Humans are constantly creating
with authenticity.
We have been given the universe-
an abundance of awesome things:
Mysterious monsters of oceans deep
and birds ornamenting trees.
We take these gifts
with mindfulness
and show
what we’ve perceived.

Now the computer
has
become the creator.
But humans
created the machine.
Without our perceived
realities,
the robot has no things.
Nothing to analyze,
digitize,
and pixelate on screen.
It can’t channel feelings.
It can’t express its needs.
It just mimics what it really means
to be
a
human
being.

Ghetto child, dusty brown face, hopeless eyes, dandelion flower,
piles of dirt surround him.
He quickly runs across glittering pieces of glass
that mimics the sound of ice crushing beneath his
     paper-thin soles.
Sirens scream! Radios blare! No angels to be found,
at least not here.
Tall brick building,
six stories high,
so worn and torn from many loveless years.
Baby doll, blond and white,
tossed from the high rooftop late last night,
cracked face,
broken smile,
she once brought solace to a lonely child,
she now lies forgotten amid a maze of discarded trash.
Drunken man leans against a blood-stained wall to
    support his failing body,
brown papered-bagged bottle he clenches in his bandaged
     hand;
he struggles to reach his lips to swallow its pain-killing
     contents.
"How bout a date, sweetness?"
He slurs to two young girls passing by,
who carefully ignore his cry,
but jokingly remark of his haggard condition
as they quickly pace down the noisy garbage strewn street
and he fades within the darkness of the heated night,
without as much as a prayer to soothe his waning soul.
In this neighborhood lost,
at high human cost,
in the heart of the thriving city......

I wanted to stop someone

on the street

and ask them.

I wanted to stop the next random person

and say, hey

can I ask you a question.

They would think

I wanted some change

to buy a little more alcohol

but I don’t really drink

and they would say sure you don’t, buddy

and maybe hand me some coins anyway

or just walk on

without another word or turn of their head

convincing themselves that my homeless state

is my own fault

and it is

but I am not even homeless

Not the way they think.



I want to ask them,

the ones reverently typing into their phones,

excuse me but what exactly does LOL mean

because I don’t hear anything.



I wanted to ask someone

but everyone seems in such a hurry

procuring caffeine infused drinks

with names that are so long

that you couldn’t fit them on billboards

but they rattle them off

with a fine, practiced precision of the tongue

to Baristas in green aprons

wearing Verona smiles,

their eyes glinting from farther away than

the place which the precious coffee whence came

and I want to ask

if this is maybe their own illusion,

one that mimics conversation,

making the five-something they pay

so ******* worth it.



I wanted to ask someone

sitting at their desk

incessantly checking their on-line profiles

and commenting on comments

made in response to the comment

they left on the post of a picture

that has captured a small snapshot

of some life

while they pretend to be working on something else

so that they can pay the ever increasing price of access

because its important to stay connected

and I bet if I asked them to list

six things they could never live without

surely Facebook is what they would list

right after water, food and God

but they just seem too busy which

I think is their intent.



I wanted to ask someone

but everyone seemed so focused

on getting home

so they could embrace their loved ones

on the sofa

and hold each other close

while they memorize the reruns of

some reality TV show,

while they don’t talk to each other,

being so engrossed, and

I would ask them

if I were in their living rooms

while they strain to hold their heavy lidded eyes

high

shooting their television with their ray guns

chanelling their TV gods,

chanting,

there’s nothing on,
there’s nothing on,
there’s nothing on.



I wanted to ask someone,

anyone,

if that girl was right

when she told me that

I speak too passionately when expressing a point

and if it really is good

to nod in agreement

with the things people say

like a parrot

as opposed to posing an argument

because she professes to know that

beneath my façade of not caring

that I do care if they accept me or not and

I really do want to know

if she is right and

I wanted to ask someone

but instead I decided to just keep it to myself

because deep down I do know

she was as wrong as

I always was

and if there is one thing that I did learn from her

it is that

if you cant fit it

in the one-hundred and sixty character space

of a text message

no one really wants to hear it anyway



so instead of starting a random conversation

with a stranger

I spent the morning memorizing acronyms

so that I might communicate more effectively

with people farther away than my voice.


Michael L Sutter

to her thighs....
my taste buds
so eager to say hi,
if I was asked to describe
I'd say just look
outside,   Around the
time... when the moon
was destined to hide and
air conditioners kidnapped
the space windows and their
sills used to collide

While i strive, tongue
kicks a lure for her
sweet surprise.... That
collapse in time mimics
the anticipation of a
hydrant's refreshing
jolt when it's hot outside

her satisfactions
introduction feeds me
the thrill of that last
day of school during
dismissal time, freedom
for what seems like forever
it's two month limit always
fled past your mind

When she divides
and reveals the treasures
her structure was built
to hide... My taste buds
reunite with the flavors
of summertime

taste like summertime

© 2014 viewtifulink

Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.

The Sun’s beaming smile
Bathes the plains with gold.
Lord of the heavens,
Circled by your sons
We call planets,
Your searing heat
Keeps us warm
And well.

I love the summer
With those shiny beaches:
Radiant reflections
Kissed by sky-blue surf.

Sun, you are a surge of nuclear bombs
Devastating the darkness,
Destroying the frosts of outer space.

Blindingly beautiful
Yet you redden evening clouds:
Red sky at night delight
Indeed.

Ball, orb, sphere, call you what you will,
Sol if you prefer.
The pale moon mimics you
Even blocks you at times,
But you are never eclipsed for long.

The sky is your playing field
Though the starry crowd is hidden
From your fiery light.

See the sky brighten
Just before dawn,
Then witness the birth
Of another fine day.

Paul Butters

Genuinely a human being
is suppose to listen to bees

Bees are little bumblebees
Dalai Lama is the
Cutest of them
All

Beings
Endure good~ness
Bye

With a mission
Working sweetly
Wonderfully unselfish

Unending
For a greater  cause
Forgetting about the fame and the flattery laurels
Achievements and Archibalds

Focusing on liveliness of a recent call n
Frivolous flattering sounds
Are gentle blessings

You'd recon that I adore your
Intense passion for
Poetry
By the looks
By shut eyes  eager to be soon open for a glimpse of
Outerness

The listeners are performing
With slightest ****** mimics
With crossed legs open
Changing a position
Scrathes on head
Winking
Nodding
Inwardly borne self dialogues

Your soliloquy
Is the sea of
Love, life
Loving

Me

By the memory
Reciting
Bits of your heart beats

When the tin noise  
Of your crying
Tears tears
Apart
Interrupted
Rumbles

When you dream of the mortal coils descendant
As a halflings brought together through
Dissolving into the golden
Cocoons

You've seen two
Butterflies

I've seen one amongst many

Each a divine gift

Within wholeness

You

There's
No peace
When you dissapear

And I yearn to visit a cultural event
In total darkness (if i shut my poetic eyelids and cover them with both palms) then maybe only the blood's tiniest brooks within my fingers may start the signal for the motion pictures inside the ideal world

The World's Spinning
In a  Absolutely Poetic

Manner
Kirchenblau
Let me embrace peacfulness
Within the secret garden

Let me taste of your
Nectary thoughts

Let me lead you through
Thundery waters

Silk veils and lyricism

Let me lead you through
Fire and ice n'all that is
Nice

Let me . . . oh . . . Let me

Suffice

There's one cat who meows
in the alleyway but mimics
a fowl dog who ate
larval staged meat. There's
two headless horseman
racking leaves to find their heads
that teenagers rolled
down the country hills.
there's three furry bears
in a cave testing hardness and
softness while four bats
hang backwards to avoid the light. The
five cowgirls had six cowboy hats
each exactly. They're going to run
out if they keep throwing them at
groups of seven boys.  Eight dentist chairs
were rolled onto stage so the
nine musketeers,
multiplied by three,
could get ten root canals.
The doctor said he could have
given eleven more of them
but he heard twelve whimpers
of pain and gave up.  There were
thirteen bounced checks and fourteen wrinkled
foreheads who were lost in eternity
for fifteen years.  Sixteen world banks
filed bankruptcy to drive dollars down.
Seventeen hands were squeezed
from an angel holding glowing
red lips.  eighteen hearts and
brains switched spots
anatomically leaving nineteen
grown men sprawled on the
ground like they drank twenty
or so too many.

What is born of this land?
Nothing is born,
Nothing grows
In this desolate land.

I want to wake up the neighborhood
To hear my screams at dawn
But they do not hear anything,
Do not listen to anything that happens in the morning.
I play my music in the streets,
All my poetry and clichés
But they do not understand anything,
No one understands what happens at dawn.
I walk the streets looking windows,
***** children in their rotten rags
And I cry with those who are hungry,
I do not know who cry or love…
I embrace the poor in spirit
And hear all your stories poor,
These poor and pathetic poor souls
It is my right meeting this cold morning.
I go through the streets and alleys damp and dark
And I hear a child crying…
A repetitive and child crying wretched
What is the worst of all choruses?
I see people and their hurried footsteps
Everywhere, everywhere…
I'm afraid to follow my tracks
And I hasten my steps through this city.
I hear the sirens screaming in the streets
Mixing the sound of nightclubs crowded
And the sound of twisted metal
Creating a new contrast, another type of cry.
I sing with you almost every night
And sometimes I wonder: where are you
He left so early and left me here...
Now I’m alone! I’m alone!
God, I try and cannot understand
Reason to justify this life.
I am a pawn in the game you do not see
Every dawn until dawn.
Something touched my whole being,
Something I do not understand and do not try to understand,
Something that comes up every day when I wake up
And after me until nightfall.
Something happens,
Something moved,
Something incomprehensible,
A new friend?
They say that being is almost live
And living is the limit of what you can want.
In fact, something happens that one wants to be here,
However, not all this desire craves.
Nothing is enough
When no longer feels the aroma of flowers,
When the color no longer thrill
And they cannot be sold to look.
Gave me such rare moments
Feeding the future although at present,
But waking I do in all my steps
Get me the taste of things even in thought.
In my noble and poor land I wander
And I feed the memories of liars,
Get drunk me with joy and gladness
And insistent way in the land of lepers.
In my humble vacant land,
Time is proud, ignorant time.
Hunger is rampant around me,
The flesh is weak and soul idem.
I ask as much as the worst of sinners,
Wasting a time that no longer have,
Not differentiate right from wrong,
Share supper with my detractors.
I do not feel the taste of wine,
I do not recognize a smile,
I do not remember the hugs,
I'm finally alone!
I weigh my conscience in the balance of a butcher
And the butcher tape me with ravenous eyes,
There is no any agreement on the price of the meat,
Nor is the first or second.
God, you who are owner of the ages,
Give me the hours its final minute
And cause the whole world to know
That left miserable after all.
Grant then that desire
And finish time with this work,
Free cities this unfortunate
Who insists on knowing what nobody knows.
When there is fever, it makes no difference,
There are times the blood is poison.
Red is the color of anger and sin:
The poet knows when he is sentenced.
If there is even poetry these avenues
As equal in different cities,
To be recognized
For the sake of pursuing life.
Burial in the deepest memory
The giant concrete towers,
The grotesque glass structures
That mimics a new artery.
A new artery,
A new lifestyle,
A new company
And an early cardiac arrest.
As the cars kissing the avenues
Meeting the perfect companion
That tells me in the ear:
"Accept me as the only one"
Finally, fear runs through my veins
And feeding a forgotten feeling,
An absurd desire to see the next day
And try another outlet.
All the streets are congested.
A whole shantytown has just been set on fire
While some locals try to save
What remains of an entirely bankrupt life?
There is a twist
Around this humble heart,
A carnival,
Almost a provocation.
All veins are old and weak,
There is melancholy at all.
Even without poetry,
Without free will, there is life at all.
This city is just brick,
Metal, sweat, concrete and glass,
Cement stuck to feeling
Often beautiful and often ugly.
This city is sand,
Concrete and feeling,
Sorrows and joys,
Poetry thrown to the wind.
Some people learn early, some not -
Live life day in and day out.
Some dance to the song,
Others are lost before the chorus.
Some are always right, some not -
Many are lost in illusion.
While some running, others sleep
And all seek some direction.
Some dream rock bottom,
Others dream of the river bottom.
Some seek independence,
Others are the exception.
Some people win,
There are people who are lost,
Some people becomes the problem
And others think is the solution.
Digress weather
What about the "types" that encounters in this life.
I lose a second in this lost time
And even with so little sense, how rare is the time!
If you have no idea, nor do I know.
Maybe the hunger that consumes me consumes you too.
Perhaps the addiction that affects equal
Is something that arises only between abnormal?
I addiction with its tapas
And in each sip of his cup,
Each exaggerated affection offered
In exchange for a few bucks.
I ***** me with your lies
And assimilate water from your gutters,
I learn new shortcuts in every way
And erase the traces of my own steps.
I chase you in every church and every home
I swallow my irony,
Visit each elderly
And make friends with the hospice house.
Far reaches thy wickedness
And how many hugs another's grief?
Can evil be so inspired?
The point of the very surprised to be expected?
Life bleeds leaving the left chest
The children of the world that the world does not want,
Spread the news that sadness has hair
And more brown eyes than mine.
I notice refinements of cruelty
In this urban masochism
Where poverty has older
And the lie became just a vanity.
I transform
In all more abhor,
I emerge in the mirror
As my own killer.
I suffocate and tie in the dark of my room
Little souls endangered
And throw in the trash the dreams of those who
He believed devoutly one day be part of reality.
I still feel the skin marked by fire
The brand that hurts the brand of truth
And I pray that one day cease searches
And everything becomes futile.
The happiness of fuel
Corrode and fades away slowly
Gradually me satisfaction
With the balance that sustains me.
When I look at my own face, it hurts.
I exhale the body the rest of fear
And I try not to see how strange the line of truth -
Seeking the path that leads to freedom.
Disguise my desires
And repress my absurd,
Hug each nightmare
And hide my darker side.
I try to see something beyond the abyss,
Find something else beyond the walls,
Transcribe all longings
Hidden behind every dream.
I am eternal,
Sinister,
Land and fraternal
While the world lasts.
There is this chest a divided heart
Created almost between two worlds,
The world is inside the abyss
And what one sees behind the walls.
My corner is stumped
As well as the small voice and uncertain
From the little that is hidden on the other side,
My other side of that wall.
What have other corners?
They also have these sides
But what counts in these corners
Also rhyme in other valleys.
Bright lights bother many people.
Darkness feeds inconsequential.
High walls with brass railings gleaming
Are contrasts in painting a colorless screen?
Urban flowers are so amazing
And this depression is so exciting.
Smiles are bitter and needy
And the pain married to vows of love.
These buildings are so interesting,
Where the wet streets at night shine like diamonds,
Where transiting the fair and honest
Munching vanity and rancor.
The cars pass and illuminate so many people,
Whites, blacks and children without color.
Poets are so tucked the irreverent
Assimilating the pain and all that is.
I see lives that trace the same plane,
joy of generations by mistake ,
Marks of time that are pure desperation
Charting together a colorless future.
I see faces full of hope
Burning in public because of their color,
Those who live without even realizing it,
A cold paint drips without why.
Bodies dancing high parapets
Almost always go so early
Challenging theories and concepts
And ignoring all kinds of love.
My steps are so slow
And so intense movements,
The faces are always the same
And I hope again the sunset.
Justice who is in charge of giving clemency
The presumed innocent
Transiting the streets
Spreading hope and love.
I want to have a chance to see the birth of Venus
And the annunciation in the middle of spring,
I want to be like St. Augustine
And read the scriptures by candlelight.
I want to be like Van Gogh and paint sunflowers
Even in December the ink is red.
I want to have new flower garden in the backyard
And the kiss out of my lips is never accidental.
Just want something passionately
Even being so blind and alone?
That goodbye is worthy
And everything to return finally to dust.
The idea comes suddenly
To celebrate as an illiterate,
Prepare a table and invite
Only those who are hungry.
All this turmoil,
All this protest,
All thefts
This legion inside me...
Melancholy has always had its place,
Love, sadness and bitter returns,
Feeling alone and be like shadow in the crowd
And embrace the darkness itself.
Find it romantic suffer
For pain that recognizes pain that always sees
It is more than a disease, it is a love affair
For all that hurts and causes pain.
I let them think I was defeated
With the unexpected attacks
Of those who cry shouts of victory
And they forgot to be buried.
I leave them to play in my back
The guilt of all blame,
Let it burn my entire story,
It does not matter that much.
My lips run on search words
And my eyes run in search of beauty,
Drawing liar’s feelings
That shut all the bells around.
Words come out like blades
In hoarse voice coming out of my mouth
This other me who hates me so much
And all challenges at first.
In the spring mornings leaves dance
Rehearsing his ballets from the rising of the day,
Is this life?
It’s this they call life?
I want to find the lost word
Among the tasks of the day to day
What is so profane?
The prohibited!
I want to meet a new season
Bring me a sense of relief,
Find what they call happiness
And maybe learn what it is.
An epidemic,
Leukemia,
Rimes illustrating
An eternal melodrama.
You cannot have everything!
Not always beautiful are our days
And we keep waking up.
Roses do not speak, but are also alive.
There is hunger for love!
There is hunger and what will?
There is hunger in this home?
If there is hunger, then there.
There is time for everything!
There is time to smile,
No time to cry,
There is time to leave.
I want to run away from home without a warning,
Running between the wheat fields
And let all afflicted
Trying to understand what had happened.
I want to cause confusion,
The same kind that I bring in my heart.
I want water all around
With the storm inside me.
I want to wake up the sleeping
And those who never agreed,
I want to find out who they are
And spread about us.
Lovers of this pain,
Thirsty without knowing
Where else to enjoy,
Where else to call "home".
I shift my gaze
With all the hatred of this world
Of all the ragamuffins and vagabonds
Who recognize me in a second?
I want to break these chains,
Scratching walls,
Promote anarchy
And imprison noon.
I want rain penknives
While tear my clothes,
I cut my wrists
And count all the drops.
A day can be
Something happens
And make to cease this endless grief
And everything changes, anyway.
So lose the naivety
What remains this morning?
I envision the absurdity that all I see
Is still something to be remembered?
Maybe one day
Poetry is done singing
And the light breeze the corner
Everywhere!
I want to get a perfect world,
I want to love what is defective,
I want to explore my own room,
Make another deal.
I want to shake you violently that coffin
And show where all the mice,
Ignite old blankets
Which now they were pretty.
I want to show you I love you
And I hate you,
I can live alone,
But also not live without you.
My madness is productive
At the same time, destructive:
It satisfies the crowd inside.
I refuse to be part of the pack
Strolling in supermarkets,
Feigning patience as immoderate
The suffered.
I like debris,
I collect dust,
Make enemies,
Cultivation dreams.
I constantly change identity
And lose track of reality,
My state is ill
And I'm terminal and disposable.
I participate in this game,
This novel in decline
This disgusting theater of horrors
Where only the blind are honest.
I am thoroughly enslaved
While deprive me of the privilege of choice,
Burying our will
In the deepest pit.
The wall that separates us is low
And we walked jumping from one side to the other,
Often both exist
And others, only I exist.
We are a nun and a *****
Plotting an eternal dispute
Between the two sides of the coin
To decide who runs and who fight.


As simple as saying your name
Spell out the pieces of your body.
I want to understand what God's grace
If your body will never be only yours.
Your body exudes the morning sweat,
Clouds hid the principle of pain,
Pain discovers a new form of pleasure
And the pleasure is expensive to you.
Your blood runs nearly everywhere
And a new world opens up suddenly,
Frighten the fleeting pain
And wait with his only love the sunrise.
I wipe the sweat oozes from you,
You wipe the tears falling from me,
If you can be in the world some endless love
The only certainty is that there was never before such love.


I want to wake you up
To hear my screams at dawn,
Show you what genuine despondency is
And not left me anymore.
I want to recognize me
And take me to your bed,
Not left with nothing
In addition to beating in his chest.
I want to be part of its history
And I want to be a constant presence in my,
The world spit their prejudices
And the fire that also burns in the heat.
I want to break the mirrors
And heal our sickness,
Assaulting what kills us
Every day, forever.
Serene and calm give you what remains
With my last breath,
What's best in me now rests
And rest my mind.
My sweat is true
It is also all the pain.
Blood is final
And it goes to the last vows of love.
The entire storm inside me
Now relax my heart,
Soothes My Soul
And feeds the reason.
I walk by this peaceful land
And growing a new crop of wheat,
I do a incognita a new partner
And the fear is not definitive.
I harvest hope
Where before there was only bitterness.
I am ashamed
And regret.
I accept the entire cross
And fight against the serpent.
I heal my wounds.
And my success is violent.
Time is short
And I want to scream that entire plan,
There is still a flame inside
And only her surrender.
What was misery,
What was despair,
What was hungry,
What was fear…
What was pain,
What was love,
What it had value
And when there was time…
What is born of this land?
Nothing is born,
Nothing grows
In this desolate land.


What is born on this land?
What grows in this land?
Nothing is born on this land,
My private wasteland.

his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing

i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth

my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand

i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks

galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in


freckles.

like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise

you only crave what you know cannot be.

This story you'll hear, could be one of a kind
But no matter how clear, it's like leading the blind
Down through a chamber, I find, when I'm dreaming
Stuck in my mind, or a daze, with no meaning
Something I witnessed, without any truth
As I sat by myself, all alone, on the roof
Listened to magpies, chirping with joy
Three for a girl?, Four for a boy?
In black and white?, or so they seem?
Then under the light, I saw traces of green
A sign I had seen her, and given the choice
As bold as the magpies, raising their voice
With nothing between her, and no great divide
The grass became greener, on the other side

The magpies had joined, then one became two
But this one had swooped down in bright shades of blue
The colours tell secrets, but to the trained eye
One represents grass, one mimics the sky
Then as if by nature, they were a couple
Flying together, revealing a purple
A gift when you worship the smallest of things
Lifting your spirits, then spreading your wings

Each little magpie, has stories to tell
And I know that deep down, you have one as well
You're holding in something, with traces of gold
Are you seven for a magpie, never to be told??? **

He touches
My hair
All the time,
Plays with the
Edges and
Fragments,
And sometimes reminds me that
"I can braid,
You know."
Sometimes he does.

Sometimes he mimics me
In History class
From across the room,
And he laughs at all my jokes,
Even when they aren't funny,
Just
Stupid.

And occasionally,
When I'm sitting in my little niche
Between his desk
And Ellie's,
Right on the cold tile,
He'll attach his forehead to mine
And just look at me.
Sometimes he'll whisper,
"Nose,"
And point to it,
And I just giggle
And break the stare.

I don't even think he feels it,
The wishing to always be near him,
To have his fingers in my hair
All the time,
And for his laugh to be
My soundtrack.

I don't think
That when he stares into my eyes
He wants to kiss me
As bad
As I want
To kiss
Him.

MONKEY SEE! MONKEY DO!
puppet monkey mimics me
sporting my new purple hat
which looks blue in the photo

"Ok...ok!" I snap
"Give...it...back!"
I enunciate each syllable

but the monkey only laughs
leaping to the highest branches
of my over fertile

imagination.

"Don't blame me!" it slyly smirks
"I ain't the one making this
load of balloney up now

Glazed faces running fearless in the harvest forest
The brush of the rising crops tingles on the skin
We drop down lying head to head
Following planes with our fingers in the sky.

Your reflection inside mimics my stance outside
Where the smoke from my cigarette
Turns into clouds above my head
Masking the light from the full moon that shines elusively bright.

Distance is crawling between us
Stealing our monumental past
It pollutes our freeness in speech.
Sorrow cant be fixed by ice cream
A day off where i let my mind indulge in far away dreams.

Your voice that was sweet music
Is now NOISE.
I close the bathroom door and wish we were in a book of prose
Where we play faces and turn into toys of mad creation.

each day brings a new form of emptiness.
a sunrise that mimics the flame in your eyes
and the moon that reminds me how quickly they moved on.
now each day im traveling through the motions of life
but never fully living.
cause without you im not dead, but ill never be alive.
you see,
living is not the same as being alive.
because to truly be alive i would need you.
and sure they said youd come and go,
and now they say move on.
but how can i move on
when id rather be dead than to love someone else?

i guess sometimes people just leave us
like how life can slip from the most desperate of grasps.
and most times, we can't tell the difference.
because the one who makes us feel so alive
is the one who holds the gun.

We carry these things on our shoulders
and we're strong for a little while
but then the water jugs begin to strain.
Every world has these issues
of things being too heavy
babies being too light
a feather in a universe of stones
she said she barely felt me.
The light is gray
I can hear the pitter-patter of rain feet
scampering across the roof
singing a song that matches my very being
we are one, you and I.
my brother is in Seattle
today feels like i am there, too
he dives in for food
comes out with signs pocked with words
you don't even have the strength to think
Feminism, Gay Rights, Free Speech, Pro-choice
I am American, hear me roar.
I burn candles painted with the ****** Guadalupe
because they are long and thin
like the girls I kiss but do not love
I am a contradiction
I pray to the God of an agnostic
I pray to the moon
Her pale, luminescent body mimics my own
and on nights where she takes up my horizon,
we gossip and giggle.
She is my only best friend.
I write poetry about boys
the way they move makes me move
and then everyone is stepping
flashing lights and music no one likes
  (unless they're ****** up)
my life only consists of nights like these in the summer

i have been shivering for months now
trying to find an ounce of warmth
in your arms, my mother's arms
  (i seem to forget i am the closest)
but the trees are cold, too
they are naked and exposed
and the only thing I'm thankful for today is that they are not being *****.
People seem to forget I live in every slice of nature they consume.
Every dead branch burnt in a bonfire,
every loaf of bread eaten at a church feast,
every pet fish killed off by being fed too much
or not at all.
I am infinite.
I live on Mars, home of the Twins.
I don't need a telescope to watch you commit adultery.
Don't underestimate my power.
I break down at the sight of any irrational thought.
My emotions will crush you
My fears will find you in the dark.
Crawl up on you
DON'T turn around.
I am always watching
Hiding at the base of your neck
Feel my ghostly breaths chill down your spine.
I'm behind every gleam in your eyes
I'm there even when I'm not.
I will be with you
Every one of you
For the rest
of
your
lives.
And the best part?
     Sometimes we'll stay in bed together.
Like on rainy, hazy days
When your stomach hurts
And panicked breaths are inevitable
I'll be there
Keeping you company
because you love me.
Because I created you.

it all starts to blur together and every day fades further from the horizon.
every word uttered, every smile grinned, every surface touched
falls short from the whole when not lead back to you.
I haven't recognized my name since it was last spoken from your mouth.
I haven't let my hands float above the sunroof as I've traveled down each lonely highway, stretching farther away from you.
I haven't exhaled all the air in my lungs or been able to relax all the tension in my muscles from their constant preparation for the crash-
waiting on standby only makes the blow more painful.
I haven't been able to swim in the ocean without feeling your love.
you're like a tide, pulling me back and shooting me out again, crashing over my body with immense pressure, yet so soothing- coating every cell on my body with liquid- you pour over me and drown me whole.
I haven't been able to sleep the same.  
Every time they ask me how I'm doing or if I still love you, I mutter about the "not enoughness" and the lack of, while staring at my hands, trying to retrace the last time i ate a full meal or fell asleep for more than three hours.
The one thing I run back to kills me like a bullet, firing all the way through:
The smoke in my lungs mimics the breathlessness I felt when you choked my throat
It's turning me to ashes,  
but I choose to not get better.
There's some correlation between the way your existence has haunted me like a ghost,
Sticking to my skin like all this inhaled smoke,
Demanding for the light to be left on in case you wander from the unknown-
Back to your garden, your chokehold, your throne.

you hide under an umbrella made of steel
wincing at the sound of the rain as it hits the pavement

the same sound that I love so well
the soft pitter patter that mimics my beating heart

you cower away from the water, while I dive headfirst into the downpour

I just want you to come dance in the rain with me, that's all

set your steel umbrella aside and play with me for a bit

you and I under the bleeding sky
could it really be so bad?

Do we dance to this song 
After we've said our vows and I do's?
Will you hold me close
In your white wedding dress
And stare into my eyes
As they brim, beholding you?
The melody waltzes on.
Is this our farewell, 
Departure and heartbreak in 12/8 time?
Will we say our last goodbye
As different tears fill my eyes?
The melody waltzes on. 
Will I crumble inside 
When its haunting soundscape 
And splashing cymbals come to mind
And I remember what I had?
The melody waltzes on. 
Somehow I can't discern
Whether the rhythm is truly made for dancing;
It mimics a runner's perfect pace. 
Are we running away or toward each other?
The melody waltzes on. 
Is it a rendezvous or a cry of surrender?
Is it me bending down on a knee
Or hanging my head in defeat?
Is it everything I've wanted
Or what I have when all is gone?
The melody waltzes on.

Ever wondered what it's like,

To be the silver lining to my cloud,

Amidst the cold winter's howls,

To lock eyes with your sweet brown eyes,

Feel their warmth

As they wrap around you like a blanket,

Engulfing you in their safety. 

To be the only elixir of love,

That mimics the joy of the sun. 

Good morning my sunshine;

The love of my life.

Tommy passing Nana’s room
hears her say
can you help me
with my corset?

sure
he says
walking into her room
a cigarette hanging

from the corner
of his mouth
what do you want doing?
he asks

can you pull it tight for me?
and she offers him
the two corset strings
and he take them

between his fingers
and gives a pull
she breathes in
and holds it there

her arms by her side
her face vacant
as if she’s awaiting
something to happen

her mouth slightly open
he holds the strings tight
studies her eyes
the curl of hair

the way her mouth is open
her arms by her side
thinking how beautiful she is
how he’d not noticed before

smelling her perfume
trying to place
the make and kind
that’s it

she says
can you tie it there?
sure
he says and ties the strings

behind her back
his nose a few inches
from her naked shoulder
breathing in her scent

wanting to kiss the flesh
the neck
the ear
to put his hands

upon her hips
that’s done
he says
tight as a miser’s purse

thank you
she says
that’s much better
and kisses his cheek

and says
aren’t you the man
from upstairs?
yes that’s right

he says
do you play the saxophone
that I hear?
yes the alto sax

he mimics a saxophone
with his hands
and runs his fingers
along imaginary keys

usually I’m taking a bath
when I hear you
she says
or lying in bed

your sounds sinking
through the ceiling
oh sorry if it disturbs
he says

gazing at her small ****
under the cloth
I love the haunting sounds
she says

they sound so sad
as if your soul
were speaking
or calling from across

an abyss
he gazes at her neck and chin
her moving mouth
the pink of tongue

the sparkling eyes
yes
he says
that wide abyss

wanting to hold her tight
and place
upon her moving lips
a hot lips kiss.

A mocking bird is a creature that mimics the sounds that its surroundings want to hear.
And you never did stop singing.
Every word that came out of my mouth reminded you of a song
And when you'd sing to me, everything would feel alright.
You became the soundtrack to my life.
You were the melody I  couldn't get off my mind and
We were the Love Story even Taylor Swift couldn't write.

We were like Bonnie and Clyde.
We lived by our own rules like partners in crime.

We had our own world.
Our own language.
Our own customes that nobody really understood
But we didn't give a flying **** 'cause we,
were sitting in the stars,

Like, on Pandora,
Only this little planet of ours
Took 167 months less to make.

I  hate how you still bring up those old traditions because now,
They only come under certain conditions.

Like, you used to kiss my palms to give me something to hold onto
But now,
They only come when you find yourself ashamed of the scares and the scars that you gave to me.
Only to turn the tables on me and act like I pressed self-inflicted wounds to your lips
And made you taste it.

That's all you.
So, don't go looking at me like I'm poison running through your veins.
Not when I remember a time when I was your fix.
You needed me.
You put that needle to your own arm, baby.

No relapse for us.
I went to rehab to get that song off my brain.
And I don't need your painkillers replacing me in your bloodstream,
Headed for what's left of your heart.

But all that strain is gonna tear the muscle tissue there apart, you know.

And all that numbness still won't explain why I thank you, though.

'Cause I didn't know how deep I could feel until you filled me
With a sea of my own tears.
I didn't know I could come so close to death
And feel that rush between each breath.
And I'm gonna use that gush of air to sing sonnets like a prayer to a God I don't believe in,
In hopes she won't see the playground bully
I see in you.

You switch sides like a game
Of Red Rover.
And when you sing, you change everything on me.
Tell me, how am I supposed to keep up?

How am I supposed to keep my chin up when you tell me to look down?
'Cause I know tomorrow,
You'll be coming around thinking it's okay
To be my best friend.

And still,
In a couple hours,
You'll be listening to our song again.

You don't need to say you still love me.
I can hear it as you purposely misinterpret the words that used to sound so lovely.

But if I'm wrong,
Explain how our song meant nothing.
Our words? Meant nothing.
Our dance? Meant nothing.
That our world meant nothing to you.

Tell me you didn't feel,
Something.

You were a melody I couldn't forget.
But now?
I regret ever learning the tune.

And I hear you singing louder than ever,
To remind me that you're fine. Well,
That's all fine and dandy.
But who told you I was prepared
For a love song
Turned tradgedy?

I'll admit it.
You got me.
I believed every word, but
You never kept a single promise to me,
Mocking Bird.

Gold's untarnished yellow feigns
dawn's igniting of soft edges behind a mountain cloud,
or sunset's beacon flashing reflected from home's far window.

A diamond's clear flash imitates
bright glints of blinding sun across the afternoon shore,
or a star's brilliantly precise ray through eternal night.

A sapphire's velvet marine resembles
the limitless horizon between azure sky and tropic sea,
or the vertigo of fathomless water below suspended feet.

An emerald's tantalizing green mimics
the vividly penetrating beam warming a rainforest's singular tree,
or the disarmingly beautiful captivation of a strangers eyes.

A rainbow necklace of delicate gems pales
on a summer afternoon porch shaded by stately trees
and a butterfly sanctuary of whimsical flowers,
calm breezes stirring blue shadow leaves
brushing intimately on white shiny paint.

By accident these jewels mirror life's ephemeral essence
Grasping for this illusion to hold fast the spirit
distracts one from living.

One can cling to stones for one's life,
Or
One can live moments for infinity.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and that of the hurricane.
Tumult whispered white,
both Aeolian and corporeal,
strummed on strings of solemnity;
the ugly undertaker of buried roses
labeled as wary victims of feel-good graverobbers.
All bled emotions are this.
The Louvre's flashbulbed flecks;
the notes woven within coke lines of symphony;
fingerpainted twig-men crafted by bright-eyed smilers;
this juxtaposed disgrace.
All Beau Sancy in the roughest granite jewelry box
with graffiti scribbled laughing like urban Sanskrit .
"I am become death" dripped in blood through the keyhole
so it now mimics a cherry popped in microwaves
unlocking discomfort, yes,
and crimsoning the cocoon of the diamond.
Peep, Tom, at the glittering Godiva within
and watch her grow in the sacrifice of poetry,
for only in the presence of forsaking and death
and anguish and discomfort
and pain
can she grow to break the eggshell walls.
Tears cut canals in Time's beard
because he consigned the memory of the shattered horrendousness
to oblivion
instead of honoring their homage
and paying respect by dropping tulips and gunships
into their graves at noon's meridian.
Opal eyed reader,
you do not understand.
My eggshells conceal themselves
within individual hells
of purple prose,
more of a lavender in my eyes.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

When I foretell beauty deep brown eyes do appear , the redolence of jasmine and gardenia blossom whisper a pleasant advance ..
The morning fire mimics the glow of whimsical emotive means as the fuel's anger delivers a cacophony of compulsion abated by the warmth of her smile ..

"I think therefore I am"
but
not this man who I see
whilst having my tea,

the bathroom mirror mimics me
and yet if I don't look
I won't cross the lines that meet
in crows feet.

Head's full of cotton wool today
and as if to say, I told you so,
cotton buds blossom
between each toe.

This cannot be real.

I watch as the faces
congeal and
set into one,
if I am
then it goes on too

Saturday mirrors me blue.

The wake up call
bells ring
rainfall.

It'll clear
and as I peer again
it has.

I still look the same
but different.

Noah is a boy of eight years with almond brown eyes and soft black hair, and he loves dragons and elephants. Right now, he and his dad Frank are sitting around their living room coffee table, a snowstorm whipping through the darkness outside the windows...

“I'm here too,” a dragon says, lurking in a corner of the room in attacking position. “I am the Bewilderbeast and I'm from the children's show ‘Dragons’ – my body is as big as ten stacked oxen, and my wings are covered with sharp black spikes. My tail is gigantic and deadly. And by the way, I have blood-red eyes.”

Now an elephant speaks up and trumpets: "Törööö! I am Benjamin. You may think I’m big and scary, but I am gentle. I love sugar cubes more than anything: eating them is my passion. How yummy! Otherwise, I'm the quiet type: I avoid quarrels and wouldn’t even hurt a fly.

Noah and Frank want to play Uno (a card game). Frank shuffles the cards, putting the neat stack on the table while reaching for a freshly opened beer bottle. He takes it and empties it in one go.
Noah follows his father's drinking movement, quietly observing.

When Frank has finished, Benjamin asks: "You know what, Noah?"
"What?" Noah wants to know.
"Oh," Benjamin growls.
"Did you just say something?" Frank asks.
"No, I was just thinking out loud," his son answers, as the Bewilderbeast grumbles to him:
"I hate it when Frank drinks."

Then the great dragon snorts until embers like fireflies come out of his throat. They swarm around the living room and settle everywhere like glowing neon-yellow dust.

"Don't like dirt on the table," Noah complains.
"You're right, Noah. The cards are well-shuffled and I'm quite able to do so", Frank says after opening his second bottle. He drinks it half empty and hums, "Playing cards is great fun, you know. When I was little younger than you are now, I used to thrill and entertain everyone with my card tricks at my grandmother's wonderful birthday party."

While Frank talks, Noah secretly mimics him.
"Ha! That was something," Frank adds, running his fingers through his hair and licking his lips. "If only they hadn't always drunk so much. That bothered me as a child. I often lost myself in my thoughts, thinking about how to build the biggest house of cards in the world, while grandma and grandpa danced and bumped into each other causing hearty roars of laughter."

Reflexively, Frank grabs the half-full beer bottle and drinks it up.
"After the party, they lay drunk on the carpet," Noah says quietly.
Frank doesn't seem to hear that and adds: "In the end they were laying on the carpet, drunk. Oh yes, good people, but they couldn't help their drinking."

Noah repeats in a whisper: "But they couldn't help their drinking."
Frank doesn't take notice; he gazes at the empty beer bottle. His thighs bob up and down and again. Frank licks his lips. "You know what, Noah?" he says. "You deal the cards. You know, eight for each player, and no cheating."  

After Frank has jumped up and left the living room, the Bewilderbeast hisses: "Frank is no good, because he only talks about himself, about his childhood. But what about you, Noah? That ****** me off," he roars ravingly. He spits fire again, this time without regard for Noah, forcing him to take cover under Benjamin's belly, beside his knobby legs.

The ruby-red eyes of the Bewilderbeast cut the living room's twilight with their brilliance and he spits out one fire salvo after the other, just as a flamethrower does...

"Please stop!" Noah is shouting, but the dragon only responds "Forget it. Everything here must burn. We have to erase your father's memory, only then he will learn to love you. You also hate the living room, don't you? – because Frank drinks here all the time."

"Don't let him fool you,” Benjamin is humming. "The wild beast spits fire, that's all very well, but breaking things... That," Benjamin yawningly mumbles "he can't do."  

Then the fire subsides, while Noah crouches between Benjamin's legs, eyes wide open. Frank comes back, another beer bottle in his right hand, drinking. When he sees Noah curled up, he snorts with laughter and spits the beer in his mouth on his son. Noah does not seem to register this. Frightened, he stares at the Bewilderbeast who, in a resting position with one red eye open, is waiting for the next attack.  

"Oh boy, beer's e'rywhere!" Frank slurs as he slams the beer bottle on the table and bends down to Noah to take him into his arms.
"****!"
Frank runs into the bathroom to grab a towel, and comes back, carefully rubbing Noah's hair dry.
"Ew," grumbles Noah. "I hate that."
Frank looks at Noah uncomprehendingly: "The hair have to be rubbed off. Don't they?"
"Don't believe him", the Bewilderbeast hisses. "He's lying to you, Noah."

At the same time, Benjamin is saying to Noah: "You see, Frank loves you. He's rubbing your hair off. And he feels bad about the spilled beer."
Noah's face is white as a sheet. "Stop it, stop it, stop it," he whispers and covers his ears.

Frank looks at his son with concern. He lets the towel down and slowly takes Noah's hands off his ears, brushes a wet hair, which sticks to Noah's forehead, from his face.
"Can't look at you when you're in this state", Frank says gently. Without hesitation, he pokes Noah in the stomach with his fingers and tickles him so that Noah breaks out, first tentatively, into laughter.

He tries with all his strength to shake off his father's hand, but it doesn't work, although Frank has to make funny movements to tickle him any further. The two become entangled with one another and cannot stop the laughter.
But then Noah stops laughing and asks: "Daddy, why do you drink beer?"
Frank doesn't seem to have expected such a direct question. He pauses for a moment and answers: "Because it tastes good. Why do men drink?"

Noah shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not a man yet. But if it's good, why do you drink so fast? I always think you don't like the beer."
"Well," Frank grumbles, "I don't drink that fast. What makes you think that? It’s a matter I would have to deal with more closely, it needs to be weighed up and thought through thoroughly before jumping to conclusions."

The Bewilderbeast whispers furtively: "He's lying, Noah. Do not believe a word he says."
Benjamin says: "Frank is addicted to beer. But he doesn't want to hurt you."

This time Noah keeps calm. And he goes on to ask the next question: "Do you like it or not?"
Frank's eyes roam the room like he's looking for something. The Bewilderbeast snorts quietly; Benjamin, being in a good mood, is eating a handful of sugar cubes.
"Well, you know Noah – I like beer. But I used to drink it much slower."

Noah looks at Frank seriously and sadly. You mean when Mom was still alive.
Frank answers with his eyes. And nods, hardly noticeable.
Father and son remain silent. "You see," Benjamin says: "You and dad are connected by something: By the death of your mother Ruth."

The Bewilderbeast says: "Frank drinks the beer because he can't stand your grief, Noah. And he loves Ruth much more than he loves you. He wishes you had died instead of her."
"Can we turn on the music, daddy?"
"Which song?"
"Tears In Heaven," Noah answers. "You know, by Eric..."
"Clapton." Frank replies. Then he gets up and goes into the next room to play the song on YouTube.
"Is the sound bar turned on, Noah?"

Noah checks and notices countless glittering lights buzzing around the speaker block, sparkling like stars in the Milky Way. Noah is magically attracted by this sight, stares at the lights with his mouth wide open and reaches out his index finger...
"Noah!" Frank shouts. "Is the system on or off?"
"No," Noah answers. "The stars are no longer there".
"What? Don't be stupid," Frank grouses as he returns to the living room. He pushes Noah aside. "Let me check it out." Frank bends down to the sound bar, fiddling with the wiring. "No wonder, Noah. The optical cable broke. Did you do that?"
Noah looks at Frank, meaningful and meaningless. "You know what, dad... Why don't we play cards instead?"

Frank seems unhappy and is stepping fidgety from one leg to the other, takes the beer bottle off the table and realizes in frustration that it's empty. "**** it," Frank scolds, but then he looks at Noah and blushes.
"I've got an idea!" Noah suddenly exclaims. "Let's make a deal, dad. You get yourself a beer."
"And then?" Frank asks skeptically.
"Tonight, you drink it slowly. Are you scared?"
"Scared?" Frank asks while he hurries off.

Shortly afterwards he returns, holding an open beer bottle in his hand from which nothing has been drunk yet. He puts the bottle on his lips, drinks the first two sips quickly, pauses, puts the bottle on the table, and rubs his stomach.
"But now I have to go to the toilet, oh my."

By this time, Benjamin is already asleep, a sugar cube is stuck between the tip of his trunk and the floor.
Noah smiles. When his father has left the living room, Noah says, without looking, to the Bewilderbeast: "You see – Daddy loves me. Otherwise he wouldn't drink more slowly. It's that simple, isn't it?"
No answer.

Noah turns around to look. Where the Bewilderbeast huddled, there is now a small dragon figure. Carefully, Noah sneaks up to it, and when he feels that there is no danger coming from the figure, he holds it to his ear and whispers: "Daddy loves me, doesn't he?"

My heart feels light and full of heat,
My stomach has turned into a billion knots
My hands tremble, and my legs shake in my seat
Oh, how well the body mimics our thoughts

Here is where gravity is null, and I am void,
I've fallen, I know I have,
Into a hole, I must have died.
I only just landed, some how alive.
Everything is silent, but I'm screaming,
"Talk to me! Talk to me!"
All that I hear now is whispered out of dark rooms,
from figures staring out from stained glass
as I stagger down a dark church corridor,
and they talk to me slowly.

Live in the darkness,
thrive in the shadows,
You fell into our realm,
from the one up above us,
A gift from the light,
A dark shining candle.
Light washes over us,
Leading us and healing our wounds from the life we lived before.

A wicked ebony carriage creaks and whines as it is pulled,
intricate designs are revealed as it draws near,
thorns of pyrite wrap around its doors,
The windows are old and flaking mica.
There are blood red roses that shed petals at every corner,
they move like magic and turn brown as they descend,
before settling on the floor, undisturbed as the carriage wobbles onward.
The carriage itself is pulled by two huge black figures,
spewing sulfuric smelling gas as they exhale,
gnarled brown horns extend from their heads like a ram,
and each is fitted with harnesses of black fire,
Though it seems not to burn them, I pity the poor souls.
I pity them, but still I fear them more.

They settle in front of me, looking upon me with colorless eyes,
Their harnesses disappear as they stop pulling,
They stand straight up reaching at least seven feet tall each,
towering over me as they pant out thick steam.
I raise a quivering hand to touch one of the beasts,
To prove it's real and truly standing in front of me,
I see the sweat glistening like diamonds on it's short black fur.
I look into it's eyes, but I can't see any threat in them,
However, I can't find any comfort in those dark obsidian eyes either.
I can feel the heat radiating from it's body now,
I can feel it's hot breath baring down on me.
I hesitate a millimeter away from touching it's coarse hair.

The door to the carriage is thrown open with a bang,
shocking me into stumbling away from the beast before me.
I glance up at it and see it still staring at me with those dark empty eyes,
I am nearly hypnotized by those eyes.
A small man, no more than four and a half feet tall,
approaches me and I tear my eyes from the beast's.
The man is old and wrinkled,
his skin grey from age and his obvious decay.
He has no eyes that I can tell,
his lids are clenched and wrinkled shut.
At his side is a whip, nine tailed and barbed,
made from black leather, caked with blood
and still clinging to bits of flesh, torn from it's victims.

The man takes his ****** whip in hand
and strikes the double doors in back of the carriage,
I cringe and step back, fearing what might come out.
The beast in front of me grunts, breaking my concentration,
I look up to his eyes and find he's still staring down at me,
he drops to one knee, now eye level with me, and extends his arm.
It's huge and obviously muscled, He could tear me in half if he wanted,
but now I can see the emotion and colors in his eyes,
Swirls of blues, accents of purples,
hint of green, flecks of yellow.
I feel calm, I feel safe with this beast of a demon kneeling before me.
I trust that he will never harm me, but I don't know why.

The old man lets out a stern yell in a tongue I can't understand,
The man's eyes are open now,
But I find myself looking at empty sockets.
He raises his whip at the beast kneeling before me,
approaching as small imp like creatures unload the carriage,
I am frightened for the beast who stays unflinching.
I can see the beast not even bracing for his attack,
I can see his powerful clawed hands,
one limp at his side, the other stretched out to the side of me.
Neither is going to stop the little man from tearing chunks of flesh from his body,
neither is going to attack the man who is still yelling in that foreign dialect.

I find myself staring into the beasts eyes again,
I am drawn into them, towards them.
My feet move of their own accord,
taking me closer to this hulking monster,
I smell the musky scent of his fur,
then I feel it, coarse and oily against my bare arms.
I don't know when I wrapped my tiny arms around his neck,
but I can barely get them around him.
I feel a strong arm go gently across my back,
then a hand at the bend of my knees.
I close my eyes and can feel myself being lifted up.

The man stops yelling and I open my eyes again,
He's fussing about at the beasts feet,
muttering something about it's height,
he turns his empty sockets on me.
I bury my face in the demons neck fur,
a cowardly thing to do, but I am so frightened by those empty sockets.
I hear him laugh and scoff,
saying something about frightening too easily.
I look back with one eye and see him setting up the thing from the carriage.
It looks like a painting with a ***** burgundy tapestry over it,
I can see golds and browns weaved into it,
but it's deteriorating like the man fretting over it.

He motions for me to look at it,
so I obediently face it fully,
my demon settling me comfortably in one arm.
The man pulls the tapestry from the painting,
I peer down at it wondering what it could be of,
it seems enchanted like the roses on the coach.
The colors themselves seem to dance and writhe on the canvas.

It's a picture of lithe little woman,
She looks to be sitting on an invisible chair in midair,
all around her is darkness and death,
scattered bones and a broken carriage lie behind her,
as swirling purple and blue dust swirls in the air.
Her hazel eyes burn like embers from a slowly dying fire,
They seem to be able to peer into my mind, if she so pleased,
Even see into my Soul through her thick black lashes.
Her coal black eye shadow is painted to mimic a spiders web,
and as though it had been woven on with the silk itself,
it shimmered in flickering candle light.
I could see she was resting on shadows, not the air,
now that I looked harder at her,
and she was surround by them on all sides.
She is the lone bright color in the painting,
A white haze, like gossamer curtains, drapes over her body,
I watch, mesmerized as the haze forms to her frame,
making a dress that looked innocent, yet deadly and beautiful upon her form.
She looks familiar somehow,
and I reach towards the magical artwork,
And she reaches back for me.

I freeze, goosebumps raising the hair on my body.
I wave, and she mimics,
I nod, and so does she.
I look to the beast, and to the man
He nods and I need not ask the question.
This was not a painting,
Just a mirror,
I was only watching myself.
I look again and see the haze left over,
it's above my head, drifting over my hair,
settling into a tiara of demons and spiders
all made from fine crystal that seemed to make a light of it's own.

More whispers came from the closed doors,
whispers that turned into a chorus of voices,
Voices that seemed ominous, sad,
friendly and threatening,
A chorus of evil things that hid in the shadows.
The things that ****** children from mothers,
and lead men astray to their deaths,
yet I loved them without question,
as they repeated again;

Live in the darkness,
thrive in the shadows,
You fell into our realm,
from far up above us,
A gift from the light,
Our shining candle,
spilling light in the darkness,
Our queen of the night.

i seek only
the sold soul
who traded the promise
of life beyond
for the simple taste
of sacred sanskrit beauty

falling like rings

soundless clatter
from cool jet black
ringlets.
there were no words
in the time before
only mindless grunts
and sighs
oh so full of meaning
i can still hear the stirring
the gentle click of rhythm
man mimics nature
nature mimics music
music shall always mimic the gods
yet we still sharpen our knives
and dampen our odds.