Ah, Nikolaas, my love for him is not the same, as my love for thee;
My love for thee was once, and may still be, sweeter, purer, more elegant, and free;
But still, how unfortunate! imprisoned in mockery, and liberated not-by destiny;
It still hath to come and go; it cannot stay cheerfully-about thee forever, and within my company.

And but tonight-shall Amsterdam still be cold?
But to cold temper thou shalt remain unheeded; thou shalt be tough, and bold;
Sadly I am definite about having another nightmare, meanwhile, here;
For thy voice and longings shall be too far; with presumptions and poems, I cannot hear.

Sleep, my loveliest, sleep; for unlike thine, none other temper, or love-is in some ways too fragrant, and sweet;
All of which shall neither tempt me to flirt, nor hasten me to meet;
My love for thee is still undoubted, defined, and unhesitant;
Like all t'is summer weather around; 'tis both imminent, and pleasant.

My love for thee, back then, was but one youthful-and reeking of temporal vitality;
But now 'tis different-for fathom I now-the distinction between sincerity, and affectation.
Ah, Nikolaas, how once we strolled about roads, and nearby spheres-in living vivacity;
With sweets amongst our tongues-wouldst we attend every song, and laugh at an excessively pretentious lamentation.

Again-we wouldst stop in front of every farm of lavender;
As though they wanted to know, and couldst but contribute their breaths, and make our love better.
We were both in blooming youth, and still prevailed on-to keep our chastity;
And t'is we obeyed gladly, and by each ot'er, days passed and every second went even lovelier.

But in one minute thou wert but all gone away;
Leaving me astray; leaving me to utter dismay.
I had no more felicity in me-for all was but, in my mind, a dream of thee;
And every step was thus felt like an irretrievable path of agony.

Ah, yon agony I loathe! The very agony I wanted but to slaughter, to redeem-and to bury!
For at t'at time I had known not the beauty of souls, and poetry;
I thought but the world was wholly insipid and arrogant;
T'at was so far as I had seen, so far as I was concerned.

I hath now, seen thy image-from more a lawful angle-and lucidity;
And duly seen more of which-and all start to fall into place-and more indolent, clarity;
All is fair now, though nothing was once as fair;
And now with peace, I want to be friends; I want to be paired.

Perhaps thou couldst once more be part of my tale;
But beforehand, I entreat thee to see, and listen to it;
A tale t'at once sent into my heart great distrust and sadness, and made it pale;
But from which now my heart hath found a way out, and even satisfactorily flirted with it,

For every tale, the more I approach it, is as genuine as thee;
And in t'is way-and t'is way only, I want thee to witness me, I want thee to see me.
I still twitch with tender madness at every figure, and image-I hath privately, of thine;
They are still so captivatingly clear-and a most fabulous treasure to my mind.

My love for thee might hath now ended; and shall from now on-be dead forever;
It hath been buried as a piece of unimportance, and a dear old, obsolete wonder;
And thus worry not, for in my mind it hath become a shadow, and ceased to exist;
I hath made thee resign, I hath made thee drift rapidly away, and desist.

Ah, but again, I shall deny everything I hath said-'fore betraying myself once more;
Or leading myself into the winds of painful gravity, or dismissive cold tremor;
For nothing couldst stray me so well as having thee not by my side;
An image of having thee just faraway-amidst the fierceness of morns, and the very tightness of nights.

And for seconds-t'ese pains shall want to bury me away, want to make me shout;
And shout thy very name indeed; thy very own aggravated silence, and sins out loud;
Ah, for all t'ese shadows about are too vehement-but eagerly eerie;
Like bursts of outspread vigilance, misunderstood but lasting forever, like eternity.

'Twas thy own mistake-and thus thou ought'a blame anyone not;
Thou wert the one to storm away; thou wert the one who cut our story short.
Thou wert the one who took whole leave, of the kind entity-of my precious time and space;
And for nothingness thou obediently set out; leaving all we had built, to abundant waste.

Thou disappeared all too quickly-and wert never seen again;
Thou disappeared like a column of smoke, to whom t'is virtual world is partial;
And none of thy story, since when-hath stayed nor thoughtfully remained;
Nor any threads of thy voice were left behind, to stir and ring, about yon hall.

Thou gaily sailed back into thy proud former motherland;
Ah, and the stirring noises of thy meticulous Amsterdam;
Invariably as a man of royalty, in thy old arduous way back again;
Amongst the holiness of thy mortality; 'twixt the demure hesitations, of thy royal charms.

And thou art strange! For once thou mocked and regarded royalty as *******;
But again, to which itself, as credulous, and soulless victim, thou couldst serenely fall;
Thus thou hath perpetually been loyal not, to thy own pride, and neatly sworn words;
Thou art forever divided in his dilemma; and the unforgiving sweat, of thy frightening two worlds.

Indeed thy godlike eyes once pierced me-and touched my very fleshly happiness;
But with a glory in which I couldst not rejoice; at which I couldst not blush with tenderness.
Thy charms, although didst once burn and throttle me with a ripe vitality;
Still wert not smooth-and ever offered to cuddle me more gallantly; nor kiss my boiling lips, more softly.

Every one of t'ese remembrances shall make me hate thee more;
But thou thyself hath made more forgiving, and excellent-like never before;
'Ah, sweet,' thou wouldst again protested-last night, 'Who in t'is very life wouldst make no sin?'
'Forgiveth every sinned soul thereof; for 'tis unfaithful, for 'tis all inherently mean.'

'Aye, aye,' and thou wouldst assent to my subsequent query,
'I hath changed forever-not for nothingness, but for eternitie.'
'To me love o' gold is now but nothing as succulent',
'I shall offer elegantly myself to not be of any more torment, but as a loyal friend.'

'I shall calleth my former self mad; and be endued with nothing but truths, of rifles and hate;'
'But now I shall attempt to be obedient; and naughty not-towards my fate.'
'Ah, let me amendst thereof-my initial nights, my impetuous mistakes,'
'Let me amendst what was once not dignified; what was once said as false, and fake.'

'So t'at whenst autumn once more findeth its lapse, and in its very grandness arrive,'
'I hopeth thy wealth of love shall hath been restored, and all shall be alive,'
'For nothing hath I attempted to achieve, and for nothing else I hath struggled to strive;'
'But only to propose for thy affection; and thy willingness to be my saluted wife.'

And t'is small confession didst, didst tear my dear heart into pieces!
But canst I say-it was ceremoniously established once more-into settlements of wishes;
I was soon enlivened, and no longer blurred by tumult, nor discourteous-hesitation;
Ah, thee, so sweetly thou hath consoled, and removed from me-the sanctity of any livid strands of my dejection.

For in vain I thought-had I struggled, to solicit merely affection-and genuinity from thee;
For in vain I deemed-thou couldst neither appreciate me-nor thy coral-like eyes, couldst see;
And t'is peril I perched myself in was indeed dangerous to my night and day;
For it robbed me of my mirth; and shrank insolently my pride and conscience, stuffing my wholeness into dismay.

But thou hath now released me from any further embarkation of mineth sorrow;
Thou who hath pleased me yesterday; and shall no more be distant-tomorrow;
Thou who couldst brighten my hours by jokes so fine-and at times, ridiculous;
Thou who canst but, from now on, as satisfactory, irredeemable, and virtuous.

Ah, Nikolaas, farther I shall be no more to calleth thee mad; or render thee insidious;
Thou shall urge me to forget everything, as hating souls is not right, and perilous;
Thou remindeth me of forgiving's glorious, and profound elegance;
And again 'tis the holiest deed we ought to do; the most blessed, and by God-most desired contrivance.

Oh, my sweet, perhaps thou hath sinned about; but amongst the blessed, thou might still be the most blessed;
For nothing else but gratitude and innocence are now seen-in thy chest;
Even when I chastised thee-and called thee but an impediment;
Thou still forgave me, and turned myself back again into elastic merriment.

Thou art now pure-and not by any means meek, but cruel-like thy old self is;
For unlike 'tis now, it couldst never be satisfied, nor satiated, nor pleased;
'Twas far too immersed in his pursuit of bloodied silver, and gold;
And to love it had grown blind, and its greedy woes, healthily too bold.

And just like its bloodied silver-it might be but the evil blood itself;
For it valued, and still doth-every piece with madness, and insatiable hunger;
Its works taint his senses, and hastened thee to want more-of what thou couldst procure-and have,
But it realised not that as time passed by, it made thee but grew worse-and in the most virtuous of truth, no better.

But thou bore it like a piece of godlike, stainless ivory;
Thou showered, and endured it with love; and blessed it with well-established vanity.
Now it hath been purified, and subdued-and any more teaches thee not-how to be impatient, nor imprudent;
As how it prattled only, over crude, limitless delights; and the want of reckless impediments.

Thou nurtured it, and exhorted it to discover love-all day and night;
And now love in whose soul hath been accordingly sought, and found;
And led thee to absorb life like a delicate butterfly-and raiseth thy light;
The light thou hath now secured and refined within me; and duly left me safe, and sound.

Thou hath restored me fully, and made me feel but all charmed, awesome, and way more heavenly;
Thou hath toughened my pride and love; and whispered the loving words he hath never spoken to me.
Ah, I hope thou art now blessed and safely pampered in thy cold, mischievous Amsterdam;
Amsterdam which as thou hath professed-is as windy, and oft' makes thy fingers grow wildly numb.

Amsterdam which is sick with superior lamentations, and fame;
But never adorned with exact, or at least-honest means of scrutiny;
For in every home exists nothing but bursts of madness, and flames;
And in which thereof, lives 'twixt nothing-but meaningless grandeur, and a poorest harmony.

Amsterdam which once placed thee in pallid, dire, and terrible horror;
Amsterdam which gave thy spines thrills of disgust, and infamous tremor;
But from which thou wert once failed, fatefully, neither to flee, nor escape;
Nor out of whose stupor, been able to worm thy way out, or put which, into shape.

But I am sure out of which thou art now delightful-and irresistibly fine;
For t'ere is no more suspicion in thy chest-and all of which hath gone safely to rest;
All in thy very own peace-and the courteous abode of our finest poetry;
Which lulls thee always to sleep-and confer on thee forever, degrees of a warmest, pleasantry.

Ah, Nikolaas-as thou hath always been, a child of night, but born within daylight;
Poor-poor child as well, of the moon, whose life hath been betrayed but by dullness, and fright.
Ah, Nikolaas-but should hath it been otherwise-wouldst thou be able to see thine light?
And be my son of gladness, be my prince of all the more peaceful days; and ratified nights.

And should it be like which-couldst I be the one; the very one idyll-to restore thy grandeur?
As thou art now, everything might be too blasphemous, and in every way obscure;
But perhaps-I couldst turn every of thine nightmare away, and maketh thee secure;
Perhaps I couldst make thee safe and glad and sleep soundly; perfectly ensured.

Ah, Nikolaas! For thy delight is pure-and exceptionally pure, pure, and pure!
And thy innocence is why I shall craft thee again in my mind, and adore thee;
For thy absurdity is as shy, and the same as thy purity;
But in thy hands royalty is unstained, flawless, and just too sure.

For in tales of eternal kingdoms-thou shalt be the dignified king himself;
Thou shalt be blessed with all godly finery, and jewels-which thou thyself deserve;
And not any other tyrant in t'ese worlds-who mock ot'er souls and pretend to be brave;
But trapped within t'eir own discordant souls, and wonders of deceit and curses of reserve.

Oh, sweet-sweet Nikolaas! Please then, help my poetry-and define t'is heart of me!
Listen to its heartbeat-and tellest me, if it might still love thee;
Like how it wants to stretch about, and perhaps touch the moonlight;
The moonlight that does look and seem to far, but means still as much-to our very night.

Ah! Look, my darling-as the moonlight shall smile again, to our resumed story;
If our story is, in unseen future, ever truly resumed-and thus shall cure everything;
As well t'is unperturbed, and still adorably-longing feeling;
The feeling that once grew into remorse-as soon as thou stomped about, and faraway left me.

Again love shall be, in thy purest heart-reincarnated,
For 'tis the only single being t'at is wondrous-and inexhaustible,
To our souls, 'tis but the only salvation-and which is utterly edible,
To console and praise our desperate beings-t'at were once left adrift, and unheartily, infuriated.

Love shall be the cure to all due breathlessness, and trepidations;
Love shall be infallible, and on top of all, indefatigable;
And love shall be our new invite-to the recklessness of our exhausted temptations;
Once more, shall love be our merit, which is sacred and unalterable; and thus unresentful, and infallible.

Love shall fill us once more to the brim-and make our souls eloquent;
Love be the key to a life so full-and lakes of passion so ardent;
Enabling our souls to flit about and lay united hands on every possible distinction;
Which to society is perhaps not free; and barrier as they be, to the gaiety of our destination.

Thus on the rings of union again-shall our dainty hearts feast;
As though the entire world hath torn into a beast;
But above all, they shan't have any more regrets, nor hate;
Or even frets, for every fit of satisfaction hath been reached; and all thus, hath been repaid.

Thus t'is might be thee; t'at after all-shall be worthy of my every single respect;
As once thou once opened my eyes-and show me everything t'at t'is very world might lack.
Whilst thou wert striving to be admirable and strong; t'is world was but too prone and weak;
And whilst have thy words and poetry; everyone was just perhaps too innocent-and had no clue, about what to utter, what to speak.

Thou might just be the very merit I hath prayed for, and always loved;
Thou might hath lifted, and relieved me prettily; like the stars very well doth the moon above.
And among your lips, lie your sweet kisses t'at made me live;
A miracle he still possesses not; a specialty he might be predestined not-to give.

Thou might be the song I hath always wanted to written;
But sadly torn in one day of storm; and thus be secretly left forgotten;
Ah, Nikolaas, but who is to say t'at love is not at all virile, easily deceived, and languid?
For any soul saying t'at might be too delirious, or perhaps very much customary, and insipid.

And in such darkness of death; thou shalt always be the tongue to whom I promise;
One with whom I shall entrust the very care of my poetry; and ot'er words of mouth;
One I shall remember, one I once so frightfully adored, and desired to kiss;
One whose name I wouldst celebrate; as I still shall-and pronounce every day, triumphantly and aggressively, out loud.

For thy name still rings within me with craze, but patterned accusation, of enjoyment;
For thy art still fits me into bliss, and hopeful expectations of one bewitching kiss;
Ah, having thee in my imagination canst turn me idle, and my cordial soul-indolent;
A picture so naughty it snares my whole mind-more than everything, even more than his.

Oh, Nikolaas, and perhaps so thereafter, I shall love, and praise thee once more-like I doth my poetry;
For as how my poetry is, thou art rooted in me already; and thus breathe within me.
Thou art somehow a vein in my blood, and although fictitious still-in my everyday bliss;
Thou art worth more than any other lov

A blackening morning bleeds and deepens
the opening of iron lungs. Paperweight
bones threaten gaiety and the smell of sleep.

Such sadness pours inward, it has chosen
the wrong body as cold folds over the world,
so it feels real, stained frost in vacuous black.

The pure leap of malignity agitates
the interior of a woman's red heart,
melting like embers.

In the sulphur, words dry while water
slides down. Drips and thickens.
Gaping hole exposed- too early for the dawn.

Today takes a bath in rain
Feel it wash away my sins!
Toady takes a bath in rain
Feel it wash away my stains!
Today takes a bath in rain
Feel it wash away my ascendance!
Today takes a bath in rain
and rain  instill gaiety in me!

An empty boat glides through a tide-less sea
Echos of thunderous silence reminisces the rowdy sailors once on board
Without fear they sailed across the dark waters
Without the knowledge of forthcoming doom they kept the spirits high
Navigation impaired by the wrath of silence, their abominable gaiety and preposterous hopes were muted for eternity
Life drained, flesh rotted, bones crumbled to dust, and the boat was filled with peaceful death
Though without an inhabitant it still continues to drift towards a predesitned chaos
Its calm trail behind disrupted by an impatient tranquility
Its still path ahead disallows all animations with an unfluent time
Yet it moves forward

I feeleth so anxious as the fleshy winds outside,
Invisible as their turquoise screams, I feeleth like everything is just not right;
Ah, but how if even all later suns shan't be fair,
And t'is passivity shan't ever be bound to fade?
For my soul declares-t'at he, it wants not any more to care;
And about thee only, it wants to be quiet, yet witty still-like yon pale lovesick summer glade;
I want to attach myself to our captivated hours right now;
With thee in my lap, and thy gentle whispers-as today shall be replaced by tomorrow.
I want to dream of thee once more tonight, o sweet Nikolaas;
My darling at present and from the future, whilst my only dearest, from the past.
Ah, sweetheart, why are but our subsequent hours-and perhaps paths, to suffer;
If thou art not by my side, and maketh not all t'is terseness better?
Ah, and wouldst it ever make sense any longer;
To live by him-but without thee, wouldst it but make my wild heart easier?
For censure is to which my answer, and is hatred-for I cannot help loving thee more;
I wanteth to love, and age-by thee, and by thee only, within my most passionate core,
And I wanteth not to understand anything-for comprehension shall but renew our last sorrow;
I wanteth instead-to renew t'is despaired wholeness, and its proven compassion-our love has once made nature show.

I still wanteth to remain quiet; to cherish and glitter within my wholesome devotion;
But which duly keepest me sober, and maketh my doubled heart tremble not;
Calmeth me, calmeth me with thy kisses-so enormous and tasty, like a quiet can of little soda;
Maketh me accursed, petty, and corny-maketh me thy lands' most dreaded infanta.
Tease me like I am a quivering little darling, who cannot but tries shyly still-to sing;
With a coarse voice descended from sunlight, where the worst are joy, and lovingly mean everything.
Maketh me honest, and tempteth me deeper and more;
Until I sighest and flittest myself away, with agility like never before.
Consumeth my greed-and with it, drinkest away its all befallen vitality;
For I knoweth thou shalt restore me, and reneweth all my endeavoured weaponry.
Ah, Nikolaas, how sweet doth feel t'ese blessings, by thy very side!
Nikolaas, Nikolaas, my lover-my sweet husband, from whom my hungry soul canst never hide!
Oh, and darling, Amsterdam might be cold, and plastered with one slippery tantrum;
But thou art still too comely to me-with those familiar eyes like a poem;
A poem t'at my very heart owns, and is graciously fat'd to be thine;
And thine only-for as I danceth later-in my princess' frock, I knoweth t'at thou art mine.
Ah, but fear thou not-for shall I protect thee like t'is;
I shall slander thy rival west and east, I shall degrade t'em all to'a yawning beast!
And upon my victory be I at ease-and finely grateful;
On which truth shall spring, and maketh our love venerated-and more fruitful!
Ah, just like I had b'fore-how canst kissing thee be extremely pleasant,
Even whenst he be t'ere, or perhaps-be the one concerned?
I hath to admit, t'at 'tis thee-and not him, I so dearly want;
Thee who hath painted my love, and made everything cross but all fun;
Thee whose disguise is my airs, and who hath ceaselessly promised to be fair,
Thee whom I'th dreamt of t' be my lifelong prince, with whom I wish to be paired,
Thee whose recitations lift my heart upwards, and my delight proud;
Thee whose poems hath I crafted, and oftentimes recited sensibly, out loud.

Ah, t'at devil-who told us t'at our joys cannot be real;
For they are not at all virtuous-nor by any chance, vigorous?
Ah, fear not those human serpents, darling, whose mouths are moth-like-bloodless but who canst ****;
For to God they are mortal still, and to His eyes whose jokes are not fun, nor humorous;
And thus we shall be together, as we indeed already are;
For our delight is not to be altered-no longer, as dwells already, in our heart;
We shall come back to it soon, as tonight's full moon smilingly starts;
And exalt it as wint'r comes-dear winter, as perhaps only be it, one few months' far;
Ah, and be I then, crush all t'is impatient longing, and sorely missed affection;
And vanquish all the way, t'is all omnipotent sin-of having loved only, a severe affliction;
Oh, but under whose guidance, Amsterdam shall embark again, and smile upon us;
And lift our tosses of joys, into the lapses of its sweet thunders, fast!
Ah, Nikolaas, shall we thus be together, under the wings of Amsterdam's rainbow;
To which endings shan't even once appear; as guilt be then dead-and is not to show;
The only left opus of love be ours to sing, as heaven is-so benevolent;
Betray us not, with fruits of indifference-much less once of one malice, and gay impediment;
And our happiness shall be pure-and entangled, like a pair of newborn twins;
To which our fantasies are finally correct, and thus its affixed lust-shall no more be a sin.

Such love and lust-whose fidelities shall be our abode;
But by whose words-delusions shall never arrive, and thus be put aside;
Novelties shall be fine, and their definitions shall be lovely;
They shall twitch not-for a simple moment of starched felicity!
Oh my darling, I needst to come and visit my wealthy Amsterdam;
With authenticity now I entreat: myself, myself, ah, run there-whenst stop doth time!
For as we embarketh, no more worrisome medleys shall they come again, to bring;
And to no more sonata, shall they retort-nor so adversely, and dishonestly, sing.
Ah, Nikolaas, the stars are now obediently looking down at us;
Jealous of our shimmering love, which is the lush garden's yonder, giddy beaut;
Ah, who is shy to its own mirror, and oft' looks away so fast;
But needst not to swerve, factually, for 'tis, on its really own-has but very much truth!
But still, whose hastiness maketh it succumb-and even more bashful then the sky;
Ah, as if those pastimes of its ****** soul are always about-and be termed but as a single lie!
For it shall never happen, to it-who owns our midnight hours-with one promise to be skirted away too fast;
With not even a single pause, nor a second of rest-while it passes?
Ah love, our very love; its circular stains, nevertheless, as left hurriedly-too massive to resist;
For they giveth taste to our plain moonlight-and thick'ning flavours to our kiss;
So at our first night of gaiety thereof-we won't be hunger for earning too much bliss!
Ah, Nikolaas, all shall be perfect-for felicity is no longer on our part-to miss,
And t'is part of our earthly journey shall feel, defiantly like heaven!
I shall be thine-and claim no more my thine self as his;
In thee doth I find my salvation, my fancy dome-and my most studious cavern!
All which, certainly-is his not; all which shall be ripe, and thus fragrant-like a rose perfume;
And by whose spell-we shall be love itself, and even be loved-within the walls of our private haven;
And even then, we shall love each other more-as be cradled in each other's arms; and lost like this, in such a league of harmonious poems.

Amsterdam shan't be rigorous, it shall be all fair,
Its notions are curious, like these but entrancing summer days;
Thinking of which is but a sweat-but a bead of sweat for which I most care,
Which is neither dreadful nor boastful, as I devour it avidly, amongst t'is poem I'm 'bout to say!
And t' mindfulness of which, I shall no more hastily rid of;
I was too dreary back then, crudely foreshadowed by a crippled love!
'Twas my mistake-my supposedly most punished, punished mistake;
For faking a love I ought not t've ever made, and one I ought not t' ever take!
A mere dream I hath now fiercely pushed away;
And from which I hath now returned, to my most precious loyalty,
As thou knoweth-thou hath never wholly, and so freely-left me,
Thou art all too genuine, and pristine, like yon silvery river-as I oft' picture thee.
Ah, so t'at is all true; t'at thou art my most gracious, and unswept loving angel,
A prince of royalty, and my very, very own nighttime spell.
Just like thou hath done hundreds of time, thou maketh me but delight and mischief;
And notions t'at bubble within my most, giving me charms and comfort-for me to continue to live!
Together, our lips shall be warm-and no more joy shall be left naked;
Soon as there are more tears, we shall throttle and fairly feast on it;
Making it all but remotely conscious, and forcibly-but sensibly, deluded;
Making it writhe away impaired, and its all possible soul awesomely flattened!
Ah, Nikolaas, thou shalt be the mere charm t'at leaves my odes too fabulous-by thy wit,
Oh, my darling, for thou art so sweet; o, Nikolaas, I really hath only my words, to play with!

And guess what, my darling, heaven shall but gift us nobly, all too soon;
An heir shall we claim; as descendeth one day beneath the excited full moon.
For he shall be born into our naughtiest perusal;
And demand our affection excitedly, as time is long, as arrives winter-from last fall!
Soft is his hair, clutched in his skin-so bare and naive;
He shall be our triumph, and a farther everyday desire, to continue to live!
And we shall consider him our undefined, yet a priceless fortune;
Light as the night, at times singular but cheery-like the sketch of a fine moon.
And portray in us both the loveliness of a million words;
He shall be handsome, just like our love-which is damp but funny, in whose two brilliant worlds!
Oh, my darling, I now looketh forward to my heavenly Amsterdam;
Whose prettiness shall be thoughtful, as I thinketh of it-from time to time.
Ah, thus-when all finally happeneth, I shall know thou art worth the whole entity of my thousand longings;
Thou art the miracle t'at I hath decently prayed for-and thus fathomably, the very sweet soul-of my everything.

Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.

Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.

Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?

Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.

Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.

Camille: You are boring.

Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?

Camille: I love another.

Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!

Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.

Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?

Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.

Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.

Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.

Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?

Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.

Camille: …

Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?

Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?

Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.

Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.

Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.

Rodin: What have I done wrong?

Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.

Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?

Camille: No. The lion’s cage.

*Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.

~
Underneath a crushing moonlit
Roses are dancing in a glow garden
Cram of comeliness whispering through my pensive
Applaud an agitating mind of dragging love
That submerging under a poetic passion
A wild **** of beauty wishing to crave a romance
Stressing on mind that makes
Bubbles of emotions simultaneously,
Touching and filling the empty dreams
That essence of heaven creating the melody of divine music
Passing through the poet's nose and nails
Deep ache  popping at the heart and stone
There render of love conceiving to catch a **** of heaven
A tangible gaiety that creates so surprising illusion
The glimmer chords becoming to splash
The utmost inflames growing to outburst,
Bursts into the fire of gaiety--
Psyche pouring a fathomless passion till the twilight
Where there I am dancing alone with my shadow,
Ah! my Love--
Oh! my Love ----
What a Crushing Moonlit!!  
~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

Red is the color of passion, but the passion of love
A firey burning sensation, heating and fueling lover's desire
Orange is the color of energy, blinding, and fast
Zipping through space and recharging the multiverse
Yellow is the color of friendship, sunshine and bright
Lifting frowns and bringing joy to all
Green is the color of life, growth, expansion
Of Gaia and the vibrant vivacity of Mother Earth
Blue is the color of sadness and melancholy and despair
Of the salty water of both tear and sea
Indigo is the color of calm and surging stillness, contemplation
And intellect, the color of knowledge
Violet is the color of passion also, the passion of music and art
Powerful and strong, mellowed and smooth
And octamarine is the color of magic, the eighth color of the rainbow, falling off the edge of the world into space
White and black, not contained within a rainbow, but both contain the rainbow themselves, they intertwine, yin and yang
White signifying good, pureness, gaiety, life
Black symbolising evil, taint, gloominess, death

one song
one dance
one story
one chance

i sing in equal joy
i laugh in equal fun
each time in equal bliss
i wonder in equal pun

here is
the day borne
on sleeves
of my heart!

Hey Delilah, whatchu doin tonight
I'm comin right over, we gotta get over our lives..our lives

Hey Delilah, take my hand it is strong
Its gonna get over, we gotta get over your howl..
the sound..of fear

Heed the call now
It's waves resonate in you
shredding the soul
many steps we walk through..to the tune

Circular Paths, streets are callin wild
Resides in our heart
Our vibrational soul
in the while, for awhile, all our days

It would be a sin against my God to live in ignorance of your touch
Feel the Divinity of your womanly warmth, of your warmth
To Explore your innermost fathoms
and the Reflection of Desire in your eye
Found in the sensual meditation of your gaze,
in the night

Our Bodies belong together
The story of their union was told
Long before our birth on this earth, in the old, it was told

Like David on the roof top
For you a man would die in war
So meet me by the hillside
We'll grow old, in the shadow of the wood

Away from tired world notion
of what is right or good
Lay with me next to gurgling streams
Adorned with Gold
Whose gaiety of movement
it will match our own
Finding ******* freedom in the forest
The air both sweet and pure

WE CAN BE TOGETHER
THERE LOST IN TIME
HEED MY CALL IT IS WILD AND WARM IN YOUR EYE,
IN YOUR EYE THROUGH THE NIGHT

HEYAHA!

What I am I don't Know!
I run along Rivers and stand naked in snow
Climb Waterfalls, Smile in Trees, and Howl at the Moon
Surf on the Dunes
Swim in the Sea
Lie on the shore in the breeze
If you should ask me I don't know ask me again
I'll never know my friend

You want something from me
a guarantee
Not mine to give
Falling right over, we gotta get over the fear
of the fear

Feel these arms, they can take you down
fold you right up in the valley of womanly streams
Lost in the waters, Life is a dream

There is nooo goin back....From whence we came
Time is like a river wild, untamed, untamed
Endlessly moving forward
into stratums unknown
Make the most of this moment or ever, forever, feel the pains of cowardice alone

The past is like a window
Burns HOT like the sun
Everyone makes choices and hopes they're not wrong

Life is like a river with so many streams
We all go into the ocean drowning with dreams
With dreams left unsaid

It's been awhile, we're gonna find it again
A human connection, Life is dominated by sin
The material
The desire for more, are we here to acquire a Mate?
A family, a woman, a house?
A couple share their drink


Listen to the river of sand
The torrent of Maia
The reign of illusion, found in your hand
Desire
Are we man enough to face it?
To seize our fates?

We live, as cowards, surviving in shadow
What is our personality, Id or the Ego
Liar...Livin in Time

Standing in the Present Moment
Ignoring my Father again
all things come to an end my friend, your lonely soul therein

Deadened tissue of the heart
nothingness invading
wink of the light
rapturous smile, earthly delight, breeds tomorrow's sorrow

Livin' on the last straw
cresting a turquoise wave
Risking the razor's edge of our fall
Dying with a Song on stage
Sensual desire,
wrapped in the spirit,
touched by the Dark, touched by the Light
Hundred million reasons to fight

Rain Wash this age away
Leave me naked in the wind as I came, as I came
Spread cushioned by the bedding of green moss
Birthed in a forest, sonic cataclysmic sound
Consequence, all our dreamin and dreamin and dreamin around

The cog revolves around the wheel
Fire dancer breathing still
In the harmonium of the heart
Into the night we fly to survive

Gaiety.
What a good way to hide my pain.

Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mother downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady,

I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat; and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.

My vessel has been anchored, attacked, and conquered
Leaving the pieces shattered and somber
Stranded within a dynamic society
My lifeless bones still dance with gaiety

Misguided, unrequited, i have lost my light
And here i lie undecided
if sinking is a reward of being silent
Lost in a sea composed of
stringless, seamless puppets
I'm reluctant, broken, cracked and sewed in
Posed and told how to blend within
The flawless flaws of retrospective laws
Oppress what others call a
“Suitable demographic”

My vessel has been anchored, attacked, and conquered
Leaving the pieces shattered and somber
Stranded within a dynamic society
My lifeless bones still dance with gaiety

Attach the wires and deem yourself my master
Superiority begets a systematic wrath of
Powerless demons with a potent strategy
Demand my steps to guide you into the perfect victory
Media-- social media socializing the roles like ghouls of anesthesia
Taking the control, then providing a hole of grief, anger, less goals and lost souls.

My vessel has been anchored, attacked, and conquered
Leaving the pieces shattered and somber
Stranded within a dynamic society
My lifeless bones still dance with gaiety

O! How I long endear myself
to thee,
in the urgency of my desire
to yield to the mercy
of this faithful destiny!
As soon I am about to commence
my new course of journey,
embracing the heath on the hills
and the dark of the mills
looking for wholehearted sincerity,
healing my long-lost gaiety,
prudence, and generosity!
O subtle, yet perilous gaiety that
was ignored by such disparagement,
and its fabulous tenacity!
Ardent, merciless tenacity!
That but shan't befriend the course
of thy adultery, yet praise thy ignominy
and infamy in an adorable, inherent manner!
But never forget that the entire breadth
of this journey
I devote to thee:
in order that thee would become my love,
my soul, and all the healthy demeanour beneath;
thou hath my life, kisses, and
the sacred secrets of my fiery health.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being set on the idea
Of getting to Atlantis,
You have discovered of course
Only the Ship of Fools is
Making the voyage this year,
As gales of abnormal force
Are predicted, and that you
Must therefore be ready to
Behave absurdly enough
To pass for one of The Boys,
At least appearing to love
Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,
Drive you to anchor a week
In some old harbour-city
Of Ionia, then speak
With her witty scholars, men
Who have proved there cannot be
Such a place as Atlantis:
Learn their logic, but notice
How its subtlety betrays
Their enormous simple grief;
Thus they shall teach you the ways
To doubt that you may believe.

If, later, you run aground
Among the headlands of Thrace,
Where with torches all night long
A naked barbaric race
Leaps frenziedly to the sound
Of conch and dissonant gong:
On that stony savage shore
Strip off your clothes and dance, for
Unless you are capable
Of forgetting completely
About Atlantis, you will
Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay
Carthage or Corinth, take part
In their endless gaiety;
And if in some bar a ****,
As she strokes your hair, should say
"This is Atlantis, dearie,"
Listen with attentiveness
To her life-story: unless
You become acquainted now
With each refuge that tries to
Counterfeit Atlantis, how
Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last
Near Atlantis, and begin
That terrible trek inland
Through squalid woods and frozen
Thundras where all are soon lost;
If, forsaken then, you stand,
Dismissal everywhere,
Stone and now, silence and air,
O remember the great dead
And honour the fate you are,
Travelling and tormented,
Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onward rejoicing;
And even then if, perhaps
Having actually got
To the last col, you collapse
With all Atlantis shining
Below you yet you cannot
Descend, you should still be proud
Even to have been allowed
Just to peep at Atlantis
In a poetic vision:
Give thanks and lie down in peace,
Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods
Have started crying, but say
Good-bye now, and put to sea.
Farewell, my dear, farewell: may
Hermes, master of the roads,
And the four dwarf Kabiri,
Protect and serve you always;
And may the Ancient of Days
Provide for all you must do
His invisible guidance,
Lifting up, dear, upon you
The light of His countenance.

The glitter of strobe
gratuitous gaiety
platitudes
and sanctimonious guile

******* cocktails
on the menu
an ingratiating mask
a gratified grin

Contorted vocal chords
lots of laughter
no time for irony
look at me.

vibrant colors effervescent arrays
energetically on show for the eye's window
gardens ebullient with vivacious displays

front and backyards brilliantly aglow
hues of a rainbow a springtime glory
energetically on show for the eye's window

a paint box of shades telling the story
streets and avenues resplendent of decoration
hues of a rainbow a springtime story

our towns and villages so bright in elation
they bring a gaiety after winter's drear
streets and avenues resplendent of decoration

it does gladden the heart when they appear
the floral tones of cerise purple and orange bloom
they bring a gaiety after winter's drear

spring displacing the cold season's gloom
the floral tones of cerise purple and orange bloom
vibrant colors effervescent arrays
gardens ebullient with vivacious displays

Dreary of a dark empty space,
The loneliness crowded,
Which somewhat I called—
"A Place Unwanted."
To them may it be madness:
A pretense of his suffering,
His mindful selfishness.
But not how I would label me.

To be covered in lunacy:
Lies coming from about,
Changing colors and theme,
Wading of goodness.
Their ways of hypocrisy.
I was a sea of countless woe,
To be brave but unsure.
Am I ever safe, if I never show?

The gaiety beyond avenue,
Through under glass I look.
The joy fits for most,
But not a dream to be oath.
Overtaking my inmost true,—
These things behind the sun.
What I should walk away from,
But it could never be done.

I. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

II. The Spilled Blood

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!

I will not see it!

The cow of the ancient world
passend har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!

Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him.
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood.
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multitude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!

But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No challice can contain it,no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!

III. The Laid Out Body

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cyprseses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

For stone fathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death was covered him with pale sulphur
and his place on him the head of dark minotaur.

All is finshed. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away.
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody ****** the spurs, not terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.

I want them to show me a lament like a river
which will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

I don't want to cover his face with hankerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

IV:

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever.

The autumn will come with small whiet snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
becuaase you have died forever.

Because you have died froever,
like al lthe dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Nobody knows you. No, but I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth:
of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

(For Harry Clifton)

I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-***** in
Until the town lie bearen flat.

All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
Camel-back; horse-back, ***-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.

Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.

Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty ***** where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.

I read enough to know that
a life of balance is ideal,
far removed from deprivation,
equally distant from excess.

Atheism is excess.

So is Theism.

But if you said you were agnostic
it would be easier for me
to swallow...

    I thought about a pink sky tonight
when the mystery of ancient man
didn't move me but
         the light from a dead star did,
and I realized in an instant why
your sky isn't pink.
Your sky isn't pink because
           following the crowd
is not your style, and
what they see you see right through
to depths a bit deeper and
          more complex.

                If I were a god
I would show myself pink
by painting the sky for the masses

                     but not for you.

For you I would do more because
I know you would need more,
and because I    (as a god)
would know you more than
        you know yourself.

I would meet you where you are
      because I know who you are.

You are the one
who walks into a room
full of strangers at a party
and in very short order
the world slows down
and almost stops
and you ask yourself
why am I the only person
conscious at this very moment?
and while laughter and gaiety
surround you, closes in on you,
the only way to survive it is
to escape it,
escape the constant chatter
of dysfunctional consciousness,
the volatile shifting from
yes to no,
simple things that should
be known you don’t know
because your boundaries are
un-defined.
You may very easily know
that her dress is out of season
and his Affliction shirt
screams *****, or that she
shouldn’t wear white
before Easter and for sure
he’d be smart to shave the
back of his neck,
while on a deeper level
you recognize every fear
and every failure in the lives
of these party goers,
you know who is hurting
and you know which ones cheat
and you know the good lovers
and the fathers and mothers,
you can pick out the sinners by
the look in their eye
and all of this is easy until
the spotlight shines on you
and It always shines on you
eventually,
and when it does
your fears and frauds
will be revealed
and the only way
to make it all go away
is to run,
run to the bottom of a bottle,
run to the white gold and pearls,
run to where the numbness sets in
and maybe you'll fit in for a bit,
but you know it never lasts,
and you curse yourself
and you look to the sky for
the pink(like everyone else)
but it never works
and why should it?

Its easy for them
to see the sky as pink.....

Its easy to admit it
because they want to fit in..

for you I would jump in
      and read your mind
and give your secrets to
a fellow poet who might tell you
           what I told him so
you might struggle with
the recollection of never
having told anyone.

Next I would show you
how I listen to your heart
by writing pink words like these
but I would make sure that
there was no other explanation
                      and there isn’t.

Or maybe, just maybe, less subtle,
I'd reveal myself through
another troubled soul singing
                  “Down in a Hole”
I was right there with him
     but he didn't see me
          and now he's gone,
but you didn't see me either
    because maybe
              I was too easy to see,
look again and see me now

youtube.com/watch?v=D-uN22sI4JM

                       I am
the pink hair on top of his head.

I have been there for you to see
                        so many times
I will be there for you
so many more

You have seen me in
the wrinkled pink palm
of Frank's hand,

you have seen me in flamingos
back dropped by a blue sky,

you have seen me in
grilled cheese sandwiches
and pink dandelions,
(yes there are pink dandelions,
you just never noticed)

you have seen me in
pink guardrails,

you have seen me in
the pink morning of
the day after you didn't
**** yourself,

you have seen me in the
pink and narrow edges
around the musts,

and how about your
estranged husband
touching the pink of
your bare knee?

Yep, that was me too.

I could go on and on
       but this must end
so I leave you with words
you’ve likely read before,

“If then, I were asked for the most
important advice I could give,
that which I considered to be the
most useful to the men of our
century, I should simply say: In the
name of God, stop a moment,
cease your work, look around you”

-Leo Tolstoy
Essays, Letters and Miscellanies


In other words,

Look for the pink in everything.

A middle-northern March, now as always—
gusts from the South broken against cold winds—
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves—not into April—into a second March,

the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping
upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree
upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.

So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year!
—newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back
the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house,
see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow
at the Palace.
                    Stop here, these are our oleanders.
When they are in bloom—
                                       You would waste words
It is clearer to me than if the pink
were on the branch.  It would be a searching in
a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,
shows the very reason for their being.

And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need
to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better
see the white.
                      It is that very perfume
has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough?
It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone
loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings—
not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion
of a sigh.  A too heavy sweetness proves
its own caretaker.
And here are the orchids!
                                        Never having seen
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you:
This is an odd January, died—in Villon’s time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.

And this, a certain July from Iceland:
a young woman of that place
breathed it toward the South.  It took root there.
The color ran true but the plant is small.

This falling spray of snow-flakes is
a handful of dead Februaries
prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez
of Guatemala.
                      Here’s that old friend who
went by my side so many years:  this full, fragile
head of veined lavender.  Oh that April
that we first went with our stiff lusts
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill—
May, they said she was.  A hand for all of us:
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.

June is a yellow cup I’ll not name; August
the over-heavy one.  And here are—
russet and shiny, all but March.  And March?
Ah, March—
                   Flowers are a tiresome pastime.
One has a wish to shake them from their pots
root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.

Walk out again into the cold and saunter home
to the fire.  This day has blossomed long enough.
I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze
instead which will at least warm our hands
and stir up the talk.
                             I think we have kept fair time.
Time is a green orchard.

There, high aloft the flaming sky
    Ablaze with the sun's intense heat
A boy, calmly, gaily did fly
    The world a globe beneath his feet
The sky an eye of molten blue
    The fields green blooming in gold
Of wheat and grains, the ploughman drew
    Whilst calm ocean waves did unfold

And crashed against the mighty shore
    Studded with rocks, and moist and cool
Where sat upon the golden floor
    The fisherman near the dull pool
Trying throughout the weary day
    Catch any fish, a meal to serve
His cursed stomach which growled fray
    And twined in locks each of his nerve

And on that pool, a fearsome ship
    With azure flags, a dreary mast
Most quietly, quickly did skip
    The tremulous ocean waves, past
Stealing the food the fisherman
    Yearned to catch but never did he
And Icarus flew higher than
    His father had told him to be

Out of his thrill, his bliss, his joy
    He tried to claim the sun, the skies
Only his tries made him the boy
    To fall into his dark demise
And as he rose, he rose most high
    He lost his wings, like bright the oars
Once pedaling throughout the sky
    Melted away, he lost his course

And suddenly his feathers flew
    Like pollen in the midst of spring
And down into the profound blue
    He went on fast and tumbling
His cries for pleas were never heard
    Ne'er spoken from his withered throat
And down just like an injured bird
    He tumbled and drowned near the boat

What marvelous a sight as seen
    A boy tumbling from out the sky
Ne'er the ploughman plowing the green
    Did see him, he was left to die
Tumbling further beneath the brine
    As Daedalus flew high around
“O, gods, where is the son of mine,
    There is no sign, there is no sound

Of his warm breath, his lively beat
    That chimed away in gaiety
Where did he go, did his end meet
    O, what have you have done to me!”
And so he flew around, away
    Fisher saw nix, the boat passed by
And life continued day by day
    As Icarus was left to die

Little wallflower at the back of the room
Sitting pretty, waiting to bloom
Watching the others in their gaiety
Dreaming of tiny steps to spontaneity

If you have something to say, say it
But even when you do, you delay it
Sitting in the back all alone
Where have you hidden your backbone?

You wait it out until that perfect silence
The challenge, the defiance
Of delivering the right answer
When everyone else just stands there

But it seems it will never come
You'd rather they think you were dumb
Instead of watching the heads turn
And feeling your throat burn

And it has to be something meaningful
Something wise, beneficial
Because this is the leaf upturned
This is the incense finally burned

You must be wise and reveal a profound truth
Or the silent one will be seen as the dumb mute
But not too weird and different either
Or you might as well be having a seizure

As you speak there is such an unjust silence
And as you finish an applause and laughter like raw violence
For despite your careful wording
They will never pay attention to anything but asserting

Asserting, asserting is gold
Asserting yourself and being bold
Being confident, being ****
Being exposed, being rude

Even if you proved the professor wrong
Even if in three seconds you wrote a song
Even if you recited a hundred digits of Pi
All they care about is that you are speaking and that you were once shy

And that
my friends
is a spectacle

To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,

I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.

The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.

Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.

But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.

There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.

I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.

Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

I appeared that one random day some years ago when the stars were galloping.

since then each step I take picturesque the clip I've been rolling.

I remember that day when mom told me that to live was to encounter a blessing and struggling was the way we inherit a trophy for generations that lived.

I was deceived by the unrealistic heroism of many martyrs who died before me.

in fact, the spotlights were not meant for me as I expected. fate put me far removed from any truth I’ve worshiped.

some days I move in urge and fly very high. I heal my wounds and forgive people who randomly get me to taunt.

some days I scream without words and get drowned in my own nightmares. I drop death thinking of any chance to collect my own mythical strikes.

after all, I still reopen my eyes to a bizarre sight; I wonder if it is the answer to all the prayers I've murmured in my solemn nights

or perhaps it is just the doom I've been daydreaming about all the time.

of the truths spoken and the marks of my barefoot steps, I pledge for an eternal gaiety. And a place of my own kind.

Flickering lights, viewing my chipped nails and reading my favorite book is what I was doing the first time our lives would change.
For the better or for the worse, I still don't know till this very day.
A light flashes on the phone.
The intrigued and perfected message was you wanting company.
I said hesitantly, yes. Not knowing what was to be a questionable night.
The thoughts in my head are quick to think of mystery.
He must be bored or doesn't want to be home.
I then express such harsh tones about myself.
Why would he want to hang out with me, I'm so boring and such a loner.
I never go out though, I think to myself. If I say I'm a loner or shy, I should change that, starting now.
Pretty bipolar thoughts, right?
You approached my home with such an tense yet comforted look as I approach you.
We both sensed discomfort yet comfort at the same time with each other.
I sensed in your voice such sorrow.
Your face with such pain.
Your body language of tremendous anxiety.
Yet, despite your melancholic emotions, you were happy and solaced with company.
Before heading towards the hazy moment of what was to come, we stopped.
Annoyance of my vexatious monthly moments, I itched for something sweet.
Taken by surprise, you bought me a little tub of vanilla ice cream.
We headed to our destination shortly after this fortuitous sweet incident.
The night sky was so chilling yet beautiful.
The moon illuminated as if it was scantly born.
Bright full stars shined below the sparkling water hitting the sand with such a tender touch.
The dialogue went from gaiety chatter to hushed gossip to attentive talk.
I can feel your manic energy as if you wanted to spill out a heavenly secret.
My body gets the sudden chills and you ask if I wanted his sweater to borrow.
The sky along with being near the icy beach water, it was a stinging cold night.
I hesitantly said yes, in a shivering cracked voice.
You put on this thick and warm jean jacket on me, then...
I felt such a burning desirable gaze at me.
My face began to burn with such bashfulness.
His eyes were so bewitching.
With an fluorescent blue, I thought it suddenly turned to daylight.
I looked away with such awkwardness of myself.
But he didn't mind it. He never did.
We head towards the car.
Street lights of a radiant orange and yellow run past us as a streak.
Accelerated cars whirl on the same and opposite side of us.
The music playing is a darken soul pop star singing through the speakers as we both talk about our ill-starred relationships.
Our tortured minds are intertwined with each other at this point.
We both tunefully feel it.
The night ends,
We both say goodnight and you generously walk me to my front door.
Your body grows closer to me and I sense your mood had changed since your mournful approach towards my home only hours ago.
Your charming eyes focus on my face again, but now suddenly to my lips.
I wanted to, I really did, but it was not the right time.
Saying our goodbyes, I look out my window and see you drive off.
What is he thinking?
Did I disappoint him?
Is he ok?
I hope he gets home safe.
I get a message he is home safe and thanks me for a wonderful night.
He's thankful for the company tonight.
Did I do the right thing by not kissing him immediately?
I don't know.
Do I regret it?
I don't know.
Does he even remember that night or even bother to think of anything of our time together?
I don't know.
But I know for a fact, that we had an unfathomable connection in those rare times together.
At least I like to think so..
I hope then, and even now, he still thinks of those times
when I hope he felt a comfort in knowing at least someone was there for him in that time.
That day was the day I saw him as my sun.
And I was the moon.

Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture  ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection  
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..

243

I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent—
To wrap its shining Yards—
Pluck up its stakes, and disappear—
Without the sound of Boards
Or Rip of Nail—Or Carpenter—
But just the miles of Stare—
That signalize a Show’s Retreat—
In North America—

No Trace—no Figment of the Thing
That dazzled, Yesterday,
No Ring—no Marvel—
Men, and Feats—
Dissolved as utterly—
As Bird’s far Navigation
Discloses just a Hue—
A plash of Oars, a Gaiety—
Then swallowed up, of View.

Tea time is not how it used to be,—
full of gaiety and life.
Only now, it's full of woe,
and tears drip into my cup.
One day, perhaps soon,
all alone, tea time shall return again—
to being a cheerful occasion.
I go on thinking what tea time could have been like.

-M.H.-

color me turquoise
the color of serenity
the color of healing
the color of heaven
the color of positive energy

color me indigo
the color of mourning
the color of reminiscence
the color of melancholy

color me blue
color me with the silk lips that have kissed all that is beautiful
color me with the fluttering eyes that could tell unlimited tales
color me with the tip of your finger that traces every pore of my ivory crème skin
color me with the blood that bleeds through my heart like honey

color me with the color of gaiety and sorrow
therefore color me grieving
and color me euphoric

you are solely responsible for dyeing my dominant scarlet colored blood a puzzling sapphire hue.


nevertheless, color me blue.

London England*


I am old now
old and tired the music Hall is fading
old clowns in baggy pants don't seem funny anymore.
The flickering silver light of the cinema
was growing brighter almost everyday.
My days are over playing for Victoria  Empress of Britain .
My whole life vanished like it never happened so meaningless.

I am alone never married, the stage is a wife I suppose.
No wife to turn to  I turn to the bottle
she puts me to sleep numbs my soul.
Old Jack the doorman at the Gaiety in London.
He lets me in for free every night to watch the Music Hall artist.
There not like you were sir --he still calls me sir.

A  juggler, a singer,a magician,a comedian, and showgirls.
And  oh yes A ballet dancer.she is so young and beautiful
I think I come here just to see her.
If I had not found the bouquet of flowers
in the entrance, she would be dead now.
I watched her dance so talented like an Angel in flight
on gossamer wings.I am far too old for her of course
but I cannot help but be drawn to her outstanding talent.
And her beauty if truth be known.

I take the flowers to her dressing room and knock on the door.
There is a moan from inside a low painful moan.
I take a deep breath and open the door
she is laying on the floor an empty vial of something  
I had seen this before the stage carries many dark secrets.
I found a box of salt and poured it into a glass of water
then poured it down her throat
At first, I thought I was too late.
then the salts caused her to throw up the poison.

She lay on the sofa and slept I never left her side.
After a few hours, she said I cannot move my legs
I carried her to my old room and placed her in bed.
I no longer can dance she cried my legs are paralyzed she cried.

I made her tea and a sandwich.
We are a great pair you andI.
A dancer who cant dance
and a comedian whocant make people laugh.

There was no money for a doctor
but I had her trying to walk every day.
After, a few months she walked again
Slowly at first then stronger day by day.
I brought out her dance outfit ballet shoes.

Old Jack let us in to use the Gaiety stage as her dance floor.
I felt so ashamed that I was so in love with her.
But I think in the chest of every comedian
lies a fragile tender heart that is so easily bruised.

A few weeks later she was dancing again
and then moved away to follow her career.
I was desolate
I returned to the bottle.
Then a catalysmic event brought us together
Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated at Sarajevo.
On the 4th of August 1914,
Great Britain declared war on Germany.

A group of performers were chosen
to form an entertainment group for the troops.
She was amongst them
and refused to participate if they did not select me.
Under duress, they agreed and the first performance was in London.

I went on and gave the performance of my life.
The soldiers roared in laughter
my heart filled to the brim with happiness.
I then watched from the wings as she danced so beautifully
My eyes were wet with both happiness and sadness so bittersweet.
Around and around she would pirouette.
Like a dream-like a beautiful dream.

My mind was  spinning in harmony with her movements.
if only I was twenty-five again.
if only I could have been with her.
if only I did not love her
quiet so much.
....if only .....if only.

The crowd roared for her a complete standing ovation
they were almost the last words I would hear.
As I clutched my breast
and fell onto the floor she rushed to me
and kissed me on the head
stay with me, stay with me
I love you so much she whispered.

But I slipped quietly into the dark unknown
happy and content to go there.
I finally knew
she had loved me as far as it is possible
given the circumstances that is.

the sheer irony kicking pounding slapping biting
from the 19th century, a book entitled the gay science
sits pretty now, pretty with an ironic glee of puffed cheeks
and teeth showing, pretty enough to be a daffodil
smile, and why? why?! but of course the book looks
at 21st century and says: not much gaiety around here,
in the dirge dungeons of expression, maybe i should
be called episteme eulogia / επιστημη ευλογια,
i.e. the science of eulogy, praise indeed,
praised as if dead or dying; where the dionysian madness?
where the randomised polychromatic kandinsky moment
of frenzy? it's all written like vectors of cradle
unto the grave: (a) happend, (b) happened, (c) too
and follow on through to (d, e, f, g)... but where was (a2)
and (a3) a quick moment of (c) but actually following
through into the sub-plot no. 3 tier of (b)?
through and through, i think i'll have to lose all the airy
fairy ******* and dig in, from england all the way
to china, and speak with mao tse tung and emperor puyi
in māori, or sign language, for a bit of a foxtrot,
for a bit of a laugh - should i find any gaiety here,
it would probably sound as dumb as spike milligan's
                                          ning nang nong nim com ****
(shh... they'll discover you're feeding a young angry man persona),
it comes with the face and the age, by the time i'm fifty
i'll just be a cranky old man persona: angry at my bladder,
angry at my legs, my wrinkles my half-witty jests,
i'll be angry at my wife, at my mid-life crisis in the form
of a harley davidson only ridden once, you name it,
anger will turn to crankiness, and it'll be too late to then
poetically confess.