She moves through the fair of her life
with an awareness and introspection that belies her years

She still feels the effects of the darkness that plagued her past
but, as she goes forth, reaches with her soul towards a new and enlightened age

She will not forget her suffering, but uses it to transform her spirit
as an alchemist uses the philosopher's stone to produce precious from base

She is a rebel at heart, but hers is a cultural revolution, an awakening to the beauty of a spiritual life filled with music, art, poetry, language, philosophy, and the science of nature

Transformation isn't instantaneous and her emotions will still go medieval at times suddenly rising like a Gothic spire from the landscape

However, with each contrasting experience she is reborn and better equipped to fashion a belle époque of her own design

She may tend to shun the glamour of convention and develop a unique style
She just wants you to know who she is

She leans on faith
As victims do
To make it through
To heaven's gate;

And though she cries
Black swollen eyes,
Her feet two bleed
On sacred ground;

Her battered pride
She tries to hide
Under the guise
Of laughter;

She wears a smile
For every mile
Of sorrow
Life throws at her;

She shakes a dollar
From a dime
And makes
Her quarters cry;

She gathers pennies
By the roll
Until the well
Runs dry;

Her only vice:
A man of ice
Who brings her
Joy and pain;

From gothic eyes
To granite fists,
She's shackled
To his chains;

And scores of us
Who know her not
Do scoff
And call her names;

We judge her plight
From distant heights
Like Gods
Of her domain;

We know not why
She wears a smile
For every mile
Of sorrow;

Perhaps she knows
That woes unearned
Are all redeemed
Tomorrow ...

Perhaps she knows
That woes unearned
Are all redeemed
Tomorrow...

~ P
(#RedemptionSong)
3/20/14

Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass—
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its ****.

-Stephen Dobyns

The Misfortune of having you all to myself
has Irony’s respect. Only games without masters
call Love “ Sensei “. And every one of them
thought Irony was Abe Vigoda
sifting through the entrails of a Tuna Melt, at Morty Yang’s
looking for the cookie choking on a Bilingual Mobius strip
of impenetrable punchlines.
And always late to a funeral like The Good Gin.

we slept on a bed of fails
and our lives as footstools on soap boxes began
as only the best endings require
before waiving the usual fee, and diving into the role
of a last time nobody knew was The Last Time.
chewing up the screen between  intimate strangers
calling all the shots on the set by telepathy
like a betty davis that would never ever not help you
if it helps to sniff glue
or to hardly ever do
and then stop.
or not.

yeh, We Got THAT betty davis.

we found the most corrosive script
and mangled that baby with the camera obscura still rolling
And that guaranteed we had something to show the wolves at the door.
that would generate the buzz in the saw
that you Can’t UnSee.
and what follows?

anybody’s regret.

we slept in cots on the Lot, a lot.
but that was all in the papers that we rolled
to smoke the ***. in all the rags in Coolsville.
our collapsing star rising on page six
of a Charles Bukowski restraining order.
and as I recall, there was no catering -
for locations that devolved into gothic cathedrals
that slept with your expectations to get the part.
and we didn’t know that was a thing.

But hey,
you made it hurt
like you already
knew.

we flipped a coin to see who would yell “ Cut “ !

And then...

now it's all
you do.

Tickets please.  
Tickets please..

Thank you..  

The seating orientation was a bit strange.  We wanted to see what all the fuss was about.. We sat in a circular pattern next to these strange looking candle holders.  They looked a bit to gothic for my taste.  The candles seem to be all different colors of wax.   We paid 200$ for one song.  I don't think its worth it.  But everyone says it is..  The house was completly sold out. There was not one seat empty..

The lights begin to dim away. Darkness fills the entire room.. Its then we begin to hear the most beautiful acoustic guitar music I have ever heard..  As the music played on I could see a small glow of light beside us.. The candles were coming to life.. Each flame was a differnet color.  Ours was a beautiful blue.  The longer they played the brighter the candles got.. There were two of them playing.  Never did they look up at us. They played with their heads looking down at the floor.   It now looked like and aura of colors within the theater.  The song begin to slow down and the candles got dimmer and dimmer..  The song then begin to slightly speed up.  The ceiling was now filled with stars and endless falling comets..  I was now lost in the music..

The sun begin to rise, A new day was being born..  The song had ended.. The applause was thunderous! The night song of the two.. Magnifcient it was...

(Life is living art)

AGAINST THE BRICKS

****** leans
Against the bricks
Gotham gothic walls
Left thumb hooked on a pocket of his
Faded denim jeans
Right hand caressing a carnation
Steady

Ready to go
Mr. ****** in a James Dean glow

Mean
Black leather jacket
Shiny slick like
Ghetto pothole puddles
Wet lacking rain

Only street lamp
Spot light
Backstreet dangerous
****** leans with
A flower for Ms. Green

Come hither squeeze

He waits
There in the sallow
Glow
Another shadow
Against the bricks

Graffiti Canons spray paint art

Masterpieces
Within living scenes
Cool as concrete rain
Patient as an evening breeze
Passing moments
A Smiley face
Honest pain sculptures
Poetry is exploding
Street Glean

Art full in appreciating
brick walls

In his ****** lean
Worth is in / our noticing

This

Life's living work of Art.

's favorite meal is not children as you may expect
it is old people, the elderly near death
they taste better to him
he fantasizes their whole lives with every bite

whose heart like bottles or ransom clinks against
itself eating the useless parts of its own stomach
rotors of bone hum about revenge
the earth clones pale enigmatic cyanide

my spawn sweat bourbon and bleed sweet milk
I'm the Tower
Look Look
let us hold eachother here until the dark blossoms

into an invisible canine snarl
crushed by feathers at a
tomb-encrusted countryside
wax swans bleed from

their eyes and bulls inside run
in circles around ancient ice prisons

Look a clock
century weary mariners
gape in disbelief
at a yawning dawn
of cadmium
on the tongue of
a bristling free roaming
continent of
gothic salt

for ... I really don't know who..

I dream of this place
Its not dark, gothic or wiccan
its pretty and colourful and above all
full of love.

you showed me this place
your believes make me believe
in the existence of love
in the existence of beauty
even in the ugliest things.

you told me
the night does not bring darkness
it brings the twinkling stars
and the moonlight
it is marked by the sensational dusk
and ended ny the loving dawn
it brings the cool dew
the time when the tired flowers sleep
you made me believe the night is beautiful.

you told me
the fire is not dangerous
it is what gives warmth
the clutching sounds
are the sounds of excitement
the sound of adventure
which make you live life to the fullest
you made me believe the fire is beautiful.

you told me
nightmares are not scary.
they are what encourage you
to do your best
to fight your fears
to forget the unwanted
and remember what is needed the most
you made me believe that nightmares are beautiful.

you told me
words are strong weapons
they can make an enemy a friend
and a friend an enemy
its like a game
the best one wins the hearts of others
you made me believe that I have beautiful words.

you told me
friendship is about trust
its like the backbone
once destroyed can never be regained
its the most precious gift
you made me believe that I am a true friend.


you make me shine
you make me want to be me
you made me love myself
you taught me how to see the world
through the eyes of those who have nothing
then you realise how precious things are
how precious people are.

your presence made me love you
your absence made me miss you

when you hide I find
when you don't say a word I understand
I read the eyes ...

I don't know what to call you
the relation has no name
and never will it.

just be with me
and I'll be with you
till we can be with each other.

Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.

As Earth spun to unfold a kind
creating sounds it calls upon
to express a thought a feeling
a sensation it barely comprehends,

life at the remnants of the core
of what once was a unique land
named Pangea evolved,
to get acquainted with a notion

that would reign thereon.

It all happened in an area
of encounters where gothic Liufs
held dear by German Lieb
saw Lief the Dutch and Liaf the Frisian

fall for Liof the Saxon catching Lob
praising Liebe rejoicing in the arms
of Liubi. Until came Lufu the English
who desired and felt romantic

****** attraction it believed worthy
of a noun all to itself, and that is when
Luve came into the scene to be greater
than anything else, a word

no one would ever forget.
While behind the curtains
Albanian Lyp begged needing Lips
demanding for more.

Can you envision a city built on a lagoon?
That's Venice, a name that always makes one swoon,
It has a reputation for canals rather than roads,
And a prime reason why one will never get bored

The famed gondola ride through the labyrinth of canals,
Is a must-have experience that is far from banal,
Gliding through serene waters with hardly a tilt,
While being serenaded by the cheerful gondolier's lilt

The epicenter of Venice is the popular St Mark's Square,
Teeming with tourists with a perennial effervescent flair,
Historic buildings and stately arcades form the periphery,
With an array of cafes and accompanying music for people to make merry

Witness the serpentine line of visitors entering St Mark's Basilica church,
Gazing at seemingly endless luminous gilded mosaics inside makes one almost lurch,
The Pala d'Oro altar of gold studded with hundreds of gems is a marvel to behold,
As are the mammoth innumerable columns that are so mind-boggling, if truth be told

The majestic Doge's Palace bears the stamp of masterpiece Gothic architecture,
Resting on a double arcade of marble columns lends solidity to the structure,
Spectacular halls and staircases adorn the interior, replete with exquisite paintings,
While ornate works of art complemented by more paintings are featured in the ceilings

The Bridge of Sighs is touted as one of the finest bridge architecture in the world,
The stylish Italian Renaissance connects the interrogation room to the prisoners' abode,
The sculptured sad or angry faces while crossing under the bridge can easily be seen,
Depicting sighs of prisoners awaiting their fate, as they mulled "what could have been"

The bustling Grand Canal is the central transport hub in picturesque Venice,
Gondolas, vaporettos and water taxis cruise up and down the canal without amiss,
Flanked by colorful buildings, iconic structures, buzzing markets and cobbled streets,
Time flies in hopping to various locations while savoring the glorious visual treat

The world famous Venetian glass has a history of its own,
Murano's glass museum visit facilitates all there is to be known,
For intricate shapes, it is a treat to watch the glass blower's skill,
Colorful designed vases and sculptures are effortlessly made at will

The lengthy arched Rialto Bridge is as old as the hills,
A crossover between San Polo and San Marco districts with hardly any frill,
It's breathtaking sunrise view receives considerable emcomium,
As a popular tourist spot, it needs no second opinion

As the bell-tower of the basilica, the Campanile is the tallest building in Venice,
The ring of each of the five bells is replete with history that one cannot miss,
The panoramic breathtaking view of Venice from the tower top,
Is one of the reasons why it is a must-experience visitors' stop

The mere mention of Venice always makes the lagoon city so exciting,
Little wonder that the annual Film Festival is a much-awaited outing,
The aura of glamor, glitz and entertainment never wanes any given year,
As folks continue to throng the city from far and near, with their near and dear

I came here in Spring,
Green, wet, haunting.
I came here in Summer,
Grim, wet, haunting.
I came here in August,
Green, sunny, but haunting.
I came here in Autumn,
Bleak, Gothic, eerie.

It's like a walk through history
from the 1860's - yes -
Orphans that are now dead,
Just like my childhood.
I will come here in winter,
bleaker, wetter, haunting.
You go through a tunnel of tombstones,
old tombstones decorating the tunnel's walls.
You walk through and then you see the light,
you leave the graveyard behind you.
I will be here again.
It will be green, maybe grim,
but always haunting.

I don't have any photos of when I was young
because they look like Chronos holding a gun
I just need slow-mo or time totally undone
or maybe I just need to hold onto someone
because I can't hold on to the before
after bombing all my bridges with C4
so now I walk on the sea floor
wishing I could see more

but all I see is myself as an aquatic gorilla
after spending too much time with Poseidon
precariously between Charybdis and Scylla
as pictures make me look more like Joe Biden
while I feel like I'm the one with the trident
but I'm just Janus' migrant
and that guy is a tyrant
because no matter which way he's facing
he can always find someone to replace me.

So I don't ever take pictures
because they give time a fixture
from which to taunt me like a trickster
showing me the different colors in the mixture
like a lowkey Loki
giving me the okie-dokie
luring me into moseying moping
leisurely leading to rope-a-doping
a mirror-morphed bizarro-me dope fiend
wanting to stay in a Kumbhakarna dope dream.

Time is a sausage link
clogging the gothic sink
of a drain we all would think
seems as fast as goblin's wink
so I try to focus on the myopic pink
but always end up finding reasons to drink
the ambrosia of a nova from Krakatoa
the ebbs and flows come and go with intensity
brought by the power of Jehovah
as well as two cameras with which I can see.

Your pupils are black holes
and they tug and they tug at me
like how a tornado tugs at the gutter on the side of a tin roof house
in the middle of Oklahoma.
But instead of a gutter and rain
it's blood funneled through my veins
and instead of blood,
it's liquid love.

You're broken
and I like that and how I can just
wedge myself into the valleys of your cracked up porcelain skin
because I am, I am liquid love
and its a simple fact that liquids spread to fill the space in which they are.
Even a river.
But here's a little disclaimer: I never cared much about science.
I was only really interested in our chemistry.

And here is a little exclamation: I don't know anything!
Except that your bruises are actually interstellar clouds
and that spot right under your fingernail is the most comfortable bed of all.

I like how you're covered in speckles like a knock-off Jackson *******.
But instead of freckles they are constellations
and I am a quasi-astronomer artist who believes more in zodiac compatibility
than Attiyah's Sun theory.

I think this poem is unravelling
like that sweater I left in your house once
and I think and I think and I think
these last few stanzas are the loose string.

But that's okay because we're falling apart anyway
like the pages out of my old sketchbook from ninth grade.
But that doesn't stop me from pretending that
you're a Gothic cathedral and I'm a hopeless romantic
in the middle of an architectural revival.

And that doesn't stop you from getting drunk
getting drunk off that fermenting liquid love.
And that doesn't stop our hair from growing or
the universe from expanding or
people from living in the core of tornado alley or
you from lining my heart, my heart with the pages
you ripped right out of my diary.

Oh, how my life
is poured out for you.
All my veins I would bleed dry
for my love of you is the life of my soul
and without you
I am only a wisp of vanishing smoke.
Oh, you are all to me
for I cannot even imagine
the faintest thought
of me with out you.
And before I knew your love
love has never lived in my soul.
Oh, you are like some mysterious creature
come from the distant stars
like some Gothic angel
to set your feet
upon this base earth.
Oh, your kiss
takes me to a higher starry realm
where no storm winds blow
and the earth is never covered
by cold and icy snow.
Oh, your love
takes me to a sacred mystic realm
where towers of light
reach like fingers
to embrace the starry heavens
with its soft and warm blackness.
Oh, and your love
forever floats upon the air
like the scent
of all the flowers
that grow upon heaven's shore.
and my heart is filled
to such overflowing
like with the sound of heaven
when all the choirs angels sing.
Oh, how I wish
to never touch this earth again
and to forever live in your kiss
and drink the sweet nectar
that flows from your lips.
Oh, let me live in that heaven
in the house of forever
in your sweet embrace.
for all the forever
that forever can ever be.

The natural you and what about him
The Zen  gold egg climber Prince
Got his "Godly" rinse of the hen
We always knew their way upon
our thinking "Jumping Jack Flash"
But to be the change the day single
let's be feasible naturally, we mingle
The Holy water medieval drinking
By the night call, something is moving
Like a creature not in human form

We need to meet our expectations
More spoken revelations and terms
Naturally, we were born to be told
we have the fire to move any force
Even when our bones are getting old
  That powerful love but someone is
watching us above

With higher hopes will make
it through lovesick she coughs
The Passageway like a click of her heels
Feeling the beauty but climbing high
Naturally being cool with her sigh
Or the carriage day vintage wine
Her lucky wheel

World’s are invitation the engagement,
The sweet words or the terms of endearment
Be the Higher lover up in the Prince bow to her
A need to get higher inside the
Castle what a love hustle like a stampede

The rampage turning the ancient pages
Rock and roll ages or the Gothic pale
Victorian beauty her name Judy
Sir page the Grand Marnier
or change of pace human race
The drink Moet                            
High Mighty King singing

Her heart shape ring beating

Fresh-cut or worn out smoke put out
Brighten her pleasure the rose repose
To be born  not a piece of paper torn
Like a Queen reborn

For love how its spoken not just
City Girl with her token for-God-sake
can you look through her
wing turned up she is curled up
in her new threads of sheets
eyes please she is not ready
to hear goodbyes to your beat
What do you read is she naturally
beautiful than or now

Her naturally glow lights up
The Shakespearian castle
   Two nature healers, not the
same as card dealers

  Butterflies the fireflies
Her love shape naturally
that's no lie

  It comes naturally to be loved


    More like homed bakes muffin _

Google the nature of things spoken but
they may not come
Please don't wait too long
Perhaps there is always someone
to copy your song


Be the climber love for who she is
Her vegetables her sensuality is quite
organically raw
She loves her side dish coleslaw

How nature made us in the womb
Naturally spoken things like her sub combo

Vampires
by Michael R. Burch

Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we fear the dark, but the light destroys them . . .
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we heed his voice.

Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.

We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us,
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.

Published by Monumental Moments (Eye Scry Publications), Weirdbook, Gothic Fairy and Raiders’ Digest. Keywords/Tags: vampires, fragile, creatures, stake, cross, dark, darkness, light, bat, bat-like, shadows, fangs, pangs, prey, blood, lust, lusts, red, lips, night, voice, sings, darkness, evil, incarnate, soul, hell, tormented, pale, eyes

Abandon all hope
Ye who enter my domain
For once you go in
There's no leaving my brain
A relic of the darkest age
Gothic bells of Notre Dame
My atheistic serenade
My faithless roaring lion cage
My phantom of the opera stage
Masked and cloaked
In acid soaked
Smoke and mirror soul stockade
No Houdini escapade
Could escape artist my pain
From haunted houses locked away
Museums of natural mystery
Exhibiting my guilt and shame
From buried ancient history
Priceless are these artifacts
Of worthless self-discovery
Yet still displayed for all to see
As a suit of armor
Or a tomb of Tutankhamen
Where I have bested Rama
To be born again as Brahmin
Where you find me now at play
In nightmares of my new dream caste
Alone in every way
One can be stuck inside the past

~.                                          
Seriously
When it's said
  some words can haunt & pierce
deeper, sharper & more brutal than a blade
~the pallid blood flows 24/7 from your vein
    driving your mind to madness to pain.
~~
That cut, Gothic & red
   an open, hemorrhagic gate
never heals, never fades.
  And the pain
it will remain
  it will remain
~
Always
&
Forever
&
Permanently
.
~~

How she sipped her spot's
The rough part was the plot
The diamond's and her lip's
Got spoiled
******* by fairytale scorched
The straight line skirt and how
it raced

Her in her brown-eyed lady
Porsche
His coffee the same place
So steamed her face didn't you
spot him
Bitter tone to be bad sweet
Taylor Swift pour some sugar

On Me
On U
In my singer's mouth
$$$

Southern Hospitality
"Going Gothic" south
Out Staged the bag-
Coach striped ride me the
Coffee prints heated up
her patterns Niagara falls
Wild me a seven-year inch
Hot Latte Slim and tall

I see sugar all over me
Italian cafe custom pinch
The sugar raw
He stirred harder
Robin's furry-breasted fly
creamy dark moon bolder

Big sigh roar, just sugar pour
A cat which alley City walk,
Racer's mouth Cheetah
could talk
What a ferocious love, cat flight.
Cat eye's beam @ night

He covered me, kitten gloves,
warmth gentleman
But, Strong Trump, politician,
handling, his
delegates. "Sugarly" mates
Sour lime Australian mates
They slipped, their milk on
the wrong ballot spilled

The coffee fusion
Drips and leaks Reddit
To the high beans warmly brown
mountain "Summit"
So spilled Nixon with lies 
 Water-gates how about Bill
Coffee gates
He spot's her don't sugar coat me
chill burr (Surprise)
Cheetah chasing him.

But trying so hard to erase him.
Sweet tooth Swift pour some sugar
lyric's  spooning through, Stir me up
Please milk the cow highly allergic
right now
  Silk spool of thread
"Cat's Meow"
Threadless caress nuanced
Did the cat's tongue meow
pronounced.

Overdose of sugar

The flag stripe's and spot's
Hanging so tightly to the carriage.
Not you're usual
Poison my sugar marriage

Smooth talker whole- bean
body notes.
Sugar stirs of states.
"Love 1/2 Grain
"Orient Express" she spoke
faster than
speeding train.
Computer crazed tiger Dad's
Sticky Carmela always latte late.
I have two I pads spotted coffee

Twin crib
Adam and Eve's rib.
My sugar scrub in the tub
Perk me up. finicky personalities
*** in the City Sugar theater.
He's the Kit and caboodle,
Earthtone candy.
He was born with sugar
right spoon,
Coffee King handy

College  Princeton NJ frat
How did  Brandy get into the mix
Brooklyn movie set this is all
about coffee fix

Starbucks
Howard Schultz
our friend from
Canarsie, Brooklyn
big win
He didn't come over
for coffee then?
Lol
Starbucks power suits' all stocks

A+ a good set of lungs
Robin-Carretti sings.
Read all about it!
Central Park, Carriage rider,
took her hand,
how he roared
Gave her million smiles
Starbucks**
Coffee business,
  With one coffee cup,
one sugar cube YouTube
what luck gazillion's

vampire bats
are jumbo jets
flying high
with their six foot
wingspan flapping
through this heart of night
stretching against
the surface of the sky
hiding the face of the sun
yes, pitch black
leather wings
grabbing hold of
space and time
slicing through
the thick of night
slipping pass
the House of Hades
being guarded
by gray ghosts
griffins and gargoyles
but somehow
the Gothic moon
stands her ground nor
does she sleep
a wink tonight
letting go of
fear and fright
protecting the
still of night
knowing that
the vampire bats
possess infrared eyes
to capture their prey

Philosophical poetry
The lonely jazz saxophone of solitude in poetic comic books of memories, with a slight eroticism of romance. All filled with philosophical silence and self-talk.
Almost finished cigarette, it is like a thought going to the logical conclusion of the arguments of philosophical poetry, where you are looking for a way out of prison of reality.
You play poker with the fate of someone luck, and someone pass. It rains from sinful tears; it does not make the city more conscientious, but a little cleaner. The city is in a fog of reflection, red lightning flashes of anger, black clouds of depression and then cold snow of indifference lit by the lifeless light of the curiosity of the gods.
Soon a new dawn of thoughts, a black and white reality of pessimism, where in bright colors of expressive contrasts of oppositions, there is only a faint light of conscience and animal instincts of darkness. Everywhere deep darkness says that the other world is very close and the door is always open there. Everywhere the harsh gray of deep thinking, the melodies of the emptiness of truth periodically resound.
Here everything is gray and only blood is red - the color of eternal guilt. Everything can become colored only from self-suggestion in bright colors of the illusions of optimism. The mind plunges into the darkness of gothic despair, and only the woman you love can pull out. Heart saves scars, but it does not stop, it continues to live for the sake of loved ones, for the sake of curiosity.
In this cold emptiness of the illusions of materialism, only true love warms the soul, but not lust, because after ****** you feel sad notes of loneliness, performed on the piano of sorrow. Lust is the girlfriend of selfishness, who is the six self-deception.
Vivid memories are a consoling prize of eternity, unlike life they are eternal - these are prose scenes of karma cinema.
Scenes comedians of heroes and villains, where you put up an antihero, and your tormentors victims. Here you feel literally every frame of sadism of fate.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich

Pacing on cold, honeycomb linoleum,
I watched the sun rise through mesh
curtains. Sunlight striped my chest
like Gothic architecture while a clock
measured the outside. Two strikes
for a car to pass, seven for a lonesome
jogger, twelve for leaves to reach
the road, twenty for a cloud to overtake the window pane, and three
months left for me to watch it.

She stands—
every few minutes turning abruptly to no object.
Hips pushing forward, shoulders sliding back,
red soled sneakers and plaid flannel slacks
beneath a dramatic black trench coat,
in the grey shadow of a gothic church.

She smokes the grey and blows white,
and scrolls through the neon screen
with her one ungloved hand,
a bun perched stiffly on her scalp, unheeded,
an afterthought, if there was one before.

Her backdrop—the heavy iron fence of a graveyard,
and centuries old glorious stones watch
as she spends her minutes
engrossed
in the luminous green of infinity.

it would feel normal if it was a bus stop,
a grocery line,
a hospital waiting room,
even a lonely bench.

But she stands,
and periodically pivots,
meanders two steps and stands,
and jolts three steps back,
glitching through slow time,
anxious and unresolved—
yet so engrossed.

Finally now she is following the fence out of view, slowly,
and I hope she finds rest.
I feel grateful as the sidewalk carries her now
away from my puzzled gaze

The great stones and I exchange long glances,
and perhaps they are more compassionate than I,
for they seem not phased.

Oh stones, teach me patience, teach me rest.
For you are glorious in endless rest,
and I am still anxious and unresolved.

leering lurking

before me

crazy jet black coal eyes

peer

red crimson droplets

forming on foaming saliva

teeth as sharp

as a bear trap

baited and ready to pounce



copyright gothic mistress 2012

I stood in the musty, off-white bathroom of the hotel and grinned at myself in the mirror. I was drunk and in my boxers. I needed to shave. Mitchell was asleep on one of the beds, snoring, a beer balanced on his ever growing beer belly. It was an impressive size for Mitchell only being 25.
He was in town for a court date. I was ecstatic when I heard, I hadn’t seen Mitchell since we were about nineteen.  I took his beer from him, set it on the nightstand, and shook his shoulder.  I said, wake up *******, come smoke a cig with me.
We stood outside freezing in the winter air, chain-smoking, watching the ****** do their rounds. Mitchell said something about finding one to score. I exhaled my smoke and snickered in reply.
“You don’t wanna stick it in ***** ******,” from behind me. Surprised, I turned around. A petite girl, puffing her non-menthol cigarette, with a slender nose and tattoos on her arms. Mitchell smartly replied that what if he did want to stick it in ***** ******. I wanted to know her name.
I asked what the hell she was doing at such a run-down hotel, why I had never seen her around town before. Between exhales she told me “I’m living with this guy but I hate him… I don’t even know what I’m doing with him.” Mitchell had gone inside. I invited her up to my room. While we walked, I studied the way her long, dyed red hair graced her plump ***. My god, that plump ***.
“I’m trying to get into some **** tonight” she said, “Are there any bars on this street?”
I was still thinking about her ***. I opened the door to our room.
“Um, I think there’s one,” I told her that we have drinks, though, and tossed her a beer.
I talked her ear off for a good hour. I can really get goin’ after a little alcohol is in me. What’s her name? I’m too drunk to remember to ask. I’ll call her red. She played with that long *** red hair and looked around a lot, antsy to…get into some ****.
“I’m not gonna *******, you know” she said.. I was taken aback by such a blunt, matter-of-fact statement.
“Oh come on,” I said, “My girlfriend’s ****** two different guys this week. I’m just trying to get even.”
“You *******!” She got up from the bed and hit me with a pillow, laughing, “You mother ******* *******!” A mouth on this one;  I liked her.
We goofed around for a bit until she suggested we walk around the hotel. We were halfway down our hallway when we saw and smelled a group of people ahead of us with a doobie. They gave the rest of it to red and invited us in their room. I met her eyes, blue, swimming in excitement and thriving in the spontaneity.
We walked into this room and met the strangest group of people I’ve ever laid my eyes on. There was a skinny, tall black boy with chains and a big bag of herb, two gothic girls with every lip piercing known to man, a preppy high school girl who kept losing her lipstick, a short black boy with a sizeable bag of white stuff; he told us to call him Doc. I think there were some more people there too.
Anyway red is chatting away with the high school girl, found out they had went to the same high school. We were sitting beside each other passing a doobie from the guy with the chains. Next thing I know, the shorter boy slaps a heaping pile of the white stuff on the table in front of red and I. Split it, he told us. That we did. Red did a few lines and sat back and closed her eyes. It was alright, she said. I did some myself. Now, I do forget whose idea it was, probably red’s. Somehow it got suggested that I do a line off her ***.  I mean she obviously had a nice ****, who wouldn’t want to snort a line of coke off a round ***?
Next thing I know, she is *** naked, face down in front of me and I’m trying not to get hard, which is difficult when you’re as ****** up as I was. The tall skinny dude was behind us, asleep, using his bag of *** as his pillow. We laughed at this. The girls smoked in the corner, and the other shorter guy watched a little too closely at me spreading the powder on reds white ***. It was as white as the substance. I couldn’t believe this girl; she won’t let me see her naked but insists I snort drugs off her bare ***.
After I was finished we all drank and smoked more, got more ****** up. Red and I eventually left and walked back to my room. Mitchell was open-mouthed snoring. I was being drunk and annoying; I rolled on top of her and just laid there. I rolled off and walked to the other side and lit a cigarette in our nonsmoking room.
“I’ll get you, you *******” she said, “You just wait!”
“Just don’t bite it off,” I said, “or you’ll make a half dozen women very unhappy.”
She climbed up to the top of the bed and perched there, cross-legged, watching the small television which illuminated her face. The news was on. Why is she so intent on the news? Now I know you aren’t sane I told her.
“Be quiet, she said, I want to watch the news!”
And there we sat at the top of a ****** hotel bed, coked out, watching the news. She held the hand with her cigarette in the air and let out a laugh. I accepted her like this.

Some architecture and architecture of the building.
Music, pop music, pop music [black] European
Council headquarters: Friday, most men and women.
Arik was born in Kenya and from 500 prostitutes,
dressed in red to become bright red in the United States
in search engines, and he brought the girl
out of the offices of the city of the Arctic.
According to Pete, Silks (AS) of US forces
klapentes type of cuts in Japan, Kenya,
Middle East and Justin W. Coping 200 to cancer.
Switzerland Douglas, Georgia, United States 2,
9 United States Green, Canada, Australia,
Australia, Ireland and four southern countries.
Canada, Mexico, ruby ​​red. The girl $200 million
through the Center for the competitiveness of the
military by the noise of the Angels, Tom in England.
Another method is the blonde daughter in the club's
Map of Glory witch. Unfortunately, it was too late
in opposite directions chestnuts, Namma pastries and hearing.
John Arthur and the new prostitutes, small prostitutes
taken in as young and healthy ****** dancing at the wedding.
In fact, the UK's music of your dogs and cats
completes the pure demand engines of Bettie's
100 rooted shows, no other 100 class of their choice
and the robot repairs, reciprocal junk in the next random pages
on the other side of the other, above and another,
without the European Commission and women,
most in Venezuela born of the motor of women: ...
Regulated by the CCA in the United States (4);
200 companies, cancer of educational tools in Japan,
Kenya, the Middle East and many others. The United States,
Canada, Australia, Australia, Ireland, Switzerland, Canada,
Mexico; Mexico and prostitutes, one after another.
When Thomas was born in Kenya and the United States,
the horse escaped and avoided the reins of the engine.
The house refuses to work with prostitutes,
and American soldiers who pass through the thirst
of open arms burn the process by burning Japan,
Kenya, the Middle East and Justin W.
and Nicholas Copernicus. Georgia, United States of America,
England and Germany. 9 Green prostitutes return
home from England, Australia has turned into four parts
and cities. Except, perhaps, in the central game,
in the dance and in the children.
The star of the difficulties of the war
have been condemned, the blood of the machine,
but Britain is not to make the void,
which must come, there is nothing, it is nothing,
it is nothing; nothing nothing nothing. No, but yes:
they did not have any more. What he says, yes, yes, yes,
not to what you would like to go further and,
in fact, to the details in this passage, that is,
there is nothing that has the ability. Order first construction
of Gothic architecture, order artistic flowers.
Age of blood and blood crimes. All buildings
are ancient and ancient, kittens and the blood
of Gothic architecture, classical architecture
and hip-hop architecture. Music, pop music, pop music
[black] European Council headquarters Friday,
most men and women. Arik was born in Kenya
from 500 to prostitution, and dressed in bright red,
bright red with a girl, and search engines in the United States
went to the offices of Arctale. And the thirsty bar
(R) of Japan banished to steal American soldiers,
Kenya, the Middle East and Justin W. 200
from Copenhagen's cancer. Switzerland, Douglas,
Georgia, United States 2, 9 United States Green,
Canada, Australia, Australia, Ireland and four southern countries.
Canada, Mexico, Mexico and $ 200 million
for the Competitiveness Center for testing the voice of angels;
British Star of England, Tom. Another method
is the blonde daughter in the club's Map to the Glory
of the Witch. Water chat and water chestnuts. John Arthur
knows that concubines, lovers, young and healthy prostitutes
like to **** and dance, dancing in marriage.
The only problem is the attack of Gloria and Agni in England,
No. Tony Cat 100.