sought
desperate
and double-sought. at last
inside embracing entombment
the skull-dome of earth my
mother
discovers the maiden intellect kidnapped by further
tomorrows and slakes my thirst on the
blood-brain beneath the hills of nemea.
am i the sa
vior the damsel or the beast?
curdling a slimy finger down the vaginaless brain
long veins delay my knuckles into nightingales between
serrated orifice-incisors made of thought and
all my hunting knives and bludgeons bring no unconsciousness to it. memories
they say
are as much like the present as a lion likes
cat food. The sleeping woman is about to become
cat food. cave shadows cloak what little of her is left
to imagination: nearly dead, nearly
beautiful.
does that brain-like lion stalk impenetrable as hungry
as intelligence as forceful as the crucibles of lust as
remote
as wastelands in the unforgiven breast?
i could asphyxiate that hurdle given resolve
i could lambast a mortal lion with my palms but not this
facsimile of fortitude forcefields intact. through
the nose of the wind and the mouth of the water i found my way
to the eyesockets of the very dirt; a veil
about my brain but
saw it still.
stillness
surrounded.
sought
some sign upon the smooth sphere an opening into
light or lifewaters or cold grey electricity but
no thing could penetrate that sheath of thought -- though it may yearn for fornication
some brains never breed but
condense in darkness
hermaphroditic, hunting through the silent greek city-states for
beautiful bloodrivers. there is no lion no trodden
angel weeping in a cave only
impervious struggling eternal meandering and the jar
of misdirection. thanks, hera
but it looks like you've been foiled once again and this time by your husband's headcold who said
only your brain can outthink your brain. she's a smart owl and
she's right:
every time i think i've reached my goal and
allow a little fortune or fulfillment to escape my maze eleven novel tasks
coagulate beyond my calendars of navigation. blood fills the veins of my
brain engorging it and pressuring it into questionable *******. for
if the sun breeds maggots in a dead lion
then i've emerged from the earth's crevice
victorious and spent. but there's more
to the story as i crawl off down the metaphor
wrapped beneath the brain's skinned hide its
vestigial thoughts arrest me thinking i
know, i know
eleven more sunrises until death.
thanks, brain.

I forgot to send your card

                                                                         Aqueous

The impetus for writing this piece beside the natural reason as the title describes and that entails a
Deeper look at the flowers that I wrote about and then this natural connection occurred a photographer
Placed a rose in a pose lying in water and at the front the water added the magic at the tip the rose
Became liquid it seemed to be dissolving it was fluid and melting she wrote this caption for the picture
Liquid rose pouring out my heart that was my feeling about those I wrote about in sorry your flowers are
Late and then the dreaded phone call my wife’s brother was given two weeks more to live after his
Leukemia was holding a steady pattern so now I write this with the specter of death standing over me
Possibly it will make what I say more rich and true maybe more aware than even before in this life it is
Always the surface that gets the first and most attention objects and things that we move through daily
But I want to go deeper into that which is in flux and that which is fluid emotion and feeling the first one
Stood by me in the alley I thought we were observing great heavy snow flakes fall but I was in a place of
Kindred knowing truth I knew little and she was my teacher I stood by a mere girl some will say but truly
I was standing in the presence and promised kisses of future women I learned gentleness and respect for
The opposite gender how to possess your mind it’s not always a free for all keep something in reserve
It creates interest that will pay rich dividends I learned kindness and the sweet ripples it sends into a
World of discord I found out how to be amazing with just small gestures I could go on and on but she
Taught me about that to and I shouldn’t give away women’s greatest secret I will say just this and no
More to love a women gives wealth and wisdom of the ages the second flower leave it to God’s knowing
Of what you need our fathers were not related but they were twins in many ways you can look at their
Failings and lambast them but you can’t look on them and not love them I don’t care what they failed to
Do it was the inviting of their presence it was just to the bone honesty my friend had that common bond
Of having openly imperfect fathers we still defended and loved them this made our friendship stronger
We played off of one another for this essential need to look and find the good that was weighted by
Alcoholic debris I’m proud of my friend’s accomplishments in life and his rich and strong family I still
Need to feed on those helps to center my own life he says his name is a dog’s name don’t think so you
Old dog the next you learn about love personally and then from myriad sources but I got to learn it at its
Tiniest fount small bicycles and the very young are messengers oh God why are you so good to me
Without inhibitions they see truth mind you they don’t get the swagger what’s that all about anyway
She through clear eyed innocence sees a hero in one who projects a commanded aura if you really look  
Believe me the looking is at and end it’s the heart of knowing that has kicked in they brag of their ability
To weigh matter of different kinds can you do it with a heart that loves nothing is missed all tells its
Secrets on this scale the heaviest weight is to love and then not be taken serious because you are to
Young one day when heavens books are opened it will have something to say quiet rich and wonderful
About young love though now she is older of course but the tenderness produced way back then is so
Obvious today what glory hides in the loveliness of friends now the birthday girl herself I hope this will
Square me for the late card to write of her is to speak of stillness that radiates peace a trusting that
Spreads like the quiet of a winter’s morn with new falling snow to speak loudly in her presence what
Harsh disregard you would show you would bear the mark of one who is brutish when in a garden of
Flowers does one raise his voice no you speak in hushed tones that revere elegance and beauty you
Show the quality that has affected you and your admiration the mountain meadow contributes to
Nature's wonder as she spills into the enthralling waiting world she attests to its goodness she cultivates
Possibilities she holds court on lands not recognized as walked on by kings and queens I have found this
To be contradictive if you walked in my shoes and see with my eyes you might tempted to bow in the
Presence of such charm and grace isn’t that what royalty is any way they do a lot of talking about
Streaming she is a precious dream and dreamer that is still there when you awaken God bless you
Precious one do I pine in shadows no I cry in the sun light for these blessings that are mine

Let's go on adventure
Deep into our minds
Running with child-like curiosity
Where there is no issue of time
Or money
Appearances
Perception
There is merely the world to explore
Schedule me for the lifelong tour
I want to see anything and everything
If possible
But of course there is
For there are no limits
Or so I believe
But this is not what they say
Instead it is 'Play it safe'
Or 'Settle down'
Or 'Find a routine'
To which I scream back
'Where is your sense of adventure!?'
When did you lose your spontaneous spark
When did you lose your will to love
To learn
To live.
When did you decide that mediocrity was safer than the extraordinary?
Was it not you who reminded me to dream big
To take action
To take the risks for the great reward?
Shame on you!
But alas, I cannot lambast
For there is no right way or wrong way
You have yours and I have mine
But I know which I prefer.
If life is either a daring adventure,
Or nothing at all
I shall take the adventure option.

It should’ve been Bagan –
she always loved Bagan,
Myanmar.

look, woman.
I am a dog outside your home,
overwrought and disarmed,
hunting for bones.

inverse moon over Pasig
tonight and I am on
my 4th bottle of beer already,

barking without teeth.
raged behind the typewriter
with nothing but a visibly

veiled waiting
this stance so
obscure,
so absurd
like the abrupt life
of candle-flame.

I was the lover
and you cared for flame:
now the fire is dead
and there is nothing left
for the sea to lambast,
erased by the shores of feel.

symphonies out on the streets
like leprous children scrunched deep in
the mire of the streets for alms.

it is now my 5th bottle
and I **** on the stone-gnome
in my mother’s lawn
and she will know of the reek
of this pungent disbelief – scorn me for
my heavy drinking

but what is a man to do
when he
is as destroyed
as

the morning

outside?

Forsaken shrine,
Nights align,
In a spotted chalice,
Like onyx wine.
Out rings a bell,
A raven knell,
The wicked cry,
And doleful spell--
     --Of witching's time.

A wayward soul,
On blinded stroll,
As through the dark,
They must patrol.
The traveled path,
A harsh lambast,
And so return,
The hour's bath.

Fore a shape,
A phantom escape,
Awaiting idol,
Past a molten scape.
River quelled,
Fusion's shell,
Lest a shade and shadow weld,
Beware the spell--
     --Of witching's time.

I heard you laugh over the telephone
I wasn't speaking to you
but i can tell your laugh from a mile away
it hurt me and i knew i was being childish
but i couldn't help but think
why isn't it me making you laugh

i am selfish, its true, and i know well enough
to lambast myself for it
but i cannot deal with the mystery
that there is someone out there
who you might like better

not to say that there are not better men
you can throw a stone and surely hit one
but for once, and with you
i want to be the one that someone likes best

i want to still be drunk, to be a horrible mess
to be a monster still
fighting with myself
throwing punches made of bourbon and beer
and still have you usher me in when i return
tail stuck between my legs
i want to be there
for you to pity
and to laugh at my jumbled words
but I can't
so instead i will find a way to get drunk
and let that do the talking for me

Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?

Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten

with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction

and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,

1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?

...****, you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit

Would that I,
a lowly grunt
could make more than
the average runt
just out of school,
degree in hand;
While I survive
on meager plans.
Equality is a grand concept
full of flaws
and many steps
that most among us
will never see-
for man is not known
for his humanity.
We strive to be better,
but what do we gain?
A fistful of debt,
and a mountain of pain?
And what do we learn,
except that life isn't fair?
Playing cards with a bad hand
and a dare?
That bleeding hearts and open minds
will make us quite impaired
and are considered bad qualities
that make us unprepared
for the lambast that life is,
for the spears of betrayal-
for the knowledge that everyone
as some point is a failure?
We enter these halls
as creatures of learning,
yet exit these doors
suspicious, discerning-
our youthful optimism
shattered and dashed
by ancient old teachers
with an impressive moustache.
So, what is the point
of institutional leeching?
Is this how we want
our teachers teaching?
Do we condone the lack of equippable smarts,
instead replaced with limited starts?
Or perhaps yet, there is another solution-
Quit hampering learning with political pollution?
Maybe thats an option-
maybe it's not;
but I'm a student;
that's all I've got.

My utter frustration
lies with you,

the child I will never have...

You may come to life,
But I bet you will not.

Either way,
I would like you to understand why
So you won't have to ask me
haunt me
coerce me
force me
hurt me
lambast me.

I want you to understand.
I am not having you,
not because I don't love you.

I actually am not having you
because I do.

You see, honey.
I can never be a mother.
I want to be
but I just can't.

I cannot put you through
the same emotional turmoil
that made me decide
not to have you in the first place.

I cannot bear the idea
of raising you in the wrong way
because I have no idea what the right way is.

I cannot let you suffer
the same wounds that I had
as I tried to survive this life.

I cannot let you live.

I cannot
because if I do,
you would hate me so much
you won't even let me lick your wounds
the wounds I would have probably given you.

So honey,
I hope you understand.
I love you too much to let you go through me.
I am a wreck and I know it.

I am also sorry.
Sorry for not giving you a chance.
to live.
to breathe.
to run.
to play.

to live.

Your mommy,
your nonexistent mommy,
has gone so much pain,
heard so much bad words
it's all overflowing
from her mouth.

And honey,
she doesn't wanna let you hear them.
she will never let you hear them.

Don't worry, my baby.
No matter how much I wish to have you here.
I'll fight it.

To save you.
From me.

Because I love you.

hell intersects at carondelet and bourbon sweatsheened street speakers lambast lucifers gates where grimy undercover angels lean to sleep and slumberpray the word of god sweeps through the concrete beat only humidity speaks while the spirit sings praise praise praise

-- dizzy from the silence
     as the rain translates
     the sky's pain into the core
     of a leaf's inflorescence,
     tucks underneath a stone's
     tongue a secret, springing
    from a cornucopia of questions.
    if it rains more over
    the tormented town,
    will God show its face
    in the puddle out feet trample?
    will an angel collapse
    as a single drop of honey
    moves through the lambast
    of a monsoon's arm
    in the wayward atmosphere?
    will its death grow wings
    and carry all of us,
    girdled to its chest
    like how the infantile morning
    is painted in the quiet
    mausoleum of our pains,
    and into our tender lives
    waiting to be examined?

i just like the name...
                                               empire of ash...
    and what remains:
                         the grabrätselnd:
             schwarzmädchen -
with what i gave to you:
                         in neugermanicus!
what i gave you:
i can aqually forsake!
                                 make the last be lost:
for there be kept
                      a worthwhile face!
lambast scree my dear...
and i am last to sceem with
the lambast! and last:
make your heard.      
                        i make the reichasche:
with my: schattengezwirnt...
               shadow makes the worthwhile cool..
  it will all succumb to creed
and thus upon: making a machinery of time
intactness of: herald!
         i: the fission...
                  a lost labour of pain.
tomorrow:
                   fore the worth of lore:
take me: myth.

it pains me, to return
to a narrative of England,
more so,
  since i am not an
Englishman.
         i actually have no
conviction, or worth
to necessarily speak
  given this dynamic...
       of a future, past,
or present...
            what a disillusioned
unfathomability fathered
by a relentless fathering
of ******* and asians
this country has become...
with a month spent
in continental europe,
i am trying to shy away
from the reality of
this country,
  but i am constantly
bulldozered by a sensibility
for angst...
  i am not, an, englishman,
yet i cradle this bread
and water's worth of
continuance as if i
were the son who stood
first upon these isles...
  i am not sad because
i am oblique -
i am, literally exhausted
by a feeling,
best conscribed to
a funeral procession...
     i watch this living
court of ergo -
as a mass synchronised
for a cull.
  for once in worth of
January, i am fed despair
having returned to
these isles -
  America is snoring
and least conservative -
uncle lambast -
      i am regurgitating
this pomp of an unfed
  imperialism -
   scuttling like
             rats in a labyrinth
of a lost citation -
  squabbling larks
among hogs of perfected
glutton execution...
america is exhausting,
most notably on
the british isles...
        after a month away
from the scurvy ***** ah-ding-ala-do
  cyst smoochers -
  i am becoming tired
of english sadness -
this ultra globalist
insomniac paraphrase -
      i feel a tonne weighing
a gram...
   by comparison,
the narrative of this land
finds no encompass in
  an isolationist tactic -
hey: gra-vi-tas!
          i return to a sad country -
having spent
a month on continental
Europe:
      i can hardly recognise
myself;
        England is
waiting for a cue without a coup -
          and when i say
that i sniff a rot
but enterntain opera
and pearls -
         i know that i'm speaking
an antoinette disguise;
for what hangs
above my pretty, noble
affair to breathe, is not
the noble sword of damocles,
but the populist guillotine;
less drama,
  more exec ruse -
  worth a pauper's demands
to adamantly state:
the beast that suffers least
in the slaughterhouse
tastes the best...
hence this, irritable
   scratch of forbidden
            bacon, off the crucifix.
i still cannot instill
in me, the gullibility of
        this, current,
unfathomable, norm,
           perpetuating
          a concern for lunacy
while mediating
               a care to cure its
own blidness...
   beyond the five blindmen
testing an elephant,
i'd rather see two blindmen
attempting a game of chess!
      if only one were able
to sift through the
            gargantuan blob
             of mundane
grey (****),
             and speak pop
like a ****** or a Napoleon;
or at least be famed,
   like the ***, for inventing
the stirrup!
or the ****** who said:
burp, be, beer.

This time,
You mistimed,
And went too far,
Why on them,
Why them,
Why not the Americans,
Or on them,
Why not the British,
Or on them,
Last time I said it,
And I fell victim to lambast,
You had destroyed Mozambique,
By your terrible storms,
The other time,
I said it again,
You are racist, xenophobic and full of favoritism,
And your stubborn supporters again did it,
Lambasted me badly,
You had brought to us your terrible xenophobia,
And today why Lord,
Why on the people of Haiti,
Why on poor Haiti.

And love prevailed
as it stood even stronger
after the lambast of tests
when family was put to risk
and marriage almost suffered

When two hearts are soul mates
they are destined to converge to last
though amidst the dwindling ordeals
one partner about to quit the struggle
yet the other held and compromised

Couple supplements each other
Thus, it complete the two to tango
the dance is performed as music plays
love, marriage and family are made whole
In the end you and I reunited for love so true

I don’t think I’ve ever
hated a person.
But a thought,
now that’s fair game.

It can be yours,
sometimes it’s mine,
but I can lambast
anyone‘s line.

It matters not the topic,
and matters not the logic.
All that needs be done
is say it and make it public

partner up to, what?

   i hear your heartbeat, to the beat of the drums...
oh what a shame, that you came here with, someone
so while  you're here in my arms...
let's make the most of the night,
like we're going to die young...

do i ******* look like a gay-lord
or a blonde-*****?!
sorry, what?!
pop music is like an infection...
i can't stop this *******...
   no, no thank you...
pop music is infectious...
  whatever, rap, dark metal rock
music... whatever...
you fed us the *******
antibiotics,
what were you expecting?
a cure for ******* Ebola?!
retards ahoy!
            hey hey...
third sail would come welcome...
re-**** ****-tards...
               ooh look...
  ballerinas donning stilettos!
prance about, only using
the heels!
      pointless buggering,
and some...
                       it's pop...
it's supposed to transcend
the "inconvenience" of
musical genres...
      
oh yeah, pretty woman 2.0 (two point oh)...
for sure...
reliquary of the 1980s culture...
that **** was always going
to work...
  work... work...
  like a ******* broken down
washing machine...
  
going to work, within the confines
of:
set, stood... and subsequently
understood...
centrism of Rome...
                had "i" made it understood...
a labor, Catholicism,
revised by a Baptist choir...
                
please, at least give yourself
the excuses...
i lambast the language with
oath words...
               in order to make
the plaintiff case of:
forwarding the excuse...
                conjunctions...
anti-stuttering buffer "zones"...
of hell in oath,
shall heaven reign supreme in psalms.

Have you not a seat and a plate, what did you just experience
Usurped all went to get half and chose the only answer we know
Deconstruct denial we claim, of someone's fault for strafing, to stop

Through ear not disease for its' handwritten of the news one goes in and one goes out

Leaving a pit in being so stupid as much that innocence thinks "it"
The stop wasn't harmful traverse the potential self guard not marriage but sifter of golden plates holding holy water.. says "Better be there tomorrow!"

But past you, pass every thrill **** of whistles attempt oh early death show what drinks the peon has for sphinx biscuit weren't it of good ambitions in your language

Common events stupid kings business must adhere to stay rare the smile across your cheek as a reptile house must you wear

From theater to rays of the innovations casting gloom from never afoot munificence as dumb as de' acteur destroying peoples faith in scandals recites it ****** you off ,we did just now with this!

What happened to tournament of hellos calibrated by Hermes while money lands trying to gun at gus the *** on bus ruffing graffiti

Mechanical roses have piqued the fleck from obvious empathy to models of semi European ***** student apologies when we've wept right now

Draining the water from the tank the city does use to develop and seek
After the work chocolate basically in first badgered how are we and there and syndromes did contract, quartered but not foul only blind as a duck or patient rosemary awaiting a tincture in prohibitions government flux

Now lets have the trivial continuance somewhere begotten all paused and the marionette did swoon and painted the picture "we market and think"

The soul was the sell out when they sold out of going in on anything other than the nothing that went out the window with the rest of the nuances to one era ousted the doing in out cast while anti 'd the cry for dials ***** when turned the souls alive for the next round of dimwitted truncated yet out from the cold and in lambast, no doubt

I should have equally punished the waters of separation from concession princesses as above yet pain does divide
Inevitably thank you when the defended help that now watches the slanderous puffing tonnage lip smack  slams as of legends into
what more than "simply can anyone paint a wartime cabbage"

Oh wait that's what we actually do!