It's not hunger for flesh to matter,
glucose and life.
It's a feasting pain for soul,
it's emptiness between ribs,
lungs torn in fold.
Christen me a black hole, 
cardiac's no response to a dead soul,
ghosts haven't a say.

please it's no compatibility

please me with fangs,
fashion thistles and ripping implements,
non-human descends always to the fiendish of gruesomeness,
bloodless and monstrous.

Haven't a prayer,
haven't a soul,
haven't got a vessel to scream 
wretchedly home.
It's best to let demons lie,
let spirits die,
burn out our dying phantom cries.
It's to feed the slaughtered
with platters of blades and bullet shrapnel,
ghosts give,
ghosts speak,
ghosts don't truly wish for a living peace.

Please may we take a taste of rifle barrel,
please just a second helping of buck shot
and spoiled brain splatter.
Bless what we become,
all ghosts eventually become undone.

No matter how many
love poems I write,

Or times I try explaining
all of it to you

None of it would be as effective
as if I were to simply
place my heart on a platter

and that would be an act
whose gruesomeness
would be profane,

no statement is proper
no statement is effective

and you tell me that I don’t need
to try explaining it ,
but then sometimes lying next to you,
I am afraid that I am draining too much
and not opening my own floodgates

sangkutsa— sana'y kartada nuwebe


      stove -- so much inner blue
            in this gruesomeness,
          still soft is the orifice, maiming
         the speech whirling in warm press;

     hand -- to just blindingly toss out
      in wording it so that then this is true:
       we once had each other in the
        simmer of feelings, leaving
         our shadows crazy-eyed in
     elegiac silence.

      rawness -- boiled to a broth:
        thawing largeness, tipping away in
           and of feeling.

    final stages --- half-done in waiting,
      half-undone in wanting. darkness
       condoles with the aperture of
        clouds twitching to rain tritely
   against the tiled floor. islands of
       wet footmarks make the traverse
           viciously slippery on my way
    to your side of breathing.

     all of it -- hand's gentle breeze,
      salt of lake-eyes, melee of tactical pressures sizing down spots gleamed
       and honeyed with ires. a hiss
  on landscaped neck where a peregrinating perfume sits, feverish with
       desire and nothing else,
    blood boiling, whistling through the pores are the saltine sweat
     poised, almost
                               for the mouth's readiness
          in consummation.

As I sit here reading words that ring so right with me I am still afraid

What is it?
-old beliefs

none of the folklore makes sense to me

Yet the fear prevails

how can I not let go?
Why can I not let go?

Seeing truly that we are nothing but our beliefs

... I am missing something

Is it a belief

Yes
A belief of frailty

I can not seem to put out of my person that I would not have chosen my childhood?

only my perfection would choose that existence

And if it is not what I remember why would I remember it?

It makes sense the Christ
- but why the circle ness?

to create

and how does that create ?

energy

The ones that spoke to gods were speakers, teachers , mediums sensitive
What made them valid then was but the people's beliefs

If that is indeed the case then we truly are doomed

Or shifting-
To machine?
Or energy?

all are so entranced by the gruesomeness of it all
never the joy

We want to share bad

It is the energy that creates the chaos on a global scale

But how can we shift it?

by ignoring it

then fear
A trap?

if  the devil was indeed cast out of heaven my question is which one?

And has it just become a game of energy?

each feeding the same source?

yet we choose to feel and spread only chaos?

in fact then we are the  fodder for existence
or all that is

if it's all the same
why do we keep perpetuating it?

to create