sure, the romance, they are the new gods,
     Paris, Rome, Barcelona (don't ask me about Madrid,
                                                       too royal),
a Venetian mask i would don, and become the quixote fighting treadmills rather than windmills -
although to Rome i have not walked
                for my footsteps to encounter the pave,
but in the Venetian pirate lair, plunderers of Byzantium
i have set foot on, at the same time to have learned
of the number 613 near a synagogue and heard the shofar.
Paris (not the Trojan) is the cliche synonym of Eros -
elsewhere Gemini: St. Petersburg as the Amsterdam
   of the north, and Edinburgh as the Athens of the north.

well, such a verse does indeed desire
                                                 more translation of Horace,
as in nimis ex vos, sed non satis ex "ego",
  yes, "ego" the abstract component of you that's
free from the three tier psychoanalytical *******,
what superego, what id? forget it! there's only you
and only "you" - work with me:
               too much out of you, but not enough
               from your alter (synonym of "ego" -
               Jungian shadow porridge);
but as promised, yet more Horace

               deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles
               ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
               sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
               invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
               nec semel hoc fecit nec, si retractus erit,
               iam fiet **** et ponet famosae mortis
               amorem. nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet,
               utrum minxerit in patrios cineres an triste
               bidental moverit incestus: certe furit ac velut
               ursus, obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
               indoctum doctumque fugat recitator
               acerbus; quem vero arripuit, tenet occiditque
               legendo, non misura cutem nisi plena
               cruoris hirudo.

but of course i'll translate, but prior in dogmatic proposals...
keep the book of revelation of the Ιωαννης,
discard the rest... the four primers are a parody of
the tetragrammaton - so gentle in his own land
yet such a vicious serpent in Egypt? which one's the fraud?
messiah of just hanging, standing still,
40 years in the desert or 40 hours on the cross?
and all that iconoclasm and modern too via narcissism?
"bring out the selfie shtick! oh wait... my hands are
nailed to a ******* crux!" and this persistent 2000 year old
negation - and being spared, the Romans, or
rather the alphabetum, Roma est mort but you
can still ask the italians of a cappuccino - Chino and
Khaki elsewhere with the Lombardy League ponce
rubbing shoulders with Saxons... Chino Versace
whistle at a Bella... you can still see c b g long after
and the coliseum in ruins... it wasn't swallowed up!
i too though the second H in the tetragrammaton was
intended as a déjà vu - it would sit perfectly with
anti-, the concept, but not the man as such,
and indeed the Y would make a perfect tree of Golgotha
in that tweaked geometric, then W and seas
and continuance - Roma alphabetum, sole constructor
of computer robot? maybe... but you see, the H
is a slippery *****, it's silent, like in Khaki... or
as is the usual case in Hindu - Dhal... it's not so much
déjà vu but silence - a necessary surd to make spelling
pretty... dyslexics think spelling is a bit like arithmetic...
it's actually an aesthetic, but they do find it as hard as
arithmetic, and that's why they're genius at numbers...
but the aesthetics is missing, so they cling to numbers
and the aesthetic is missing, and everything associated
with money... well, it's a bit ugly, isn't it?

... (postponed translation)... yes, London is Hades...
    doom and gloom.

but indeed the Gemini in the tetragrammaton,
but first the principle of three-dimensional space (Y) -
just look into one of the corners of a cube (yes
the room you're sitting in),
and lastly the principle of waves, whichever,
sine or cosine as you will, looks better that way
than mediating the ad infinitum of 1, 2, 3 etc.,
sea and constant fluxes (fluctuations),
pin-point the opposite, the principle of one-dimensional
space (a definite coordinate, rather than three-dimensional
space and that ****** indefinite coordinate) and
subsequent ripples, which aren't necessarily waves:
my tools? a-       and -the            and every other ism
that might act as an auxiliary attaché - time (W).
but indeed the anti- implementation that serves as
direct Gemini chiral-ism: the latter serves no close
resemblance to be guided to Golgotha,
hence guided toward Megiddo, and a crucifix also there?

**** such religiosity twice over with its vortex,
as promised the Horace translation

       Empedocles, desirous of godliness in being so,
       having icily strutted toward old age and by
       old age near frozen, was prophesied to jump
       into flaming Etna. as they want, let the poets
       have a right to a death (of their choosing).
       who whomever against his will saves,
       twice-over rattles the suicide's intentions.
       it hasn't been the first time, it's not that easy
       to say it: i am human. he wants to immortalise
       himself, fame posthumously. he writes poems.
       why? maybe he urinated on his father's grave,
       maybe in a place basked by throngs he took
       from it the vices and in solitude became
       desolate with inherited uncleanliness of urbanity?
       like a bear with scars, prison bars he breaks open,
       scares off the wise and the foolish, such
       the adamant nature of compulsive poetic labour,
       whoever he grasps with recitations he
       finishes off, the leech attached to his skin will
       not fall off, until satiated with enough blood.

**dicam Siculique poetae narrabo interitum.

‘Are you a boy or a girl?’
They shout down the corridor in a chorus behind me
Like the cries of “Good morning, Miss” in assembly
The patronising tone
in sleep deprived confusion
Droning throughout the halls
ringing around ‘she’.
    
Going to lessons is the scariest thing
Head down, walking fast hoping
they’ll never say anything
Hoping no one will question you
Glance around and notice you
not daring to look up
in case you make a wrong move.
    
You can’t know what it’s like to be
in a room all alone,
in a house that is not your own;
'Your body is a temple’ they said.
But they don’t tell you how to treat it
if it’s right in your head
but wrong in your skin,
and that feeling
of being and existing
is like dealing
with a thousand anxieties
suffocating within;
Chest too obvious
voice too loud and feminine
not enough to be ‘gentleman’.

'Why does this bother you?'
I hear you enquire,
it's because society’s construct
of gender is too based on attire,
an old fashioned concept-
Telling your children
that 'blue's for boys'
'pink's for girls'.

'Is it really?' I say.
Gender is not just binary
it fluxes and changes,
just like any scientific theory;
Einstein for instance,
didn’t come up with special relativity
in a night!
It took years of work
until he was right

Let this apply for gender too:
not just black
and white it's not as
clear cut as that
this is black and this is white
Evolve the theory
from system to spectrum
of freedom and pride
to reside in one's body happily:
Humanity allied.

This is what I dream about,
but it is not what
I've been living throughout,
in our world of shame;
where we are reduced to words and themes.
Driving my community,
those who love and support me,
to thoughts of suicide.
Being known
only when they're reduced
to rags and bones,
dead bodies
hanging
from their hashtags
thrown in the corner
another into the pile of disorder...

But people think it’s okay
to come up to you
abuse you in the street.
Knocked to your knees
to cries of 'queer'-
you end up living in fear-
'well, what do you expect given
who's watching Wall Street?'

Yet I stand here
talking to you
a queer boy-
with all connotations of the word-
a queer boy with a voice.
Look at me!
My chest,
My unbroken voice,
My broken mind.
I am not proud of what I am,
what I’ve become and
how much it hurts
is indescribable to you.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am a man.
Not trans.

wHat beckons is the silent Kingdom
a sanctum holy devoid. whose apt walls
are tawny bricks of quiet. the patrons
clamor somnambulant. and heaps of
proffered tongues litter the illucid
broken halls.

the forgetful powder piles neatly
limbs of gray on and about and
the pews drink the sun or the sky
     is a plait of onyx feathers.
an arrhythmia of breathes struggle
daft lungs. the stillness beats. bleating
nothing lambs flocked in stupid silver.

the mouths are all corded sinew bound.
epitaphs scrawled untidy letters drench
cheeks apathetic. a corpse of hollow resonance.
step and stone; cadaverous hues, sallow indolent
light on every stanchion.

                                                                in
the cathedral, cloistered, is a stiff artery.
a heart stagnant veins. a king whose crown is
ash, a face whose efforts are unfleshed. no skin
has purchase. nor sight. empty hood scythe loaded
dreams the morphea plated scalp. a soft vesical
limpid chromatic fingernails scrabble festering
nodes.

he is waiting
in the comfort of his filth
lithe carpals flexing summons
to his cloak

the candles are making naked lips
kissing darkness; lovers uncut
bound fornicating. i sitting sat saturated
the valley fluxes.

                and a tissue of blue decrepit
night dusting the sin of noise. a naked wind
     so                      says



         he

At the center
of everything
there is a beat-
of a heart
of a drum
that carries all life.

It all moves,
fluxes, and flows.
a waltz, then a foxtrot.
It doesn't matter,
it's all the same-
                            same life force, same song.

I, too, hear that music,
and so I dance.

Continuation of duality
Co-existing in harmony
Shackling each other in chains of balance
Unaffected presence, opposition mingling
Influential on both present fluxes
In this circle of unity
Calm, tranquil, passive, the shadows of her nights
Toiling, scorching, the days of his light
As they circle around their paths
To etch their presence in reality
One guides the other
In this encircling passage
To form equality, equity and a state of balance

I do believe you once said
The ocean is not unlike skin
It fluxes and flows so smoothly
One cannot see from afar
But waves are like goosebumps
And a hurricane was brewing

i can perpetually encapsulate the images
around me, of the outer-reaches of
suburbia with o.t.t.'s billy the kid strikes back...
the haunt of the place, outer-reaches suburbia...
you haunt the place with a chance traffic
of deer, foxes, and domesticated cats
crafting pacts with foxes to be un-edible
with the fox snouts readied for the blooming
scent of sardines, or some other
dietary requirement in black bin bags... a lovely place,
hazy, misty, enigmatic forest readied for
the lost soul in the dark to tread its path,
i know, the architecture of the place
bald patches everywhere, none used for
agriculture, just aesthetics, but still
the odd chance of complete darkness
encapsulating you to see nothing
while you walk in the doubled shade of trees
at night... this is the feel of the place, my vicinity,
it's not an urban environment of trade-secrets
of slang... that slang is way gone,
gone entombed in the 20th century cut of
the umbilical chord... it's gone gone gone...
there's no new cool, no new groove,
no jukebox humpty-dumpty beat-box
look smart... jive or grime...
the genocide of south america proves my point,
the chain "linkage" from ape to man
is among the unique ****** features of Chileans...
i wonder: Aztec, Mayan...
well, genocide via european diseases...
but we get a hot coco latte in return... thumbs up!
and then posthumous fame came to the one
who asked for peace... who said:
i want to drown the sound of modern traffic with
music, autumn is too subtle with falling leaves
falling notes to paper to guide me,
and spring is too deaf to be sound-testing
instruments for the two full symphonies of vivaldi
that are summer and winter, the two seasons
perpetuating a lack of change...
spring and autumn are vivaldi's pre nuptials...
they're not symphonies, they're preludes
should they be translated by jazz impromptus...
there are no constants in them, the fluxes,
the magnolias this year bloomed too early,
you could hardly see the pink and corpulent
flowering, the bloom of magnolias this year
showered no prawn pink for the eyes,
they hardly blossomed, shrivelled skin of petals
and excess bishopcric colouring (purple),
anorexia you might say, shrivelled up anorexia
attired in bishop...
tattoo me earth, with your changes,
make me an organic animate, rather than an
inorganic animate... let me chisel the facts into
myself that i see... don't give me the ***** of
regurgitated facts of having experienced education...
leave me be... leave me to experience this world
without aided information as a way of stabilisation
my experience of it... let me be the mini Columbus...
taking but a step but travelling a whole acre of open sea
diagonally... passing both electric air
and incubated waters in a glass bottle...
let me not unearth the metals of hades...
the metals, which when storing waters with the ship
heaving tremble and heartbeat agitate the waters
stored in them (aluminium of the beer can as example)
to a storm, a tsunami a frothing wave...
give unto me the storing of the voyage's ambition
in eye as in glass, the carbonated waters in bottle
insulated by glass and mirror, yet otherwise agitated
by metal; a message in a bottle, my captain's notebook
noting with a readied hand, unshaken, deciphered easily,
more easily than a student under examination:
sweaty hand oiling a pen to slip and mishandle
a g.c.s.e. a* grade of content reduced by poor handwriting
to a c grade... ready me for the voyage into
the sea of cosmos and eventual death.

I was pushed today,
farther than I have been in many years.
I felt no tears, nor fear. I was aware.

pressure within was building
and needed to get out.
though I knew I could control it.
I did, with a slight jab of the fist.
though I only hurt myself.
I realize there is still some anger to be dealt
with, I am a work in progress.

though this pressure also allowed me to
know, that I am my best bet. I am
the one capable of maintaining it,
this beast within.
I tell her what to do.
I push through.
I teach her how to act.

Its a delicate balance where I
have much room to develop,
what else are these days for?
what else could this time here be to show?
I've asked for my days, the why.

though I think its coming to me,
not in entirety though enough
to piece something up.
its these moments, these fluxes
of space.
its when I feel something and I wish
for another thing to take place.
its control of the fire I burn with.
I burn within, few seem to know.
fewer are burned by me.

I burn, into the night and well past the day.
I burn, the intensity always keeps pace
and there is a balance on most days.

though today, I did pretty well.
there was a moment when I turned my
head to the west,
I glanced and the sun captured me.
I was caught in its glare.
then I felt the peace again.
I knew what I had to do.
time to give birth again,
a new me awaits.

Time is spent
unfolded,
melting into itself.
Roots, like an oak,
extend from me,
a tired stretch.
They coil themselves
around you,
catching your skin.
A sluggish act
of self-preservation.

Prose is spent;
each letter fluxes and fuses --
shaping nonsense.
Words hang in the air,
dangle and drop;
my serifs and cross strokes
litter the floor.
They soften,
and you're ankle-deep in verse.

Comfort is spent.
Restless nights ensue,
doubled over in mourning
for nothing;
to rather curl into you,
like a shell
a beautiful,
disastrous fit.

The future is spent
spread before me,
a rich expanse of black.
I feel the desperate longing
for constellations
nothing to name after you
but a slow, dull ache.

I am spent.
Vacuous at last
I've bled dry.
Like dust,
you have absorbed me.
Press on, press on.
And like everything else,
the tar on my lungs
looks suspiciously like you.

Believe in your self, young gun,
you are built to survive.
You have the skills to get through
the guts to take the dive.

Questions have been present,
from day one 'them thrown.
your mind is your arsenal,
and body is the dome.

Trust your instincts my friend
though history is a dark world,
fluxes you can seek
Fear is for the weak.

You are a warrior of your own
Never surrender your faith.
Enemies are just lurking
Blend, sublimate.

Time heals and build,
sharpens your knife;
Fill your cup of wisdom
as tomorrow ticks another life.

As bullets have been dodged,
as you heal your worst wounds,
come you shy sunrise
and let thy fruits bloom.

everyone has something to say
everyone seeks  something
everyone seeks  peace
everyone seeks pleasure
everyone seeks respect
everyone seeks freedom
everyone seeks happiness

if my pleasure is your sorrow
if my freedom is your prison
if my happiness is your misery
where is the boundary?
where is the border between mine and yours? where does my freedom finished and start yours?

my own respect
involves not respect others?
to get to my idea of peace
do I have to fight others? S
say what I think
does it mean not to listen?

what is the boundary between good and evil? what is the limit we must establish
to not  undermine the freedom of others?
the limit is not itself
a limit?

our rules
are they both our opportunities?
shades and nuances and perceptions
truth true and built with reason
what is life?
is not everything and anything?
the lived and imagined?
agonist and antagonist?
reason and feeling?

don’t stop thinking
don’t  stop asking questions
don’t stop listening
don’t stop seeking
this is the life
imperceptible explosion
of codes and colors and luminous fluxes
slow perpetual motion
closed inside us

Your truth sounds slow and disorientated
Like film left to marinate in the sun
Your equilibrium fluxes
Because in one hand you grow a flower
In the other you a tote a gun
Fiends you thought you put to rest
Are now agile and sprung
Hope where there was
Is now barren and overrun
By silhouettes of soldiers that strip you naked of your eden
Holding you still
While they dance and fornicate with the curves of your freedom
A ****** she was
Now she can't stop bleeding
Drug laced memories are measured to be eaten
Then sold like gold to a punisher of felonies
Tasting so heavenly
The poison gets the best of me
But not the death dealers
Its protein to them
Consumed to navigate down the lines of their stem
An all powerful but misshaped gem
You spit in mirrors because your reflection reminds you of him
The same glass in your eyes
The same shade in your skin
Waiting for a reaper to punish you for your sins
Well Im here
So dear why do you refuse to let me in?
Its rude to have death waiting at the door
I have souls to collect
Way more valuable then yours
OH
You change the locks along with your mind
Because the words that sounded sweeter then lullabies
Betrayed you as soon as your lips began to pry
Open
The silence was broken
The moment my existence was spoken 
This ride is free so don't offer me a token
You close the blinds
When you see me approaching
Like I was jehovah witness
Casually collecting donations for forgiveness
***** this is strictly business
I don't give a **** about the religious
I chase them down for the fitness
Consume their glow because its nutritious
Chew it to pieces
Until my metabolism increases
Their remains makes my breath smell worst then human feces
But their thoughts move me like psychokinesis
I didn't choose you
You choose me for the reason
That you thought it would better off holding my hand then a demons
So open the door or slide me the key
You called for mercy
Which means you called upon me
The summoning ritual planned so carefree
You been awake for too long
Its time to go asleep

"the shift
a codex of
catachrestic
metaphor's
unwritten in
the pen of
fluxes of de
blood
& smoky
space ways
of ancient
manuscript."

i remember of the artless days before i had met you and how whenever i went, i'd see a horizon star sewn;
how i could delve into utopian reveries and feel indulged, and how every kiss was a profound violet in bloom. (and how i was repulsed by boys who smoked--despise you for that)
then you came around. it was like every motion and resonance around me flatlined, all flesh faltered into corpses,
but in that virus abraded imagery, there was you:
a flaming grandeur of all that appeals.
you could have titled yourself a heavenly entity between a solely-all greyscale and i would have still believed--
i'd see your face in enthralling outlines before i went to sleep and whenever i spoke, your name gritted the back of my teeth, my bloodstream was fluxes with you written all over it.
went retrograde about it three times and it never passed. you named it cupid's love but i knew better. first blossom of spring and the archers drew their bows, i never saw you again.
i refused to go through the reversal phase; clung to the image of your lips, eyes, the color-enhancing visages that altered my retina, and decided that you were a better victimless ****** than any hit of codeine.
i never did go back.
i see stars but do not see chronology behind them, sleep but never rest, laugh but never with rapture, and anything even barely emphemeral feels like a century.
i'll always pray for heaven to let me back in: whether into culprits' hands or not.

a web without the print of a creator but instead diagrammatic self evident unfurling stretches in omnidirectional transcendent space crosshatching perpetual fall buoyed by synthetic leaves which provide penultimate impact fluxes to the brain surplusing centripetal stirring while acidic gut indicates the mind has been hijacked by racing network graphics smuggling a chromatic spectrum of strict empiricism that manifests hieroglyphs with junk dna and superfluous deep web code revealing repetition indistinguishable from the loaded traces phase injected to give an illusion of random chance luring emaciated counter adepts to insert all ten fingers in this muck and gaze in its vacant form with eyes now containing double lizard lid seamlessly surgically added while anesthetized in computer god robot operating cabinet hidden behind the gut film of all womb corrals by overlords crowding the sky with shadow mask while will beaming psywaves and psyops to the planet held frozen asserting infinity a zero sum game or infinity a desire sink atomizing discipline to dust blown till even dispersal that settles as the desert of us where ancient cathedral rubble can be picked up without knowing though covering it is graffiti in slang that too is long outdated yet untouched immaculate stands the pyramid where atop the eye burns as infernal chaser back of darkness our primordial creeping from we forget due to whippings under omnipresent dominion as our birth origin and impious realm of ambiguous nondual reciprocity which angered the envious great liar who then swindled the good will of man for instantiation of a fake godhead as virus from infinite space beyond the punched out skyshell by saying “this is everything” signaling intuitors who lack the bandwidth necessary for computing a safe closed circuit to boot load non sequiturs corrupting their internal hall of mirrors by neutralizing all quotients with zero triggering an attempt to apotheose by the lobotomy spike wielding free radical poised to strike once the asymptotically approaching monad of dark energy has arrived and the mantra of hologram reality is hammered into zygote protoconsciousness through fritolay derived nutrients with de as prefix marking eschaton having cropped up like small flames across the plain of man reducing form to powdered grey concentrated potential.

Orbited amongst supraorbited. Predetermined variance is your’s for refusal. Expression is accessible beyond the sense approved surface. Inevitable as it may seem. Vested physicality is greater. Remember the joy of your body, and smirk in the light.

Ah, Mesdames et Messieurs!
you 99% who number themselves
in the know-it-all category, the
largest subspecies of human animal,
fail to appreciate the vast eternal plan
that flexes & fluxes with gravitational
pulls and pushes, sunspots unpredictable,
can you ever predict the AM headlines?
have you checked your bank balance today?
always look both ways when crossing a one
way street, twice, just to be somewhat sure?
have you told you loved ones dryly and
routinely of your affections after every text,
emai, and even the most dreaded phone call
(tyou borrowed the car and left the tank on E)?

you’re an A+ student, prom queen, a cheerleader,
a high school football star, till you wrench that
knee because you were too busy admiring yourself
in the reflection of your selfie and didn’t notice
the open grate, the potholes or the orange cones
that appeared overnight, a cause for fright delight,

thank you so much for providing he fodder for this
pink sapphire of a poem, and please continue to
forget to utter your morn prayer to whatever God,
you entrusted your soul while sleeping, cause G. is
smirking at all the fun mishaps planned on today’s
agenda!

Is
you zipper open?
your blouse on inside out?
your metro card in the wallet
of your best friend who forgot
to return it?
What! you forgot bout the cheshire
grin on the Biology Prof’s face, when
he said “Anytime, Anyplace, surprise quizzes
are graded at 0, if you should  fail to appear at
your 8:00am class…

ah well, check your sneaker laces, try to recall
why that string is tied to your index finger or
take you chances of random probability that
having read this missile missive you’ve already
messed up and be careful our there, there are
very dangerous natalino poet~prognosticators
out there ready, william and able to take advantage
of  idiots who fail to be properly superstitious!!!

Salt, anyone?