Both born of oil,
The shaving cream I slather on my face is made from oil,
Toothpaste, vitamins and lipstick,
Tires, everlasting plastic,
Come from oil;
All American affliction
Petrolopium addiction –
Truth is stranger now than fiction
And it does not set us free;
We are prisoners of oil,
And as slaves to OPEC pricing we all toil,
For the tapping and the lapping
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the drilling and the swilling of the oil.

III
Soak in news of spilling oil –
Offshore oil!
In grim images of damage that the television splays;
First blow-out slimed in sixty-nine at Santa Barbara Bay
Then ten years next blew Ixtoc
In the Gulf of Mexico,
Two-ninety day gush tick tock
Slick slopped thousand miles away
To Texas shores!
In Alaska’s Prince William Sound
Exxon Valdez ran aground in eighty-nine;
Full tanker load erupted,
Left the rocky coast corrupted –
Prudhoe crude!
Seals and otters stuck in goo
Seabirds suffered coatings too,
Cruising tourists supped in view
Of the oil, oil, oil,
Thickened slick encrusted oil
On the shore!
How it clings and clogs and covers;
All aquatic life it smothers
Marsh and beach are left in cataclysmic mire!
Still we “drill baby drill,”
All our gas tanks gotta fill,
We must shop, shop, shop,
Lest our wasteful lifestyle stop,
So we run, run, run,
Take our car vacation fun --
At the beach…
See the sheen -- how it shines!
Pretty rainbow-colored lines
From the oil!
We love our oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For economy cachinging in the oil!

IV
Hear the praise of offshore oil,
Miles deep oil!
For the goal of independence on our oceans now we toil,
Till ungraceful conflagration
Twenty April rocked the nation
On the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig.
Eleven lives were lost in blast
As the deep crude spewed out fast,
Gushing Hell!
Couldn’t stop it with top ****,
Junk shot, golf *****, caps wouldn’t still
Gushing well,
And the spreading, spreading, spreading
In a steady surging crawl,
Gulf coast residents all dreading
That their livelihoods might stall,
Now the fish and shrimp are ill,
Tourist business will be nil,
And still oil spews…
We must thank God that there’s *****,
For there’s nothing but bad news
And the ooze, ooze, ooze
Oily ooze.
Who will pay, who will pay?
Who will make this go away?
Who’s to blame? Who’s to shame?
Many pointy fingers aim –
Lefty points to rich BP,
Righty points to rock Obama,
And there’s six sticks pointing back at you and me!
We will pay, pay, pay,
At the gas pumps we will pay,
So we can drive, drive, drive,
And keep America alive;
Despite the grim disaster that arises from the spill,
The way we live and spend won’t easily end;
So we’ll still say “drill baby drill,”
Each time our gas tanks get a fill,
And we will shop, shop, shop
To do our patriotic duty --
Spend our *****, *****, *****
For the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil!

Drafted 6/8/10, revised 6/14/10

After living a life in praise of sessioning
I'm left with an amalgamation of memories,
A blur of nights had and days that merge into
one; and I wonder whether I cradle that memory
too deeply, isn't it what I am‽
I remember thinking its infinity
so long ago, tripping into eternity,
Feeling a moment engulf the universe
in knowing I am free to remember this
anytime, anywhere. I worry about
whether a life spent sessioning
is for me, if these memories
aren't beyond me, and if
this questioning only
makes the present
burn as slowly.
Can anybody see the past within me‽
Cyan is the new white, and this prison
is finally comfortable. At last, I smell that stone ichor
as the rain brings it home; left memory, right alone.

hold him in your palm
jump into the middle of the ocean and bury him at the bottom
tell him to let the water surround him
let the water engulf him, inside and out
when that doesn't work, sing to him
soft melodies, calm and quiet
tell him to let the sound of your voice take him away
let your voice engulf him, inside and out
when that doesn't work, place your lips on his forehead
kiss away the worry that wilts his mind
tell him to let your kiss release the poison
let your kiss engulf him, inside and out
when that doesn't work, take him to the field
lay him in the grass
tell him to take root, on his own
let him stand, on his own
he doesn't belong in your palm
you gave him enough

you can't revive a wilting flower
but you can breath the hope of revival
it's up to him, to be engulfed by it

Before reading this I want people to know that I have never been *****.
I got the inspiration for this poem from a post on tumblr.*

One
After the first time he put his hands on her
she never thought she'd be able to escape the grasp of the feeling
she stayed up till 3:41 in the morning in the bathtub
sitting in the scalding water
trying to burn the dirt from her skin.
she sat there until the water turned cold
and she had not one tear left to cry
and until her skin was rubbed raw and bleeding.
she counted the bruises on her body
9 on her stomach
1 on her face
1 on her neck
a yellow and purple necklace around her collar
from the telephone wire he abused
from the telephone she didn't dare use
even after he finished manipulating her.
she scrubbed his fingers from her hair
but decided cutting it off would be easier
she washed his yelling voice from her ears
but found that screaming made him quieter
she scraped his taste from her lips
a dry martini
a cigarette
and someones tears from the past.
she couldn't scrub her wrists hard enough
to erase the feeling of the ropes he had her anchored with
so instead she sliced the flesh of where the imprint lay
attempting to release the strain from the burn marks on her skin.

Two
That same morning when she almost bled out
she checked herself into a hospital.
They sewed up the crimson bracelets she made
trapping inside of her wrists
each scream he muffled
with every new stitch.
she guessed they figured out what happened
whether it was the bruises
or the way her speech sounded like morse code but
they told her the police were informed
and that they'd do everything in their power to find monster
who opened the door to her own personal hell.
When the sketch artist asked her to describe him
she told her he was a photocopy
the regular John Doe
medium hight
brown hair brown eyes
nothing special or unique that would make a girl cross to the other side of the street
just like she said she should have done.
When they told her she needed to be inspected
she didn't even flinch
that seemed to be the only thing that people did these days
was inspect one another for an outcome that they'll be paid for
in paychecks or pleasure.
They stripped her down
apologizing for the cold
they took pictures
apologizing for the flash
they held her hand
apologizing for the feeling
but why apologize if he already imprinted it on her body
there's no going back from this
she will never be able to look at a man the same way again
she will always see cold hard hands on her shoulders
even at the warmest touch
she will only see flashes of his lips forced onto hers
when she receives the smallest peck
she will never be able to feel anything but a mattress beneath her back
rope around her wrists
and a freezing cold emptiness inside of her stomach.

Three
After the second time he put his hands on her
she stayed up all night in the freezing cold water
not even trying to remove his mark from her.
she figured that if the dirt beneath his fingernails were still there the second time
the dirt would still be on her too.
she let the filth engulf her
telling herself that all she was was dirt anyway
and as she lay with her head underwater
she screamed as loud as she could
for as long as she could
until her face was red
her voice was scratchy
till the veins in her neck pulsed
and when she finally sat up she was deafened by a deep silence
with no more sound than rippling water and the ticking of the clock.
That's when she realized that no matter how loud she screamed
she would never be heard amongst other peoples silences.
silences full of beeping cars and TV commercials
buzzing air conditioners and clinking plates
quite whispers and loud laughs
full of family and friends and the whole world spinning around them.
she would never matter to anyone
no brakes would squeal at the sound of her desperation
no ears would turn to decipher the morse code she mustered shakily from her lips
no one would ever care that her screams for help were muffled
and no one would have a hole in their stomach if she disappeared.
at this thought
she slipped deeper into the tub
unwraps the bandages from around both her wrists
uncovering scars that would never heal.
She explored the wounds with her fingers
and saw how weak the stitching was
like the nurse who repaired her found it pointless
and attempted it half heartedly.
She discovered that pulling the dark material that was woven through her flesh
would release her blood
like opening a door to another universe.
the purple would quickly turn to red
drop slowly into the tub
creating a water color painting of the war inside her head.
She pinched the strings holding the two parts of her together
******* their rough surface
she began to feel tired
dreaming of a happier place
of a happier her
of feeling like a person again.
she pinched the string
and pulled.
hard.

.when did i realize there was no point in lying? people who are pathological liars tend to forget, the scrutiny of memory; my god, memory has a bias for scrutiny, why do you think the powers-at-be are relentless in exhausting it with scholastic examination, marking, the whole rubric of needless demands?! lying also erodes the capacity to engulf and, keep, memories... telling the truth, counter-wise? memory becomes a cinema... whenever i remember something, i remember it because it was truthful, and it becomes a subversive cinema reel that i sometimes tune into... point about pathological liars, they're just like the pristine students in the days of high school... they end up being the best students... given? for the lie to be true, they have to remember the lie, word for word, by a demand that demands them to disclose it, and they can't make variations... you have to keep the lie as intact as an eye aiming to bite into that forbidden apple... you deviate... the lie implodes... lie covers lie until what takes place, is, until enough coverings the original lie is covered with, a naked statue emerges... satan's original sin was a lie... man's "original" sin was... that it was altogether... "original"... to transcend the stated law; you can't be a liar, and have a ****** faculty for memory... you lie, bad, real bad, if you don't have photographic memory... bad liars make bad killers / accusers... to lie... you need to remember the original focus of the subsequent thread! and there's only one thread of events... you can't juxtapose what happens contrary to what is thought, because thought is a theta-precursor of a moral: ought... plus we're mortal! **** only happens once for us paupers of existence!

you know, sometimes you have to bring a few songs back
into your abode having walked the nightly death toll..
the maneouvre,
   the manouevre...
the manouvre...
**** it... it's French, which is worse than English
on the number of surds and what equates into the clarification
of syllable...
there's this son of a site manager on site at where
my father works...
he asked...
for the spelling of the word: T O R C H...
there are only two syllables!
   tor-ch! chitty chitty lucky fucky thai bang bang!
it's not even natives who are proud...
proud as in: up-keeping something...
these ******* make us look silly
defending their culture...
seriously?
you can spell T O R C H?
   give me a breather...
                        i'm not joking when,
i try to joke, that these people exist...
apparently the claim that we're all literate
isn't true...
i know the authorities promised us
a literate mass of people...
but apparently that's not true...
the whole:
but it's the 21st century argument... ???
gone, out the ******* window,
we're starting over...
it's not happening!
no chance in hell!
i'm not buying this *******
quest for an en masse literacy project...
no... sorry.. not happening...
   i don't, speak, French...
   and even though the English primary school
system is superior to the secondary schools,
esp. the faith schools...
  i should be speaking a third language
by now...
   namely German, which is why i'm teasing
using it...
French? no! no! i don#t understand
the logic behind hiding syllables
and exposing sometimes unnecessary
diacritical marks!
**** don't float,
moreover: it doesn't flow!
it's not a ******* river,
or a **** exposed to a high concentration
of fat!
no!
         it's not happening!
whatever the English think that
somehow speaking French will do to their
children... it's... gone!
i'm not thaat honk of a clumsy
**** facet... forget it...
they might have the better good...
but in terms of linguistics?
is Dianna Specer alive?
thought so...
   i wouldn't dare to even send my shadow
into that custard clumsy clown
show of a mine field of mistakes:
just readied for my mistake to take place...
but as you do,
walking back home,
in the scary streets of outer suburbia...
scary men, scary witches...
ooh... can get a man better
than a ******...
                 that famous, "supposed":
thrill of the chase...
more like:
i've got one, let's have another one...
hope you're enjoying your harem
you little camel jockey...
i'll side with the Iranians
and the Bangladeshi...
never the ******* undertaker
of the desert switch and frivolity -
isn't... "frivolience"
and adjective, without an affix, -ness?
yes, -ness is an affix,
not a suffix...
           a quality agitator of
a, somehow, mundane word...
but rarely does it happen,
coming home with songs
that begin and end
with rotting christ's
(greek black metal)
                     Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού
album,
and begin with
the soft moon's album,
of the same name, debut...
rarely...
        usually my way of thinking
is such shrapnel material
that i notice the difference...
this time i couldn't...

i couldn't help that instance,
in my memory cinema
with regards to an incident in the night...

i write fast, so i don't lie,
i'm probably prone to write
faster than you read...

the traffic incident involving
two cars parked prior to an X
junction with a pack
of deer in the middle of it,
and me walking past from a drinking
session in a field of wheat,
drunk like a skunk,
noticing a young deer-ling
looking back at me...

so i gave it the chase...
i charged at it...
the flock of deer with their offspring
ran down the road,
and jumped over the fence,
and into the opening of
a field, subsequently into a forest...
so i managed the traffic incident...

now...
   am i lying?
and i would lie because.... ?
what, likes, shares the whole sha-bang of
using social media?
     em...
   i groove to the clash's
rock the casbah...

   sure, three mares,
about five young Bambi types...

BUT...

   what if a, ******* stag was there
to boot?
Santa not getting enough horn
*****?!
       how am i supposed to know
if a harem just lost its
alpha met, and is standing
disorientated in human
cement territory?

                 i'm not a child...
   i get bored, as i got bored of
lying, a long time ago...
           it's pointless to make *******
impressions on people,
which, you will evidently never meet once
more...

             yeah... deer, no i didn't count
how many there were...
i'm pretty ******* sure there
wasn't a stag in sight..

otherwise i'd be musing how many
imaginary acorns i could shoot from
my ***... with those antennas
shoved up my ***...

but traffic problem solved...
what was funny was that i didn't finish
my beer...

   Santa...
on an imaginary sleigh,,,
deer in front, no reins...
running like a madman
with a can of beer in one hand.

Lightning striking through a nervous system,
Blood pumping facetious fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of trauma and dreams of the crucifix stand.
The flaming star of the avatar.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark, restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
I rejected asylum, I denounced Gehenna,
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his soft feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest itself.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******* rest.

If tomorrow I shattered and fell, pieces skimming across dark secrets
Through the thick fog of my broken heart, the damp heat of desperate whispers
Would you gather my jagged edges, and hold me close until you bled?
Drown in that seductive ******, the digging of hard lines into flesh
The intoxicating raw agony like wildfire and the wetness of crimson liquid
It tears at old wounds, gnawing and ******* at bone
A mad beast too long caged, ravishing itself from within

Would you let me mark you with my teeth and tongue?
Rough and hard and lingering
A whimpering plea, breath ghosting over scars
Uncovering the smothering labyrinth of your release
Soothing away shadows of the cold and sharp blade

Would you help me swallow the suffocating lump in my treacherous throat?
Forget the dull fever of words left unsaid
Yearnings buried
Tears of blood left unshed
As the merciless flames tingled beneath weak fingers
Would you bear witness to the raging fire inside me
The warring instincts, the fierce longing to engulf and devour you
Destroy you as you destroyed me
As this toxic void between us became my most exquisite form of torture

Would you let me drown out the numbness?
Fill you with pain, and peace and rage
Slash at your adamant walls, the pillar of steel you’ve become
And banish the biting chill gusting from your icy core

If at dawn my own prison cracked
And the harsh porcelain surface screeched under quaking talons
If the watery depths of the gaping bowl enticed me deeper
And you could see the insatiable itch twitching in my wrist
If you saw nails plunging into my own gullet
Coaxing and tempting the gurgling lava to dry lips
Determined and sinful, like a lovers’ sigh

If you could hear the filthy slap of moist skin, sickeningly ****** in its lethality
And the frenzied spasms of a retching savage
That yields completely to the pounding rhythm
To the animalistic beat of the tribal drum and the eager cave below
If you saw the burning inferno of tears stream down  my cheeks
Would you trace soothing circles upon my back?
Would you lay awake at night, staring emptily at the swirling blackness
Drowning beneath regret and confusion
Skin a flaming wasteland of death
Like I did for you

If they could all see the wretched creatures that cling to me
The incubus that rocks me back and forth
Lulling me to that macabre slumber of death
And whispering sacred screams into lovesick years
My saviour and tormentor, lover and abuser
If they could hear those sickly voices, see earth through my marred eyes
If they could feel the anathema of our thoughts
The loathing and self-hatred
The disgust of one’s own skin
And the monsters closing in
Would they still laugh?

If mother could see the ink sprawled there
Across the overstretched canvas
Of fat stuffed thighs
Each word a puncture, a proud and gaping ****
Would she still dare to strike?

If they knew for themselves
Gluttony itself has a taste
Could feel the poisonous **** slither down throats
And the comforting familiarity of its dead weight
Would they dare meet the molten daggers of my eyes?

If the lifeless blinking light is no longer enough
When the hollow words on screens do nothing
If I grow tired of the scraps you toss me
And the ravenous hunger hatches
Would you join me in destruction?

When both our demons are unleashed
And the skies cry black tears of anguish
When the makeshift smiles finally fade
And we walk among them naked
When they pay for their assumptions
And mother Earth howls for her loss
When angels flee their impending judgement
And there is nothing left but dying embers
Will you sit atop a throne with me
And embrace the madness we once feared?

Sing me a lullaby
Put these thoughts to rest
With the best high
The warmth in your chest
I knew you before
But not like this
Did I open a new door?
What did I miss?

I've seen another galaxy
It's just for you and me

It could not have happened
If this were another day
Wouldn't, couldn't, but did
Work out this strange way
It was perfect, you see

Led down the same path
We stumbled blindly into each other
Our galaxy was born, alas
Calm, crazy, hot and happy
How could just one night
Make me feel so right?
Ah, tread swiftly, softly
For our galaxy is just that:
Ours.
And they will not understand
They will pull back their hands
And curl them into fists
Or damage their wrists

We are their light
They are our shadows
Crouching tiger, hidden dragon
We lie awake til’ our sun shines on

The curtain will draw once more
Never to be closed again
And sun will pour over our bodies
Like an orange being squeezed
Fresh from the trees
It will weaken our knees

It will engulf us instantaneously
And we will be swallowed
By the humbled body of serenity
Left lounging on cloud mounds
Left with each others'
Complementary company

One day, darling.
One day, we shall meet.
One day,
We lock eyes across the room by pure chance.
Whilst I am playing a wallflower
and you are playing a rockstar.
In the midst of my seeing
and your being seen.
We look directly into each other’s pupils.
One day, darling.

And I see a town crier,
my voice and feet,  in your face.
Maybe you see a poet, a dancer.
A storyteller.
Your spigot. A minstrel.
Like a fairy that whispers
charming sweet-nothings in your ear.
One day, darling.

You give a smirk
that gives me flutter.
I touch your shoulder with my pinky
as I reach for the plastic cup to fill it with another dose of cheap wine.
Your skin perks up and contracts.
I act as though I didn't notice,
but you know it was deliberate.
And I know you know.
My half-hearted bashfulness.
Your half-arsed cockiness.
We drink ourselves to semi consciousness.
As we indulge in our awful drunken dancing,
your hand slips in and rakes across my abdomen, and
my hand lingers around your bony hips.
I want to just grab handfuls of your ****.
However, even drunk, I am not that bold.
One day, darling.

I ditch my friend who dragged me there.
You fall straight onto my bed.
My bedroom in a flat I share with my best friend.
I look at your feet dangling off the edge of my bed,
kicking off the shoes.
I think of how quickly you have claimed my space.
And how much it excites me.
I slither in next to you.
And you engulf me, wait for me to overflow.
Both of us half aware, but fully euphoric.
One day, darling.

In the morning, you fry up my flatmates bacon,
scramble some eggs.
In my kitchen wearing nothing but
your underwear and t-shirt.
I make tea.
When you ask, I simply say I don’t have any coffee.
There’s a bag in the pantry. I just can’t be bothered to take out the press.
We eat together on my balcony.
Barely dressed.
Sober but painfully hungover.
Your smirk is now a softer grin,
but with the same glint in the eyes.
We don’t speak a word,
because it gives us headaches.
I put the dishes away and
set up a pool chair in the balcony.
And we cuddle up under the sun,
feeling the light breeze on our ears and brows.
So naturally. Naturally.
One day, darling.

We break every rule written in Cosmopolitan,
told by our friends from school,
by people on television.
Those mind games to test each other or
guess our feelings become moot.
Because your hands become so
comfortable to rest my head in.
and I enjoy the weight of your head on my back,
like it belongs there.
And because there is no time to ask, wait, or waste.
One day, darling.

We spend countless days on the beach,
bathing in salty water, sand, sunlight, and each other.
We smoke kush and you buy me a ****
because I can’t stand spliffs.
I drawl on about my quasi-Marxist stateless communist utopia.
You stare at my face, not saying a word
and smile, even though you don’t give two ***** about a word I’m saying.
And I know you don’t.
You take me to bars and parties and social gatherings,
and I go everywhere you want me to.
Even though I never leave your side,
or speak to anybody else.
I go every time.
The days I cannot move an inch away from my couch
because I drown myself in useless, endless influx of thoughts and emotions.
You stay-
Sometimes, just far enough that I can’t feel your over zealous heartbeats full of life,
but close enough you can see me.
Sometimes, pressed up right next to me so I cannot make a move.
We drop acid together and spend the whole day
doing nothing but hallucinating while sipping my signature honey-lilac lemonade.
We pop a molly and have ***.
Which short-circuits my brain a little,
and brings you closer to the thing you call god.
You sing my words and
I dance your tunes.
So quickly, your fingers learn my hair.
And my palms know your chest so well.
I have never been so excited and comfortable.
You, of course, have never been so fascinated. Enchanted.
One day. Yes, one day.

And the summer comes to an end.
Because the earth didn’t actually stop
the day we met (no matter how much it felt such to us).
You go back to school, and I probably move on to a new city.
I give you my email or whatever.
But it’s useless.
Because you are young and new.
You have many things on your agenda -
people to become, things to acquire, places to be.
And because I won’t keep still.
Because drastic changes are so inevitable for both of us.
The world is so large for both of us.
Still, I know (I mean, I know) you have carved
a permanent spot in my mind.
But I can only hope I am the same to you.
Because, suddenly I don’t know a thing about you.