This cliff is not so jagged as the rocks below,
The heavy tide swallows and spits them
Over, and over, consuming
But not keeping.
The embrace of these waters could not be any colder
In this plunge to new depths, alone and reborn.
Could this mystery be my new muse?
Could this siren sing me home?
Home--
The darkness and the slumber, to
The other shore; surely the sun shines kindly, there.

The driving rain is a catalyst
for change , for opening hearts
or tearing them apart , for poetic
muse , for paying your dues , unencumbered
on the golden rail or a first class ticket
to certain hell
The drops tap time outside my window
A trickle a trifle to a deep crescendo
With innuendos of a special nature ,
midnight functionality failure ,
belaying the cliffs of Dover
one wrong move , into 'the Channel'
and over

Like a mosaic window; made from discarded coloured bottles, that once held your liquor.
I am a speechless beauty; that shines in the presence of the violent sun.
I am a broken masterpiece; a unique wonder.
No one can compare to my fused edges, and incomplete complexion.
I smell of the past life, different vapors of your spirits.
But they muse together; they aspire from what used to be.
Now a sent, that blinds the hearts of all that dare to love.
For my own personality has been hand crafted from my mistakes.
Transparent I seem; with the world behind seen in colour through me.
To help realise, that there's more to life then present hues.
I have been place withing my eyes, for the world is truly to see, that I have accepted me.
And for my heart to understand; I can inspire my own mind.
Because I'm a mosaic window; something that's made with time.
For to become something wondrous, you must learn from the past.
And realise.... that your situation that seems hopeless, will not forever last...

Call me change joining
                  goddess art of
            "mnemosyne"
one of nine arts
       changing muses among
many several other arts mine are            
           memory at best!
I am changing my art
            and mouse
                   to include
          the beauty I see in many poets and poetessess
                on here H.P.
you are like gods and
             goddessess
    possessing nine glorious arts expressing
             diverse entertaining
inspiring muses
         memory commedy
idylic poetry
             beauty dance
                          grace allure
              a great poet showed me
to unstock from my
                   same old muse rhyme
to "fly free to glide soaring"
               exploring my mind
into change
         applying other arts
                 So I read your various
arts diverse muses from
             many of you
                  on here H.P    
                     greatfully learning
the many glorious poetic arts
                diversity humility
treasures best
                  to stick around
  H.P when the going
                         gets tough
         my ink flows freely
                   renewed
my best commedy mask's on!
                 shephesd's crook!
wreath of ivy!
        beauty grace in all of yours!
is here to stay
Inspired by great poet
           master
 Pagan Paul to use
                       my other arts  
             changing muses
~~~~~~~~~~
By:Karijinbba
updated 06-12-19

Love like such can be spiteful.
When it twist the joints
In your very bones
And molds them into one
Plunges right into your rib cage
And pierces your heart out.
Spitting on your face
Calling it a sweet revenge

Backspace.

Love like such is a deception.
Never did it give any right
To any lover to deceive
And commit ******
And say evil is justice.

‘I love you’

If only you knew what it meant.

Backspace.

I type these endless rambles
From one comma to another
My thoughts ponder
And travel to a faraway land
Where stardust becomes my muse
And I wonder if love on its own means justice
If love didn't need dozen of lawyers
To justify its worth

‘I love you’

Simply means infinite.
With countless possibilities
With narrow escape from lies
And one step closer to loyalty

Backspace.

Love is you and me.
The moment I say, ‘I’ – I pause and give myself to you,
Then I whisper, ‘Love’ and place my life in it
Then finally, all of it comes to ‘YOU’

Backspace.

And hope is all that is ever left.

When its not there
The worthlessness
Creeps over you

A bug

Without

Its shell

The thoughts
The pains
The anger
The life within

Drifts out that
Cracked and
Shackled window

What are these days,
Days
Gutless and
Afraid?

Numb to a city
Traveled miles and
Miles to live and
Stay in?

Indifferent to
Experience that
Passes right
On the way.

Chasing the muse
Of life is
Nothing to brag about
To friends or
Relatives or
The press

It leaves you
Alone
Weary, shivering and
With days of
Nothingness

It

Leaves

You

When she wants to

And there is nothing

One can

Do about it

But then
There are those days
When all of it is so

Effortless

And

Meaningless

And

All the same

In those hours
Magic doth not happen
But simply life

Rainbow spray
From the round metal hook
Of your grandmas
Green gardening hose

With the call of
Wild toads
Goading you to
Let free the treasure
Neath' ones fingertips

A mystery
Hellbent on
Staying so

Yes'

Those hours are rare
As the other times
Are not

See all and
Feel all
And breathe it all
In

The bed
Has been made

It awaits your

Weight

Do not
Give up your place
So fast

For your bed

Has already

Been made

your name means stars:

YOU ARE A STAR IN THE SHAPE OF A PERSON
and every breath you take draws a little bit out of my lungs
THEN, I LEARN WHAT IT MEANS TO DROWN ON LAND.

your name means blood:

my heartbeat stutters to the cadence of your footsteps
AND STAINS MY CHEST WINE-RED.
the light of your gaze bleeds into my soul
AND SWOONS DOWN THE CURVE OF MY NECK.

your name means muse to me:

BECAUSE YOU ARE A WORLD IN MOTION
and yet you are stillness; the moments between heartbeats
AND SOMEHOW YOU ARE MORE THAN YOURSELF
but this is because you are more concept than person
AND WE REALIZE THAT EMPTINESS DOES NOT KNOW ITS OWN SHAPE
because you were too good to be true

your name means fiction:

because i could not find a word for someone that was never there.
understand this.
you may be all the stars in the universe
but the emptiness between them is greater still.
and you cannot love someone you made up
no matter how hard you try.

Frosted ivory undivided wings
Bambino of new beginnings
Hummingbird Ching's,
Ornamentations to be as sidewalks
Brisk in mountain image
A dask
A dusk
A pull
A scrimmage.
Frilly tress amenity
Angels do come
Devils leave,
As Flambeau's do garnish so lively!!!
Pekoe from ourn bouquet redolence
Wild sinner's and innocent
Sparked by fuse of Muse's poet...
Ride it
Moan it
A perfume of new days Macy's!!!
Parched
Hazy
Yet sun blasts in with all perfection
For thy queen of ressurection hast risen me
As Christ was the third day!!!

Hey Skylar,
I
  See
        You.
All of you.
Every. Single. Part
Of you.
You.
You.
You.
Look at you!
You're beautiful!
You're my muse,
Darling.
And I love every atom of you.

In June
Let the music be heard
A new truth spoken by muse
Through human tools
Infused by views
And sights that soothe the soul
I hear you now on computer
Blue-tooth and telephone
I see you in Sumerian texts
Cave-drawings and cuneiform
I see you not how it used to be
And if I lose
Its proof I'm free
Because I choose to die
If not for an opportunity to try
Its June

Love is
When you can be my muse
I can write you a poem
And I call it love

candles ward off bad dreams,
and ward off old men and women
from waking in the night...
don't ask me how I came across
culture's
               harder than the rest
album,
   my Jamaican drug dealer
said I listened to culture
  when I started listing my
discography, inheritance
Marley... Ziggy, Damien,  Stephen...
Israel Vibration...
somehow urban ****** via
rap... always had too much blind
about it...
to counter rap I had to look
into sclerosis blanca...
    skunk thread, skinny scalps...
you know the sort...
Cockney wiseguys
who didn't sing along to:
say ooh la la say sum...
c'mon c'mon...
           primal sin...
and when her younger sister
walked down the stairs...
and her 14 year old glee...
then there and then:
my muse, untouchable...
    no beauty in the eye of the beholder...
save for a needle's eye,
and a life, worth a string thread
to replace footprints
on what remains
the enigma of the Thames' murky tide...
before the sidewinder serpent
on the dunes...
man walking on a beach,  
on the buffer zoning,
on god's land...
           harvester of mortality,
and the immortals' insomnia....
forever my muse: the prior to yah...
obviously having ******
one sister would be bothersome
******* another...
and the I was, thinking
that Sienkiewicz's novel
krzyżacy would be mezmo...
******* colt knight of a hot-head
zbyszko ruined the whole
****** novel...
   me waiting for teutonic monks...
giving bombastic speeches
of contradictory celibacy....
the germanic older brother
of the anglo saxon *** tease jokes
that became a complete ******* flop...
but given the medieval scenario...
if she wasn't married off
by her late teens,
  she would be deemed desolate...
inheritance tax in the current year
worth no more, than taboo...
    a first laid upon sight...
voyeurism of omni-
   qualities, hidden behind the extensive
walls of mirror(s)...
             concentrated lust,
best ascribed to a seasonal diet of:
and english strawberry in summer months,
watered down moths of flavour,
Iberian, in the wintry clot of:
what of bear as mammal,
   easing into hibernation?
   observing the natural hierarchy...
man is incomplete, in that he hasn't
adapted to the benefits of 1 dimensional
honing expenditure...
the whale a mammal,
the bear a mammal,
the former a fish,
the latter an insect...
                         transcending categories
of OCD humanists...
                   bear the remant of
a lazy bird...
   who learned to hibernate,
rather than migrate...
      out of the Alaskan tundra...
****... keep your out of Africa narrative...
and take your brown Jesus with you,
while you're at it.

If you fall in love with a poet lucky you will be .
Regaled by love sonets and old English words like thou and whilst and thee

But be for warned of the darker side that few will ever see
The angst and anger that fuels the minds of poets such as me

I once had a love a beautiful love a  young
blonde  girl was she
She read all my writing and supported  and  encouraged me

But then it occurred the times I had to write to get these demons  out of me .no time to talk can't you understand just leave me to be me

And alas as time went past the young lady soon left me
A poets love is a different thing for almost whole are we

I need only a muse a comforter ,someone who prompts the  inspiration in me
Yes if you fall in love with a poet lucky I will be

Poetry suffers silently
Against the vitriolic attacks
A fatal blow to the muse
Shedding tears of blood
A poetic injustice

Milka's mother
makes me
a cup of tea
as I wait for Milka
downstairs.

She'll not be long,
her mother says,
although don't
hold your breath,
Benny,
she adds,
smiling.

I like her smile;
it's like warm milk
of a motherly kind.

I sip the tea,
looking as her mother
walks from the sink
to the cupboard;
her plump body
cosy as a cat's
snuggled up close,
her backside swaying
like waves of water.

She doesn't deserve you,
her mother says,
giving me
a brief glance,
you are so patient
with her,
waiting for her,
doing things for her.

I recall Milka
dressing madly,
after the last
*** episode,
and her mother
downstairs,
having returned
from shopping early,
Milka flushed,
and I,
well, I was
in a trance,
dressing as fast
as I could,
thinking of reasons
to be in Milka's room.  

Would you like something
with the tea?
The mother asks,
looking at me,
her eyes searching me.

I try not to say
what's on my mind
and say,
a biscuit would be nice.

She smiles and goes
and fetches the biscuit tin
and opens it for me.

Help yourself,
she says.

She has very nice *******,
I note,
not staring,
but noticing as
she nears me.

I nibble and sip.

Milka is upstairs
getting ready
to go out,
taking her time,
while her mother
seduces me,
unwittingly.

I smile.

Is that,
I muse,
a crime?

Creativity is like an ambrosia,
Which artists **** sweetly from the fingers of the muse.
A drop at a time is all we're given,
Because it is the most lethal of all drugs.

To be without it creates a void,
Somewhere--we're not sure exactly,
But we feel it.

There is a golden goblet within the mind of every creator,
And it sits waiting to be filled with creativity,
So we can once again pick up our brushes, our chisels,
Our pencils and pens,
And longingly wait for that sweet drop of ambrosia.

What is this movements to the notes and rhythms,
The breath that breathe life it's essense of eternal ether?

Mourn to moan the formulation of birth to ****** propatuate procreation and then to final destination, cycling the very foundation of life, rebirth, and death in sound that carry over from one another.

Music preformed by guitar, violin, base, cello to piano, or any of the string instruments that symbol the living life strand of the life we wheel.

As our longevity is finite, but with infinite choices to play with strings until our lines are cut or break, and no longer play the songs we so love to hear so dear to our ears.

For a beat that tinker to our muse to the music that linger in the faint of our memories, those memories we try to keep close to our soft pillow and tucked away in our minds to comfort us in our less then pleasant boundaries leaving us empty, like a good age wine to lets us dream.

The empty cups shall be the reminder that sound and tone shall sieze to calm with stringless nights, the song has sang the final tune and forever leave it's mark on the heart good night.  

Until that final symphony reaches it final tune, accept the notes as it is a song we live in a moment, for all music good and bad has it's epilogue.

One must choose to play their music, and find their final notes to end their master piece in due time.

For whose License must your Coppered Mouth sing
Which the Lamb and the Owl compose for you
This - define such Friend - thumb your nickered strings,
Then delve Innocence perform those Tidbits true
Perhaps my Finger - or Eye then about
Point to where your Righteous Heart should belong
As you praise your Job; Past Excellence stout
Play your Hidden Muse in search for a Song
Which Customers, their likely Music spell
Helled or Heavened Clefs you both pacify
That this Foundry should acclaim Managers well
As their War-Torn Throats win your satisfy.
Still it was just a Day; As such Day did pass
Back to your Reward; And Reward it was.

clarity as blood
thick and free
consuming veins
erupting
single muse
through forceful love
failed intimacy
prevailing
your spirit
remaining
clear and strong
death visits this bed
in solitude
-

My Venus ,my muse
you know who you are
the distance between us
is not very far

in life if you find it
hold on don't let go
who knows where it leads
the path you'll both follow

blessed every day
for you in my life
we both need each other
the fit feels just right

forever together
bound by the stars
time cannot touch us
here in our hearts

like a "sickness" in the stomach *** 7am
    after only going to bed at 2(am) -
       and not from any considerable mention /
allusion to a "lack of sleep";
     in that "sickness" is more or less
    akin to a metaphor of a centipede wriggling
about on a hamster wheel /
   a rollercoaster of sorts...

   tough-chew of a fiddling with imitation
   walking...
             prized pins in the feet that have
turned to custard-hardening numbness...
immediately a towing of verbiage
seems more apparent than ever...
   perhaps an interlude of

   'and here's one i prepared earlier'...
          
//

  besides: no one really wants to write something
maxim esque every other sentence:
feeding a readership of
exasperation and sighs - from what i've
heard writing maxims and / or aphorisms
can be a rather tedious undertaking -
for all the times that: when should be forgotten /
'suppose i dreamt it?'
              - and any other offer than can
come with: working out a best lived towards
the amnesiac astral domain...

it just came out of a deep need for perhaps
conversation - then again i am too tired -
             a tiredness that probably sounds better
if i push for some eloquence and
technicality - a miasma is too strong a word -
i'm trying to focus on ancient "things" -
   a chimera variation of a turtle -
               a talking sequoia (but an oak would
do just as well)
                                        and a jellyfish...
  from centuries old... lethargy...
                            with this living:
                                        a tryst a harangue
a search for catharsis -
                                 if need be for a mystery:
loitering on the promise of -
                                    by the gallows on
                                         a Sunday -
                                            in a year were all
such days could be: literally read as being borrowed
from the benevolence of
that                                monstrous UV bulb;
and her copperskinned serpent
                          monstrosities of trickle a tease
of skin's to sizzle: undertones of
                 thrashing water against a window
in the ear reach(ing) a pitch higher...                
                                                                                    //

towing too much space: nudging forward
a shy rubric - an omni- litany (by any other
prefix, squalor)
            between a noun like shy
    and an adjective shyness - formality:
a word genus out of identifying it as such -
a technicality of teaching / learning
                                this (a) language...

- but it dawns on me that i have perhaps
eroded too much of origin and thought
and perhaps even an originality via
the cameo cinema of memory (fickle creature),
but it also dawns on me that
perhaps 10 years apart (circa

                                          ) is enough "time" /
the same sort of space that would allow
a rereading of a work that's
             either Herr Watt (ha    ah      ha)
or a Thin Geon  
                           Anne's Wake -
                    for what use to i have for any
more of that democratic endeavour -
   if only to reprise upon: from the catacombs,
the labyrinth, the ancient library,
the depth of sea upon sea of paragraph-congesting
a drawing-up a coming up for air
akin to (verbatim)

- ****, Nick & the Naggies / Glugg &
    the 3 riddles - Chuff etc. -

   in the house of breathings lies the word,
all fairness. the walls are of rubinen and the glittergates
of elfinbone. the roof hereof is of massicious
jasper and a canopy of Tyrian awning rises and
still descends to it. a grape cluster of lights
hangs therebeneath and al the house is filled
with the breathings of her fairness,
  the fairness of fondance and the fairness of milk
and rhubarb and the fairness of roasted
meats and uniomargrits and the fairness of
promise with catatonia and avowals...

that from out of nowhere and for reason
other than: in order to write proper  & "proper":
tossing and fidgeting the little oystertongue
like imitation(?) i.e. forget conversational
standards of languid, lingo, linguine -
in a frock of half down and in a tuxedo of
half up
                for none of this could possibly
make it into: it's a Thursday morning
   by now all the newspapers have,
                               have been printed...
                  perhaps i'll tender a pause to imply:
pounce-stealthily-hidden in
                                                         wait:
  trainspotting & *****-tickling itch-not-itchy...

now that would be a-happening of sorts:
beside all the bog-****-sodden autobiographical
miasma and fog...
beside all the fog-coup-nudging shadow
with elbow and prayer to a nuke-UV-bulb...
a heart a sparrow a ribcage:
                when farting into the wind
when throwing a stick against a tree
in a forest -
                        when the unbelievably
corrupt sense of self is content, pure,
             by pure i'm only aiming at:
                           uninterrupted -
                           or... without a conjunction
like                                            and...

                that's before: that's a before veering
toward:                          image - begin, again:
a chandelier made from champagne flutes...
       on a side:
i can stomach divulging and bulging in
                                   shackles and monkey's
cackling imitation giggles -
some existential angst (although not something
grandiose as a 20th century sort
or "European" / 19th century precursor)
  
       on the periphery of some "now" (a variation
of when, what if - how, what?)
       such that it is a beautiful lie:
this life...
              and my newly  found estimation
of revising esteem for: not wriggling
in worm-food and silly-ink:
a medium of tedium of being taken
seriously (even if as a "reverse psychology"
reversal of joke)
    
       a puncture a wound that "word-thing"
compilation of:
       well beside something as interesting
as: it's an essay by a lucy ives and
                 it's an essay but for me it's more
a shortcut a footnote parade for my own:

   would it ever (at all) be better
to cure an itch by a pinch
   or in(deed) by a scratch...
             gravestones and heads of matches:
possibly very itchy specimens
it's not hard to imagine
******* on a pebble: no, not imagining
it to be a toffee (landrynek)
              
but honest to god and all that's
Port & Geese (Frugal, Portent - i forgot
the attached -al in s.p.e.l.l.i.n.g)
                 i have nothing equivalent to:
beba babe caco (clot)...
in my own in nomine patris
            since: what is much dissimilar
besides... "******": baba implies
               old woman / peasant woman /
         or woman as harangue (of sorts)...
even though babka =
                        a sort of cake (elevated
sponge, elevation = more bite to it)...
   then comes the suffixation of
the diminutive (adjective)
                             to the word...
babeczka, babusia... babcia
                                              (grandmother):
no language policing here or alt.
   wizardry / frothing at the "salad" i.e.
         concretely (in conc.) a D. Pignatari ref.

but for me: unless not congested (at least
like so) then latin is: loophole it see-through
it's almost flimsy it's barely visual:
why-because-it's-so-******-pragmatic
& why-because-it's-so-utensil-where-none-required
& economically sound
& sieve & water & thirst &
it's hardly an M like Ⰿ
                     or Ⱄ as S
                                let alone an I (pronoun)
i.e. not vowel(,) which is a syllable compound
of Ⱑ   (let alone Я) -
                          perhaps via some distinction
between vowel and pronoun
                    and aye i.e. yes...
             i̊ must say if the pronoun is so bothersome
and more: cut the head elsewhere
sınce ıt's there by no real dıstınctıon
when compared to              får
                          when compared to fát...
                    unless that dıstınctıon be made:
also elsewhere - ȷust like so (Jettıson Bothersome
& Blues)
unless: bothersome camouflage like
a broccoli in a sea of cauliflower akin to
ınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınının
nnnnnnnnnnnnnınnnnnnn­nnnnnnnnn
when "oops" and Bob's your uncle
   i.e. ınınınınınınınınınıninınınınınınının

...never mind - i've been here before
but for the sake of convention (ctrl-c-ctrl-p)
     as clear as day:  
                                  i̊ might add...
       because it would not (otherwise)
  in any other way not suit me -
              thrice up ¡¡¡           thrice down !!!      

all in all: a leisure of an exercise in...
                              terms of waiting for such
pennies of a wording to drool off
a muse's heavenly gob.