Devilish torment -- her body is my lament.
She crawls beneath the cracks and finds
The dark cellar, where my "worst" ferments.
She feeds it as it rots,
Just to make its wine more bitter . . .
Squeezed from the finest lies,
        Designed to make an addict from a quitter.

Like a dark and tempting vacuum
                That my soul cannot escape,
Attractive in its repulsion,
                 It's a part of me that loves the way it hates.
Masturbatory and selfish,
With a thirst that can't be quenched . . .
She finds the spots within me,
                   That make even deities flinch.
Their knees crack and crumble,
                   At its all-consuming "nothing". . .
I never knew my zero could be so wholly unbecoming.

She, or it, will surely be my undoing.
Yet, somehow, that keeps me moving.
So uncomfortably I'll admit . . .
It's the brutal nature of it all,
That I find so disturbingly soothing.

Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.

She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.

Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.

It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.

It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.





Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Your living water
ferments my soul.

Out spills wine—
a sweet elixir

for thirsty souls,
for hungry hearts.

(Your drinking songs
soothe parched throats)

For our hangovers:
Your living water

Be Lost In The Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: Oh prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.
Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.
Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn’t wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.
My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?
We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.
Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ***, my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ***?
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.
Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.

Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.

Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.

Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.

Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.

Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

.that's what the term: Slavic, implies... slave?! what?! not in my language, etymologically speaking... słowo, słowianin, word, Slav, respectively... i don't know where these quasi-Germanic peoples of the anglophone world get their ideas from, esp. from a, "missing" epsilon. wankers.

- and the main difference between a Slavic
language and a quasi-Germanic language
akin to English or French?
                   clarity of syllables,
   and a pivot on pseudo-Roman graphemes,
albeit not concentrated (for aesthetic
purposes) on crafting graphemes out
of vowels... more or less consonants...
English has this concept already...
   cheap as chips...
             prime **** of the shire
    (CH                                SH)
but the main difference is...
                            we don't use the surd
conundrum...
                e.g.?
                         ­        g'bur
                   syllable count: 2
                                  you say the first letter,
have a nanosecond pause and the second
syllable enters:  g'boor...
                   which is a word, roughly defined
as: someone who's boorish,
               a noun, not an adjective...
but in english?
                                   (g)nostic....
    wait...     diagnosis...
                            so like an electron clouds
surrounding a nucleus...
   (electrons do not exist in orbits,
clouds, quantum clouds to be precise,
they enter the antimatter dimension,
pop up and disappear in randomized
places, within a definite spatial complex
that constitutes what is known as
an atom)...
              too many ******* particulars
in the anglophone language...
         which is probably why i love it so
much...
        and because the englischzunge
has so many particular instances of
"correct" speech... and no diacritical
methodology... well...
                     hmm... a ******* rainbow of accents!
i love the Indian: bud bud... bud bud...
hearing it feels like riding a *******
camel over uneven ground... bud bud...
note - budwasserscheisse -
who, in their right state of mind -
ferments rice, and adds it to the fermentation
of barley?!
   o.k., the alternative... budscheissewasser...
take your pick...
    it appears that my original ambition
was to speak the native language better
than the natives...
   have i succeeded?
                  perhaps...
               god almighty and all that is
glorious about hell's pandemonium...
   i miss the trill of the R...
      either tongue numbing in English...
or a ******* hark in French...
but as i was sometime ago informed...
the French used to trill the R...
  they: rrrrrrroled the rattle and found
a snake...
                      trill? when you pass a breath
that slaps the tongue against your
hard palate...
                     like a rattlesnake...
   i'm so happy that it still exists in certain
languages...
        it's a hark in French,
             and a tongue numbing heimlich
maneuver in English...
like the tongue was injected with an
anesthetic borrowed from dentistry,
                or some other random *******.
- and yes, i couldn't learn French,
because i was already investing my efforts
and observational tactics in spotting
the oddities in English...
            surd-letters, a slack in syllable distinction...
you name it...
                            g'boor contra
                  (g)nostic....
                          ­    invited to a session
of psychiatric diagnostics...
             oh i speak the orthodox better than
the natives...
  the natives have to resort to slang...
or as i like to call their version "of events":
the **** of shlang.

p.s. but this is going to be an example
of where English, and French meat...
****, sorry... meet...

   a surname to exemplify:
   Trudeau...
           i'm not going to call the French
żabie udki (frog-thigh eaters),
i just call them the suffix eaters...
point blank... watch how this GH
   grapheme pops up, but is "invisible"
in the said, French surname...
   although...
                           see it?
   Trudeau...             now you don't!
******* that i am surrounding
spewing linguistic *******...
   even i'm starting to think:
                    neat observation,
well tailored for the given times of...
how do you censor an investigation
into grammar and phonetics?

p.p.s.
    and well know where the English
borrowed their notion of H as a surd...
bindi-Hindi...
                          'indi...
     '   (this denotes a surd,
**** it, leave the letter out) -
esp. in names, like Khahn -
                        some variation of Ghengis,
Khan...    i suspect...
      oh yeah... the macron above the vowel
looks plain ugly: Kān...
   the literate can't reconfigure that word...
they need two languages of the same
tongue... the optical (Khan)...
             and the phonetic (Kān)...
look at you pretty people...
           you're bilingual already!

Parsley and thyme
Comb the earth with your fertile fingers
You tell me that you want to bloom
And fruit like the plants do

As grapes turn to wine
The idea ferments with the seasons
Lain on the willow boughs
Nothing but our breathing and the starlight

I'm gonna take you to the whisky springs
Barefoot walk in the summer
You whisper the sweetest things
This child will have water for its father
and earth as its mother
Plant me inside of you
We'll do it twice if you're eager
I love to hear you sing out my name
Feeling hotter than a fever in the night


https://soundcloud.com/dorian-m/whisky-springs

A feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe:
It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped.  
It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
After pacing the house for a bit, the stillness starts to settle in; the leaking faucet growing unbearably ever more predominate with a slow crescendo of slurred reminders, drip no one’s home, drip you’re alone, drip what are you going to do? Drip, drip and the deafening silence like a parasite is crawling its way up and under my skin. My feet and hands get restless so I grab my acoustic guitar and head for the door.
On the porch, I take refuge on the cool concrete and light a cigarette; as the cherry churns the paper burns slowly, mimicking the melody of minors strummed ever so softly. My mind starts to wander, slipping into its self, lofting away like the ribbon of smoke from the cigarette. How funny it is that the greatest of men and minds have achieved the unbelievable; they unraveled the wheel, the moon met man from a tin can, empires leveled by the push of a button and as a tired heart’s tick softens, a surgeon’s scalpel cuts open and easily replaces it. With all the trophies brightly polished placed on the mantle of man there is not a space for the trophy that is truly worth parading; a cure for emotions. Irony, like a well aged whiskey, drunken my humor and ferments my appreciation. As a disease loneliness infests like a tumor, endlessly growing. The thoughts that once retreated so easily at the first hint of war are now back, glowing with vengeance tailored with armies; and they’ve got me cornered, it begins.
I start sinking, farther and farther down, unable to swim in this brackish abyss; any attempt to kick my legs, swing my arms has become a day dream, perhaps its only momentary paralysis caused from my leap of faith from my raft of hope that in my mind I had been previously enjoying the warm weather and smooth sailing; until the vessel caught a flame and was swallowed by the ocean of despair.
The light that once danced all alone up on the surface has retreated from fear. My lungs now burning as they cling to my last breath, they swell with anger, splitting at the seams from the pressure of the ocean’s hand gasping my poor lungs, tension alone compressing my entire chest I can feel the sharp pains as they are growing nearer and nearer to exploding, I clench my already squinted eyes from the burn of ocean’s salt. In some last attempt for survival with my eyes firmly tightened, just as the water starts to creep its way down my throat into my lungs I can feel the water begin to thicken.
No longer sinking into the great void of salted rift tides but resting gently on a mattress of sand. With my back exposed, the sun quickly heats my sopping wet T-shirt, my bones fill once again with life. Have I, by some lottery of luck, washed up on the beach? Scrapping the sand from my eyes in pursuit to unravel this mystery, the sand has magnetized itself to pruned skin and drenched clothing. I clear my eyes to the best of my ability, I can still feel the sand gritting in the folds of my eye lids and after a few fresh breaths of air which fill my sore lungs with relief, I roll over to sit up and dig my feet deep into the sand. I look out shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with my hand. I look to the left and then the right and quickly darting back and forth from each position, there is no ocean in view. What was my inevitable aquatic ending has now vanished; no longer sinking but standing. I am alone in what has become an ocean of sand; a desert of wandering and mystery.
With the blistering sun and vultures circling over head as constant reminder that this is in fact real; I began to stumble about for shelter. After what seemed like hours of hurdles the moon flies high while the sun sleeps in the southern sky, I find myself under a cliff of overhanging rocks; sitting down the rocks are warm and almost caressing. This bit of refuge reminds me of my mother; as a child I remember straying from her in a department store. Unknowing then that she had not been tailing me like a blood hound, until I turned around and as far as I knew she had vanished from the earth. After sprinting and retracing my steps like map I see her, the site of her from across the store fills me with joy, still sprinting I run to her, eyes like a fountain they poured into her arms as she held me there in her arms; they were warm and safe.
A faint smile crawls its way onto my face and the same tears of relief rain from my eyes and floods the ground; the sand now flooded starts to move vigorously from side to another. Out of the mist of their rumbling out gets pushed a blade of grass, and then another and another one by one pull their way out of the sand  to the surface; as the flowers start to blossom the slumbered sun awakes to a lush field of flowers filled with life. Within the field I move freely about, running in circles of familiar joy; the large sunflowers sway in the breeze of my arms as I run past them. The garden is beautiful with explosions of color all around held by peddles of flowers, and a small pond in the very center; a garden this perfect had to have been birthed by a gardener with the most beautiful of hands; Hands much like my grandfather.
Kneeling down beside the pond I splash some water with my hands on to my face to clear the filth from my pores. A gleam catches my eye from the mirror of the water, and I’m staring myself in the eyes. The pond isn’t reflecting what’s circled around me, but it’s reflecting me as a child, a bit older than the child crying for his mother; my face in the reflection, so precious and young just beaming full of life.
As if the pond were a movie screen the memory that had started to fade with age in my memory is playing crystal clear. I can see that little boy surrounded by familiar trees and flowers with the fields running farther than my eyes can see. That little boy is laying on the equally little wooden bridge that stretches over the little pond, my father laying beside him on the bridge with their heads and hands poking playfully over the edge of the bridge. Through the eyes of that little boy I can see a stick in hand trying to catch the nonexistent fish just as his father had showed him. My father looks down at me with a smile flooding his face as he says to me, “you know, Chad; I’m very lucky to have you, you’re all I could have ever asked for in this world. You’re a beautiful boy, a perfect son and I love you very much”. I remember watching a tear roll down the side of his face and watching it fall and disrupt the surface of the pond. Back on the other side of the glass; as his tear hits the pond the ripple breaks up the memory and just like the garden, the pond with the little bridge, my father and his sweet child; they all disappeared just as they had throughout my life. This time things felt different, not the cold touch of my bitter friend loneliness, but seeing that memory polished, shining new brings peace to my heavy heart.
A sharp sting burns my lips, the cigarette now burnt to the filter rips me back into body leaving the army, that ocean, the desert and the garden all behind. From footsteps behind me “I hoped I’d find you here”; I turn around and there she is, standing silhouetted by the sun, my angel. Charcoaled hair and island sky eyes, she had come to rescue me. “Hey you, I was hoping we could spend the day together; are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I smile and nod my head. “Aright then come on.” and with that no longer in the vantage point window watching, but through a door and living.

I'm glad you're my friend

A shoulder to lean
A crutch to stand
A dwelling of respite
And the dawn's first break of light

I hope to give as much as I take
Laugh with you and cherish
To face what comes side by side
To be silent comfortably on those long car rides

I can never be angry at you
No matter my efforts
A smile from you is all it takes
A cure to my recurrent mental aches

In an unfulfilled life, your company is contentful

But

Like a poisonous nightshade blossoms
The fruit of friendship ferments
Forms into an intoxicating sweet wine
Drunk from it, my mind is realigned

I don't want to be friends with you
"Friend" is such an evil word
It brings so much yet restricts all I care for
A false comfort when one longs for more

So perhaps I must go
To some distant desolate escape
To myself, I must be true
I have to save myself from my love for you

I hate that you're my friend

Every word that falls from my lips is untasted, preserved in its bitterness by the space between me and you like a vice that ferments and grows in silence.
But in the reality that a tree will still make a sound if it falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, I’ll chance to tell your unlistening ears a story that fell into my head today.
I saw myself in a room, in the same reality as your past, but in my present body,
Knowing all that happened between us, and aware of a stigma that does not exist between us as of this moment in your past.
You are a silhouette, a small brown head, among how many other small heads in a classroom, around a table, on the stairways?
Elementary school, maybe even middle school. Years before I know you and you knew me,
When we were separate and had not joined, when existed but were unknown.
Maybe I was a teacher in a classroom, or just another student visiting, on some educational excuse, and watched you, and assessed you. Quiet, and with a quiet something wrong with your body. You were a defect. There was a quiet acceptance and maybe there was a defiance in your brown eyes. Chocolate brown eyes, or iodine? Or gasoline?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
What if I had the chance?
In this reality, I was, for the only time, taller than you. My shadow fell on you, but you were absorbed in a book. Typical. My shadow was too contrasted from the ink to divert your attention.
And here, I had the upper hand.
You were not on your guard, friend. You were trusting, or something like it. Maybe it was the childish, young semblance of cocky assuredness that you were immortal.
Maybe, in this instance, you were innocent.
Maybe you had not yet given up on the fact that none of us ever were.
Something was in my hand, as I stood over your shoulder. It could have been anything to fit the picture, a pencil, a pen. A sharpie.
My eyes were not on the object, so I don’t know. It felt long, sharp, and on the fence about what it was meant to do, to create or to destroy.
I too, was on the fence.
The classroom, suddenly (if it had been filled with filler characters in the vision before this transition) was empty. I, the unperceived grim, had the faceless and unbiased entity of silence on my side as my own personal weapon.
I could do it. I could hurt you. I could hurt you, and make you hurt, and make you bleed that blood through all your organs and your dysfunctional body that has something wrong with it that I will never understand through experience but was left to guess about because I had to trouble myself with something about you to show that I cared, in some form.
Maybe, it would make me whole, would keep me from being dysfunctional. Me, not having given up on the fact that none of us were ever functional to begin with.
Unaware that I was still there, a hovering, self-interested ghost, you turned a page and kept reading in the empty, nondescript classroom that my own mind had designed for you.
I wondered, in that moment, out of nowhere, where all the other kids were.
Knowing you, you had made the independent decision of keeping your solitude. It seems like something even a younger version of you would do. Something that always made me laugh a little, because your comfort with being alone made me uncomfortable in the way that misunderstanding something always makes someone feel uncomfortable with their own perception of reality.
But there was always the chance that (and I always wondered this): the other kids had not wanted to play with you at all, and in defense, you made the choice to be alone.
Was that fortress that you built yourself for the miser of a kingdom of one? Or did it make you feel like a monarch encased in a palace?
You will never, ever answer me that for the simple reason (and you would be right in saying) that I don’t deserve to know what the answer would be.
But back to the vision, in which you are defenseless and under my thumb, and I have been stalling myself from contemplating the morality of my choices.
The water had not yet crossed under the bridge, you see, and I was keeping myself in limbo.
Limbo, I find, is often easier than admitting that you are telling the truth (and finding that you don’t like it) or lying to yourself to make yourself feel better, but always having that little weight against your chest to tell you that you are a liar, and that is the ugly truth of the matter.
I stood over your pale, face with the budding defiance in your chocolate (iodine? gasoline?) eyes. And I would win, if I wanted to.
I took a step into the oblivion of my oblivion, the vision of my vision, the suspended reality of this dream world suspended even still within the reality in which you are reading these words-
I asked myself:
Is it possible to avenge yourself before you have been beaten?
In that reality, in which I stood like the reaper over a younger version of you,
before I loved you, before I hated you,
before I gave so much of me that it was somehow allowable for me to call a part of you mine…
I hesitated so quietly that even a literal tree would not have made a sound in the silence of that envisioned void.
Would it make it better, now, to fix something that had not even been given the chance to have been broken?
My God, what a ******* paradox.
The truth, you ungrateful (and I guess rightfully ungrateful, because this was only the mercy that I owed you) acquaintance (because I guess that’s all I have the right to call you, even after all this time and every word that we’ve spat that I still hear in my heart after months and months of typing messages and then deleting them because there is nothing to say to you and I am painfully aware of this distance within every neuron that makes up my own miserable, wretched, beautiful existence) is that I realized that you, small and quiet and alone by choice,
You had done nothing. Not yet. And it was not you that owed my blood.
And it was not you, in that reality, that was owed this apology.
This is an apology that you will never really receive, because although I have tried to find the words to throw at you, you would never, ever take them, because you are the king of the palace you built yourself,
And I’m just a stranger now, knocking at your doors, with a remarkably familiar face.
And as I lowered my hand, and whatever potential weapon was in it, the smaller version of you never turned around.
Secure in your innocence and protected by it.
At least in my innocence, and maybe even still in my hopes and wishful thinking about who we both are,
You are still innocent.
Innocent. Green, without the thorns yet that would someday make me bleed.
The vision ended there. I never saw your face, and you never saw mine. I guess there was no way to even know for sure that it was you, and not just my imagination placing you there for my own musing. Maybe I just wanted to see you.
Not in a naive way, like I miss you. If I miss anything, it is who I thought you were, not who you have proven yourself to be. I’m sure you feel the same way about me.
This vision must reflect a parting of the ways, a final apology and goodbye, though you will almost certainly never read this and even more certainly never acknowledge that you did if you somehow bridged the gap between the classroom reality and the one in which there is an elephant in whatever room we are accidentally trapped in, together, for the space of a moment before one of us steps out the door.
In the vision, I stepped out the door. My back to you, I heard you turn a page of your book, and continue the story from one page break to the beginning of the next sentence.
And in the same manner, reader, so must I.

He pulls the grapes of imagination
And he ferments them in the caverns of his mind
And only when it's at its peak
Does he share with her his wine

Every drop that is in his words
Transcends and shows in her life
The girl he'd wait a lifetime for
His living paradise

He watches a drop as it trickles down her lip
And he leans in to kiss it away
He tastes the love inside her and the wine
And it is rich and sweet today

How lovely it is to share the setting sun
As well as the fruits of his inner self
Lying and growing potent for what seemed eternity
Until it was finally taken from the shelf

She lives in the richness, she traces each taste
She savors the texture of rich red
He inspires words she wants to live out
He puts dreams in her lovely head

Not a drop will go to waste, not one
Just like the sunset's beams
He looks at her in the hue of the moment
Dissecting her with his eyes, it seems

She lies on him and feels his heartbeat
In sync with her heart in time
And he looks at her and places a kiss on her lips
Then pours another glass of wine

It's apples and oranges. They are both fruit, and variety is the salt of the earth. We love dividing people like fruit though. We are rotten. At least fruit ferments. We decay

You are the apple of my eye. I will watch you rot, then i will throw the core away. What do I need seeds for? A bad apple in my eye now. *******

Orange you gonna hit like? I accept good apples too.

Tail wagging


His tails wagging is no barking
Balking at wind, at passing car
Just body friends of wet sniffing
Two pant legs to be followed
Only to be shaken off in a vile
Basement of dark shadows
And sleeping cars in their veils.


Pant legs have no steel in them
And a  soft bite is afraid of  pain
By four ****** just below navel
Here love ferments but festers.


Lame dogs


Plenty of action is in the street
A dog leg is gone  to child's pleasure
By  a boy's stone at its whelping
But three legged dogs still bark
At passing  cars, their shadows.


You cannot straighten his tail**


His tail is like  a crescent moon
Its flies like  stars buzzing around
Or like a scythe the  farmer uses
To bring  his crop under control
And cannot be straightened ever
Like a crescent moon or a scythe.

Fashioned by grace amazing and mercy
Divine. Wrought by his unparalleled Passion:
His suffering, death and resurrection--
The cross of Christ in Calvary
Is the lone bridge, the only ladder
That reconnects man to his Maker.

No one who has traversed
That Golgotha-link hath ever
Fall'n into the deep r'ver
Of hell 'neath, nor by damnation
Touched in Satan's condemnation.

"Hey, what about so-and-so prophet,"
Said one, "and such-and-such sect?"

I do not, sir, over religion quibble.
Compare to grave matters--trifle.
Get books and the Bible. It's futile,
Argument, making a sage an imbecile.

And why lose friends to gain foes,
Multiplying instead one's woes?

God doth not any man in life compel.
Each soul chooses 'tween heaven and hell.
Yet his love daily he whispers to you
And i. College cobber, that is true.

"Oh, you are just a pedestrian
Writer, without wits and sans brain,
Like an *Onitsha-market author."

"Thou art also a paltry poet, a bad bard.
Folks should simply thy collections discard.
For i can nought make of thy poetry ethos.
Your works wherefore are but bathos."

Hallelujah!!
Praise i Jehovah!

"Hell. Away now thou pedantry."

Thanks for your commentary--
It's heavenly--erudite Professor.

Faith ferments finer than wine.
Thy decision it is with whom to dine.

The self-righteous, the holier-than-
Thou art, who prefers to leap
Over to God on his on major merit
Will always go under the heap--

Thinking he can close the chasm
Created by sin,
And cover the gulf caused by transgression
By ritualistic rules and doctrinal devotion,
But ends up in some bedlam--
In Sheol's loony bin.

Broad are the twain heaven's arms
Filled with warmth and soothing balm
Often open to embrace prodigal souls.

The floodgates
have opened
deluge rushing in
all the shellfish
   are writhing
deep under my skin
******* out my juices
my heart bleeding
                      thick
my heart on the platform
in textures that tick
like time in a bomb
                inside a box
in my painted ribcage
just waiting to blow
like a self-contained rage

and I can no longer hold it
as implosion ferments
my insides are bursting
in iridescent
           s l o w motion
every one of my cells
            a chaotic torment

As my body shudders and
shakes and splits
in the blast
I know that my mind
       is free at last
my essence climbs
this final ascent
questions form into peace
as tissue is rent

I glance at the *****,
on the sacrificial dais,
            once inside this silken chest
  It beats as it takes it,
               as my soul rides the crest
It accepts the heavy,
on that stage,
stuck through on a spike
the world looking
                    through us
as transparency strikes
and I am no longer a body
just a traveling soul
a companion
       of the timeless
going back to my fold
And suddenly, there,
peering in
through the tender
stained glass panes
an aura flashing its signals
in blood pumping veins
Its silence is fragrant
and wild
in fluorescent
screaming hues
voices that sway me
in deep strokes of blue

and as I willingly
splay myself
upon the vaults
securely fastened
to my own demise
my eyeless vision
grazing the glowing black
                        in swirls of
slashed ancient
language

I see now
so clearly
that the dark one arrived
the one here
to take my soul
with the ember
mystic eyes
melting what is left
of my lava tripped bones
lifting my abyss
to spheres above
yes that one over there
is actually
        Love

12:45
The sun has gone black,
the world is asleep.
In the family room,
the television clicks on by itself.
It illuminates my father,
half-naked,
covered in processed cheese dust.
The channel changes to Cinemax,
******* *******.
My mother walks in
without her glasses,
and for a moment
her screams of disgust
are indistinguishable
from the throes of passion
broadcast on the cheap
Acer dad bought at Costco.
Elsewhere,
in South America,
a volcano has erupted.
It sprays debris
and detritus
over a small village
with a long name.
Postmodern Vesuvians **** ash,
frozen not with fear
but rigor mortis.
The CNN report plays for three hours.
The world moves on.
Later,
a man explodes in a convenience store.
Guts rocket outward,
onto wine coolers
and travel packages of Chex,
and the clerk just shrugs.
If you go there today,
all that’s left is the smell of ammonia
and a dark stain on the ceiling.
At the same moment,
a toddler steps off a cliff,
spiraling into the abyss,
but never stops falling.
He’s been going for days,
months,
years.
He has kept his audience updated
through a Bluetooth that we tossed down after him.
He’s had windburn since he fell,
but the ointment we sent
hasn’t reached him yet.
His parents are now expecting.
He just yawns.
In my family room,
the woman on Cinemax is climaxing,
screaming,
pulling her hair out
while a greased-up middle aged
pizza deliveryman autoerotically asphyxiates
himself with a hair tie.
As she wails for the last time,
the TV screen shatters,
glass ejected,
blazing through the air
like Flight 93
seconds before impact.
Sparks salivate from the exposed wires,
then cackle down
into a signed black.
And as this happens,
the children on Exeter St
stop crying.
The alcohol in a small town liquor store in Wyoming
un-ferments,
and the world, for a moment,
ceases to turn.
But only for a blink.

The Thames rides high in the city's red wheel!
the indigenous birds of one country are moored no longer
the night is worth its ride, and castrates each reason
to not sell: the freshest cut mind: its only state: its only guest  

Babes milked by dunes, growing giants from their anima palm
low nebulae of sea anklets, by the cooling of patience
by the stored morning of vittalic kin, usherette grasps
shatter spite, at the risk of all peaceful vibrations in humour
where the roads connect to all amor fati, amor fati, Amor fati!
la chimère d’amour; where rhythms are shared by all animals,
unflexed in the skull by denizen skull: the populace melts

So passed the point of brinking-worlds, there are only elements
so no rapier can slice through dream like the scent of day,
and we scream in melodious waves of diving accident;
which brings notions back of extending fire sighs so opaquely,
happiness cherishes the chaotic mirror of booming children
the figureless dance of the last disgrace, which has no pity
and is the travelling word for success against liberty

We are no longer life, or its blushing ripped condescension
only my shadow and yours are the freeing muscle
where man has shattered space into the thousandless voice
of solitudinal stars in the androgyny of light-
hemisphere of binary pleasure; jealous boys and girls drink smoke
we the haphazard twin of darkness and light forget, wilfully
as if destiny is a circular pleasure, of both stomach and sky

By the watering mortars of the watchmen from Soho dancing again
and to this city the agile mouth of a field is awake
where the sad winds entwine with the yeasts of the hare
the smallness of light balancing on your cheek, gargantuan
to everything through the hymns of a car choking, to spirit
two moments transmit all there is, by the third, death emigrates
or it does when we dress each other by the charm of time

I have no idea where this music begins, and perhaps our DNA laughs
as do my fathers, your mothers, in the emergence of reversing gods
the birthing of make-up, the evening day mobbed by innocence
where purity is less magnetic than a sliver of fish, dead in a dog's heart
even that now, même que maintenant, even this now
même ce maintenant, is a better howling blood of choice
where a little fatter and choicer- rage is the sonata of calmness

And much dusk where the glimmer is, the ****** drool of half
heartedness is your soft wolf walking in, the silk of your bating voice
my only vice, and the point of all tantric scent
the murals of our past are now the sculptures of changing grip
like early and significant horses enduring the guilt of eating
all tribes in all ice and fire, the fastest cars cannot beat the tram
the tram and old bust marriages of constant grace

Fundament, infallible, mercurial, wholesome in lie
there being no flea with enough backs to carry us all
no poem in hell can survive without being saliva
too much **** and not enough road makes a dull car of us all
but, there is only one liver waiting on the ground
what is the perfect song to let it breathe? Tonight
you are my attire, and I am yours

We soak the ribbons with massacred blood, we say
to the absolute: no, I choose my partners carefully
I am yours, you are mine, our habitual skin
blowing leviathans training the wind
and chokes as we stroll releasing our hands upon its neck
but let ours fly together and apart, nothing holding the world
in the divinity of wood, your translucent perfume, our body

The dogs have blown into darkness
The moors create hybrids from themselves
Wild garlic ferments in fields of skin
Texas leans into Vertigo’s kiss
An ape is born smelling of you
My sweat is your blue June
Armed only by light.

You taught me to walk but gave me no where to go
You taught me to speak, but only words I don’t know
You told me to listen but gave me nothing to hear
You gave me a reality where nothing is real

You gave me a heart and told me to feel
As long as I don’t show it it’s mine to keep
You asked me a question and gave an answer to give
but they don’t match up and the paper is ripped

My pen is all empty, my heart is all broke
and now you have labeled me crazy, and spoke
with an evil tone that was far too kind
for the words that came out in too little time
and nothing was said
but boy did it hurt
that I am condemned and you are a ****
I try to get angry I try very hard
but all it ferments into is sadness and sorrow
and you say save the world
be kind be good
and I am trying like I know I should
and do you know that there are ten thousand kids
who sorta like me feel like they’re dying
and did you ask them what they want?
its not a car and husband to flaunt
you promised them the world
and they believed you
they all want to show you want they can do
but their hearts aren’t cheap and they aren’t for sale
you have to work for what they have to say
but you don’t think you need it,
its snake oil
so you give them options that they don’t really want
and they end up in ditches, in Chicago or Vermont,
any old place where the dying go to be dead
and they end up alone, in broken beds
and how can you blame them
they used to have places to go
now you turn them out into the snow
and the snow is all brown
with mud and with dirt
and you say life is hard
and yes life hurts
but how can you say that to bright eyed kids
who are trying to save the world that they’re living in
don’t you give out chances anymore
is there no trust? have we closed that door?
and why don’t you want me
what have I done?
was I wrong in my having a bit of fun?
or trying hard, or being too smart
do I ask to many questions,
I just can’t stop
is it my x-ray vision
is it cuz I see through you
because once I did it I couldn’t not see you
for all that you are
and all that you aren’t
and all you ever did was push me into the margins
Is that my fault? Is that my bad?
is this the only life I’ve ever had
because I’m calling for help
and nobody hears
and I know they are pretending because they all have ears
most of them two and some of them three
the third ones an their heart so its hard to see
And you give me directions, and people to watch
and they all changed the world and you want that to stop
this is it, we’re all comfortable now
but isn’t freedom a little bit more?
No? oh its not? my bad
So you bite me and kick me and then I get sad
so medicate me, and mentally **** me
turn me into an object
and when I object
You tell me I’m just the subject
of a biography of someone I don’t know
and I really hate to have to let the world go
But just for today
and maybe tomarrow
I will bury it all deep done in sorrow
you’ve ruined this world that could’ve been great
and now I believe it might be too late
there are too many people
who do not care
and they don’t want to wake up they would rather be scared
of going out at night
and of having a girl who doesn’t shave
they would all much rather be comfortable slaves
they take their drugs and they watch their tube
Things are okay, why should I move?
Some have it worse, so I have it better
If you want more you’re an ungrateful red letter
and you read to much
and you try to scare us
about things that aren’t really there, huh?
so when they tell you you think you’re too smart
theres only pain for the future in front
of you and of them
so prepare yourself
you are on your own,
they will never help
and you won’t back down.

I put myself through scratchy throats
And eye drying crimson nights
For a promise

But I'm not doing what I love
I'm loading pressure on my
Weak spots constantly and
Hoping with wandering glances
That I'll catch gold in the wind
With my lashes beant down

With my lips curled into half hearted sneers I wish this
Hollow mask would fade slowly
To reveal
Walking on all fours with
My mouth open to catch your spit
Fun nights of tickling to the last
Dying breath, I'd
Slide ******* to hush your words
And drink up your gasps I would
Rip my tongue on your
Flypaper if you laid it open

If you wished it, your dreams could
Enslave me so
I'd bend back until my spine felt dizzy
But you wouldn't know that
My laughter would be biting back
My blood from its boiling point
I would wait, and in goosebumps pray for
Release

I feel
Every bodies pain
Through the way the hold their mortal dolls
Closed tightly from the world
Their words, as sweaters to contain
Their misery it ferments slowly
The wishes that they left unkempt and growing wild from
Dead innocence, their seeds
Crawling blossoms from the dirt
Catch my fingers sliced open
As they linger to prune

I'd flounder for the night your
Fireflies would glow
Dimly from tired eyes
That peeled the day back
From lovers you watched
Spitting as if to
Bleed yourself back into the ground

I'll wait
As widows to the wind
I'd call and hope for the stars to answer in your name
For you wandered through millennia
To face this
Time of quivering fevers breaking
sweat storms
Of pouring glasses full of
Last years abandoned daydreams
That curdle as we hesitate
To drink them
For a moment where our lives seemed
Less real
And we hunger
For a glance that would wash clear
The smog of our confusion
And tie the tattered ploys of our
Restless youth to the stars

I'd steer them so you could sleep
If only you needed me to

suddenly all of the pens i own
are either gone,
empty,
broken,
or left alone
no amount of penniless pettiness
came from my mouth,
no mutters,
sobs,
nor silence left
to give,
forgive the narratives,
which lingers
inching
the tip
of thy fingers,
that holds restless
itching
to scab and release
what remains
in scars
the pus which ferments
on hatred and
the scent
burning cocoa beans and smoke
that knocks on my eyes
a blurry vision
despite
rose-tainted glasses,
the taste
of bitterness
in farewell.

For the "you"
not the one you wear to work
but the one that looks lovely
at first morning sight

For the "you"
not the one you cover so immensely
with scarves and jackets
but the one that dances in their underwear
on a lazy Saturday

For the "you"
not the one that wears the glasses
of work ethics
but the one whose fire
is wild enough, it makes wildfires dim in jealousy

For the "you"
not the one that ferments in silence
but the one that screams sultry verbatim
now and then that surprises
all those around

For the "you"
not the one that nestles in sobriety
from 9 to 5
but the one that ******* to the first taste of alcohol

For the "you"
not the one that's under construction
under the umbrella of perfection
but the one
that flaunts those flaws
on that runway
so seductively
it makes
perfection
curl in
envy

“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 live next to an englishman that objects to laughing
in the night, i can't contain it, i can't keep it canned,
for all the cruxes, jealousy hasn't
been swept aside by a tsunami
into the unconscious -
sure, i can be courteous -
    communities are weaved from
reciprocating a desire for such a lass;
what do i get?
      nervous oliver sparrow -
              and i can't stop being fidgety -
this new norm is what breeds extremism -
mi6 is all-over my package,
    rarely does a men get to live twice,
and with a second dosage does he get so much
burnt bacon feathers, because a second life
regulation said: only between 9-to-5
and with work colleagues -
                thing is: if i actually sit down and
eat some food with you, i have respect
for you.
            bonsai tigers inherited lizard eyes
and see ****, i mean: not much if it doesn't
**** and twist attracting the eyes to
map out the orion constellation.
                   and i know what sort of society
breeds the charlie ha-ha-hab-dough Aztec sacrifices,
   i basically say ******* listening
to beck's feather in your cap -
          i joined the john cleese ministry -
it's goose step and it's swan's archy-barchy -
         it's a raven arched blade that's also a spine...
for all their graces, birds are greatly blessed
           by being humbled on the trot -
              birds are the best experience of seeing
a humbling... and indeed man: his thoughts akin
to wings... tied down by the tonne-load of limbs
          and pianos, and harps, and hammers,
and road-signs, and all manners of navigations...
so if we're jealous of birds having wings,
  so if we're jealous of birds having wings...
      i'd prefer to watch a 1000 priestly ravens
congregating onto an altar of a loaf breadcrumbed
  and littering a walt whitman patch of talk...
        once airborne...
             a ******* bunch of teutonic messerschmitts...
yes, blame the epileptic for the piccadilly circus of lights...
       and a red light district that's hardly a chance
to meet a woman insomnia-bound to her genitals -
   floral patterns aflutter anywhere?
            that sort of Oxfam i'd gladly pay towards...
not some populist mush poetry...
                 i'd write a Swabian ode to her pair of
nighty-nights that never do...
                  in those sort of scenarios i never have
to get an ego-******* inversion...
          my ego has no need for valentine's day,
anniversary day, christmas day with the family...
it basically means my ego doesn't need to be *****,
protruding... there's no need for any
existential architectural establishment...
      and you know what first impressed itself
on my mind when i took that damnable coach trip
for the first time to England?
    the film Philadelphia... starring tom hanks -
losing a toy soldier...
                               i'm not gay, i just think
that feminism has grossly exploited the madonna-*****
complex of women... and i can't solve that,
  that thing belongs to women, not me...
    it's hardly a need to mea culpa myself all
the ****** time... apathy ferments a lack of pathology,
and this is how i stand: corpus erectus.
            should i stand differently? i'd have
a heart's worth of an oyster.
                        anway... apart from Hamley's toyshop
on Regent's st.,        there was the first sight
                 of a double-decker bus,
  and then... the continuum of the moody grey skies...
          moody blues... moody greys... apparently
there are 50 shades of it...
                       yeah... murky grey or how god became
lazy and said: no purple, no red, no green, no blue,
           no rainbow... just grey.
                    grey really is an anomaly within
the context for the existence of colour...
   it really does lullaby the eyes into a melancholy,
but this anglican melancholy could never be
scandinavian... there's a wasp impregnated in
an asp on the tongue of these isles...
          there's nothing sadder than an angry melancholy...
lo and behold... i'm fathering it... having acquired
the language that's not really mine to begin with.
   the alternative story is
        a really hard working mexican in dire straits,
smuggling himself into america, working his ***
off in a convenience store, forgetting spanish
forgetting native mayan...
               the comparison? he gets a nice house...
i get a poem, like this.

Some days are gone before they leave...
that taste in my mouth
Why do I care?
What is this air?
going in by itself?

I should drink coffee black
take chocolate bitter
My wine turned to vinegar
Acerbic
so next to
spit-
out
the ferments of rage

There are words
there is nothing
there are words
there is nothing
there are words
there is nothing
as abandoned

as a vacant page

Now Ritacene had too, followers, who would go on and build Raxon around her and her fields
Lady of Order, she bore twins- Abreh and Esseneh, sons which would assist in making animals
Abreh thought of animals and how the would work- their cycles, families, species, and yields
Esseneh felt of them and how they run, gallop, breed-  all the fish, birds, reptiles and mammals
One day, while visiting their aunt Phalgacene in her realm Phaxon, she gave them a challenge
‘Work as one, and as one you may work- make me, your aunt, a perfect and splendid animal’

Abreh, who took the challenge with most seriousness, thought of perfection in the form of life
He thought of arms and hands that create like Palcion, yet can destroy like that of Retisbon
And so of legs, chest, and a mind that though like him- so much so, Abreh became a brain
Esseneh, who took the challenge with most seriousness, felt of perfection in the form of life
He thought of an animal who can love like Lady Abro and forget like King Chazan of the sky
And so of heart, emotion, lust, greed, and want- so much so, Esseneh would become a heart

Phalgacene looked unto his two nephews and was shocked, worried, disgusted, and scared.
Shocked to see the mind of Abreh in its truest form, and so the the heart of Esseneh as well
Worried that in this most vulnerable state, the two would be injured yet immortal, forever in pain
Disgusted for Abreh’s thoughts and ideas gained movement, and Esseneh bled all over her
And scared that if Ritacene where to see her sons, she would be forlorn and upset for them
When the Lady of Order feels forlorn and upset, her fields dry out- the Malzaphaiatan riot

When the Lady of Order weeps and is cast down- the Zapharagaz are startled and stampede
In these the earth quakes and shakes mountains, and the sea torrents and kills countless
For though Phalgacene is the Lady of Chaos, Ritacene is the Lady of Order- disorder is chaos
For when Ritacene is angered, her sister comes to calm her, and brings her chaos to her order
When Ritacene is sad, he sisters comes to console her, and brings her war to her peacefulness
When Ritacene is sad and refuses to eat, Phalgacene comes to feed her- which starves many

The Two Ladies’ sororal love for eachother sing a song of nature and its harmonies and rhythm
When the Lady of Chaos seethes, spears grow like grain from backs of Malzaphaiatan herds
And the Zapharagaz dock and sail her navy unto the walls of nations- beating their stone down
As Phalgacene seethes, Ritacene comes to reason with her- and brings diplomacy to her wars
When Phalgacene hunts down other spirits, her sister stops her, and saves slaves from hunters
When Phalgacene speaks of destruction, her sister eases her, and delivers men from calamity

And so as to not dip a world in its infancy still- so delicate, so new, and so innocent- in chaos
Phalagacene sought to save the brain of Abreh and heart of Esseneh from eternal anguish
In her forge in which she used to cast the molds of her spears, swords, maces, and dirks-
She waxed its walls, heated its molds, and poured blessed bronze into its cavities hollowed
The mold she made to the designs of Abreh and Esseneh- who spoke of them so frequently
That the words had carved themselves into the walls of her court like instructions to follow

She planned to take the brain of Abreh and set it on the perfect bronze head to save it and him
She planned the heart of Esseneh to go to the perfect bronze chest to save both it and him
The bronze lay liquid and she left for it to set. She took Abreh and Esseneh- brain and the heart
She put them within jars of jeweled glass filled with water from the stream of Palcion, the Infinite
The stream from which Palcion uses to moisten the clay from which he molds all things from-
This water from the stream protected the Brain of Abreh and the Heart of Esseneh from pain

Meanwhile, in Ayar, Da’raan- King of Demons, first of the Great Demons, was much debauched
Trapped within the realm of the nothing of nothings in their fortress in the acid lake of Mizharyan
Da’raan and his legionnaires, the Bahalzaryan- pass the centuries brewing wine from acid water
They brew the rust that is shaved from their spears and ferments it in the waters of Mizharyan
From this, a wine that can burn through ones entrails is made, and is strong enough for Da’raan
Forlorn with Phalgacene’s rejection, he throws all the spears in Mizharyan and brews them all

Old spears and new ones sink to the bottom of the acid lake- its acid rusting them all to nothing
And in the span of a day, lake Mizharyan has fermented completely into the strong acid wine
Da’raan, in his sadness, sings of his woes and worries and hearteach to Lady Phalgacene
‘You trusted me with your best men, o Lady of Chaos. And in war, your life was to me as mine.
Foolish of me to think you thought of me more- merely one below your command and sword
I desire not only for you- but for your pride in me. Foolish men rarely gladen without good wine’

And so Da’raan drank the entirety of lake Mizharyan, which at this point was no more than wine
As the banks and bottom revealed itself, a spear unrusted stuck from the ground below them
One of the Bahalzaryan descended to it and to retrieve the spear, which was Da’raan’s spear
When it was dislodged from the ground, it revealed a spring that sprung and refilled Mizharyan
Da’raan wanted to mine iron to rust and make more wine, but the Bahalzaryan stopped him.
‘My Lord, you are in drunken haze- walk off your stupor and allow Mizharyan to heal its banks’

Da’raan , with the fair Phalgacene in mind, wandered out of the realm of Ayar much aroused
His face reddened and his clothes grew tight- Palcion distracted and Retisbon who was blind
Did not notice the Demon King walk drunkenly out of Ayar and into Phaxon- chaos’ domain
He wandered into her court, unseen to her true legionnaires due to the stench of acid wine
There he found Phalgacene casting a body of bronze for her nephews, Abreh and Esseneh
She was unaware of da’raan’s presence, for she blessed the bronze that set in the molds

Da’raan called for her and expressed his love ‘Lay with me, Lady of Chaos! Bear me a son!’
‘Da’raan! Heresiarch and King of Demons! Do you remember not? You are exiled from Phaxon!’
‘Lady of Chaos, I desire your pride in me! Leave me barren, but I will leave thee not, o love!’
‘I shall **** thee, Da’raan!’ Da’raan, thoroughly drunk, mistook her threat for an invitation to lay
The drunken King of Demons disrobed, and Phalgacene who has not seen men, stepped back
It seemed Da’raan had unsheathed a monstrous spear. Defenseless, she thought to evade him

In her pursuit, Da’raan leaped and ******* into the liquid bronze as it set and hardened.
Still in drunken stupor, the Demon King could not pursue Phalgacene any longer and fell asleep
The bronze body hardened, and the sleeping Da’raan was escorted out of Phaxon, back to Ayar
Phalgacene, ignorant of the new addition, assembled the body and  put Abreh and Esseneh in
The new being was twice as immortal as Abreh and Esseneh as was known as Abresseneh
He returned to ritacene, who loved his new son more than her old twins, and thanked Chaos

Abresseneh then created a new animal- man and woman. He would create them all in sets.
He made them in sets, for as twins he was created, and in his image were these animals made
Though these sets were not bound by anything, not even by family, blood, or name- poor things
And so man and woman are cursed to find the other, wed them, and complete the divine set
Descendants of three gods- Ritacene, Phalgacene, and Da’raan- humanity has this ultimatum
Mighty like Phalgacene, humanity may use his might to serve Ritatcene or serve Da’raan

Though humans are true descendants of Ritacene, their bodies are of Da’raan’s tainted lineage
In this, man’s conscience and morality pulls him to the Lady of order, their true mother Ritacene
Also in this, man’s body, desires, and vices pulls him to the Demon King, corruptor Da’raan
And so my students- Barzan, Valkar, and Homet- behold the story of mankind and his origin
Our creator father Abresseneh, son of Ritacene, Phalgacene, and Da’raan- calls us all by name
Do we use the strength of Chaos within us to serve Order or Evil? Preach this as you write of it.

Pour me a case of it,
a jug's not enough if it
don't anaesthetise.

Steeping deeper in the frosted glass I watch the world and time pass by,
I drink a case and still I'm dry,
bring me up a barrel do.

It's true what they say that an apple a day ferments in its own way,
You
can think that if you wish, but my wish to be is to sit under the tree with Isaac, my eyes on the fruit, my tongue hanging out, my thought fermentation, thus this is my situation.

Gravity can't bother me under the tree, that's Newton's law, note the apostrophe and to put or to not really did bother me.
1 Like

Lights lie flashing their sirens with the opening of the dawn;
In the sun streaked streets the artists mix their
Painted faces with oiled pigments;
The dusts of the streets, the dust of the leaves that burn with
The cold and rust with the heat disperse with
The knotted storms that rope the
Blazing frosted earth that lies there forever escaping into air.

Luminous yellow and flamed coloured red are streaming like
The moon and sun reversing and crossing each
Other in a street of luminous people
Where the warmth of great passion hangs in perfumed bottles,
Where people are beautiful in their young
Youth, people arranged like flowers
Burning with ripened love, soft and delicate in innocence.

The Eiffel Tower, the pinpoint of our dreams lies open as a free
Flamed metallic torch that ferments with its iron
Emotions; an almost Romanesque
Renaissance coloured with the Millennium stars that rocket into
The sky then stay for a while turning into dust
And becoming our ashes as we
Summon on again to the fires of our morning lovers we had left.

©Jack Aylward

The ideas to some would verse on the loathsome depravity
of humanity. But in my line of work what can I say there are lines,
fetishizes that even a calm exterior camouflages within
the proportioned exterior. But where the concept ferments on
there conceptions what if I could just once.

I had spun a myth that you could call for the latter fake news,
that to partake on those still exhaling life while feeding
upon them could in essence harvest their youthful years.
and to an amazement this was perceived as truth of word.
But I didn't mind, feeding dark fantasies was justice enough

I would move around in a covered lorry, it was quite
the thing to see not like a slaughter house on wheels more
a bistro, if you can envision it black reflective tiles where
the meat would be  cut. "yes they liked to watch their food.
but I had organized it so it was easy to dispose of evidence.

Admittance to ones own errors in judgement is ones first step
to learning. I had invited a select few to see how it would play out.
You could never quite tell, I had vetted them of course before hand.
Seeing if their fear would procreate to me being an jumpsuit lackey
of the orange tint variety. But my faith in humanity was resorted.

For I had taken precautions these tables were rigged,
what you think I'm just a cook? I was in university years of
wasted youth, but I learnt much. Knowing the foundations of
what I was doing, lets just say they'd be static if I were betrayed.
And for good luck, my beautiful little lady slept under the counter.

They watched in admiration for my art, asking the questions
of "was it alive. I had left a drainage hole for the blood to
seep warm to a holding bowl. Some had versed that they
wanted not only to taste, but drink upon this special occasion.
So they to gorged on life's rose bouquet and adored its tasting.

What I hadn't perceived was that to keep them static of
motion was not a wise choosing. They say to much of
something is a good thing, they weren't joking.
The blood had to much sedative in it, luckily all had slumbered
on there drive home.The coriner had a busy night.
But all had tweeted its success before become as dead as lunch.

This time it was different, I just created a gag to muffle, but to
also verse the whimpering murmurs of there ill begotten pleas.
Did they not think if they were this deep in the rabbit hole?
There was no way of digging themselves out of this..
But people liked the noise while eating there meal.
                                                                   "silence is death,

The only way it would end would per say, once I broke down.
sights not meant to be seen, murmurs escaping there captivity.
Nearly happened once, "ONCE, is enough  the mechanic
finished fixing my engine "Dam spark plug, but as he
wondered on to next appointment in life. A silly notion
of my ignorance, bumps loosen bonds, and voices loosen
to the sound of another's presence.
"What was that, "hello are you ok, "Sir what's going on,
Last words not befitting, now I have two meals to prepare.
Luckily a local to the place now a missing poster somewhere.

I travel this country of mine, meals on wheels of a different
kind, giving those of unique human traits there just taste.
If I wasn't doing it others would have and not in my good
taste. Do you know they say that the flesh taste like chicken?
To those who follow me, they think it extend there finite
moment on the rock hurtling to oblivion some day.

Me, I just enjoy my skills, cooking is life, you are what
you eat. So if you have a strange friend who invites you
to a once in a lifetime meal, be careful for those of squeamish
inclination will only see this once for if I sense there needing
to snap-chat.. to food **** my creations on social media.
horrified by the unique blending of my creations.
Think for one moment? is this other really your friend!!
Or do they wish to partake on your flesh, a delicate aroma
of your live being drunk upon.. they smile as you fade.

Another four legs and a tail fall prey.
The pink tablets are too believable.

The family does not contemplate.
They only eat and eat and eat: disemboweling.

They run along the white
Tubes, filled with grey straws

That spawns red, yellow and black.
But do not drink from them.

Their ears rise up like antennas
Picking up signals they worry to decipher.

They only run and run and run.
Hear those patters. Hear them chasing death down the stairs.

Their buckteeth carves through the pills,
Lulling them into dehydration. Death craves for thirst.

And when their stench bleeds itself across the room,
It ferments electronics and shuts noses.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002

Noggin ferments the senses in mire
Ruby-wrapped in friendship or desire
Nurtures Dutch courage, kisses and amour
Furtive affairs distant, fading more

At the wheel, oh, he’s in control
He’s a mate, a real card, a party soul
His friends ahead had one for the road
They’ll be safe; they walked as told

Windscreen shatters, crimson-smeared
Carved mosaics of friends without tears
Tanked up on noggin and that extra jar
Crimson-wrapped denial in a twisted car

This winter airy scent
Within my nose ferments
A sensation of crisp wonder
The sound of choral singing
Throughout the town a-ringing
Returns the color to my heart

These are the times to be of good cheer
And remember the reason why we are all here
To revere the Savior of us all
To spread the word and heed his call
To join him now in heaven

This scent of fire warming
The children on this morning
Now sipping hot cocoa
The sound of snow ***** crunching
The children’s cheeks now blushing
Due to the frigid air

These are the times to be of good cheer
And remember the reason why we are all here
To revere the Savior of us all
To spread the word and heed his call
To join him now in heaven

The day is fast approaching
When judgment now unfolding
Will bring us finally home
For now amid this season
We mustn’t lose the reason
We celebrate the day