I can’t catch my breath
as throat swells after smoke
you exhaled behind you;
you didn’t look back as euphoria hit.
I can’t catch my breath
as salty tears dilute my blood
and erythrocytes shrivel
leaving gas stranded in my lungs
after each grudging, shaky breath -
I can’t catch it,
it begs for freedom in endless sky
over the suffocating pressure inside my chest;
I can’t catch my breath,
I can’t catch my breath.

You know what?

I genuinely believe that I am unlovable.

Not even in the self-pitying way, I just have thought about it and I really think that no one could ever truly love me.

I have too many flaws that get in the way.

If I am imperfect then I can't be perfect enough for them

If I am perfect then I am not the quirky beautifully rare girl they want

I am too violent and weird

I am too hateful and grudging

And the worst part is

I don't even WANT to stop being violent and weird or hateful or grudging

I wish someone would love me for it

because I love those who are deadly loyal, absurd, not afraid of a little violence (not abusive, just to be clear. I do not support that) those who hate things because the more passionately they hate, the more passionately they love as well. And someone who holds a grudge actually cares about things. I would love a boy who was all those things but no guy wants a girl who can't let go of things and spends all her time muttering to herself about how worthless and ugly she is because that has become my hobby I don't even realize I am doing it sometimes.

I just don't think anyone could ever really truly fall in love with me.

That makes me kind of sad I guess... :(

A thousand miles
Separated by screen and wire
Bringing two worlds together for such short hours

You laugh and smile until I grow restless
Shifting between you and him
Worrying about what he thinks
Until finally I find the courage
To tell you I'm going

Your smile fades when I say his name
Your lips an understanding line as you agree
He's been waiting for me, yes
But so have you

I'm sorry I don't know how to manage time
I want you to know he does the same things
The thin-lipped nod
The grudging I love you
The saddened blue eyes as I return to you

But I'm tired
Tired of endless calls and worries
Last minute change of plans
And the looks on your faces when I leave
You know I'll call you again
But you don't know why I have to ever stop

Bittersweet lime-flavoured love
An apparition, a ghost, a face I think of
A mere shadow without definition or name
A hopefulness for the fulfilment of why I came.
Stretching into the ghetto of my mind
Is a body, a shape, a stencil of who may be mine
Reaching against the wicked hands of time
Yet never grasping; a drop of sugar, a cup of lime

Down on my knees with my hands clasped tight in prayer
And my will alone shakes the foundation, yet no one appears
Errant tendrils of loneliness grip at my rotting soul and heart
And the rejection, and the hurt, and the hope tears me apart.
I am now a sinister, cynical shell of who I used to be
And I plead, I beg the monotony to set me free
As I am suffocating on the slimmest sliver of a wish
My head turned upwards, lips waiting for a kiss.

Whether love, or like, or grudging intimacy
So be it, for I need it, and whatever else it may be
Thus, I will wait by the water's edge where the waves are violent
I'll wait at the volcano's peak, before it erupts, when all is quiet.
I'll hang to a fraying rope placed miles above solid ground
I'll stand at the edge of a tall building and dizzy myself looking down
Until someone, or something, arrives from somewhere to extend my time
Until the taste finally fades: a drop of the sweetest sugar, a cup of bitter lime.

Hmphh. The Goat. Ruled by the Black Hand of our solar system. Gate of the Gods, but you truly fail to see your real potential because you're clueless how real motivation works. You are not a prodigy, you are the most basic construct of a human, next to the over achieving Leo. The two idiots of the zodiac flitting about. You would think with being the Goat, you'd want to aim high, climb, and grab life by the ******* *****, right? Nope, most of you are homebodies who are phobia ridden. Saturn got your pessimistic ways? Boohoo, go cry with Cancer, there's a "whipping sign" you can take out your miserly and grudging ways on. Discipline? More like, "I'd rather watch paint dry than your ridiculous dreams you always seem to be chasing". And why you try to come off as hard workers is beyond me. You do very minimal and claim some ******* grandiosity; highly annoying in your braggart ways. ***** please, don't come off as serious, we all know Elvis died on the toilet. Get over it.

Advice: Do some real work without all the nonsensical stupid, dry humor. You aren't as brilliant as you think.

dear daddy,
you were there throughout my
childhood, but when i
say that i mean it physically, of
course. you weren't really
there emotionally.

dear daddy,
as i grew up i watched you
fight with my mom,
i sat through the cold dinners
and at ten i watched my mum
slam a calculator on the table
before walking out the door.

dear daddy,
i was sixteen when you kicked my
brother out of the house. he was
only fourteen, daddy,
he couldn't look after himself.
it was your ****** pride, that's
what it was.
yours and his.

dear daddy,
at seventeen we barely spoke,
i remember the bitterness
i held in my heart;
you couldn't even get a proper job,
couldn't even look after this family,
made mom do all the work.
my brother didn't live with us,
he was at an aunt's house, far away from
the fire we knew would start if you
both were in the same room.

dear daddy,
twenty crept up on me like a ghost
and i saw the lines in your face
age catching up with you as
you began to forget,
where your keys were,
whether you brought your phone back from
the car, what time dinner was.

dear daddy,
twenty-one now, and i still
don't know how to feel about you.
you tried your best, i suppose,
and i love you with a sort of grudging
nonchalance, because who am
i to tell you that you need to change?

dear daddy,*
i'm conflicted. i love you because
i know i should, because i
admit you're human too. you tried
your best, i know you did
and i wish i could change my mind
but i hope you'll forgive me
for seeing a stranger when i look at you.

You can feel...

...abandoned

abandonment

acceptance

adoration

affection

aggravated

aggravation

aggravating

agitated

aggressive

aggressiveness

alert

amazed

ambitious

amused

amusing

anger

angry

animosity

annoyed

anticipation

anxiousness

appreciative

ap­prehensive

ardent

aroused

ashamed

astonished

attraction (******)

attraction (intellectual)

attraction (spiritual)

attraction (general)

attraction (negative)

attraction  (taboo)

attraction (moral)

awed

betrayed

bewildered

bitter

bliss

blue

boastfu­l

bored

breathless

bubbly

calamitous

calm

camaraderie

caut­ious

cheerful

cocky

cold

collected

comfortable

compassionat­e

concerned

confident

confused

contempt

content

courageous
­
cowardly

crafty

cranky

crazy

cruelty

crummy

crushed

curio­us

cynic

dark

dejected

delighted

delirious

denial

detest

­depression

desire

despair

determined

devastated

disappointed

discouraged

dis­gust

disheartened

dismal

dispirited

distracted

distressed

*****

down

dreadful

dreary

eager

ecstatic

emb­arrassed

empathic

emptiness

enchanted

enigmatic

enlightened
­
enraged

enthralled

enthusiastic

envy

euphoric

excited

exha­usted

expectation

exuberance

fascinated

fear

flabbergasted

­fight-or-flight

foolish

frazzled

frustrated

fulfillment

furi­ous

gay

giddy

gleeful

gloomy

goofy

grateful

gratified

gre­edy

grief

grouchy

grudging

guilty

happy

hate

heartbroken

­homesick

hopeful

hopeless

horrified

hostile

humiliated

humored

hurt

hyper

hysterical

indignation

infatuation

infuriated

inner peace

innocent

insanity

insecure

insecure

inspired

interest

intimidated

invidious

irate

irritability

irritate­d

jaded

jealousy

joy

jubilant

kind

lazy

left out

liberated

lively

loathsome

lonely

longing

love

lovesic­k

loyal

lust

mad

mean

melancholic

mellow

mercy

merry

mil­dness

miserable

morbid

mourning

needed

needy

nervous

obsce­ne

obsessed

offended

optimistic

outraged

overwhelmed

pacifi­ed

pain

panicky

paranoia

passion

pathetic

peaceful

perturb­ation

pessimistic

petrified

pity

playful

pleased

pleasure

posses­sive

pride

provoked

proud

puzzled

rage

regretful

relief

r­emorse

resentment

resignation

resolved

sadness

satisfied

sc­ared

Schadenfreude

scorn

selfish

sensual

sensitive

****

sh­ame

sheepish

shocked

shy

sincerity

solemn

somber

sorrow

s­orry

spirited

stressed

strong

submissive

superior

surprised­

sweet

sympathetic

temperamental

tense

terrified

threatened­

thrilled

tired

tranquil

troubled

trust

tormented

uncertai­nty

uneasiness

unhappy

upset

vengeful

vicious

warm

weary

­worn-out

worried

worthless

wrathful

yearning

yawny

zesty

z­eel

Beyond the seas, there are the Isles
Where the old castle once proudly stood
Nothing but a shadow of its former glory
Its land once divided of mortals and other beings

The mist surrounds the ruins
Secrets buried in the grave of the past
But one,
The echoes from both past and present
That once inhabited the old castle

A legend,
Intertwined strings of two souls
How their fates led by one prophecy

The Ethereal and Brilliant One, the Isles princess who shall become the epitome of a King
The Man with a Thousand Names, the creature of the Old who shall become the embodiment of a Knight

Where it all began,
Magic is forbidden
Those whose learn or unfortunately born with magic
Will meet their fate with one swift blow
The law reached far
To a Golden King who ruled over a distant land
A prosperous mortal Kingdom in Albion
The Golden Queen bore a child before passing

The princess had
Hair as bright as the sunrise
Skin as fair as porcelain
Eyes as blue and green as the ocean

The King’s oldest sister
Klorress, who wish the crown for herself
She dreamt of riches and fame
Studied dark magic in secret
The daughter invoked the rising wrath and jealousy

The same Isles princess, a headstrong youth
Many who vied for her hand sung praises about her ocean eyes
Will soon collide with
The same creature of the Old, a sorcerer
Born in the sea fortress who speaks the language of dragons
With a name cannot be spoken in any other land than his own
He travelled far to the ancient Kingdom
Destined to become the companion of the daughter
who's blood shared
with the destruction of dragons by many Kings

Before Midsummer,
Knowing the prophecy first hand, the sorcerer dreaded
She is the key to uniting the whole Isles
To hold the light for mortals and other beings

Scornful of his destiny to protect the crown princess
The princess’ haughtiness exasperated the sorcerer
While his bumblingness and silliness makes him a favourite of ridicule

Their destiny may
have been written in stone, but their journeys together made their friendship and grudging affection flourished

Two idealists seeking justice and truth
Body of a young woman beneath lies the heart and spirit of a King
And
A man who’s in a quest for knowledge of the new World
In absolute, he strengthened his oath of protection

The Golden Princess is not without enemies
His magic was soon revealed
Klorress made attempt to seize the kingdom
With her magic alone,
The King’s sister actions was undermined by the sorcerer

He stood in front before the princess
“I am magic.” He whispers
The confession led to exile

Without a goodbye
He fled to the forest

The next Midsummer has passed,
Dragonlord, the banished magics have called him
In the middle of the forest of thorns
He was free to use his magic yet it doesn’t soothe the ache

Heavy footsteps came
The sight of the unexpectant princess
Harsh red marks on her skin pierced by the thorns
Her dishevelled appearance with a determined look,
She was a sight, she was glorious

Her father, the King has been slayed
The Kingdom is brought on its knees
Klorress’ invading army have sieged the castle
The False Queen wears the crown and sits on the throne

The princess managed to run with the remaining loyal knights
She carried their will as her pride
She now was a contender for the crown
The sorcerer agreed to accompany
The Golden Queen, she shall be

The princess
Rally the people
Against a common foe
She as the rightful heir
To pull the promised sword from the lake
The task was impossible but for this Isles’ sake
It’s a risk she will take

“Have faith,” The sorcerer said
The miracle she held in her hands
Holds the golden sheath written ‘Worthy thee beholder shall bear the same glory I had vowed for’
The sword bathed in light  
The light of eternity
For the words hope and glory engraved in the sword  
As acceptance of destiny

The war ended with two shared blood exchanging swords
One perished and one gravely wounded
The sorcerer carried the princess to heal her wounds
He tells her to hold on despite on the brink of death
Her usual bravado fades little by little
Painting the floor red along the way
Stumbling, the location is too far
She looks into his eyes with unconcealed devotion
The ocean eyes
She says, “Let’s meet again.” instead of goodbye

Gentle sunrise shyly peaked through the leaves
As soon as the light hits, she closed her eyes
She was soon placed on a boat

The boat sailed away
Swallowed by the sea
Where she sails,
Lays beyond his reach
She will breathe her first air in where she rests
The infinite
land where she lays in the flower fields, the promised sovereign was resting

Her demise spread across the land to the seas
Her name achieved immortality

With the sun fading, the moon soon followed
Chasing for the fading light  
He waits for her on the other side
As she on the other end
Detained in the isle near to the fae
Sharing the same view, the gentle waves of the waters that separates them
Waiting for him

Now, the sorcerer wanders towards the old castle
Shrouded of the faded Golden Age
Last time, he walked in a grand castle, he walked with the Golden Queen
Now he walks with his memories
The land was soon caged with conflict
The Isles is in dire need
He walked out of the entrance

The wind shifts, blowing freshly
Through his path
He stops, craning his head to the forest behind him, and just knows
He knows
This is the day she will be with him again
The Golden Queen
The Golden Queen has returned

No matter how much you deny,
A lot of people don't know,
What really does go,
On in your mysterious mind;

They say you're ordinary,
Sweet, simple and soft;
But I know you better,
You're enigmatic and a hopeless fool;

I see right through you,
I see right past your innocent smile,
I see right past your sweet voice,
I see that you're a lonesome being with no choice;

To you, trust is a treasure,
Which has no measure;
To you, trust is a luxury,
That you cannot afford to lose;

You have a biased view,
About this world;
You think everyone is waiting,
To hurt you real bad;

You think the world wants,
You to fall deep into a bottomless pit,
You think they'd love to see,
The light in your eyes unlit;

According to you,
Sharing your secret,
Is like giving away,
Your credit card;

You may be a strong person,
But right now,
You're cautious, fearful and downright scared,
You're scratched, bruised and disfiguring-ly scarred;  

You'd rather ****** your own family,
Than share your deepest thoughts,
You'd rather become a detached, holy saint,
Than give anybody the access to your heart;

To you, trust is a treasure,
Which has no measure;
To you, trust is a luxury,
That you cannot afford to lose;

But my dear, don't you see,
That you're a trapped bird,
Locked in a golden cage
Totally not free;

But my dear, don't you know,
That we, your people, aren't your real foes;
Your real nemesis, my dear,
Is you;

At first, your thoughts may seem mild,
But after a while,
They'll start running wild,
Staining, tainting and darkening your pure, pure soul;

Your poisonous thoughts will,
Take away the goodness of your heart,
Take away the humanity within you,
And carefully replace it with -

Fiery, scalding, burning anger,
Cold, grudging bitterness,
And a deep, carnivorous hunger,
To annihilate the ones who love you;

So, stop being so mistrustful,
Open out your heart
Slowly at first,
Then all at once;

Do not fear being backstabbed,
Because no matter what,
There shall always be people,
Who will be there for you;

Do not fear getting heartbroken,
Because, my friend, you're so strong,
And there are thousands of others,
Who'd help you mend your heart;

Do not fear everybody,
There might be ten people,
Who might hurt you,
But a thousand more who love you;

Contrary to what you think,
Pushing away the world,
Will make you sadder,
Not safer;

In my little town
dogs sleep on the street
and act affronted
when you drive on the bed.

My little town allocates resources
in proportion to priorities.
We have one school
two churches
and three bars.

The teenage boys in my little town
gather by the pond after dark
with big engines and little cans of beer.
They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight,
moon a passing car.
But at least
we know where they are.

In my little town some girls keep horses
in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys,
they cruise on saddles astride a big beast,
dropping opinions as they meet.

On the Fourth of July
the whole little town
has a big picnic.

The ducks on the pond in my little town
waddle across the road each afternoon
a milling, quackling crowd
round the door of the yellow house
where the lady gives them grain.
When it rains,
they swim on the road
or sleep there, like dogs.

On a cold morning
the woodsmoke of stoves
lingers like fog
in my little town.

We hold village meetings
where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers
***** for a grudging consensus.

We cling to the side of our mountain
building homes, making babies
beneath trees of awesome height.
We work too hard, play too rough,
and sense daily something sweet about living
in our little town.

Imperial palaces
sweeping the landscapes for
miles beyond the eye's vision
gleaming in their perennial silhouettes
sparkling down the dies
shimmers of light rebounding off their sharp heads
piercing the sky

and the eagles
soaring round incessantly
until the clouds move to their momentum
spinning on apparent winds
grudging none their splendour
printing the ages.

I cannot be tamed,
but I cannot be blamed,
for the way I behave.

I can tell you want me,
I can see it in your eyes,
when you look right at me,
and your pupils dialyze.

I'm just being me,
why can't you see?
You can't hate what's true, shows what you knew
about people, life, judging, and grudging..

You can't, for it only grows hate in your heart
When you think bad thoughts about yourself and others
there's a part of You that melts away
And the demon inside, is free to play..

Beyond that bitter, grudging and vile lip,
Who only spews and is covered with pride,
There lies more when you make it with love flip,
Like an old coin who has another side.

The dust of an afternoon nap crusts my eye,
It sprinkles down on my life and drags,
Slow and grudging, my legs can barely move,
To sink into coma, catatonic as a mountain,
Would be my dream come true, watching.
Waiting.

-March 2013

The sea crashed on the shoreline
Like the whisper of a lover
Telling the secrets of her deepest being
To the deaf and silent land

The waves rushed in and hardened the shore
And no one dared to touch the sea
But fixed angry glares on her murderous swells
Relinquished only with grudging
With the cold grey morning

Heaving on her stormy *******
Men and birds alike find a living
In the cold cruel mistress's hands
The sea like a field, yields its fruit
Mere morsels to keep her lovers enslaved
Bound in sluggish wedlock
Tempestuous, cold
The men made hardy by her rage
And drunk by her salty kiss
Hearing her call when at night in their beds
Or by the fire, they take stock and rest
For what the sea gives, she demands a return
And for another lost lover, a candle shall burn

I wear your likeness
Like a scapular
Around my neck.
Your mannerisms
Complete my mosaic.

From behind, we look
Like Jews' harps
Standing with
Hands hanging by
Thumbs in  pants pockets.
These familiar traits
Trickle down and sprout
Anew,
Like Granda, I hear.

Seeing you, one would think
Great thoughts fill your head,
As you stare
At the ***** garden.

My sibs **** their heads
And tsk too,  running
Their hands from front
To back
Through thick black hair.
I recoil at the drops of sweat
Falling from the tips of their
Noses.

Sarcasm drips like venom
From your words.
The cost of a glass of water,
Or a phone call,
Always
Had my friends laugh,
Nervously.
They never knew how
To take you.
I was surprised
By your grudging
Facade when help
Was asked.

I enjoyed your silence.
Even now,
As entropy
Has its way
With my garden.

I walked slowly,
taking each step

and tracing my fingers along his bloodied body
along the abomination that still lived atop my table.

Each finger felt the contours of a stringy muscle,
fat and bone left exposed to the open air,
the filthy dust clotted air.

“Death is close, I am so close to you that soon all will be darkness.”

I bent over his slack face.
The single light swung from side to side
revealing each side of his face in turns.

I bent so close
and smelt the metallic blood,
and to his lips a pressed my own.

The firm translucent skin opened slightly
and with it consciousness burst forth
through a scream that could double over even the numbest of men.

“Shhhhh, hush now baby.”
I smoothed back his hair
entangling a lock between my encrusted fingers.

I licked the blood from his face,
drinking in the clotted blood from his mouth,
******* the scream before it came,
rubbing his grainy tongue against my own
until they were raw.

I sat on his chest
holding his face,
cupping his chin
squeezing till his cheeks came together.

Oh and that fear!
The utter hatred he held for me
then made me want to kiss him again,
whisper meaningless utterances in his ear.

On impulse I stuck my nail into his left eye.

It came out with a ‘pop.’
I laughed again much like before.

The scream this time was loud,
more of outrageous surprise than of pain,
which came afterwards
in a low moan and pathetic cry.

I could imagine the dull pain
coupled with the sharp pain of his raw legs.

He was indeed a monster,
my own child.
Like me he found some want
of his torture and torturer.

In the deep recesses of his mind
he wanted for me to take him.
This would make the pain so complete.

Ripping out his eye
I trailed it down his chest,
circling it around each ******
before I threw it across the room

watching it bounce
then roll
to a stop against the crumbling brick wall.

I took him then in my mouth
tasting the blood and sweat
until again he became hard,

and with a grudging moan from his lips he came
and again I cupped it in my hands and made him drink.

Ingloriously he choked and died.

Outside the white walls, symmetrical pillars, and broken windows do I find solemn within these saints and sinners and colorful people trudging down the hallways of unwashed history and flaunting peso bills all over the skies of painted jazz

The one that is running to the bottom of the staircase holding a box of cigarettes and a mouth full of curses- striding all over the barlights of blissful BGC and numbing taste of bitter alcohol in Taft- wandering on the streets of neon traffic lights and a plentiful of terrible people.

The one that is contemplating heavy metal (!) and bring suitcase for a living-walking faster than a madman of a classic 1980’s horror flick but talking like a dead man, grudging and grumbling his collar, mentally inspecting his fat books and depressing academic memories, calling on the birds of personified freedom weeping beyond his words and scratching his head with that awful haircut looking for a blessed be redemption.

The one that is like Sheila, hands on the wheels with glass-plated stilettos and terrible taste in music, bruise and battered chin, wounded shin and complete with broken dreams –flattered her way up to the pool of stingy bureaucrats and hateful hateful daughters of sacredly publicized personalities continuously eating her tossed salad and puffing marijuana to suffice her thoughts off dull memories and empty void of a brain’s one’s gaped hole.
She can’t be bothered to find peace in her ******* because one must work hard to the top of the social strata!

The one that is gifted with prophesy and hypocrisy of pretentious façade writing broken poetry- creating **** films for a living while dressed in his chelsea boots and pain-bearing insecurities of beautiful nightmares and leather bags of no significant purpose but to seem delight on all these saints and sinners and colorful people

Spilled out of my random thoughts and shapeless blossoming rainbows of emotions and grievances in all things I find goodness on the beautiful surface of that white wall and stubborn-looking beardless hip-hop heads with overpriced headphones and greasy Drake shirts and magnificent bomber jackets from angelheaded fuccbois with mom-washed jeans skinny trousers left them much to be desired and compounded inside the school of design and arts.

The dust of an afternoon nap crusts my eye,
It sprinkles down on my life and drags,
Slow and grudging, my legs can barely move,
To sink into coma, catatonic as a mountain,
Would be my dream come true, watching.
Waiting.


-March 27th 2013

Why do you make it so hard
to like you.
Judging everything I do
judging just to judge
grudging against everything
I've come to know and love.
Why?
Why do you try so hard
to outwit and misfit me,
trying to create conflict
where I only feel glee.
This, what you've labelled, "condescending tone"
is me just wanting you to leave me the **** alone.
I grow tired of your *******,
honestly don't know how much longer
I can continue to endure it.
Your words nothing but bashful, always quick to berate,
you constantly threaten and try to intimidate.
Then wonder why I'm filled with so much hate
towards you,
acting like it came out of the clear blue.

Sometimes I would like to step into your fairytale
and try to cause as much hell
as you believe me to be doing.
Fortunately though,
I have nothing like that brewing.
If you'd let me, I'd show you my world,
hopefully breaking you out of that ignorant spell.
You know - seeing is believing.
Maybe then you'd be able to tell
just how stupid you were being.

When...
When did we stop being a family?
Really, it's kind of a sad tragedy
that my love for you
only exist
in memories.

The wind is rushing thru the willows
they arch and bend but do not break
the gusts of air are strong with power
unanchored on the porch,  things shake.
The green carpet rolls itself into a ball
the chairs around a table fold and fall
large big stuff holds solidly in place
things that go in motion are mostly small,
I feel some drops of rain but not too much
no thunder and no lightning do appear
the torrent of the wind is hard and steady
my dog takes caution - into the house
he won't return outside until he's ready.
I stand, let the hurried breezes hit my face
like a sea captain , most assured, would do
bracing myself alone - against the storm
happy and contented, to see it through.
In grudging, humble admiration, I submit
to nature's sudden,  wild and wacky ways
it's rare and scarce and quite bewildering
it livens up and and embellishes my days.

the whirring of the wheels
led his lazy look above
seeing the sun rest on closed lids
and her silver-painted hair creating
artistry on her shadowed shoulders.
the grudging halt of the bus
and those lashes fluttering open. looking away,
the image of her ebony ensemble
burning into his mind.
as he rolled away she would never notice how
he watched her as she slept.

It was a distant shore, alone as he was,
but connected by the sea,
like flat lands laying with man-made shadows;
the sand, for a moment
held footprints in memoriam of a child’s laughter
except what the land remembered
was a family apart

It was the love of a child’s emotion,
tragically killed by reason,
like signs meant to warn those who would favor nature,
as history suggests,
who once walked freely but are now ghosts,
haunting progress
with uncompromising songs of the heart

It was the will of perfection, it’s power,
meant to conquer laughter,
could not accept those who live vicariously,
in a land where the sun never sets;
but unable to bring order to the tragic clinging tides
he walked towards her
consumed by thought, but intrigued by art

It was a struggle for power,
though master and slave were interchangeable
each loving one another,
though he tired of the compromise
for once the moon appears
the grudging day must lie still once again
as long shadows wait for a new days start

By Arcassin Burnham


Soul cursed from birth with sins that made me think
not to pretend in a wicked world such as this,

i swear i could give a **** about your opinions when
burned deep into the skin of a grudging bliss,

Met my love that i still know in my life but never
reached toward a goal where i could have that kiss.
i'm sorry.

Where can I find people like me?
Do they actually exist somewhere
out there int the vast expanse of the world?

Or do I sit here bemoaning my self made exile
in the same vein that a child does when placed
in the corner as punishment for some transgression?

Even if there were some community I might
feel welcome in hiding with at some far
flung place pledging true freedom, still I would
suffer the pains of having a broken soul.

It's been a long time since I opened up
my shoebox full of pictures and saw myself
five years old and wading barefoot through
a cold creek....loving every second of it.

There's another polaroid of me feeding a mint
to that angry old donkey, dead years now,
but that ornery ol ******* and I had some
sort've understanding, him knowing his place
and me trying to discover mine.

Most of my life has been spent clawing my
way toward some ill defined future I thought
I had to travel toward in order to live well,
and now I find myself willingly going backward.

My Dad achieved his dream of having land when
I was fifteen, and when I came back to live with him
again, his land became my own, his cares for our place,
became my own, hauling rocks and worrying after fences,
being a part of something that we built from our hands.

The world changed quickly though,
and if I had been older and wiser I
would have expected that the eventual
break would appear when most we all
needed something of peace.

But those minutes in the clear creek,
and that grudging comraderie with a donkey,
getting off the bus when seventeen and having
horses recognize me as I walk down the dirt road,
hoofed friends meeting me at a gate every day;
that is the home I need...and one day will return to.

We lift this drink to the newly wed
We lift this drink those who're dead

We lift this drink to the athiēst
We lift this drink to the Holy priest

We lift this drink to the grudging father
We lift this drink to the loving mother

We lift this drink for our past sorrow
We lift this drink for more tomorrow

We lift this drink for one more night
but most importantly...
We lift this drink for ONE MORE PINT

Dawn when it comes
seems grudging.

Descending jets hum, invisible
above this clouded mountain
as hundreds of humans circle, floating lower
toward the airport far away
in the valley by the bay.

Wider than my spread arms fingertip to fingertip
rises a shaggy wall, massive trunk of a
young redwood, less than two hundred years old,
highway of squirrels,
homestead of owl,
a burn scar, black cave, at its base.
Spiders make busy in the bark,
webs drape like prayer flags.

Leaning, propped by tree,
the iron rim, the rotting spokes of a wagon wheel,
pioneer relic from an era just beyond.

Touched by my fingers tapping keys,
the laptop glows.
Tomorrow, daylight will be brighter.
The tree knows.

/and ******* could paint a *******, but subsequently talk **** in colloquial... about such "earthly" affairs as buying milk, while practicing it in French... America forever the cosmopolitan and the suburban, like at the grudging girth of the 20th passing of 100 khakin burdens catching bullets... without invitation, this writing can only claim to be an observation, of the colour of a strawberry, which is isn't red, but strawberry, frozen in ice... electric, a lemon thrown into a field ladder with wintry puff...

as if all rhymes in the world,
where but a ***-note,
an after school dictum
or St. Bartholemew's prayer
a Chilean short:
   of a mea culpa -
       ecce ****! ex luto!
   and if not only Pilate,
like god, washed his hands
clean of the affair,
saying:
             had i but
interest to will a talking
rose, i wouldn't have
the curiosity, to leave animate
things to a gambit of my own,
predilection
    (rarely do you spot
a tautology,
given that Wittgenstein bangs
on about it...
   namely, gambit
and predilection)...
hit the ******* brick 'all
like a sac o'
                  cream-mashed
wit' (th' - definite article
  veer into the fate of
ph'ought concerning
    th'ilosphy...
hardly a ******* whiff from
a chimpanze pushing out
translated (digested)
champagne sugar puffs)...
MIND THE ******* BRACKET,
EH?
         wiff dill...
and Mr. Pink smothered
in butter, rather than mummified
in Dover batter...
     mind you, I too wished to be
a Daltonist,
   imagining Dover's sulphuric cliffs...
whike dot Culd'playz
cancan doove dive into
reimagining Cockney 'ellas!
     apparently "god" in
the omni-schematic is immune
to the gambit man proposed...
    I grant the will concerning
inanimate things
in the vicinity...
then again:
    nothing is actually inanimate...
WRONG CATEGORISATION
genesis...
    ****...
can you even begin
meditating, when being
asked a question?
    Tao says:
   give a narrative,
receive a narrative,
keep the water flowing,
pseudo-Heraclitus...
ask a question akin to:
what is Tao?
          question =
the interrogative interim,
the void eats a thought...
there is never a definite
thought, that isn't an idea...
     splinters:
    glutton mouth of
nothing described as
     either form (definite)
      or formless (indefinite)...
can anyone please spare
us from those who
"think" and extend this
"thinking"
                 into narrative?
throw five marbles into
a dozen eggs and call
them electron drum & bass
incisions...
   never in the history of
man, has squabbles under:
hell...
spire of democracy...
a famous picture from
      the modern version of Yalta...
John Paul II, Ronald Reagan,
Mikhail Gorbachev...
   and a happy family too...
because bureucracy isn't
without autocratic accents
without an autocrat?
       pencil pushing and paper
folding seigls...
what Burroughs took from
Tzara and the top hat at
Cabaret Voltaire,
can only swallow the cut-up
with a Dresden Vonnegut passing
over a cigarette ash-swamp:
phonetic'ism:
    spell with only consonants
(H = surd attaché),
id est: s•chi•zoi•te•le•gra•phi•c...
       +              |               x
                       |
schnell schnell!
   das rubric!
            clock read awry, clock reads
straight...
    no star of David,  nor a *******...
can be less, before
the churning altar of time...
******* ancient Latin prepositions
and moderns...
   á non culpa m
(by no fault of my own)...
             can we move away from...
faaaaaaaaaaaaa...
    trapped in a colloquial
where people,
speak poetically,
    since Metaphor became Atlas...
and yet poets akin to
lepers!
                        ...CK.
    and a fern that grwe into
a frivolous chicken strut
by a royal: twirl surrounding
a passing wind near
the floor of a forest...
              would it ever
be a sin to claim taking a
picture of a shadow,
seconds prior to the dawn
of Hiroshima?
    paranoia of the nuclear powers...
apparently the itchy finger
calamity wen(t) to ****
w(h)en hit upon Nagasaki...
    oddly enough...
this can truly be an antithesis
of a Victoria "curiosity"
           akin to a slobbering
    Bradley Coop' 'itting
phe vest u'nd...
                              in the comment
section...
        apparently writing has
to resemble the comforts of
a colouring-in book
and be replica of
tourists-feeding-Trafalgar-Sq.-
pigeons-type-of-conversation...
­always the cul de sac
but never the labyrinth...
   always the cul de sac...
and never the labyrinth;
   didn't I mention that mathematical
tools, akin to ÷ etc.
    are plagued to
the custard Joe ****** brother
of grammatical tools, akin
to prepositions and conjunctions?
    hell, the Canadian pronoun
Pandora...
          might as well attempt in
depicting cognitive muscles
                at work, su doku gym
membership...
   which is a lesson in keeping
formation and blind spots...
         Alzheimer's killer proteins
digesting fat...
   a bit like what the Somalis
eat last, or rather what eats itself
last...
    minus
      the Omega Phren Genesis...
there are glimpses into
Alzheimer's...
     notably wearing my
grandfather's waistcoat...
reminding him to taste a bear
at 10 minutes to midnight...
    no wonder
we can claim to see
the Hollywood desert of original
script...
               exhausted imagination...
the famine of the north...
short on intellectual curiosity...
a shackles of inverted
famine...
   copula fungus...
   and what remains....
             of the laughing biceps.

When that I should stop looking at the couples passing,
Smile, thinking I've had my day, and retreat, musing
"Some people grow up and get married, and are happy"?
And I don't, because being yoked is what I see it to be:
There is freedom for others in love, that I in my wanderings
Have not found; I was not meant in all my constant ponderings
To be mortal; I was not meant to not question a tie to one:
I am condemned as the artist to observe, and taste, but, for one,
Never know, because I am Nature's scribe, and Chaos' vessel.
Perhaps one day I should concede, and cease to wrestle
With mortality, that there is a level-headed fellow out there
To be my foil, who I can wrestle with instead, through fair,
Unfair and to the last day of our wear down to dust,
Such a one who has my perpetual (grudging) admiration and trust.
I can see myself, crowned with fat braids, kneading bread
As he complains to me of the vicissitudes that rise from bed
At work, my writing in a tidy heap as the children, crossing swords,
Threaten to bring down our careful peace and all my words.
With doughy arms I reprimand them, and set them to the work
They yet think of as play, and sit, my arms around his neck
Whispering sweet words of comfort, wisdom, love,
And he'll look at me in turn, ready to move
Earth, sky, and stars, let alone fire his secretary...
But I, for now, only know how to write poetry.

Doubt truth to be a liar,
Doubt that there are heavens above,
Doubt in the burning power of fire,
Never doubt: I do not love.

I've stayed in a lot of houses in my life, none of which I ever intended to stay for long.
Most of them open easily - there are no locks
just welcoming hosts, always with that same perfidious smile on their face.
They expect me to fall at their feet but they don't know yet that
I am the drug and they are the addict and when they whip up a whirlwind to drag me in I show them how much of a ******* hurricane I really am.
You see, I jump door to door
because my own house is haunted.
maybe once it was a home, but it is now unrecognisable.
All with locks and the windows are sealed shut, it's filled from basement to attic with ghosts who are mourning their losses and grudging their mistakes.

I don't know whether I'm locked in or locked out, and I can't tell you which is worse.