pain knocks on weathered doors
fastened ever tightly
cryptic access is denied
it camouflages in the shadows

stealthily it watches
hypervigilance enhancing
catastrophe awaiting
it strikes in latent graveyards

the gale begins to form
and unleashes its fierce torrent
the latch shattered and torn
there’s now an open entrance

creeping in it slithers
engulfing to encompass
digging up emotions
buried underground there

hovering and foggy
tho’ murky does not smother
but fleshes out the psyche
entombed and cobweb covered

it crawls along the edges
and peers in secret ledges
seeps into sequesters
like dust settled in feathers

it slides through every feeling
and when it’s at its blackest
it carves the darkness out
and let’s in sunlight’s presence

© 2016janetaylor

Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.
Birds
Cheerily chirping in the early day.
Bards
Singing of summer, scything thro' the hay.
Bees
Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.
Boys
Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.
Flashes
Of swimmers carving thro' the sparkling cold.
Fleshes
Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.
A mead
Bordered about with warbling water brooks.
A maid
Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.
The heat
Throbbing between the upland and the peak.
Her heart
Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek.
Braiding
Of floating flames across the mountain brow.
Brooding
Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.
Stirs
Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;
Stars
Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.

Inventing the day,
Circular possessions,
All I own cannot be touched,

Everything lost in a fire,
Blazing nocturnal,
The slab of marble becomes
A tin marker,

Watching with stillness
As fleshes mesh with time,
     A poet remains:
The spherical elimination
   Casting lights on dark
I find my axis
      I find myself the epitome
And the footsteps
      In the puddles resound
In my minds echoes;
My body is a transparent verse,
        Night unfolds , I
Can see myself again.

      Listen to me as you listen
To the water,
     I am the unhindered thunder,
The shadow in the light's
     Ignorant glow,

      From my footsteps rise the
Steam,
I am still The DedPoet,
    As you sleep in your bed
I invent my new homes:
   Nightly I bocome a
Poem of The Nocturne.

Welcome to darkness, tis imagination which
reaches the darkest valley  

In the valley of Hades resides I, darkness prevails,
moons and skies of deepest purple,
they are black enveloped in darkness here

Black roses fall above dead skies like obsidian glass,
they smash here into millions of red dancing eyes
Rushing forming the Phlegethon River of blood fires,
Erinys the dead mind, the lost, are all welcome here

Night walkers roam without eyes,
Suffocation is sweet death, no air can you breathe here,
Vrykolakas shift dimensions in night’s payment,
Fresh dead are the souls

Spiders of eight whip, bite and sink deep into eyes,
Scorpion’s sting at rotten limbs, no light shines,
No sun lingers upon flesh,
─ Reserved is your place here ─
Death by imagination, shadows creep and walls scream

Screaming souls run through mind,
Bodies severed and blood fountains rain,
─ Yes it is ******* and dark here ─

Werewolf’s roam, ripping, dripping, devoured bodies,
Feast your eyes upon black mother snakes,
Coiled they crush bones, Venomous fangs sliced flesh,
Hissing the mothers laugh,
Orinein you dead of dismal blackness

Gorge you from this table of cold fleshes; hear flesh screaming
as you open, squirming inside,  cold blood pounds in your head,
Blood runs from your ears, eyes bleeding into blooded wine
The knife before you, as you slice from head to toe,
Laughing there is no escape,
─ For you are dead ─.

She, Hades and Cerberus will hold you here, her walls are portraits,
Withering fleshes, long dead beauties pinned black paper;
ice cold diamonds drip in her gallery,
His gift of black blooded roses fill her chest,

Polished to points her bed sharp coals, purple flames burn evermore….
her throne weaved mothers, eighty eight heads,
before them you are dead,
A miserable dream, no hope as you pass through Adamantine gates,
Black fading submerged into the Lethe, slowly to nothingness,

~Dead are you here ~



© Arnay Rumens / A Sol Poet 2013

we had monsters in our house.
they had come uninvited, of course, and they wouldn’t go away.
hush

we had monsters in our house. they had come uninvited, of course, and they wouldn’t go away so we stuffed them in my cupboard
we thought we had hid them well.
only they didn’t like it – at all.

we had monsters in our house and we stuffed them in my cupboard where they took all the space but didn’t like it there at all
we thought they wouldn’t – but we didn’t care
they cared, of course, because they didn’t like it at all

the monsters from my cupboard would beat gongs to protest – I don’t know how they got them there –
the monsters in my cupboard would never rest.
the monsters in my cupboard would not give up.
we would tell we couldn’t hear them but our eyes betrayed us every time.
one would point at the other when they saw several small circles of red veins on their irises
and black clouds underneath
but the fingers would also point back at ourselves so we never had to say
shush

Our Lips Were Sealed.

our lips were sealed except on days we screamed, altogether
we would scream and scream while the monsters from my cupboard would play a thunderous clap
they would shout in alien languages and beat gongs, and roll drums – I don’t know how they got them there but they would. none would tire.

our lips were sealed until the monsters from my cupboard Won and found a way Out
the monsters in my cupboard were no longer monsters inside my cupboard for they found a way out
when they found a way out they hid under my bed. they had better plans to take revenge.

every time the screaming happened, a similar series ensued:
we always got tired and slept cuddling each other, demanding warmth, pleading for safety in The Most Silent Language Ever
we never wanted the monsters to hear. you see, we were trying to manage everything despite suffering
every time the screaming happened and we went to sleep afterwards, craving warmth and safety, rubbing scars revealing fresh blood, one of us wouldn’t sleep.
one of us couldn’t sleep.
one of us couldn’t sleep because the monsters that were stuffed in my cupboard and were now hiding under my bed would find them.
they would face them boldly, ruthlessly, and make a living mess out of them.
they would threaten to shred their skin and scar their lips. pull their bulging eyes out.
(our eyes would be bulging because of our fear.)

every time the screaming happened, a similar series ensued:
we always got tired and went to sleep with one another, but the monsters wouldn’t sleep
they preyed on one of us.
they would eat some of their flesh, and gargle with their blood
and finally, they would pull them under their bed and put a hand over their mouths
As If They Could Scream

one by one, we fell prey to the monsters – at night
during our days we would live like each other.
and did we see our wounds and half fleshes? of course we did.
but we didn’t say for we couldn’t help it. none of us could
and we were losers who had lost while pretending all the way that we knew better
we became them.
and started biting ourselves.

little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.

There is not much of me now, my Northern Light;
I hath been too torn to tell of my deeds,
I am a broken soul now, emerging from an invisible pit;
I hope the sun shall clear though, that I can but delight in belated rain again.
Rain, on thy forested land, that I hath begun to long to taste;
Coming to me like a five-year-old nymph: a succulent playmate,
Shadowing me but in cheerful grins and tireless haste,
What funny terms t’is little creature makes sense of!
Ah, a little one that brightens and salutes my days,
With lyrical giggles often stunning the entire forests of glee around me—
And taking my breaths away in dozens of waves of fierce smoke
That I often pause my breaths, feeling privilege and triumphant
Amidst its innocent odors, smudged with green hues and damp visions.
I feel comfortable then, as my pulse speeds and moans with delight
Spilling onto us from the brave storm above, as I always do.
Tasting rain, I shall twitch and sway around again with laughter, wisdom, and patience
That were undeniably stolen from me; leaving me in a deafening whine of tears.

They but told I did not belong, I was foreign, and so were my streaks of song;
My justice was but not their equal, I was a liar, I was wrong.
I was too humble to notice, I was too unarmed.
I was too innocent to be their companion—improvident and reckless beings!
No delicacy flashes across their eyes, neither do sympathy or softness.
All I could see was scorching hate and heat, shimmering in a blinding, officious smirk.
I was ample and blused oft’ with shyness—how come they came and stole my tranquil peace!
How ignominious and disgraced the whole nation is, who believes
that our own skin shall save us, unmerited and soulless!
How immature, timid, and vile; imbeciles that inherit only rainbows of sarcasm.
And what told they of my poetry, in such recursive envy and hate;
With disgust they said to me; ‘tis not my beloved, nor my fate.
They claimed I lived one life—and three souls too late, that I understood what life meant not;
They thought all was but a wealth of infamy around me, and I was rife with unseen disease.
I was a creature not to fall in love with, I was a disgrace;
I was ungodly, a shoddy strand of leaf to be killed unborn.
They figured I smelt like the withered summer weather;
Not a fit for their chilly smokeless air!

The air there smelt fondly like their absence of love;
And though it was silent, they were silent not,
It was a joy for them to ****, and to see my blood spill,
They said yet I knew not how to taste and feel.
It was as if I could not feel my own blood,
Nor that I could locate my gut’s instincts.
And what thought they of my ****** story;
For my presence was a nightmarish joke to all,
And I was a meaningless and too joyous of a little bud,
A small lavender which poorly knows its enemies and their fetal tongues,
That roses can sting and steal one or two of its crescent seeds!
Ah, and I was that degraded bland-smelling little bloom,
The mindless bloom t’ be plucked in their spring garden—harvested before my time;
That I shall cry and weep my blood out of me, in burning pain,
Destructing all my jutting illusions once again, without knowing why,
And finding my fierce heart, the next second, lying still!
That I think of my Immortal no more, and his face accusably so white and lean
For he has been forgetful of the love he once sustained;
His love, dimmed by the greed around his whole figure
Unsupported by the angered nature about him—which he barely sees.
Hungry for flesh, he is a snake of untold regret and hate;
Powdered with deadly lies only, in his season of love.
Bathed in austerity, and in his own madness running;
Running into the nowhere of my dreams, and dies finally, as I wake from my sleep.
I saw no compassion in his eyes, on those last old days, and after I left,
All that was dead not I deep buried,
I oft’ dream of him burning and rotting his own scattered life,
Melting his own flesh into a rogue wave of sins,
Questioning his divinity with rage that he himself be ragged before he knows it.
And so unseeingly he curses and is consumed by his own karma,
Gathering his own bulleted skins and fleshes by a knife,
But in doing so betraying his own domain of conscience,
Depriving him of ample wan pleasure, tumbling himself vehemently into death.
Scorching death that feeds but from our departing shades of life,
And shrieks in agony when no ferocious air growls at midnight.
Ah, at my dismantled nights in England but I once gave thought of thee;
Thou wert there in my perpetual mind, but not so inquisitive as my English journey was.
O, Northern Light, I was but all shivers upon their first mention of thee!
And so there was I, unknown to the English world but heard fairly of thy name;
That I, at times, thought of the Northern Light, aside from my streams of cries and desperation,
And the noble autumn on its land, when in my fluorescent night slumbers,
I’d love to dally on top of fall’s rebellious moors—and ah!
I can see my love, flapped with his native pride, storm down the maroon roads.
I can see his wait for me, encapped by forty feet of snow on a mountaintop,
ready for my warming fingertips and embrace whenever he thinks of me.
Ah! Though there is sun not on thy lofty linen land, my Northern Light;
I am grinning with joyous tears in sight of thy snowy night,
My dreams have finally drawn me to thy visible lines,
And soon, I shall have to renounce my weary sunshine.
I want to break free, enormous with youth and vibrancy;
With affluent rhymes and delightful vibes that come in time.
Poetry, for it has become one of my salient features;
A concise concoction of my soul, that I love in laugh and hate.
My daydreaming has not been too bad, for I have seen the fun once more;
I was too selfish to open my eyes and see its truth.

Come to me, my Northern Light, and shall I have to perish later along with age
into blue nothingness, I shall not die inside out;
For I know thou shalt come to help my toil
And relieve it of grease and oil;
filling my light up before it turns out.
I, who hath been consumed and decried within two sad springs;
I, who was made to survive an agitation and pain
Only by a jug of comforting cold,
Hath now left my past with a single shrug;
And so I hath dreamed of bouncing back into thy arms,
Thy arms that are too cold at first—to my fragile feet
And swim into thy hands that shall all but know me to well;
Blame me not for the fateful pairs of stories of mine, to tell.

And who are they anyway, to enjoy poetry whenst they see not?
They, whose shadow is to fall into death within the first three days—
But acknowledge the slim presence of death not, among us.
They, whose ******* glisten with envy, and a displeased countenance;
Haunting every guileless soul, dancing over their dismantled beings
Although they bear no trace of hate towards their very eyes.
All I see of ‘em is a beast, that encaps and murders decisively within a short breath;
None of them is eager to touch the deep,
Nor to be kind and set their hateful souls alight,
They are a boastful ally of the devil, far in their forest’s central gloom,
A hell by the deadly babbling brooks, sending water into every undying leaf
That all shall die within the unstable touch of their hands.
They are a bunch of strange apparitions that mock every treasured sight;
A rough incubus, waiting for every foreign man’s headlong fall,
They live only to scorn, ****** and fight,
Penetrating every fortune’s secrets, poignantly tearing their kind walls.

Not seldom that I began to wonder, in all my recursive roamings;
I wanted to see and listen to thee, ah, what a warming sound of thy Eolian lute there was!
All was in vast vain, for I was conceited to hear of my own vision;
Nor proceed my learnings, I was stupidly void of hearings, and rich with shortcomings!
My conscience was too thin, that I wrote when I heard not—and drew
when I saw not, ah, I was unable to hear thee, my love!
For everything I could see was but, in my red dreams, thy roads and their unspoken lines;
Telling me that I was dreaming and all wouldst be fine.
I failed to see though thou wert but very, very kind!
All was a parade around me and ah, yet I could see not,
Its loudly thumping winds but made me blind,
Squinting into the gust, all but myself I could not identify;
My whole soul was absorbed by its minutiae of unbearable pain.
Belligerent and poisonous, the circle was bitter as dread;
Sordid in life, uncivilised and mortified in death.
Aye, how I struggled hard to break free myself, from those violent thorns!
Finally all was clear, and I saw the vital path to light; ah, my Northern Light!
Now I can see again, I am grateful for having not capitulated to my desires.
My poisoned desires, that once retained me;
I am thankful that I hath wriggled free.
Ah, Northern Light, it seems that thou hast so much to tell;
I do not know, yet, how it all shall begin.
I shall dwell on thy grounds so well;
the grounds so beneficent and keen in the first place.
I have not heard of thy sweet voice;
I have known but thy cherry-red stories.
Stories as original as my love;
Willingly given to thee, should thou lift my heart away
and within one saturated breath, amaze and steal which from me.
Stories with red kisses plastered over its blushing pages;
Stories with a shy tint of love; that love of ours that demands recognition.
Stories with hugs and passion that are yet still unborn;
waiting for the frozen night to become known.
Oh, we all should seek the tremor our loving hands hath caused;
And a newly replenished joy, yet, that they hath so lovingly unleashed.
A new, formal joy, that delights both in giving and returning.
My Northern Light, I may love thee and seek delight within thee only;
The fire of thee has consumed the living of me violently,
and I have begun to see my other living side,
cheerful and jubilant may I be, on my front days.

Come to me, my Northern Light, lure me into thy sacred idle night;
When the time of our fate washes ashore, and all the wrongs shall turn right,
And all the fires grow into rain, multiplied by the benevolent immortal knight,
Who shalt fly as King of the Skies, whilst burning out the prejudiced sunlight.

Come to me, my Northern Dawn, moisten me with thy Victorian dew;
Draw me closer to thy sonatas, a realised romance written by bare hands
Bringing another vigorous pleasure to our reluctant bliss
And removing the worries of our juvenile present, marking it as the new Truth.

Come to me, my Northern Dusk, flirt with me like thou didst not with one;
Wish our hearts luck, and fight so our triumph be won,
Thou shalt **** hate with thy sword of victorious words,
Satisfactory to our chests, infallible to the sniggering worlds.

Come to me, my Northern Lamp, tempt me into the army of curling winds;
Rub my shoulders again the beguiling sweet rains, charm me away,
Far in the dark I shall be generous to thee, calming like wine,
I wouldst love to fall into the sky by thy wings again.

Come to me, my Northern Sky, envelop me in thy starlet dawn and blanket;
I want to embrace thy northern grass and tulips, and paint some rainbows,
To read some lullaby beneath the benign sky, and its amulets,
To write some poetic words, and sing them today and tomorrow.

Come to me, my Northern Sea, may thou enjoyest thy grounds’ cold clay;
That my wondrous script shall touch and place upon it a play,
Announcing my ragged arrival on the harmonious soil,
Adjusting myself to the convenient steep hills.

Come to me, my Northern Song, may thou be blessed without and in the unknown;
May thou remember the words of my late vow, o my attractive love,
May I in abundance love thee more, after my formative alone,
May this love grow strong, undeniable, and tough.

Come to me, my Northern Sun, bewitch me once more and entrap my mind;
That thou give birth but to a revitalised summer, young and free,
That this immortal joy shall last, like the oblivious moon,
Held hostage by thy beauty, whose half thou hath shared onto my soul.

Come to me, my Northern Rain, make me rejoice in the swirling autumns;
When the greens turn red and all shall die and wake again,
That we shall remain friends until tomorrow and delight,
Delight, that comes to us when we are united fellows.

Come to me, my Northern Grass, be dry and wet and tickle with pleasure and again;
Fulfill my heart with lithe atonement, for my graceful sins,
And by thee, I shall neither be dangerous nor unchaste,
I shall be a ******; my moonlit quest is just about to begin.

Come to me, my Northern Guide, heal my wounds and lingering past scars;
Scars that are immortal and once tormented my dreams,
I hath forgiven them with my tender cares,
Releasing them back prettily, into their domestic jubilees.

Come to me, my Northern Moon, in the merit of haste and run;
Nibbling thy water lilies as thou pass, and flying through the floating grass,
Thou shalt find me within the cheeks of Jakarta, in my cornered walk,
Moving around with unease, void of any candlelight spark.

Come to me, my Northern Star, thou art as warm as thou art cold;
My reason to keep on longing, and hold on to thy unmolested warmth,
That the cruel Coventry can thaw me no more;
Neither shall its herons fly over my untouched shore.

Come to me, my Northern Soul, so that I can be free;
Let me not be engulfed by the breathless dawn, and twilight,
Slide me free from the strain of tropical grief and sunlight,
I want to feel cold once more, all through the day and night.

Come to me, my Northern Tale, and hear me over the shrieking winds;
Let me steer my journey to thy mortal land, unite us as we have been;
Live inside me and feed my blood, make me known and beguiling;
Scoop me into thy arms, picture me asleep and welcoming.

Come to me, my Northern Poem, make me hear what thou couldst promise;
Make me twitch with delight, and shout pleasure within thy hands,
And sign that very night as my time of rebirth;
Pleasant and pure, free from the past sins and filth.

Come to me, my Northern Love, make my ****** soul glow green again;
Find thy way to me by my marked boughs of love,
My journey and love hath but not ended yet,
Thou shalt breed and unite with me—in our timeless breath.

I have been in the land of the dead,
Green valley of infertility, with no end in sight
Where end the flights of steps, reigns eternal night.

But a night it is unlike any on the earth
For a suffused light pervades the horizon for hopes to birth
That on this land though echoes, the wailings of the dead,
Yet can herald a new beginning from life’s leftover thread!
I stood on a high wall and as far as my eyes could see
Walls stretched beyond farthest limits of vision’s boundary
Between them lay bottomless wells glowing with red hot coals
In those abyss moved burning flesh cindering tortured souls!
As I flew over those pits of doom saw many a flaming hand
Waving up in one last bid to be carried away from this land
I couldn’t help them nor save them from their tormentor
I had come here in my dream, just as a passing visitor!
Scared by the hellish sights, I thought it wouldn’t be wise
To foray afar, see more of it, but from dream I must rise
As I turned to leave, in those pits I saw, blue ocean and the sky
Where fleshes burn every moment, desires rot and die!

How you feeling on the top?
Sharpening your tongue, for another fall out?
So, who to care about the mass now?
Who to cut fleshes by their mouths?

Pin it up on religions, once battled
No you don't want to know, who broke the promise
Who brought the message, who blazed the torch
Feed your own enemies with kindness, they taught
But you're dipping fingers in your own people's platters

Building crisis, rolling dices, conquering heights
Listen when the base breaks, you won't stay there
When their dreams scatter, you owe them
They can pull you down from this ladder

we are the people
who care only
when there's no care left
we are the people who are void of empathy
we are the one who speaks
while our emptiness sparkles within us
we are the hero's we are the losers
we are everything what we desire to
we are just not ourselves

we looked upon as a stars
we looked down as meagre ones
whatever we feel is alien to others
we are missing ones, we lose ourselves in shapes of others
we are seeking ones, we are loved ones
without love..we love only where's nothing left
it is insane to expect, why do we still care
while everything hurts-- the people, their words their actions
we are everyone and everything
what we long to
we are just not ourselves

not to be longing not to log in with spirits
we desire to hold a spirit-- while our spirits shrink within flesh
we are the forgotten ones , we are the victorious
here are the notions we must not take for-granted
despite we do, till it is finished
it seeks us everything- we finish it without seeking
we begin it without finishing; we finish without starting
we dwell upon sadness, we dwell upon frightfulness
we desire to be whatever we wish to
we are everything, we are everyone
we are just not ourselves

silence holds me like a forgotten friend
i answer with all my sinking-- where to be how to be what to do
these are all the wondering i wonder every now and then
with all considerations, i wonder how to ****** lost souls
to transplant the missing gaps, not to desire a thing
we hold onto despite; we let go with ourselves
we are everyone..we are everything
what we desire to
it's only..we are not just ourselves

the extra ordinary matters to meet the ordinary ones
time for everything, time to do all chores
we beseech our manners without mannerism
we leave a mark which nothing heal
the materialism overshadow us-- we sign with our gestures
to make it worse..without realizing
we realize when its gone..yet we don't amend
we are our shadows, we are our fleshes
we are souls we are the sinking hearts
to be seen everywhere, to be felt in each pattern
we are everything we are everyone
what we desire to
we are just not ourselves

To be classifiable, she nervously applies the cake to her nostrils
While splinters stick in her fingertips. 30. To be a woman she
Harvests necrotic insects and dances in Warhol underpants.

I explain how gravity loves the catalogue of your unique hollywood
Romances. Each train takes a new storyline through the ****** treetops
And counterfeit addictions she poises herself in to seem attractive to
Each magazine under her daddy's workbench.

Being a woman is more than big ***** and paint for brains. Some skins Cling to the reels of the love language sprinting through historical Venetian street settings. I smoke ***** with wizards.

For the first time I witness the acatalepsy of the Irish, but narrowly
Passing the beguiling succor that renders the whim of persons
In the acronychal hours.

I'm telling you your hands are my new exoskeleton. I take to you
With the excitement of gravity. New denude photographs of pallor
Fleshes upstay the human trials we are blessed to share in this open sky,
Where I warn the blues of the sky to be jealous of these sciophilous Women who experience the unyielding pressure to feel the pleasures
Our confabulations offer acushla.

Mellifluous,
as their body melts over yours,
and yours glistens in the dappling moonlight,
the warmth of the sheets
encompassing your fleshes.

The sweetness of 1,000 plums,
Permeate your mind
on the tip of your tongue.
The shiver of the coldest wind,
Glides across your spine
as their touch meets,
you hush.
Hoping that your reaction --
Won't be too much,
But just enough
Just enough to express,
the thoughts in your grey chasm
through the touch
of the pink abyss.

cold air hits her harshly
toes shiver as hair stands up
bringing a blanket closer to her self
the rain continues to pelt
and she continues
to indulge herself in words
that provide her home and warmth

she was a quiet one in tongue
but a loud one in hands and heart
she wrote endlessly about her pain
about how no one ever heard her speak
how no one ever saw her tongue dart out
she wrote it all to a man
who would never notice her words
or ever hear her cries

the cold air was harsh, and she had no blanket
rain pelted down mercilessly on her body
bare feet touching little oceans of waters
the sea bed being cemented and lined yellow

traffic lights  jammed
no consistent lighting in sight

heart drowned in the flood
rain coming from the heart
overflowing through her eyes

she took a gulp
cloudy eyes drifting upwards to a window
a man pushing a woman against the glass
plumped fleshes on their faces
touching one another

how she wished to be the woman

all her words dried up in her throat
every thought became frozen in her mind
no pen in sight
no paper to crumple and catch her tears

the flood was overflowing in her heart
and yet it continued to rain

she shrugged off her thin jacket
and she shivered
hair stood up
toes trembled
no source of warmth

silently
she lunged herself forward
not noticing the eyes from above
and the scream that erupted behind the window
but instead
noticing the car
that was swerving recklessly
in her direction

the one that kept her stationary
was the one that pushed her

him.

Come ,escape with me,
where head stands high and mind
is without fear and no guilt to see...

Come,escape with me,
we dare  to open the old lost lock
with our newly devised key...

I am here to see the guilt
I am here to taste the colour
I am here to listen the pain
to identify the known killer

We sing the songs from
the oozing arrogant blood
and freshly cut fleshes, to mourn
the thousand people
that have been ripped off from
their lives without any reasons or
any identified faces...

although the time has gone
and the song is over,hope you
will join me in this war against
the pain we  receive forever....

Come,escape with me....

"As you prepare to hop into New Year and celebrate its Newness, ponder and think of Aleppo-Syria, S.Sudan, Congo and many warring Nations. Pray that 2017 may be a year of peace and consolation."

ALEPPO!

For Humble Humanities of Aleppo-Syria, S. Sudan, Congo and all Warring Nations, Peace be upon you!

Aleppo, beautiful Aleppo
There only as a desolate sad memory!
Aleppo, a sadly stolen ivory
Aleppo, cry-tears without a drain-dry

Aleppo, last of light
She has fallen, fatally
Beautiful bride of Arabia
O sweet heart of Syria
A rubble of rust dust
She lays lost and desperate
Scraps-a mass of maimed mess

Aleppo, a tale of was
Aleppo, a lonely woman in deep grief  
Aleppo, a loner lost in her wilderness of laments
Aleppo, Aleppo, fallen yet not mourned
Aleppo, suffering yet not aided
Aleppo, dilapidated yet of sweet taste
Aleppo, fallen, fallen to unrecyclable waste
Aleppo, pathetic crumbled rubbles of past pretty paste

Aleppo, women mourning
Aleppo, men groaning
Aleppo, children moaning
Aleppo, wasted, as world silent watches
Aleppo, true, war profits some, war is a profiting business!
War funds Big Uncle Sam and his Allies’ economies
For Aleppo falls in silences of his bullish bragging democracies
Like Libya, like Syria, like Afghanistan, like Iraq……
All falls to their allied mercenaries
Women suffers, men labours, children’s-offers of overs

Aleppo, a wreck of debris, a forgotten woman
Aleppo, a ***** and left woman
Aleppo, a defiled and done man
Aleppo, a molested and mutilated child
Aleppo, a shell of hanging skeletons
Aleppo, bones and fleshes long gone
Aleppo, fallen, fallen into an eternal sleep!
Aleppo, fare-thee-well: Aleppo, rest-in-eternal-peace!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

Hate Words Eight Words

The face is now veiled in darkness
Soul of a beggar but name of a king.
I used to grasp his embrace
Now of him, I have no trace.

Holding the globe of the past
He stands, is, memory of distress
I watch him quickly breathe his last
As trudges the souvenir of thievishness…

I summon my self’s shield
Silent steel, I stay still
Nightmare, my battlefield
I was, am, guided by my will.

His lust eyes me and smile
Fight in the flesh, he purs
Slime of a sight sick and vile
Covered in cowardice and furs!

Verbal violation of his desired aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

Seated on his malachite throne
He attempts to break my temple
I constrict my ocean turned ripple
It awaits, is, will be a cyclone.

The viciousness of his speech
Echoes in my mind from afar
I am no lamb on his altar
Vicious blood-thirsty leech,

He twists his hem of power
With a swift sound, removes his helm
Walt Whitman in the refreshed bower
Lend me your boldness in your realm!

Blank and wide are his irises
Empty shell of a shabby knell
As he, mud-eyed, rattling, rises
My mother’s doom for which she fell!

Violent destruction of his born aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


His coarse voice resonates
In the shame-paved room
He shines, splendor of his gloom
Empire of unknown coordinates,

Naught of an ultimate utopia
Boastful volubile hegemony
Defecator of his dystopia
Machine of his misogyny!

Hear my battlecry, begone
You have with your blade
Tainted my giggling jade
Lo! I am amazonstone!

Point your ringed finger
Your mysterious misery
Hails no glory or mystery
At the gown of your anger,

Vivacious victory of his degraded aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

I face you, clad in love, glad
I remember your name I had
I fed your face to the flame
To shush the shreds of this blame…

My femininity are my swords
Of peace I touch the infinite rare rim
Eight words against your eight words
Shout a mea culpa seditious stream

Of a tongue that I despise!
I felt your despair’s backlashes
Do not fret about your demise
To me you are already ashes!

Sit down as I melt
With my inner core
You tastelessly tried to smelt
All your hope and your last ore!

Vivified volition of your pugnacious aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


My long silver birth-link
With you vanishes
I mark with the ideal ink
Your name on your fleshes.

Your image flickers and stutters
That’s the paralyzing current I felt
Horrendous is the thought of your belt
Your astute apologue blinks and blathers…

I close the door of your crumbling palace
Your voiced obscenity put to rest
I won’t wait for your inaudible, alas
Apology for this thread of threat!

Gone is the blood of your shade
Slowly to the ground you will fade
Away from the light you begot
You ******* bipolar bigot!

Voidableness of your daughter’s aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

Words have power.
We all know this.

Verbs have power
because without verbs
we can neither laugh nor cry,
neither run nor walk;
we cannot breathe,
nor even be,
without a verb.
A noun too has power
because with it we have, in a sense,
mastery of the object, the person, or the feeling
that we name.
Even an adjective has power,
for it qualifies the noun,
fleshes it out,
makes it more our possession.
A conjunction,
small, insignificant,
you might think
without power,
but ....

All words have power.
We know this,
or we would not be writing poetry.

Human, itself being a founded note;
Born and dead on our short horizon,
And Time, our delusion and destination
That shall taint us, but blessed with Years.

Birth, itself being a feat of nature;
Towering above our beats and vision
That binds our imagination, and be
The Perfumed Life that came true.

Life, itself being a precarious gift;
That shall disobey within its Time,
And its frame, a disgrace to us all
Shall befall us, halting all our Hearts.

Second, that comes within minutes;
And goes again by the end of the day
Admonished into the Wind, and see—
Time is too violent still, indeed!

Minutes, that injects made Hours into us;
That lingers by but too shall fade,
That all we have is a vivid parade,
And its notes a fake chain of choirs!

Hours, being the tomb of various lies,
And the secrets we have held now;
From the womb, and through our Years—
Witnessing all through our lapsed visions!

Days, being the chosen way to live;
And the present of Time to give,
We shall ignore all feverish truces,
But make the fruitful of all, peace!

Weeks, being the collective nights, ah!
With thousands of secrets and demerits,
That all we see may contain a pace;
In the worried maze of our world, again!

Months, being the rigorous catch alone;
That all champagne may sound forlorn,
For a melody is once, and then torn
We speed fast indeed, every morn!

Years, but we should be at Pace;
That our eyes be calm, and not wander,
After one another's wonder, and bliss,
For Peace do exists, within Life's ease!

Peace, and we all shall be Joy;
And such Joy we cannot destroy,
To live with sweat, and happy cheeks
To entertain brief Months, and Weeks!

Eyes, and in such Peace we see;
That not all souls provide their space,
But not to worry, and keep your pace
In the East and West, be a Heart at rest!

Chest, being the place where Heart rests;
And the emotions that Life tests,
Whether to be strong, or weak—
Whether to revenge, or to forgive!

Heart, itself being an obedient fun;
Healing again aft' broken by one,
Yet I do find t'is at times oblivious,
And such meant forgiveness is tedious!

Vein, itself being a remote rose;
That threads Life into all morning prose,
And kills all venom in naïve pores,
But too to die, amidst the chosen chores!

Age, being a sign of a frail human;
Neither majestic nor grandiose,
For there is no happiness lasting forever,
Neither does prejudice, but Time.

Blood, being alive only with beats;
Is not by anyone called merit,
But to speak of any Truth, it hurts,
And upon such pains, it freezes!

Skin, feel the touch of the good and beasts;
The sick of the flesh and hereafter,
And Faith, the one that should be longer,
Would you but ****, would you but ****?

Faith, feel the insane and harmony;
And in all arrays of immunity shall pray,
That all alive shall be golden, alone,
That all that breathes stays salubrious.

Fire, a blazing energy alone;
But not of a pleasing idea, indeed,
And who stays alive after doses of Fire—
Whose soul shall love, who shall admire?

Sun, spreading its abyss and sharp rays;
For Dark is violated in her, and see,
Everywhere we see but raging Fire,
And syringes of Fire, again, shall ****!

Dark, spreading its wings to raided pits;
But there is a little Light, dimly wit,
That we all should not leave tossed,
To find our way, not to get lost!

Cold, a blatant whisper, and fever;
That all human fleshes are feverish,
None is taken in everlasting bliss,
None encourages eternal blessings, ah!

Rage, an apparent command, and aye;
A weariness explained to all souls,
That tastes bitter at present, and later,
Living indeed, in here and the afterlife!

Anger, a feared one—a polar of tears;
Ice and Smoke blended into worn fits of fears,
A scream denied by what one hears,
A turmoil of scars boiling up high!

Laugh, a genuine smile, but hurts;
As though plainness was preferred,
But never true, for such views are
Provisions, to the normal communes' hearts!

Smile, the smothered voice, and bless;
Make all our veins worry much less,
And render all miseries, again, unhappy,
Bless your tender soul with fine poetry!

Tone, being the voice of its martyred soul;
Diving into the throats of fishy and foul,
Of which raging minds that we hold no clue,
Of the times of death—the ends of breath.

Chords, being the music of the tragic;
To some, whose magic sounds so meek,
Always buoyant, but ne'er sleek,
To the artist's challenged mind, watch!

Song, being the allergy of the night;
For such Hours prefer silence, alright,
Only to demerited souls, and again—
Such normal souls are barely our friends.

Poem, being the silence our souls seek;
Being the tightness to hold on to, see,
Being the Flawless Moon we fight to be,
Being the heart that keeps us alive.

Sweet, being the very art that awaits;
The pretty picture we see, and writ,
At the most romantic hours, and late
The most honest insight into my soul.

Words, being the art we move and paint;
So ardently, and within a housed vault,
That is at peace with those green bushes,
And the broad, frozen shoulders of Night!

Graphs, being the drawing of the artist;
Being the silent cold that we love,
Being a river as lovely as Vincent,
Being an adornment like a friend!

Lakes, being an admitted raindrop;
In which flow our dropped gloom and misery,
And Seas and Oceans wrapped in giggles,
That in their triumph spread, to all souls.

Seas, being an Ocean full of lives;
The hive of bees, sharks, and olives,
The knot of cries, screams, and laughter,
Growing as ever, together and forever.

Oceans, bearing waves of Sadness and Joys;
Of pains that were once solemnly borne,
Of anguish that hath somberly gone,
Of gladness of being sober, alone.

Sunset, being the edge of anxieties;
And when rain comes, all beings cheer,
Attending Midnight's capricious fair—
And the dance of spring sights, full of joy.

Night, being the love of all charities;
And the living forgiveness wished well,
The place where, anew, hopes are born;
The lodging where all dreams come true.

Dawn, being the sight of Newness;
Whenst all wakes up in sighs of happiness,
And celebrate living in frantic breaths,
Life stirred up once more, and be met.

Light, being the Aurora of Joy;
Like the one reborn in the universe,
That we oft' see in the skies of Helsinki,
Be the true love you and I can see.

Wind, being our own saluted breeze;
And to our charms is never late,
That, before the storm, shall kiss us,
With a stirring Warmth that shall last.

Haze, being the panorama of late;
The renewal of old, agitated Fate,
The forgiven sins we fluently see,
The most adored destiny we will be.

Fate, being the fullest of our dreams;
And more obvious than they seem,
That Fate is fair, and not a nightmare,
The one being true lovers shall share.

Mate, being the most advanced lover;
With deep passion shining forever,
And awake, in each other's slumber—
Not to betray, nor harm, never.

Joy, being the most prominent soul;
The core of all painters and poets,
The heart of all lovers and tales,
To wait for thee, to love me.

Warmth, being the most prudent of all;
The most sought in this crowded world,
And the Charms and Love that come with it,
Being the very Fate we have longed to greet.

Charm, being the Truthful of those;
With a heartbeat as grand as every prose,
And to wait for its eternal rose,
To forgive truly, to heal each loss.

Truth, being the most stellar itself;
In which Love forms its paradise,
And to wait for its longest bliss,
To enjoy all sights; embrace their mists.

Love, being the truest of all that rests;
The most desired in a human's chest,
And to wait for our true Love be,
To wait truly, and most patiently.

I have a story to tell.
A story you already knew so well.
But this won’t begin
With your typical “Once upon a time”.
I have a story to tell
A story you want to hear on your bedtime.
This is a piece of letter
Of hearts and roses
From a simple girl
Who wrote on a piece of a timeworn paper
Her dreams and wishes;
Of burns and ashes.
And it goes like this…

“Tonight, I’m sipping wine. And I pray and I wish that you are fine. That you can surpass everything life throws at you. Because I know, you are good at catching things.

And putting myself at the edge of the hill, with nothing to hold but the thin air, and jumping off of the cliff would be worth the fall, if I see you there under, waiting. You were there. Not minding what it would cost you catching me.
        
Those to you, bruises and wounds are what but nothing. Because I know, you are a fighter, a catcher. And you are good at catching.

         And if in the end, we see ourselves barely breathing, consuming one another, wearing those painful marks of risking it all, why not spend the rest of our lives healing all those scratches, tattered fleshes, and broken bones.

         Then, we’ll look back. We’ll speak to one another without hushing any piece of word. We’ll voice with nothing but smiles and stares that we made it. That we exceed boundaries of almost, and that we finally brought all the pillars, all the columns, and all the walls down. We cut that paper thin and fine lines of hopelessly dreaming and living the reality, of what is real. Together, we explored and unlocked the unimaginable door ways to our infinities and galaxies, and universe and ultimate. We are our own universe. We have discovered the ultimate.

         These are the prize of trying and fighting and catching and winning. That fear is what but nothing.
And you are synonymous to everything.”

This is the story I want to tell.
A story you already knew so well.
And the only lesson, my friend
That this scene of standing, and holding,
And jumping, and catching, and living
Is not the movie’s ****** 30-minutes away down to the end,
But only the beginning of a well-written story of characters
Of perfect blends.
This is the plot of betting it all.
This is the story of The Greatest Fall.


WNG
070915
10:00pm

A shot of mauve and iridescent green caught my eyes ‘a dragonfly danced on the edge of the falling water.
My fingers dug into the soft delicate moss growing beside me as I stood naked my body pressed back against the smooth worn rock.

A warm breeze fought to caress my skin like exquisite silk, cool crisp water slithered down my freshly hot oiled coconut skin dancing and sparkling into yin mists that perfumed the air, tiny rainbow suns burst into stars and bounced off into cascading waters below.

Beautiful emerald shadows like Balinese painted ritual dancers played in the corners of my eyes, the spirits of the forest were alive and the leaves played their music rustling in the tropical breeze, above the waterfalls symphony played beautifully down on me

── my gaze ever wanton.

Brilliant hibiscus flowers were exploding into purples, orange, yellow and sweet creams fading to pink dusk island dreams that flowed all about me, my mind tasted luscious heat dew from sweet blood red oranges in clusters that hung low on branches, and ripe swollen Guavas fallen left fruit in rotting, pungent sweetness filled my nose rising from rich soil beds.

Bright butterflies were prancing on giant flowers, as though unknown souls of the past still played here. Delicate webs weaved and flowed as I gazed upward into the emerald canopy, silk strands struck red glittered in fine sun rays furrowing a haste of gold and silver as topical spiders weaved wearing the mark of poison.

Pomegranate and caramel coconut memories filled my mind, as I drifted picturing his face, enchanted lips that whispered incantations and rasp his tongue captures me in passions everlasting pulse.
My nails dug deeper into the mosses and the water continued to rush over me quelling the fire within, cooling, caressing slowly closing my eyes I could see,

── I could taste, I dreamt only in his mind.

He smelt of sandalwood, patchouli ash and cedar, I shifted back closer to the coolness of the rock pressing my cheeks harder against the smoothness, his eyes loomed before me cocoa brown haunted paradise. Each tasting of him caressed my veins, I became his fruit, my heart rapt in succession as pomegranate juice filled my mouth.

Yearning I burned for him glowing and the forest chanted in ceremony the ritual had begun, sentences filled the air as though written by constellations and I his, a silver star in quiver.
He whispered softly, “Come, I call to thee take of the day I conjure by night, your adornment and paradise our fleshes emerald by moon light are worn as one.”

──He sits gazing, his coat shimmering sable shot by nights obsidian, pearled teeth bared in paradises hunger, it is dawn evermore among the night trees. He gleans silently watching and waiting.....

© Arnay Rumens (ASPAR) 2016

Black, tamed, tanned fleshes
Backs that have bent under the lashes
White, knocked, stripped bodies
Souls that have cried under the follies.

Here they are, numbed and weak
Here they are, abused and bleak
Here they are, numbed and wicked
Here they are, afraid and naked.

Broken, divided, lost knowledge
Minds that were pushed towards the edge
Bullied, bucketed, libel laws
Bones that were eaten by jackdaws.

Here they are, tortured and whipped
Here they are, tainted and with, wrestled
Here they are, gagged and secluded
Here they are, gunned and, for, settled.

Where are you, mockers and dealers
Horrid hearts who have robbed the beggars?
Bullied, bucketed, libel laws
Bones who were envied by the caws.

Here they are, accusers and lawyers
Here they are, robbers and buyers
So let me ask you a question,
Where are we in this garrison?


March 23, 2013

CAN WE TRULY LOVE?
Brother, why does it you bother
The way my Compassionate Creator
Felt it fit to mould me
Brother, can you truly not love?
Without colour, Creed or Class!
Influencing your brain’s background

Can’t there be One People-Different Colours
Can’t there be One People-Different Creeds
Can’t there be One People-Different Classes

Do you ever look behind your skin?
And see same pink flecks of fleshes
That is bound by tissues and tendons
Same platelets plasma pigments  
That ruby red squirts with a squeeze
Same numbers of haemoglobins
The Crimson colour after an incision

Why do you see a race in my make?
Colour in my freely given complexion
Religion in my divine devotion

Why do you call me Black?
And I call you White!
Why do you call me a Jew?
And I call you a Christian!
Why do you call me Kefir?
And I call you a Heretic!

Can’t we all be children of one God?
People of one righteous race-human
Creation of one class-compassion

Why do you speak hate of my make?
Can’t there be love beyond my bake  
Why do you see a slave in my coverage?
In my struggles and me fierce savage
Why do you feel phobia of my turban?
And seclude me in your modern urban
Why do you hate my Exodus Race?
And say we are all over the space

Can’t you see Jehovah in all of our conviction faces?
And in harmony dwell in all of these His sacred places
Can’t there be true love, for all to equally have?

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

it was beautiful.
The way you made me feel.
Flowers bloomed amongst me,
Happiness flourished as did we.
The sunshine and the breezes that enveloped me came to mean so much more.
I was home in your presence.
I was where I'd always hoped I'd be.

But the Crack of thunder startled me and in that moment, I awoke.
Your eyes were filled with fear as lightning filled them and you became overwhelmed with the decision of whether to fight or flee.
I paused.
I stared at you, searching your eyes for comfort.
Tears rumbled. Rain enveloped us, even though we were sitting beneath shelter.
It pierced my face as my thoughts grew louder.
-what was he going to do?  should I persuade him to stay or let him make up his own mind?-
I was naïve.
I allowed you to make your own decision.
Lightning struck.
I was blinded and before I could recover from the flash, you were gone.
I waded in the pools of water that flooded me.
I found not a single life jacket.
I'd been left there to drown and drown I did.
But somehow, somewhere inbetween the suffocating and wheezing,
A boat arrived and took me back to shore.
I swallowed air like a newborn baby.
An island was what I'd landed upon, one on which I'd be stranded for months.
In those months I'd found a peace within myself.
I told myself I didn't need a savior.
I didn't even need you.
9 months passed and flowers were blooming once more.
I guess that's when you'd decided it'd be the perfect time to "rescue" me.
You arrived onto my island of peace and you stirred it up.
You told me you'd bring me home.
I wanted you so bad, but I wanted to go home even more.
You were home, though.
"Stay with me," I cried, "Please."
"I will. I won't leave. You're all I want."
I took to heart everything you'd said.
Weeks went by as the fleshes of our skin grew to know each other well.
Your kisses melted me and I knew that you were all I'd ever wanted.
I found myself within you and I couldn't bear to part from it.
I needed you.
You knew that.
You cried yourself to sleep over it countless times.
The whimperings were more prevalent than your actual cries.
You didn't want me to hear you, you didn't want to lose me. But you were confused.
I woke up one morning, turned over, and stuck my hand out, ready for you to grasp it like you loved to do.
All I felt was the emptiness in my heart because when I opened my eyes, you were gone.  
     Again.
        Again.
My trust met its demise.
   My eyes met tears yet again as the skies darkened and thunder roared.
I ran to the shore, hoping to catch you fleeing, but you were already so far gone that I couldn't see anything left of you.
The waves were pounding onto the beach, so I ran for shelter.
The home you'd built with me to suit us was demolished by the heavy winds, so I was homeless once more.
9 months passed again quite quickly and so did my love for you.
I felt free.
I ran around my island basked in such a great amount of joy. I was unstoppable.
"Hi," I heard someone yell.
I turned mid-twirl and my eyes laid upon a boy with stunning blue eyes and a tall, lanky body.
He approached me shyly.
"Hi," I replied, my lips tugging into a dimpled smile.
That's all it took for me to feel "in love" again.
We were hooked on each other within moments.
He took me home, a real home. I was safe again.
But it wasn't the same. After a few months of constant worrying and nights of sobbing, I pushed him away.
"You're all I want," he'd cry.
I didn't believe it.
I needed myself. I didn't want anyone.
The End of may soon arrived and so did you.
My home.
I wasn't too sure about getting involved, but I needed to see if the third time would be our charm.
We tried again.
It wasn't the same.
I couldn't trust.
You hated yourself for it
and I hated myself for it.
I longed for you so much that I was beyond control of my actions.
I said crazy things and I dreamed crazy dreams.
I cried myself to a river each night for a week.
And so that's when I denied myself another storm and denied you a home.

In my dream
Am broken
My fleshes eaten
My body rotton
My bones taken
As ritual of token
With words unspoken
I broke through
Wide open
My leased body
In the ***** oven
Unworldly beings
Never ever seen
I was soon shaken
To waken
From a bad dream...

©sim

The beasts leached from east
Firing, bombing, slaughtering to feast
I could barely move a mile forget the quarter
Every corner laid body mass out of slaughter
I moved towards the dug ground
And laid there with all the pains that surround
I grief for all the lives lost
The helpless paid the price baring the cost
Laying in shallow pits are the scenes of the worst
We don't deserve this! I shouted and screamed
But only my echo replied as it seemed
Roting bodies, decaying fleshes, the unbearable sight
I lay in this grave today with no hope of bright
The smell of blood filled the atmosphere
No more pure, no one left to heal or cure
The plight of countries resulted with poor
Killing was the mission to endure
I look up the blood filled sky
That my time has come but I still grieve, why?
This world war tore the nations apart
If only there was no misunderstanding at the start
I hear the tanks roving in now, I hear the blasts
Don't know how long this war will last
Now I close my eyes, as I've been hit
Right here where I lay in this pit
I am next,
Here death, welcome me in your nest...

                                         Sincerely,
                                       ~The War Victim~


©sim

MY MAKER’S MATCH
My love, beauty of the blue ocean;
Tender sparkle of a tranquil sea,
A spectacular outcome of my drowsy dream.

My love, splendour smile of the rising sun;
Gentle twinkle of the soft eventide twilight,  
A pretty result of my smooth silent sleeps.

My love, grandeur of the glimmering moon;
Glinting grace of a soft midnight shimmers,
A magnificent model of my robbed rib.

My love, munificence of a billions galaxy;
Glamour of a colourful constellation night,
A perfect art-a part of my parts.  

My love, joy of a serene sky;
Harmony of a peaceful heaven,
A flesh of my fleshes, a bone of my bones!

My love, darling, quietude quantum of time,  
A noblest gift of my Maker: my Maker’s only eternal match!
Salvation of my revelations: Possession of my obsessions!

My love, my Maker’s eternal match, with you always,
In thins and thick: in wells and worse, to the very end of time!

With you till perpetuity blinks its last, still beside you I will be!
Listening to your soul’s sorrows, consoling your spirit’s whole soul!

My love, elegance of all moments, beauty of all minutes!
Splendour of all seasons, treasure of all eras, charm of all times!  
Grace of my glances, glamour of my gazes, astound of my stance!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

The bones break
The fleshes bake
The horror around
Am nailed to the ground

The filthy beings
Never before seen
Chant my name
Playing their game

My hands tied
My eyes desparately cried
My egos lied
My conscious died

I see myselfs all around
Duplicates of me surround
Identical, hard to make
Whose real, whose fake

More noise in my ears
Letting go off my fears
Brushing off my final tears
Same dream over the years

The days get shorter
The nights stretch longer
My inner soul gets buried
In the darkness, when carried

Gloomy begs under my eyes
My conscious console's with lies
I try to forget my dreams
Yet, I hear their siren, screams...


©sim

Death show its ugliest face
to those who suffer across generations,
continents  and ships in the oceans;
to those who chose freely who to like,
to lay, to sleep, to live by;
to those who stood against
the ugliest face of death.

Some face it daily,
others will never know about it.
Some lie between
the ugliest face of death
and the ugliest mask of life;
some ride in gravy trains,
enjoy grapes and wines,
pulling long distance triggers
pointing at miserables.

Today, the ugly phantom of death
haunts poor, black, gay, women,
but it slowly leaks
through the cracks of well written
and yet shallow ideologies,
creating a new kind of brain police,
of modern uniformed zombies
that run castles and emperors
held by the backs of millions of Atlas
with weakening knees,
and exposed fleshes by whips
of indifference, of forgetfulness,
of inconsideration, of marginalization,
of slave ships that run on wheels,
of master captains never emancipated.

Those who never saw
the smiley face of a nurturing State,
who never saw Justice balance out
pain, misery, agony or fear,
who never saw the compassion,
the kindness or at least a look in the eye
of a compassionate and kind People,
those are the ones who see
The Ugliest Face of Death.

The returning phantom of a dictatorship
is revealed by a heinous political crime,
and Death, awaken from his sleep beauty,
rejoice for the victory of violence.

A poet once wrote
"Knowledge is a deadly sin
when no one sets the rules",
but the truer message followed the utter:
"the faith of all mankind
is in the hands of fools".

clinging to only that which we can remember
only the imprint of something too bright that has been stared at for too long
we bump fleshes
we meld corpses
the mixing of secretions
until i end up covered in yours

i am not sure you see me anymore
but it pains me little for i am not sure i see you either

like a well worn fidget, a subconscious pull of the lobe or the twirl of a piercing,

or perhaps more like your instinctual grab at the farthest recesses of your fridge upon coming home positively toasted

through liquor soaked lenses i aimlessly ***** at the past while sober me of tomorrow awakes with nothing but the echo of something within

temporally filling the void between lips and ******
the void of my gut
of my heart

but a throbbing shadow remains

The moonlight of the scarlet eclipse,
From the chasm of the phantom heart.
In the void of the bottomless pit,
Wandering in search of attunement within.

Abstruse like the nucleus rigid,
Fragile like the flower petal.
Hummings of the oceans and sky,
Quivering will, the fear occupy.

In the stones of faith to pray,
For the lurking fleshes of past which stays.
Rippling through the time frames,
Turning to the ashes gray.