Oblivion awaits
Sadness obligates
"O, ****** soul, be vanquished!"
The Lacrimosa dictates.

No bouquet ever darker,
No flower ever, grieving;
"Not beauty" it begs to differ;
The Lacrimosa wanes.

He stands in the fields
He plucks the dying,
The clouds darken
His already pitch-black eyes.

"Lacrimosa," he asks:
"Why so weak?"
"I am but saddened," says he.
To see Lacrimosa, bowing on nothing.

"Leave me be!" Lacrimosa exclaims.
As she lies on the meadows.
"What fate dictates, what fate begets."
As the hopeless Lacrimosa whimpers softly.

"Then, to leave, I shall."
"Then, to sleep, you will."
"O Lacrimosa, I am saddened,"
To see Lacrimosa gone.

Forsaking forgets
Regretting begets
"Not beauty, but harsh truth."
Lacrimosa says her last words.

Lacrimosa have mercy on me,
a kiss on my cheek is my only desire,
oh conspirator cease torturing me.
inside my heart you're stirring a fire.

Lacrimosa bring with you winter rains.
I surrender my silvery heart to your claim,
will you heed my whispers, oh merciless dame?
and with forceful hand erase her name.

Lacrimosa you've made me weak yet strong,
I am but salt in your ocean of fear.
I beg you to mercy this servant for his wrong,
and from my eyes you'll drop a single tear.

don't listen to mozart;
lacrimosa
lack any dosage:
lacrimosa
tea; no coaster:
lacrimosa
broken toaster:
lacrimosa

The clouds are weeping for you,
Awaiting for the time to surface.

Can't you hear the raging storm outside?
Can't you hear them calling for you?

No matter what I say,
No matter what I do,
There's no way for me to save you.

No saintly tears for this belted
asteroid 208 .
A rock headed into
insignificance , as it twirls
around some son/sun of long
forgotten already tomorrows .
Life's long road ,
crushed rock , hopes , and dreams ,
are tarred into
submission ;
driven madly over in derision .
Yet you dare crave more
than time , and space , and memories .
When we know that tears from heaven
saintly flow forever .
And will wash all traces away .
Like the riders of the storm
that deluge the three rivers charged
with pain , forgotten love , and time's
indifference .
Hush now , the last flickers of light dim ,
thy song was beauteous , but there are never encores granted
by the Angel that never cries .

I went there without you
and I had a visit with my grandpa.
April may be the cruelest month
but October kept him alive for a moment
longer.
We listened to Mozart and
visited and visited some more
until our throats yearned
for water and for rest.
With another kiss on the forehead
he left me for Good.

I sat with Jesus again -
this time in an Astrovan,
remnants of the serpent still
stuck to His heel.
I asked Him to play
Lacrimosa for my grandfather
at the gates of Heaven,
to which He gave me a hug
and we drove back toward
the rising sun.

Your new side was fake
And covered in all the rust you need
To start a war.

There were springs sticking out
From holes in the mattress
The night you told me
I was void of form.

It must haunt you now
To think that I'm such a good abstraction.

Lacrimosa,
Lacrimosa...

My dear,
I'd prefer to sing alone.

To think of you washed
In all the colors falling
Like Whistler's Rocket
So far below the moon...

I cry away any sanctity
Placed upon me in my youth.

When I am stricken
With all the words
Uttered over the silence
Of our modern, beautiful
Communication...

I will fall silent.

I will fall still.

I will be quiet,
But I will be swift,
And I will be void of mercy
To all but myself.

this one is for you
little soul.
this one is for you
broken heart.
this one's for the person
who cries late at night.

you're not
alone.
and it's not over
yet.

stay strong.
go on.

the blade is not
the answer.

stay strong.
move on.

tomorrow
will be
better.

Night. All over his body.
Lithium lingers on the tongue.

Slow motion crawl into bed,
nothing for dinner except sleep.

His gaze. Colder than
the chill of a refrigerator.

He tells me he’d rather die
than **** me tonight.

Grabbing the fat that clings
under my chin, he tells me,

“Once I learn to love myself,
I promise I’ll love you next.”

The steady pulse
of my beating heart

Swings in time with the soothing cello
And strings of earth and air

I see my body, I am outside
I am no longer within

My thoughts are just bubbles
floating in the air

My feet are just stable
but not part of the earth

This is my death
The passing away of my soul

Deepening the plunge,
as I immerse myself within the sorrow

Give away my soul, you say
Stay, you say
Do, you say
Don't, you scream
muffled.

I cry out in those leaping intervals
The painful pulls of your desires
ripping at my already weakened heart.

My strength deteriorates as the dominant over turns
I, lying on the ground, cold to you.

Amen, they say.
To men. The end.

Your voice
Broken and weeping
Reminds me more of
false ******,
Than compassion

It cries,
“I am filled,
I am overflowing,
Be like me, be like me,”

But it echoes,
“Fill me, fill me,
With anything,
with everything”

- S.G.

Tonight I have no words.
I cannot grandly sweep my pen
In flowing arcs across the page,
Drawing little soft impressions
(little soft depressions)
That show how lovely pain can be.
I cannot play the great Creator
Who rips a vital pulsing mass
from out His chest,
And molds still-beating clay
With a sad old potter’s gentle hands
into a little melancholic harpist
who plucks the heartstrings perfectly.

No, I have no words that fit
Like others have made fit before,
composing language to fit all the inward lines and curves
(I once knew a few of her’s)
that twist and turn and come entwined,
(the twists and turns of long ago)
crying “Lacrimosa!” in some wee hour
as the breeze blows a lacy curtain back.
I am no Aeolian instrument
Sounding a sweet ethereal chord into the night.
I am the vacuous breath left behind in silence
When the musician’s music stops —
A tuneless referent —
An empty exclamation mark
Howling noiselessly in space,
Meaning nothing
And everything, all the same.

!

Your voice
Broken and weeping
Reminds me more of
false ******,
Than compassion

It cries,
“I am filled,
I am overflowing,
Be like me, be like me,”

But it echoes,
“Fill me, fill me,
With anything,
with everything”

- S.G.

The ocean is red
The sky is red
The earth is red
We are red
Our souls are burnt, scorched
Like everything under the sun
But He, She, It is blue
How can we get closer?
Everything inside of us is all around us,
From the depths of the oceans to the heights of outer space
Our blood stains the asteroids before they hit,
And the rocks become the Dirt we stand on
The birds wear a disguise as they echo in song
Maybe this disguise is a symbol
Even the birds leave their free but empty skies,
Tumbling back to earth,
As we pray on our knees to a symbol
Maybe this symbol is grace
And human language is raw nature
When nature and grace collide,
Can this destruction bring forth creation?
Is our world the child of grace and nature,
Swaying always slightly towards damage over peace?
We are the new dinosaurs,
Eating plants and eating meat
In our deepest caverns we dream of frozen waterfalls,
Waiting for our true selves to bubble to the surface
Then the volcano erupts- and we’re back to the caves,
Playing with our singular shadows in the dark
Can’t we explode into the light?
Our energy instead goes to the hole,
The hole we dig from the moment we slide out
The cells, the craters, the planets- the holes
The ocean is blue
The sky is blue
The earth is blue
We are blue
But He, She, It is red
How can we get closer?

Bone-white moon.
Lacrimosa caught
in the mechanisms.
Can you see me?

Of course not.
I blend in
with the sawgrass
and the catacombs.
With beach glass
and stones the color
of rust. I am a

microcosm.
Can you hear me?
My tragedy is in
the way I keep quiet.
Silence like ashes.
I am ethereal now.

This is my requiem.
Send my regards
to Mykonos.
Burn the screaming harp.
I am subterranean now.
Someday it will all turn
to gold.

Few candles
left for all of this

now comfort comes
in well thumbed books
and blankets..

A twist
of snowdrift hair
that tags you late
for thankless life,

released

a look-back
over years that taught

retreat


From
the cabin
of your fevered eye,
a love that passed you by
still shines,
impossible
in distant vistas

always
out of reach...

Melting under this Plastic World,
Mickey Mouse is a rat that ate the poison,
I feel this wave coming over me,
riding the tide like I'm Poseidon,

totally sick of this circus like Icarus,
flying dangerously close to The Sun,
I'm high in a high rise on syd in Sydney,
like Midas my God what have we done,

it's as if,
everything we touches turns to gold,
invested in,
IOTA last week this week it's up 10 fold,

BitCoin hit 15k,
here we go we're on our way,
bought in out of fear of getting left out,
like a cat in the rain,

feeling like a cannibal animal,
every dog has it's day,
working to the bone like a bog,
& we all want our $ at the end of the day,

when the work’s done,
everyone's gonna wanna get paid,
feeling mixed up in the middle,
half way between a master & a slave,

what a mess we’ve made,
& I’m not blaming any particular one,
I’m just saying collectively,
this feels like the eulogy of,

a civilization that's time has come,
& is almost done,
& yeah we might lose it all,
but at least we had some fun,

& oh what fun we’ve had,
but who'll be left to clean up this mess,
because all the cool kids have gone,
& you're the only one left,

like the morning after the party,
sunrises are never the same as sunsets,
had some fun times last night,
but this morning you're such a wreck,

sometimes only at crunch time do you find,
our failures disguised as accomplishments,

now who’s left behind to pay enough mind,
to clean up our post bliss mess,
not snotty nosed spoiled rotten rich kids,
who got gassed up on daddy’s cash,
they're crashed out at their pad now,
but we both knew they wouldn't last,

passed out on dad's couch,
can always tell the future from the past,

everyone’s,
acting like an ***,
jockeying in position,
for some corporate kick backs,

but if or when you get them,
they come along with a guilty conscience,
then tell me what good is that,
seems all these facts are just nonsense,

I mean really what good is this,
what good are all these words,
I guess these words are only worth,
whatever a words worth is really worth,

which at this point,
feels worth about as much as dirt,
but at least it's that good dirt,
that Mount Agung before it bursts,
that fertile volcanic soil,
that Mother Love from Mother Earth,

sure,

you might think you’ve got it figured out,
or at least you thought you did,
& now you see what’s coming now,
& the mess we’ve made of all this ****t,

the drama we did with no apologies,
no apologies nor compliments,
no honor for the Honor Rollers,
nor for our awkward accomplishments,

and all I want to know,
is where the Hell honest went,
'cause all these dollars & all this power,
at the end of the day amounts to zip,

zero,
no heroes,
& as it turns out,
all of our idols are weirdos,

how's we go,
from Einsteins to Weinsteins,
from talking out our feelings,
to just replying with “I'm fine.”,

from Greek Gods to Mickey Mouse,
from Orwell's Animal Farm to Animal House,
from Mozart's 'Requiem Lacrimosa',
to Baha Men's 'Who Let The Dogs Out',

how'd we get from then,
to where we are now,

& you only want to talk about the weather,
or anything else that doesn't matter,
instead of what's really on your mind,
& how it's all almost over,

talking about what's for lunch,
while the world floods & burns,
not trying to be too negative,
just trying to help you learn,

because I know you think I'm cool,
but really I feel hot as Hell,
is it just me or is it hot in here,
is it just me or does nothing feel real,

like a Barbie girl in a Barbie world,
all dolled up & wrapped in plastic,
like I'm at at Disneyland on acid,
only about an hour & a half in,
& already I'm having a bad trip,
stuck on a boat on a fake mountain,
it's a joke that they call it magic,
trying to slow as everything goes faster,

but I'm not at Disneyland,
I'm just in a high-rise on syd in Sydney,
looking at the man in the mirror like MJ,
thinking I don't know that man who is he?

MMelting under this Plastic World,
Mickey Mouse is a rat that ate the poison,
I feel this wave coming over me,
riding the tide like I'm Poseidon,
totally sick of this circus like Icarus,
flying dangerously close to The Sun,
I'm high in a high rise on syd in Sydney,
like Midas my God what have we done.

∆ LaLux ∆

from The Sydney Sessions
available for FREE worldwide 12/12/17

what's the matter lady
moon is always waning
smile fragrant paining

grind those whitewashed tombstones
into a fine dust and blow it my eye
so i might cry
over you
and the distance
and have it be half hearted
but still textbook lacrimosa

Inés es joven: en su faz hermosa,
Luchando están como Hércules y Anteo,
El carmín pudibundo de la rosa,
Con la avarienta lumbre del deseo.

Torna los corazones en despojos,
Pues tiene en su diabólico albedrío,
Miel en sus frases, dardos en sus ojos
El alma en ascuas y el semblante frío.

Es blanca en su exterior como azucena
Negra en su fondo cual la noche oscura;
Roja adelfa es su boca, que envenena
Al que una gota de su miel apura.

A fuerza de sufrir, lleva consigo
Tal odio al mundo que su planta pisa,
Que, engañando al amante y al amigo,
Usa como una máscara la risa.

Visita los altares, y allí brota
De sus labios y en público la queja:
Que por ganar la fama de devota,
Ha dado, siendo joven, en ser vieja.

Cansada al fin de dar funesto ejemplo,
Suelta un ***** mantón sobre su talle,
Y aunque igual en la calle y en el templo,
Hoy ha cambiado el templo por la calle.

En la humildad con que su rostro juega,
Se juntan lo piadoso y lo pagano:
Un correcto perfil de estatua griega,
Y el colorido del pincel romano.

Tan modesta se viste, y tan seguido
Se la mira en el templo lacrimosa,
Que son juntos su faz y su vestido,
Hábito y faz de austera religiosa.

Cuando se haiia en el templo arrodillada,
Rezando en alta voz con gran tristeza,
La gente que la ve dice asombrada:
«Inés es muy devota porque reza».

Los ojos bajos y la faz contrita,
Trémulos y turbados sus acentos,
Toma y lleva a su frente agua bendita,
Para ahuyentar los malos pensamientos.

Se ven correr las cuentas del rosario
Entre sus dedos de alabastro y grana,
Como en el blanco lirio solitario
Las perlas de la púdica mañana

Cuantos miran a Inés rezar sumisa,
Y oyen la voz con que piedad implora,
Y ven que, puesta en cruz, toda la misa,
Solloza, ruega, se estremece y llora;

Al ver su rostro en lágrimas deshecho,
Con santa unción resplandecer ufano;
Las reliquias que cuelgan de su pecho,
Las novenas que tiemblan en su mano;

Juzgan verdad su devoción sagrada,
Cierta juzgan su mística tristeza,
E ignoran que la dama arrodillada
No viene a orar... y, sin embargo, reza.

Entre orar y rezar hay un abismo,
Que ni medir ni escudriñar me toca:
El rezo y la oración no son lo mismo,
Que no es lo mismo el alma que la boca.

Inés, del templo en la imponente calma,
Por rendir culto a Dios, le infiere agravios:
Su rezo está en la boca, no en el alma...
¡La oración en el alma, no en los labios!

La dulce fe de sus primeros días
Mataron en Inés los desengaños,
Y hoy reza en alta voz Avemarías
Iguales: ¡ay! a las de aquellos años.

¿Qué son las tiernas frases de su boca?
Gritos que aturdirán su propio duelo...
Flores con que su afán cubre una roca
Coronada de témpanos de hielo.

Víctima de su gracia y su belleza,
Tiene Inés una historia de dolores.
Y recuerda su historia cuando reza,
Queriendo despertar tiempos mejores.

Rezando sin orar, en voz muy alta,
Ofende al templo del Señor, sagrado,
Pues pone allí, para encubrir su falta,
El rezo como escudo del pecado.

Es incrédula, y júzganla creyente;
Llena con falso culto el alma hueca,
Y así a la faz de Dios rezando miente,
Y el mundo ignora que rezando peca.

¡El mundo! Vedlo... toma como ejemplo
De santa unción a Inés que está llorando...
¿Ejemplo? Sí: de las que van al templo,
Hijas del mal, para pecar rezando.

¿Cómo ensalzar sus aparentes galas
De misticismo y devoción? -¡Del cielo
Es la oración, que, al agitar sus alas
Ni polvo ni rumor alza en el suelo!

The haunting Lacrimosa song
Pulls at my cold, black heart,
And I know something’s wrong
I shouldn’t react this way to something as beautiful as Mozart

I should be happy
But for some reason my good emotions fail me
And the only thing I feel is an empty
Space filled with desolation
Loneliness
A thousand silent screams
A black river of unshed tears
And a ****** mountain of shattered dreams

The music makes my body sway
Of its own, I hold no control.
I hold only one thought
One repetitive thought:
I. Want. It. To. End.
I want to end it all.

My breathing becomes labored,
I fear something is broken.
The demons within me become restless,
Tearing my heart and soul open
Rendering me incapable of speech
As this new pain takes over.
I wish I could reach
The place where I am stronger
But all I am now is weak

The violin speaks
But I cannot hear
My thoughts are too loud
No, not thoughts, dear
But screams,
Wails,
Lightening from a black cloud.

Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata now plays…
Ironic isn’t it?
For though it is daylight
It is eternal night
In my dark soul…
Oh will you hold me
As I cry my heart into healing?
What healing?
The healing that exists for all broken souls but mine.
The healing that is said to be brought about by time.
Oh how they lied to me
Because that precious healing evades me

The deep sounds of a cello
Reverberate in my dark, dark soul.
May I borrow
Your smile
To hide the gaping hole
In mine?
May I borrow
Your strength and happiness
One last time?
For I feel mine are drained away
And I am not sure if I can last another day

The concerto ends
But the pain does not.
I feel like I should die…
If I die, will the pain end?
Or will it follow me
Into the next life?
If I die, will you mourn me?
Would you say you wish you had saved me?
If I die, will I have peace?
Forgive me, if I disturb you with thoughts of my death,
I only yearn for this pain to cease.

Instead of wasting
your time looking
for princes
and princesses
endlessly stalking the
shadows of castles
you should focus
your effort on being
a *******
dragon.

Breathe fire from
your soul, kid.

Eros has claimed another victim…

This I must admit, this sin.

This time it’s you, struck in the crossfire.

It must drain you much like a vampire.

I've seen your wretched purity.

I've seen your disconnected reality.

Mind like a lacrimosa, unexposed…

You wouldn't show it, but it floats,

fragile, sad, empty ghost.

You match my dreams…

you attract my screams.

For love and for hate…

It’s much too late.

You, angel with the tattered wings…

You, devil on my shoulder, enjoying and destroying me…

You’re the source of my euphoria…

You’re the source of my melancholia.

You’re a drunken kiss and a broken bliss.

What shall I do with this? Why has this all gone amiss?

Delinquiría
de leso corazón
si no anegara con mi idolatría,
en lacrimosa ablución,
la imagen de la párvula sombría.
Retrato para quien mi llanto mana
a la una de la mañana,
reflejando en su sal, que va sin brida,
la minúscula frente desmedida...
Cejas, andamio
del alcázar del rostro , en las que ondula
mi tragedia mimosa, sin la bula
para un posible epitalamio...
La niña del retrato
se puso seria, y se veló su frente,
y endureció los dos ojos profundos,
como una migajita de otros mundos
que caída en brumoso interinato,
toda la angustia sublunar presiente.
Fiereza desvalida, hecha a mirar
el mar...
Boca en bisel, como un espejo afable
que no hable...
Medias de almo color; para que vaya
por la cernida arena de la playa...
Las deleznables manos,
que cavan pozos enanos,
son carceleras de los océanos...
Linda congoja de la frente linda,
la que inerme y tiránica se brinda
por modelo de copa y de coyunda
y de lira rotunda...
Retrato de iniciales sinfonías:
tus cinco años son cinco bujías
a cuya luz el alma llora;
por eso a ti me abro
como a la honestidad versicolora
de un diminutivo candelabro.
Los invisibles hombros, cual quimera
en que un genio marítimo retoza,
no columbran siquiera
la adoración venidera
que los ha de rozar, como se roza
el codo de una estricta compañera.
Párvula del retrato;
seriedad prematura;
linda congoja de un juego nonato
que enfrente del fotógrafo se apura;
pelo de enigma, como los edenes
enigmáticos desde donde vienes;
víspera bella que cantas
en la Octava de mi más negra hora:
hoy hice un alto por mojar tus plantas
con sangre de mis ojos, y miré
que salías del óvalo de bruma,
como punto final que se incorpora
y como duende de relojería,
a dar en los relojes de mi fe
la campanada de la dicha suma.
Niña, venusto manual:
yo te leía al borde de una estrella,
leyéndote mortífera y vital;
y absorto en el primor de la lectura
pisé el vacío...
                            Y voy en la centella
de una nihilista locura.

These tear ducts are barren, dry, and void of overflowing release.
My sleep is filled with dreams that my eyes be filled with streams.
The suffering is the easiest part.
Getting through this arid landscape is difficult, if not impossible.
The window opens to the breeze
as I smell the sweet summery air through savory trees.
How I recall the past and days of hurt.
Times I wish I could be even as high as dirt.
I wander through my own Forest of Arden,
not feeling care,
not a scare,
life in full color I dare…say.
Cobalt blue filled the sky.
Tear ducts still empty—that well, still dry.
As I’ve grown older,
the callouses of life have made me stronger,
perhaps why I can cry no longer.
If I could only wash my troubles away.
Tears, please come without delay.

When you walk your heart
in the Highlands
you hear your soul's notes
harmonising with the wind
you sing Lacrimosa
on the hills to defeat the world's
desperation and hug beauty.

A bit  poetry

small fingers
handle a bit of beauty
a bohemian evening
a beautiful summer
to smell the sublime blue iodine !
O happy soul, do you feel?
the exquisite perfume of the wonderful kingdom
who dances a musette waltz
a fairy with a white rose complexion
inspires luminous grace
in a milky tooths smile
far back from another time
with green mother my eyes
to link the words with my gaiety
a little joy  the cheerfulness of heart
child love simply
the fine summer a beautiful novel
Italy in her fairy eyes
like a Magnani with  her eyes
oh my god my heart throbs
the big  fear is here
i see now his fatal black eyes
to love a divine lady the queen of charm
the beautiful case before the end of the drama
to love the inaccessible star
I Don Quixote a dulcinea
without Rossinante only the words
for an evening song!
the animalian love is
a metaphysical war game of  heart
a chemical secretion a balm of joy
for the  soul child  actor of the drama love
here are the words a little bit poem
oh my love like Cesare Pavese, I am
waiting for a beautiful Gloria " death will come "
and the rain  falls in the midsummer
a counter-time in the film,
the drama is always  black and white
to die in Rome a Lacrimosa Requiem
the Sublime voices ring the end  
the glamor of the divinity  in tears that charms
the end of the drama the film on the white of linen
with beautiful black words like his eyes!

In black and white photographs
There are times when we have real smiles
While playing Lacrimosa in my mind
There is an old book smell here
I leave myself to rustling leaves
I walk in the crowd
Forgotten in Signoria Square
With the souls drowned in the ashes of history
Of the old shimmery respectable nights that bring the paintings to life
Sorrow hidden in melodies
They are all humming around me
While hitting a glass from a glass
Dancing on the wire of the violin around the corner
Dukes and duchesses with their magnificent dresses