“They’re killing my art”, I enounced, once more.
I cannot remember how long it has been,
since I’ve taken reason to account me the pleasure of truth.

Too long since I’ve allowed
the eloquence of ambiguity to persuade me
like a drunken, sunken, driven violin
that by its arduous harmony
knows not love
but the expression entangled
between deception and madness.


What a lovely step,
each and every step
of every pronounced pitch; rhyme - never to be heard, once more,
and never again;
should these feelings fade,
should I know any more.

I know not less than written
formalities and informalities,
messages, designs, rules;
they’re teaching me how to think,
how to drool over so-called precious,
unblemished restrictions,
while the only thing I can procure is
“they’re killing my art”.

They are killing me,
with every step;
every step of a pronounced pitch
that only grows louder as I grow older; weaker.

They are attempting to make me a follower,
attempting to rid of all
mesmerizingly morbid sensations
engraved in my sphere - even me, even you.

I could not recall the last moment
I tried to picture your smile,
still now,
I deny myself the ruthless pleasure.
I do remember, it was cold,
I felt a rigid tangent of merciful memories raiding;
all I could bestow of tendered hope,
then I remember dissolution.

“They’re killing my art”,
they dare deny it.
They dare to outstand me
and enforce me to exhibit myself as a self-evoked,
developed work of admiration
only so that they could indulge of a sense of liberty
while they are chained to an unsustainable
glimpse of stability they dare defy as happiness.

Much unlike myself,
much more like you.
It was a fault,
you’ve only ever wanted to be loved, accepted.
The moment in which they took
the blossoming of your efforts
with calid gestures and tinted words,
pitifully glanced upon your seldom eyes
with a misunderstood applause,
you felt at home.


But I could not stand it,
for I am no more than you,
and no less than myself.
I apprehended that while they exalted our blossoms,
they knew not our roots.

They cared not for our feelings,
for the treasures we buried
beneath every step of every word,
in every line.

they only admired what they were taught to,
and diminished what they loved
but soon were taught to forget.

For we are us,
“not them”,
how many times could I have repeated
these words before you stubbornly gave in?

Sometimes I still listen to you,
after all,
you are me, and I am you,
but I chose to evade you
in a sad and solid place,
where I, too, exhibit my sorrows,
and the brief explanations
which one brought me
to become a beautiful being
but are no longer relevant,
driven.

Sometimes I still listen to you,
when I am lost,
and I find not an excuse to better,
fearing I have become like them, while I wonder,
“why not? is it so wrong to belong?
Is it so wrong to **** a part of myself?”
For I have done so with you,
and shall never regret it.

While every time I listen to you,
I am comforted,
blindly submerged, yet alive;
reminded that no matter
how cold and frighting
a lonely path may guide me,
it shall never be as empty
as a world without art,
for that, is me.

The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk

People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette

Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body

A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!

Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.

God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.

I understand now when they say he spoke with a silver tongue. His words flowed from his lips like beads of mercury, mesmerizingly beautiful, but toxic nonetheless.

More than just tanned skin over bone,
just the long brown hair on it's own,
that giggle when I try to look, manly,
like one who can be the man Leigh

desires to interfere with. Myth, mystically
beautiful, mesmerizingly enchanting, step
by step, gracefully, carefully granting
me another chance, glancing optimistically.

Her eyes, not caring about the colours, staring
across the hall, my nose can reach her forehead,
her taste in music, juicy yet elegant, in bed,
slightly humming along, god, she must be a dream.

She can just pick any guy she wants, a team
of athletes all at once, or just the one that lead
the journey to her lust and center. I misread,
excuse me for swearing, but the skirt she's wearing

is more than I can handle. Enter the room
without a hint of fear, she's near, like perfume.

In the arms of infinity
Blooms a flower so tender:
Mesmerizingly flawless-
My heart does surrender.

Embodied with ruthlessness;
Its fragrance a subtle weapon:
Captivating the senses-
My mind lies a prisoner.

Onyx wings and silky feathers
Sadly beautiful and mesmerizingly furious
A broken soul and a shattered heart to pair
Scarred, pale skin appears translucent
A face that is beautifully depressing

Once upon a time
They walked among the stars
Now they are forced to walk amongst humans

The devil showed pity
For he was God's favorite and an angel once long ago
One wrong choice
Now he rules below

So angels become demons
Because they were once loved
But wanted more

So Lucifer showed mercy
Now they have their beauty again
Now they are angels with a dark side

Traumatized.
The moon glistening through the sky cuts a silver through my whisper of thoughts.
Caught.
Unwavering gaze imprisoned by that crystal kingdom
Of darkness.
Of pits and craters.
Yet so mesmerizingly beautiful.
Mesmerizing enough to blacken out my heart swirling around the shackles of yesterday.
Mesmerizing enough to pull me out of my trance that might've not seen me through the day.
Mesmerizing enough to forget the universe whirling around me in shades of sadness and confusion.

Beauty can go far in healing.
Especially the beautiful strokes bringing us to Him awestruck on our mesmerized knees.

I am nothing but a spring flower,
waiting to rise from the once frozen ground
and claim her return.
I am nothing but the summer air,
with a tint of hope,
with a tint of freedom.
I am nothing but an autumn leaf,
counting down to the day
I let myself fall.
I am nothing but winter frost-
enchantingly
mesmerizingly
born from the cold.

if you may now my dear, let me speak
because my words are a dead language that only you could read
my thoughts are prisoners and only you could set them free
and my god it makes no sense and i was never yours to keep
but somehow you manage to look through me so mesmerizingly
my dear, I wish I wasn’t but I’m in too deep
and what truly upsets me is the fact that
we never meet
except every night
when i see you in my dreams

Purely noumenal or epistemologically maieutic?   Existentially transcendental transmogrification, transmute, transude, transubstantiate.  Spiritual apercu’s incarnate.  Infinite possibilities eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology’s perfectible ontology.  Elan vital’s entelechy’s apotheosis.  Psychic clarity’s evolutional ascension.  Perpetuity’s adamant tenacity.  Sentience’s inevitably irrefragable logistical tactician.  Preternatural’s ostensibly immortal fecund.  

Yes, lie with me and I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind with mesmerizingly enrapturing ecstatic euphoria.  Sublimely surreal futurity fatidic and  decadently arrogant blatant flagrancy.  Incorrigible atrociously impetuous impudence,  pusillanimous no.  Enthrallingly endearing sensually demonstrative flirtatious flamboyance.  What’s to extravagant exorbitance portray……… exserted protuberance’s indefatigably indomitable.  Sexuality’s infrangibly latent virilities, erotica erectile errantry’s hubris!  Feral phrenic frenzied ****’s salaciously seductive.

Art pictured in motion, walking elegance.
Words you give life, monocle syllables
Beauty captivatingly imprinted, portraits stared.

Words gliding from your Cherrie lips, mesmerizingly eloquent
Intoxicated my heart listening, convinced by its eloquence
You my wish granted, an answered prayer.

Boastful our love drenched in splendour, Our love grandiloquent
I loved you in past lives, Aphrodite seems envious.
Saving Grace, pulled my soul from despair.

You say you're not a writer
Yet your words wrap their silken arms around me
and caress me as gently as you do.
They fall unto me like the sunset over the ocean;
slowly, vibrant, mesmerizingly.

Dark night, dusty clouds,
Mild breeze mesmerizingly made us freeze;
End to end, no one ;
Just me and you, Antony's son;
Dragging your coracle,
Dreaming about this  couple ;
Moving to and fro twice at least,
Finally facing other one north east,
It's the day of the years feast !

I've always loved the ocean and the boats,
both have their own existence,
their own nimbus,
contrary too.
One Living and other Dead.

But in the end the twain are ticking to kiss each other.
Isn't it mesmerizingly ****?

I was never as mesmerized by mysteries,
as I was when you became one.
From your "I smoke to die"
to the best/worst day of your life,
every essence of your presence
was mesmerizingly beautiful.
From your drinking till you drop,
to believing that the eagle loved you,
to proving that you are not a rat,
you were always the perfectly flawed one.
Underneath that emerald eyed reader,
surrounded by piles of books...
you were still the little girl,
who blamed herself for her mother's death.
who still doodled white flowers everywhere.
Miles could never have been more correct when he compared you to a hurricane.
You left, but with yourself,
you took away, the crime partner
of the Colonel, the greatest prankster
and the love of Takumi and Miles.
But, I could never forgive you
for breaking your promise to Miles...
If you could, would you, come back
and continue, that unfinished "To be continued?"