How deadly is the sight of the flying witch,
she's mighty and flawless, her name is Lynn
elegant and graceful in her broom she'll go,
All of her victims had that exact same thought.

She seizes you with kind words
and for your soul offers you gold.
With her, you enjoy flying,
for you trust you won't fall.

Once in her cave, she speaks with friendly words
she fills your belly and fabricates a loving home,
It's hard to see her as from the underworld
It's hard to see what's about to come.

Before you realize she attempts to take control,
eating the brains of whom you call your own.
She's yelling and screaming, how putrid is her soul.
The witch is evil, but no one cares of what you know.

Now down the stairs she complacently goes,
raises an eyebrow, it's diabolical, it's smug
she then smiles to her husband, a mere puppet of hers
Satan is that woman, the witch who yells.

A Verse In Time: A Trickster’s Alchemical Approach to Memory in Three Waves

(Warning: The following collection contains depictions of three waves
of the psychedelic experience—particularly with God’s allies, Los Aliados, the mushrooms—and like the psychedelic experience each wave possesses its own waves within itself.  Ride with discretion.)

.

Wave I: The Allies’ Nursery Rhyme

The Allies
came to visit
and take me
on a trip.
No need for boat
or bus
or plane
or even rocket ship.
The galaxy, as they explained
resides inside your mind,
The portals to the universe
are windows you call eyes.
Instead of always looking out
you should try to look within.
The ending you have always feared
is exactly where you begin.

Yes, all the spans of time and space
exist in you behind your face
and yet you cannot understand
that nothing is a race.

Oh wait, please be careful with that mirror
when we are here and you draw nearer.
Don’t let the face of everyone replace your face with fear.
You are Horus, Mary, Jesus Christ, Cervantes, and Shakespeare,
and all the men from beast to mice, from oceans down to tears.

And so they pried behind my face
and pushed me on through outer space
and soon enough I understood
there never was a race.

It all exists right here, right now—
the past, the future, the grass, the cow,
the vast, the nature, the cash, the house,
the king and the savior
the beast and the mouse
are all your creation,
your relation,
your spouse,
your Path,
your Bible,
your ‘Gita,
your Tao.

It is all
of your moment,
It is all
of your now.

For you are the mystery
of that which you seek.
You invented the minutes, the hours, the weeks,
the deserts, the rivers, the valleys, and peaks,
your digits, extremities, elbows, and knees.
You created the cure, you invent the disease.
The labyrinth is you and
You defeat it with ease.
To master the Minotaur just follow the string
Discover the dinosaur, discover the king,
discover this grandiose song that you sing,
and uncover the truth of the message you bring
when you ring bells or

Stroke piano keys
and make the doctor sweat.
The pranksters shifting shapes again,
it’s time to make a bet.
With silly laws of threes and fives, this riddle I repeat, replies
that by the time the rhyme is over, the trickster will arrive.
Gliding up in cycles by, the prankster grins and winks his eye.
He fabricates a fluffy fix with fuzzy snow white lies
to bring the doctor to a six then down to four inside
and bring the tempest to a wave
on which the four can ride.

Do we glide?
Do we slide?
Do we fly really high?
Do we bobble and sink
with the rise of the tide?

I remember the brink
the cellular stride, the following leap,
the primitive mind
I remember the dirt, the water, the fire,
the wind and the ether,
the passion, desire.
I remember that art
can never expire.

Do we depart?
Do we retire?

The answer is yes,
The answer is no,
The answer’s the same wherever you go.
It’s never too fast,
it’s never too slow
and you are never the last to not really know.
For the sun always shines,
the moon always glows,
the old always die,
the young always grow,
The seeds that you plant
are the trees that you sow,
from the bees and the ants
to the bulls and
black holes.

It is all
in your stance.
It is all
in your
soul,

When you follow your dance
the bliss
takes control.
Take your place
in the play
and master
your role.
The Aum
is your home
it’s inside
of your dome,
Whatever
you wonder,
Wherever
you roam.

And so it flows behind my face
the universe of time and space
Now I understand that time
is invented as the race

Yes, you are Borges, and Buddha, and Krishna,
and Lorca, and Vishnu, Dickinson, Lennon,
Eliot, Gandhi, Marley, McKenna,
Campbell, Picasso, Alpha, Omega.
You are your enemy,
your stranger,
your neighbor.
You are the peasant,
the king,
and the savior,
the mandala man,
the cosmic *******.
You are the taste
You are the flavor
and you are
the wave
the unwavering
Creator

Even us
as they explained
merely extend from you
A mirror to the macrocosm
for you to gaze into.




So when you get lost
within your lies
and cannot find
your rhyme,
Gather inside with your
Allies
and master
the maze
of
time.


Wave II: Contemplating The Allies’ Advice

Thunderbolts of cackling giggles
shutter through your vitals, shaking shoulders
and squirting tears from squinting eyes.
Exciting when dimensions hidden creep into your line of vision,
morphing mapping iridescence with a fleeting fuzzy phosphorescent
undulating elfin presence following your every contemplation.

Concentrating on a caterpillar crawling up the wall
how curious, this furry beast has fingers not to fall.
He folds into his fuzzy form, a sleeping bag to keep him warm,
a little home as still as lead.  He hibernates and contemplates,
waits and waits and transmutates into a gilded butterfly
that flutters through my head.

Violet translucent landscapes bleed through grass and trees,
focus on a precise place of time and space and witness the birth of the human race.  Projections made in fuzzy fourth dimensions quickly fade
if your gaze should wander.  Positioned to ponder,
you plunge into prepubescent wonder as a shooting star splits the sky wide open revealing heaven and everything under the sun is tune and the sun is eclipsed by the moon.  And once again, the music comments chronologically on your moments, as if all these notes and lyrics were cataloged to sync with the scenes of your epic voyage.

Destroying contemplation again, the sea ***** the wind through the trees
and blows a blue marine breeze through your hair.
Do you dare take the time to recognize the punctuality of the gale?
Should your frail and fragile mind be dangled from a line
to flap and fluff and figure out the nature of the rhyme of our mother?
You are your brother, your keeper, and your lover.

All the lines align and oscillate in cadenced flow,
the more you see with your mind the more your mind will know.  
A ****** brain may strain and throw a fit
if faced with the tricky truth of the third eye
Surprise! Who knew that Jesus Christ could sprout from cow ****?
Can you believe it?  Wow, Bob, wow.
Where do you think we got: ******* and holy cow?
Heaven is the here and now
and every time you try to leave
you lose what you have found.

(* All words in italics come from    
   various songs, films, works of        
   literature, etc. and are not the words    
  of the author.)


Wave III: Los Aliados Wake

An apple carries a story deeper than the tree,
More nourishing than the luscious skin,
More central than the seed.
for the apple gave original sin
and knowledge from within
and fell upon the head, announcing gravity.
Have you ever heard the tale of Johnny Melon seed?
(The apple is global, so I wonder why,
what could be patriotic of pie?
Is it not just a strudel,
a pastry disguised?)

The colors we create
distort. manipulate.
The fools who follow fear
are doomed to find their fate
between their ears
where the colors seem
to blend and stream
and almost disappear.
To wonder why we’re here
all colors must appear
and merge into the blinding light
that obliterates our fear.

All your dreams, your fantasies, your symbols, and beliefs,
all a compass pointing you to endless mystery.
The treasure that you seek
resides inside the Self,
A jewel within the rock,
A book upon the shelf.


I bought the ticket,
I’m taking the ride.
I’m spiraling miles through the bowels of time.
I’m spinning and laughing
and losing my mind
and finding
it always returns
just in time.
It’s right where it left me,
so I’ll leave it behind
and return when
I’m ready
to relish the ride
with a bite
from the apple
of my
holy
third
eye.

She fabricates variance in the same picturesque sky
Mauling two birds with one stone-cold, self-sustaining lie

If happiness blots itself upon perspective,
then I was merely one musing of a momentarily hung canvas
dangling dull under the noose of your
cautiously composed independence

            -

"Independence"
                   she doth protest

While in dependence,
                   she doth ingest

She flees towards East evermore, infatuated under the intoxication of dissimilar skies, ceasing to remember that all worlds eventually become spherical.

We, abreast, left the nest;
I, digress, detest the West.

I'm jealous
of every girl that gets to find you
like I did
and gets to
experience
being
swept off her feet
like you did for me

It makes my stomach hurt
because there will be
no man
like you
in my life
again

I'm not saying I want you back
I'm not.
I'm saying that I'm jealous
of every girl
who gets to be yours
and has the sense to enjoy it
while she can
before she fabricates
faults
in her mind

know I still care

Fear fabricates factious fragments,
futile for fulfilling faded fantasy's forlorn figures.
Few find faith from forecful feelings..
farewell forces fugitive faces-
forging faulty formality,
finesse fights failure for fame,
fortifying forgotten promises.

Beauty, fierce as desire, is perched
on the limits of longing –
There is an upward soaring
where simple delight turns
to sunlit brilliance.

Beauty is grasped
by a mind that fabricates
the abstract but appreciates
the real.

There is wonder
in the beauty of
the winds, woods
and water that glow
on the edge of earth.

Beauty is portrayed
in the smooth, smiling
contenance of youth,
the delicate alliance
of dark soil and milky sky
and seasons that turn
to golden ages, widening
to wilderness, clear and
unexplored, filling pages
of solitude with poetry.

Beauty is being held
in the arms of dawn,
knowing that dusk’s
splendid sunset is
not far away.

in the words of
a reverend and a King
human salvation
lies in the hands
of the creatively
maladjusted

defamiliarize the chaos

an absent-minded apparatus
addling brain cells
checks and balances
proliferate a status quo
of enmity and aggression that
propagates oppression and
dismantles genuine political
expression for those outside
the whitewashed coffin

recognize the enemy
in our own eyes as we
eradicate the apathy that
leeches liberty and
fabricates freedom

reformist rhetoric is
too little too late
revolutions are cyclical
and ultimately infantile

so fan the flames of rebellion
destruction precedes creation
raise hell and raze the system
of enmity that pits
7.4 billion
brothers and sisters
against each other

anarchy is order

Take these drugs to ease the pain

Not of your mouth but of your brain

And into the downward spiral I fall

Because what's stopping me?

Nothing. Nothing at all

And I fall and fall

Into the despair that catches me

That fabricates its all

It's only blackness we see

But one more pill one more fill

And those hallucinations could be at a slight spill



Wake up! Wake up!

Can't you hear it calling your name?

Wake up! Wake Up!

Can't you feel it worming into your brain?

Images of gas-chamber mobs

Crawling inside the darkest parts of your sobs



Take these drugs to ease the pain

Not of your mouth but of your brain

"Feel better, feel better," they say

But you can't seem to get those rotten images to go away

Glimpses of the light
as the shadows echo into a land of perpetual darkness.

Where blackness is a habitat,
imagination fabricates strobing illusions;
portraying future as the inevitable apprehension
of

impossible

answers.

From within, this truth is known,
and though this light is but a delusion-
it remains a solitary hope.

Lies- the remnants of lives
in this dire day.

Deserving of life...
when it is nothing,
a gift cordially received.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

She opens her newspaper
and submits herself
to the daily crisis.

She pleases herself.

Digests the news she
is reading like a seasoned veteran
returning from a war.

She sees a picture
of the Prime Minister.
He's somewhat handsome she thinks.

She likes the way his eyes sparkle
when he fabricates a position to follow.

One day she might take herself
to Ottawa.
Sit in Parliament and follow
along with the story, live as it were.

Maybe she'd shout down from
the Visitors Gallery her opinion
on the matters of the day.

She would not get evicted.
The RCMP would not bother with her.

She knew the Prime Minister would
look up at the interruption and, upon
seeing her, would become enamored with her.

He'd leave his wife and family.

She'd be responsible for the
marital collapse of the man.

Sighing, she smiled inwardly
at the plans she was making.

Of course, in order to make
anyone fall in love with her,
she'd actually have to leave the house.

How could she do that?

There were too many cats to feed
and take care of.
Anyway, she didn't do well
with real people.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

It’s not singly your jubilantly playful smile
Or eyes that instill faith,
Faith that miracles exist in us
And absolutely not independently
The miraculousness that ever so gently
And tenderly
Sleeps on top of a face to which
No being can compare to, it makes such
Euphoric feelings kiss the world
And my heart, now zapped
By a current of life and flare
This miraculousness fabricates an image of
Your benevolent wind, light and sublime
Rolling softly over the waves and hands
Of the ocean, flowy and ecstatic
And the cause of my enamored state
Is not isolated by
The effervescently sanguine blush
Of your adorable cheeks,
Which regularly has exploded
A nervous, yet amazed smile
Upon myself
No,
Although with the fullest probity
I may spew that these angelic virtues
Have spirited me to a place
Where Zeal is my name
And time with you
Has become my heroine,
It’s your energy, your aura
Your vivacious fire
That so happily bombards me
With laughter and excitement
It’s your poison, your wonderful stain
That’s colored my life
And shocked my heart
It’s you;
You are a poem

“The hottest love has the coldest end.”
-Socrates

You were there. Like stardust ever dancing in the light as if infinity swirls to you. Your existence declines my being. You waived all presences, defying the mnemonics of what qualifies existence.

You were there—not now.

Before, we were strangers looking at some abyss. After, we are strangers excited of what the future holds for both of us. In between, we are still strangers cursing all pains stinging our hearts.

Time inflicts its greatest wound: recollection. Malt ferments. Soul dies. Mind breaks down. Bubbles in beers imploded to every motion of the hand swaying, wishing it never touched you. Dreams stitched to rags given to wipe dusts and rusts. Time betrayed us, then and again. You were there but not now. Time cursed the being. Time stabbed us causing my heart to burn.

If only I can love you without time minding us all.

Atoms fall. They swerve a little, says Epicurus. Repulsion with others creates the world. That repulsion is a lasting encounter.

What holds that philosophy to be true is antimony. What holds us after all is just an illusion.

When I stumble upon old things finding some boxes, I remember you. When I see your picture in an old frame, forgetting becomes a sickness.

Is there a pill that can selectively erase your fading silhouette in my memory? Confession: I took that pill long ago. My mind fabricates immunity.

You were there in the horizon standing, holding an umbrella, ready to swerve from the rain that once made our love so cold and true.

I was there.

That night, the rain substituted to a poet’s tears.

I cannot forget...
אני לא יכול לשכוח

©  STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
12 Shevet 5778 / 28 January 2018
revised:
3 Iyyar 5758 / 28 April 2018
19 Iyyar 5778 / 4 May 2018
20 Iyyar 5778 / 5 May 2018
21 Iyyar 5778 / 6 May 2018

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' (1964):
'Forget the dead you've left, they
will not follow you'

W.G. Sebald z"l (1966):
'And so, they are ever returning to us,
the dead'

I.

the Path / derekh is silent,
a vacuum,
resonating with the
footsteps of tzaddikim, whose
teachings transcend(ed)
the Kingdom of Night...

where there was no longer
kefitzat ha'derekh
shrinking of the road
jumping the Path
teleportation.

...un die vvelt hot geshivign,
taught Reb Elie Wiesel z"l...
& the world remained silent.

not existing for themselves,
the tzaddikim speak with the
Shekhinah from their throats,
and the mar'ot johanna
visions of johanna
are witnessed by breslover
chavurot on desolation row,
murmurations of starlings
overhead.

listening to them, we survive
to walk / dorekh
the Path, with kabbalists z"l,
R. Chiyya & R. Yose,
the chevraya kadisha
the holy companions,
a derekh through the sea,

away from the energy vampyrism
& relentless phantasmagoric
cyberstalking of
the phantasmagoric Queene,
who engages in quacker
cross-contamination,
while prising her mindfully
plagiarising lips (a mirror image
of a death's-head hawk moth)
for a crucifictionist wafer:

a tax-deductible, copyright charity
deduction for ontological delusions
long after midnight,
clutching her cossetted Yehu'di
hatreds like
a perforated osculatorium,
because, שמח בחלקו.

    ****

Reb Uri Tzvi Greenberg z"l, 1923 [trans.
Michael Weingrad]:
'For so long there has been no water
in the wells. Only curses. ...& suddenly
the icons scream in Yiddish'.

II.

Light is the absence of Darkness,
to acknowledge Rav Rebecca
Newberger Goldstein.
& the holy slow train moves
(when it does)
sideways across flat earths.

consider the post-Auschwitz dilemma for
an opus dei natz'ri  who cannot grasp
the etymology:

prae / before + posterus / coming after
praeposterus / reversed, absurd.

did Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' influence the
teachings of R. Yitzhak Luria z"l ?

III.

memories are stalking & ambuscading,
& as you said, Reb David Meltzer z"l,
'the Yehu'di in me is the ghost of me'...

& now the hourglass is invisible...

the windows of perception
to be peered into,
not out of,
as hairline fractures
develop in the retinas of narrow-ruled
yellow writing tablets masquerading
as frenetic mirrors,

never glimpsing tzefiyat ha'yeshu'ah,
the expectation of salvation.

& we are here,  
witnessing cyberian corpses
erecting three-way mirrors to their
obbligato and  mindfulness for girl
children...the mantras of a white
supremacist ****** ****** trained to
effect genocide  at a distance, his
audible hungering  for the  rapture  
of an endloesung in his drive-by
dark carnival, having no
farraginous self to say farewell to.

Lilith, the Midrash teaches, ate the
'bones' of Her enemies, but the
****** uses prayer beads as
majong ***** fired from his cap gun.

IV.

'she' stands on the bamboo porch,
thinking the lotus leaves floating by
are a reflexion of 'her' crumbling
totenkopfverbaende phantasies.

long after midnight, she shrieks to
a cyberian Mytilene, her mind so narrow,
thoughts are forced to crawl through her
fossilised ***** majora, which she identifies

as a personal luchot ha'edot, the glass
**** molded by her proboscis tongue,
as it fabricates yet another delusion
of a 1967 that never happened.

'she' turns, stepping onto an
embroidered nationalsozialist
matt,  'her'eyes a frail ambassador
of demure malice.

it is a moment such as this, when 'her'
desire of wanting to have been an
Auschwitz  Aufseherin, cannot be  
masqued  as a playful Latrodectus mactans.

ephemeral fabrications cling to 'her' --
an unbroken dance of impetuous
mirrors, as 'she' remains on the
porch, clutching 'her' 'we' aliases,

thinking, somehow, they are 'her'
aharon ha'bris...



V.

interlude / הַפסָקָה

Kafka z"l:
'I am divided from all things
by a hollow space'

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan':
'I felt that place within, that
hollow place, where martyrs
weep, & angels play with sin'

Rav Yitzhak Luria z"l:
after tzimtzum,
the withdrawal of
'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh,
there came to be
halal ha'panui,
'the hollow space'

R. Shabbatai Sheftel ben
Akiva Horowitz z"l, 1719.
Shefa tal [Frankfurt edition]
3.5, 57b [Hebrew]:
'Before the world's bere'****,
'ayin sof withdrew into its essence,
from itself to itself within itself.
It left halal ha'panui within its
essence, in which it emanated
and created' [emended from Reb
Daniel Matt 1995]

VI.

sh'ma...'mir veln zey iberlebn, iberlebn, iberlebn'
(Lublin Chassidim z"l, 1939)...
hear: 'we shall outlive them, outlive them,
outlive them'...

why did R. Moshe Sofer z"l teach
'Chadush aser min ha'toray' / 'What
is new is forbidden in the Torah'?

the trolls here & what they call 'poetry':
collections of letters on a flickering
moon-glow  computer screen behind
a suburban curtain,
letters having no glyphs or sounds,
all encased in Sho'ah denial...

and yet. white supremacist sock monkeys
cannot silence the memories of the
thousands of Yehu'dit children z"l
burned alive on pyres, June-August 1944,
in the holy natz'ri village of Auschwitz,
in october country.

לעולם לא עוד לעולם לא עוד

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...with thanks to my akhim / brothers & poets,
D.J. Carlile & George Dance & Will Dockery
for reading previous drafts...
...and to the memories z"l of David Meltzer 17 February 1937-31 December 2016
& Anthony Scaduto 7 March 1932-12 December 2017...chaver'im / friends
& for the 'or from R. Paul Laderman z"l &
R. Meyer Goldberg z"l

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT
לעולם לא אשכח



IN PROGRESS: Shabtai Zisel benAvraham v'Rachel Riva:
davening in the musematic dark

Tell me I’m brilliant

For the fibers and threads of my mind have recently tattered themselves
Leaving an array of unfinished thoughts and suppressed emotion
Piling up until my worth has been completely displaced
A tower such as I needn’t have limits such as these
However, I have recently become accustomed to the cruel realities of the world
Where everything exists as a number, high or low
Acquiring these numbers prompts man to do back flips, cart wheels, until he knows all he can possibly know
I stand with man on a platter of judgment
Look at me through the glass and assess how transparent my eccentricity is
Whosoever fabricates their lives should be cast out, but how often is this really done?
I stand with a number possibly too small and maybe too outreaching
It all depends on what the powers are teaching
The numbers leave no room for speech or rhythm or character
This is why I choose word as my craft, in hope that everyone can stand on that judgment pillar and feel light upon their shoulders
And breathe slowly into their souls
And say that the world will oblige me, whatever number I hold in my hands

I have not been put in this world to give into such demands.

Oh, the way you inhabit me
I shudder, etched inside of me is the feeling of dying
Pulsing, your emanations
Consume me and I refuse to release you from my clutches
Struck breathless instantly
You offer little reason, but you return my robbed passion
I glimpse at your grave eyes
And I feel the tide of the sea within me start to part for you
You catalyze my stolen gaze
I almost feel you shudder and rush in my sodden esophagus
A soft pink suckle
I euphorically asphyxiate for you, on you – with you
Unuttered, my subconscious
Fabricates the smell and taste of your flesh using your words
My body is left ravenous
To the conjecture of your apparition as it levitates above me
Below you I kneel – impure
Please let your sensory invading of my aquatic mind cleanse me
I chant a plea to your figment
Imagining your tongue feeling the words move inside my mouth
My glistening incantations drip  
And I feel your stirring when my lips part for evening prayer
I awaken an appetent beast
Rising to dominate the submission hibernating in my sharp bones
My locked jaw wants it all
I won’t release you, so let me taste your last watery breath

I shudder, etched inside of me is the feeling of dying

Not many people share the same amount of passion I feel.
It doesn’t mean it’s too much
But it sure feels lonely some days
Enough to where I want to throw it away
Because the love I have for life
Feels like so much more
Then what I get back.

I try not to focus on how
Much I receive, because
To over think in what I believe
Scares me, undoubtedly.  
To think I have been living
Wrong all this time
Can shoot the ****
Right out of my pants.
Which is unfortunate
Because I am on a budget
And these were on the only pants had.

I ignore the questions
And instead write a song, or a poem, or paint.
I’ve learned the hard way
That playing along with the mind games
Only drives my heart away
And invites fear to stay.

Sometimes the only way
To make it through the day
Is to take each situation as it comes
Rather than worrying what might happen.
I have a great imagination
Filled with ideas, insights, even rhymes!
But from the same hand that can hold
Or smack you cold
Across the cheek
My mind fabricates stories
Which kills creativity and breeds anxiety.

I once heard a monk say
That joy comes from being grateful
More so, living gratefully
And ceasing every opportunity
That life brings to our table.

But if life has all these opportunities for me
Why am I still unhappy?

Hopelessly searching for the answer
And looking all around
The answer was right in front me;
The table is empty
Only missing one piece
Me.

I stopped
Pulled up a chair
And just sat
Ending the complaint over what I don’t have.

The present will always provide
Just what I need
If I am willing to believe
I am right where I need to be.

I'm beautiful
Exuding soul
Protruding bold
Diluting cold
Until I fold
Once beauty is sold

Biting remarks
Made by sharks
Create sparks
Where it was dark
Displaying pain that is stark
As part of my character ark

They mug me
Until I'm ugly
Then suddenly
They're done with me
It must be some disease
Of a numbing freeze
From stunning thieves
Taking what I believe

They're not impressed
When I'm undressed
So I'm the stressed
I must confess
From this test
Of who's best
And who's less
A blue guess
That brews pests

This hall of fame
Dismal game
Is to blame
For the shame
In our brain
And our name
Fanning flames
Of social stains

I'm a coyote battling
With lonely howling
Until phonies scowling
Are all that powers me
Through what had been
Through what grew
I see you
Through the views
That light my fuse
It's you I choose

Flatter my vanity
To guard my sanity
Conjuring the man in me
More so than I planned to be
But became apparently

Through ****** gratification
You give social validation
You send a pal elation
That causes salivation
Until the callous nation
Invades my phallus station

Text me
I'm ****
To protect me
From the injecting
Inspecting
Dissecting
Directory
Next to me
That begs to see
The beggars seethe

Don't destroy my body image
With your haughty grimace
Applauding penance
An ungodly menace
You've become
Like Tim Gunn
A judgemental one
That fabricates fun
By blocking the sun

Incoherent
Interference
In the clearance
Of my appearance
Not knowing nearness
Outside your austere fence

You flippantly
Didn't see
The death of me
Or the mess I bleed
When my chest can't breathe
While you're blessed to breed
With a superior steed

The eye of the beholder
Is behind their shoulder
That keeps getting colder
From insurgent soldiers
Throwing boulders
Becoming molders
Of the boaters
With no motors
Who float through life
And drown in misery
From societal strife
Of subjective mysteries

To act on the behest of me
Say that you've met me
Say that you've let me
Enter you gently
To a centrifuge ending
For relationships pending
With perceptions tending
To be needlessly upending
By comparisons impending
No matter what they're intending
There's no way they can mend me
When my social rank bends me
To be something pretending

Believe me, there is nothing beautiful about feeling this way.  Poetry is just a bunch of pretty words used to romanticize things that caused you pain. Poetry fabricates sadness in its perpetual arrangement of letters in a poignant manner. The second you pen it down you obliquely ridicule your ache into something small, only to be relatable and 'beautifully written'.

Poetry is a lie.

When you’re here,
it feels like you’re somewhere else.
Your gaze;
it’s distant lately -
you won’t look at me,
with those chatoyant,
pale,
marbled eyes.
That choose to belittle my entirety
when they pluck at each individual “flaw” -

“faults”

that I never even knew I had.
Your words are empty.
Our conversations fake.
And your lust often replaces your love.
But I ignore it
when I get the chance to trace the line of your silhouette
with my fingertips,
while your fingertips dance over me;
when you feather your nails
through my hair,
and pull.
You’re like a noose.
When you walk your hands
up my thigh,
and grasp.
You’re like a thief.
When you scatter your lips
across my chest,
and bite.
You’re like an animal.

But after,
lying next to you - weary and jaded -
my mind wanders.
Then suddenly you’re not there and I’m brooding in some strange solitudinous sense…
Then I’m not wandering but I’m crawling,
because I’m overwhelmingly drained,
and overcome with Hiraeth.
Back to reality.
To the reality of our broken “love”
that hangs by a mere thread –
thread that I used to create
exquisite things,

art.

That’s suddenly unraveling; unpicking the delicate stitches in my skin
that I once used to entice you with.
I’m a prisoner
to my past;
It trips me every time I’m finally leading the race,
and I,
in the dust,
watch in defeat as everyone passes by me.
I was your cynosure;
now I am invisible
even to you -
my shame outshining my truth.
I feel exposed,
yet really, I am still hidden behind the same mundane mask
that fabricates my fraudulent smile.

Our fights are a screaming red flag.
I get trapped further in my own personal pandemonium the longer I’m with you
so,
I raise a white flag
and surrender.
Because it’s easier than when I get angry
longing for the feeling
of being in control.
In control and overpowering
your cruel and cutting words.
Because when words come from your mouth,
it means and hurts,
more than from any stranger.
It’s this bittersweet enlightenment,
of your true judgement,
straight from your tongue;
guess the cat must have had it all this time.
It allows me
to realise
that someone I’m so infatuated with
could secretly view me as more of a sort of dalliance.

I don’t know why I’m surprised.

An awkwardness lingers in the air now
like the breeze in the room
that chills my skin and raises my hair the same way your touch once did.

You leave when inconvenient for me
and return when convenient for you,
but trust me “baby”,
how you leave,
says more than how you love.
You love -
by playing me.
Like an instrument
when we are in bed, in the dark.
Decadent.
Dissolute.
Dissipated.
But also like a fool when I fall.
Hopelessly.
Helplessly.
Habitually.
for that familiar taste and touch
of false safety -
for the feeling of home in your arms,
for the unique scent embedded into your skin,
that would sooth me to sleep
like I never could
alone.

Sometimes
sleeping nestled like two birds,
was an escape for us.
Because sleep was so rare.
I went from feeling isolated to embraced -
you would evoke the most pleasant images that would conjure in my mind
and follow me;
to make my persisting nightmares
and ceaseless,
over-thought anxieties
just the slightest bit better.
Because I could feel your warmth radiating,
under these soiled sheets.
And because my wanderlust burned out;
like the candles that lit our bedside, when you were next to me.
I didn’t wish to be elsewhere anymore - I was finally content, and more.
So.
Much.
More.
Because in my repose,
you were without doubt,
the first -
and only,
thing I looked forward to.
And in my wake
you were just as eagerly anticipated.

A voice - intoxicating like no other,
built with distinct, harmonious vibrations
that I recognise immediately…
A sound that induces paranoia.
Hands - designed and crafted
to strum my pain,
like a younger him
strummed guitar strings.
To sad songs I still listen to
with my lonely ear pressed to the walls of your world,
while refusing the tear attempting to escape my eye
as I reminisce in a time
that was simpler -
as the nostalgia becomes heavy
on my conscience.

So yes -
I hate that I love you;
because you’re like red wine.
Delicious now,
dry later,
with a lengthy after-taste that never quenches my thirst.
I hate that I admire you.
I hate that I adore you.
I hate that I tell myself
you deserve your name on a crown
and how my knees are cemented at the base of your throne.
I can’t stop justifying you
because you’re more addictive than any of the drugs.
I start to forget.
But it just comes rushing back in a matter of seconds.
Then my eyes roll back into my head
as I hear the heavy,
desperate breaths,
and see a blinking montage of images
flash,
briefly,
in my mind,
like a movie on an aged and broken tape.
Of us.
Doing what we’re best at -
even though we shouldn’t.
You;
the artist.
I;
the canvas.
Spread apart, begging for completion
and your signature tattooed
on my

skin.

'firmly allocated source,
fabricates its vessels of creation,
in this Golden irreversible pause,
of your mutable humane mutation.'

Bonafide catatonic doggedness,
nevertheless this stubborn stoic poet writ
afore and another feeble effort courtesy
exhaustive mental effort
he brewed den - brought about divine visit
analogously to solve mystery pinpointing
within suspense unveiling whodunnit.

Whereat your true
plane vanilla author's creativity
admittedly drastically did decline
bawling and crying
caterwauling putting any feline,
to shame, hence abandoned grandiose design,
cuz he suddenly contracted

(think fabricates)... what else
flesh eating bacteria unfavorable sign
finding me body stone cold supine
(courtesy brainstorm that went awry)
inducing purgatory nauseating
sensation to *****,
nope not at all feeling fine,

hence literary dream subsequently mine
ambition tanking (think
kamikaze nose diving
minus parachute life line),
sought spiritual guidance ministered
severe existential nihilist crisis
(an understatement)... zip,

absolute zero, and nein
never to witness, nor
restored vigor and vitality,
(sob... sob... sob) ha how asinine,
hence garden variety germane pine
wood coffin evidenced
resembling somber funereal yahrzeit

(/ˈyärˌtsīt,ˈyôr-/) recollecting late mother
helped beget kith and kin of mine,
than as now buzzfeeding appetites decline
possibly courtesy bloodily splattered
white laboratory coated
donned Victor Frankenstein
mister monster master's

repurposed cadaver delivers kosher eats
fancy feast grubhub groaning
outsize maître d' makes beeline,
nsync with anonymous canine,
corps speedier than any airline,
unbeknownst to yours truly posthumous
fame will inevitably yield moonshine.

Fast forward approximately
twelve hours later recuperated -
aide de camp resolved impasse with
partial writer's block slayed
attempting to continue quasi theme
i.e. avoid typing with fingers delayed,
albeit no matter unconscious

editing automatically peremptorily made
suppressing crude, fiery, ignominious tamed
loathsome offal rot earning F grade
securely unceremoniously waylaid
lurid outburst blandly diluted into staide
yawningly tedious figurative walled barricade,
when lo and behold atavistic beast erupts

fresh sortie attempts peppering enfilade
anew ideally unadulterated, unedited,
unexpurgated material ought be displayed
to allow, enable, and
provide raw emotional blackest shade
to resonate within mind
of unsuspecting reader,

who might take
objection with primitive grade
communication, and blatant
scathing writer somewhat afraid
to air unrefined sentiments
may cost popularity,
uncontested where cadre of

unseen followers thence evade
once popular rising sallying forth star,
whose emergent fame
(even if only limited edition
to cyberspace) will fade,
yet methinks loosing
stream of consciousness obeyed


fealty on one metrical foot
metaphorically uncorking
deep seated primal angst laid
bare like bleached bones
existential crisis oft times
gussied up to avoid tirade,

whereby woke parlayed
gut wrenching splenetic self degrade
ding soul bearing vile eruption
considerably quieted, stoppered, tamped...
courtesy linkedin, symbiotic maid.