‘Oinos.’

Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality!

‘Agathos.’

You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be
demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.
For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!

‘Oinos.’

But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once
cognizant of all things, and thus at once happy in being
cognizant of all.

‘Agathos.’

Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but
to know all, were the curse of a fiend.

‘Oinos.’

But does not The Most High know all?

‘Agathos’.

That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the
one thing unknown even to HIM.

‘Oinos.’

But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last
all things be known?

‘Agathos.’

Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force
the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we
sweep slowly through them thus—and thus—and
thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all points
arrested by the continuous golden walls of the
universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining
bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?

‘Oinos’.

I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.

‘Agathos’.

There are no dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered
that, of this infinity of matter, the sole purpose is
to afford infinite springs at which the soul may allay the
thirst to know which is forever unquenchable within
it—since to quench it would be to extinguish the
soul’s self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without
fear. Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of
the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the throne into the
starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies and violets,
and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and triple-
tinted suns.

‘Oinos’.

And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to
me in the earth’s familiar tones! I understand not what you
hinted to me just now of the modes or of the methods of what
during mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do
you mean to say that the Creator is not God?

‘Agathos’.

I mean to say that the Deity does not create.

‘Oinos’.

Explain!

‘Agathos’.

In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures
which are now throughout the universe so perpetually
springing into being can only be considered as the mediate
or indirect, not as the direct or immediate results of the
Divine creative power.

‘Oinos.’

Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered
heretical in the extreme.

‘Agathos.’

Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.

‘Oinos.’

I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations
of what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under
certain conditions, give rise to that which has all the
appearance of creation. Shortly before the final
overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many
very successful experiments in what some philosophers were
weak enough to denominate the creation of animalculae.

‘Agathos.’

The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the
secondary creation, and of the only species of
creation which has ever been since the first word spoke into
existence the first law.

‘Oinos.’

Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity,
burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these
stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?

‘Agathos.’

Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought
can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved
our hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth,
and in so doing we gave vibration to the atmosphere which
engirdled it. This vibration was indefinitely extended till
it gave impulse to every particle of the earth’s air, which
thenceforward, and forever, was actuated by the one
movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our
globe well knew. They made the special effects, indeed,
wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the subject of
exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine
in what precise period an impulse of given extent would
engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no
difficulty; from a given effect, under given conditions, in
determining the value of the original impulse. Now the
mathematicians who saw that the results of any given impulse
were absolutely endless—and who saw that a portion of
these results were accurately traceable through the agency
of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of
the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time,
that this species of analysis itself had within itself a
capacity for indefinite progress—that there were no
bounds conceivable to its advancement and applicability,
except within the intellect of him who advanced or applied
it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.

‘Oinos.’

And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?

‘Agathos.’

Because there were some considerations of deep interest
beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a
being of infinite understanding—one to whom the
perfection of the algebraic analysis lay unfolded—
there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse given
the air—and the ether through the air—to the
remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of
time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse
given the air, must in the end impress every
individual thing that exists within the
universe;—and the being of infinite
understanding—the being whom we have imagined—
might trace the remote undulations of the impulse—
trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
particles of all matter—upward and onward forever in
their modifications of old forms—or, in other words,
in their creation of new—until he found them
reflected—unimpressive at last—back from
the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being
do this, but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded
him—should one of these numberless comets, for
example, be presented to his inspection—he could have
no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and
perfection—this faculty of referring at all
epochs, all effects to all causes—is of
course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every
variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the
power itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic
Intelligences.

‘Oinos’.

But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.

‘Agathos’.

In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but
the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the
ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all
space, is thus the great medium of creation.

‘Oinos’.

Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?

‘Agathos’.

It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the
source of all motion is thought—and the source of all
thought is—

‘Oinos’.

God.

‘Agathos’.

I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair
Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the
atmosphere of the earth.

‘Oinos’.

You did.

‘Agathos’.

And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some
thought of the physical power of words? Is not every
word an impulse on the air?

‘Oinos’.

But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh, why do your
wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is
the greenest and yet most terrible of all we have
encountered in our flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a
fairy dream—but its fierce volcanoes like the passions
of a turbulent heart.

‘Agathos’.

They are!—they are!—This wild
star—it is now three centuries since, with clasped
hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate
sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are
the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging
volcanoes are the passions of the most turbulent and
unhallowed of hearts!

Silence, beautiful voice!
Be hard and still, for thou only troublest the mind,
And within such a joy I cannot rejoice,
a glory I shall not find.

Catch not my breath, o clamorous heart;
for thou art more horrendous than the horrendous,
and thy mourning over this heavy breath is far too hard,
but sounding alternately irresolute and pretentious.
Thou needst not be my ultimate, though doleful, present;
thou art wicked and frail as the serpent;
I shall let thy tongue be a thrall to my eye,
but vex thee greedily 'till thou benevolently saith goodbye.
I shall makest thee angry and giveth in to anger and lie
and let thee search about within my soul, and die.

Ah! Still, I shall listen to thee once more,
But move, I entreat; to the meadow and fall before
Thy feet on the meadow grass and adore
Bring my heart to thy heat but not make it sore
Not thine, which are neither courtly nor kind;
not mine, for thy youth still, makest me sweet and blind.
Oh, if only thou couldst be so sweet,
and thy smile all the worldliness I dreamt,
For it all wouldst no longer be stormy and pale,
or threatened be, to vanish amongst such winds or ghastly gales;
Ah, yon fairness wouldst be fair,
and scented as sweetly as thy hair.

Whom but thee, again, I should meet
Whenst at stormy nights sunset burneth
At the end of the head village street,
Whom I should meet behind the red ferns?
For I believest, in such boundlessness of fate
Fate that worlds cannot deny, and grudge cannot hate.
And, I believest indeed, my darling shall be there,
to touch he, shall my hand so sweet,
He bowest to me and utterest holy amends
To his future lover, but less than meekly hesitant; friend.

What if with his sunny hair
He connivest for me a snare
Who wouldst hath thought locks of gold so fair
Huddled and curved cozily by hands of care
Immersed in silver, tailored in gold
Even darker than toil, but sharper than words
Wouldst throw in my way pranks and deceit
As to his expectations I couldst not meet?
Wouldst he expect me to stand in the snow that couldst bite
and criest for and cursest him, in the middle of furious nights?

And what if with his sunny smile
Which he refineth with sweetness all the while
And with such an ostentatious remorse
That makest truthful delight even worse
He stealest my heart and makest me swear
So for any other I ought not to care
And my tears shall again be conceived in between
In the eternal mirror of revelling seasons, unseen
Knowing not what it hath done, or where it hath been
What if seas and clouds turnest just they are, so mean?

And imprisoned up and above
I shall hearest beloved Lord talk of the futility of love
And He shall oftentimes stop and mirthlessly laugh
Ruining the castles and puzzles and stories I dreamt of
If distances are not too far to walk to
I shall darest to cross my sphere and get over you
But sins hath perhaps forbidden my courteous intentions
As their meanness swayest me around with no destination-
ah, look at how their vile, grinning eyes temptest me!
They itchest my veins, they throttlest my knees;
and how uncivilly their ****** teeth hauntest me!
Indeedst, indeedst-they are far more horrendous than these living eyes canst see!

Perhaps his smile and tender tone
Were all that I imagined alone
Now that all spells hath grimly gone
Am I truly left on my own?
Ah, prone, prone is truly my soul
But I am distant here, lonely and cold
I am also strong but this solitude is too bold
I hath always been awake with truth, but this I cannot fold
And hovering dancing leaves are grotesquely thrown
About their echoing chambers opened wide
Until more rueful gravity has grown;
and hilarity fades wholly from my side

Once we came to the bench by the rouge church
And sat for hours by the wooden pillar alone
We sang along with the singing white birds
And those strangely blushing red thorns
'Till we fought everything burdened and curtly torn
As how the moon hurriedly cried 'till it found the morn
'Till suddenly, sweetly my heart beat stronger
And thicker, 'till I almost heard it no longer
But I realised, and fast mused and sighed
'No, it cannot stayest long, it cannot be pride.'

T'en we walked a mile-
Just a mile from the moors,
Circling about to find some exile
Away from noises and banging of doors.
We both pleaded, pleaded to our dear Lord
T'at genuine love our hearts couldst afford
But time grew envious and cut our walk short
As night approached and we suddenly had to resort.

And he too, he too was mad
And frowned and twitched that so made me sad
Endlessly alone he wouldst blame me and more fret
Sending myself down and brimmed with regrets
Like a parrot shuffling about its offspring's dying bed
My eyes grew warm and hurtful and red
Anger betrothed him to its indignant powers
Corrupted his cheers and drank away his laughters
I was furious, I cursed and kicked frantically at fate
How it grossly tainted and strained my tenuous date
For it was tenuous and I struggled to makest it strong;
but fate shamefully ripped it and all the triumph I'd woven, all along.

And losing him was indeedst everything,
nothing distracted me and kept my jostled self going.
I feelest lethargic even in my sleep,
I keepest falling from rocks in my dreams-ah, too leafy and steep!
I dreamest of suburbs that are rich with divine foliage,
I rejoicest in whose tranquil, though transient, merriment.
And as morn retreatest, I shall be again filled with rage,
I refusest to eat and enjoy even a slice of everyday's enjoyment.
I am now wholly conquered by worry; I was torn and lost in my own battlefield,
I hath no more guard that shall lift me upwards and grant me his shield.
Ah, I hath now been turned, to a whole nonentity;
at my wounds people shall turn away, with a foolish laugh and mock sorry.

O, love, and I am now vainly stuck in the night,
The night that refusest to leave my tired sight.
The night that keepest returning the dark
with no more hope of reflective sight,
and no more signs pertinent burning light,
and sick I'th become, of this jealous dread.
But am I really sick now? Utterly sick of this lonesome envy?
Ah, still I better refusest to know. My dreams are bad.
The shapes in there are far too inglorious and mad.
Just like those-ah! Do not let them harm me!
Where are my eyes? My very heart, my own blood,
and perhaps, my thorough sense of humanity?
One second back they were all still with me,
but they are all now ruined phantoms and shapes,
whenever I am fast asleep,
he turnest them out like obedient sheep
and handest them to the unseen to be *****.
He was neither sincere nor tactful,
and believed too heartly in his odious and ill-coloured soul.
Ah, but duly shall I even call this season harmful,
sorrows rule our hands, whilst distaste reign our men.
Disgrace ownest its peaks, within gratuitous handfuls,
men knowest not their lovers, speakest not of us as friends.
Ah, this is a bitter spring indeed, of anger and fear;
With thousands of evil tongues and evil ears,
For lovers are at war with their lovers,
and makest each others' eyes unseeing and blind.
Even God, our lovely God himself, is at war with his heavens,
for whose minds are lost, as real conscience shall never ever find.

Where is my love? Ah, perhaps staggering under the woods,
And I, who else, shall be with him,
Gathering woodland lilies,
Prosperously blooming under the trees.
Where is my heart? Ah, it is carried again within him,
as we layest about the green grass on our limbs,
with oiled lamps at our feet,
and tellest stories as our loving eyes lean closer and meet.

Ah, beauty! That is the picture in my mind,
not him, not him, that has sent me blind.
Still the image of him makes me sick,
his image that is as stony and greedy as a brick.

He has no feelings, he has no emotion,
he has no endurance and twists of natural passion.
He has all the strength and virility the world ever wanted,
but his mind remainst cold, his heart his own self once entered.
He is as unjust as a statue,
he knowest not wrong and right, nor false from true.
For whilst I tried to praise his being so comely,
he took all my remarks sedately,
he gazed at me with an arrogant face snarling,
and praised the gentleness of his own darling.

He is unthinking, savage, and unfeeling,
his face a human, his heart a brute.
He might be all the way comely and charming,
too pitiful he is inhuman and acts like a crude.
My fancy was sometimes real overbold,
for whenst I was to coo and hold, he was but to scream and scold.
Scorned, to be scorned by one that I not scorn,
whenst all this passion my shoulder had borne?
It is unfair and ignominiously hateful,
gross and unjust, horrid and spiteful.
A fool I am, to be unvexed with his pride!
And once, during repetitive daylight,
I past him, one day I was crossing his lands,
I did look at him not as a gentleman,
He was laughing at his own tediousness,
I dreaded him for that, but as I came home
later, I cried again, over his picture with madness.

Ah! How couldst I ever forget him,
whenst he is but the one I love?
No matter how strange this may seem,
he was the one I real dreamt of;
I want to love him not in a dream,
I want to touch him in his flesh.
I want to smell that scent of him,
and breathe onto his lap and his chest.
I want to sit in his oak-room,
and tellest him of stories of glad and gloom,
before the ocean-waves afar laid
next to quiet storms, amidst our private delight.
I want to have him selfishly!
Have him laugh endlessly with me,
and all the way love him madly;
with a heart so dearly but greedy.

What, if he fastened himself to this fool dame,
and bask in her infamous joy, and fame
Should I love him so well, if he
gave her heart to a thing so low?
Should I let him again smile at me
If we are bound to see each other tomorrow?
His smile, at times can be full of spite
Yet in spite of spite, he is all but comely and white;
I miss him, I miss him as just how I miss my dream,
He is, though marred, is just as sweet as I remember him,
I insist sorrow coming up to me,
To consolest and hearest here, my deepest plea
And ****** the most painful pain to he and she
And restore then, his innocent self to me.

I hearest no sound from where I am standing
But the rivulets and tiny drops of rain
Are starting to send moonlight to my whining
As I twitch and swirl and whirl about in the rain.
I watch people flock in and out the evening train;
their thoughts hidden, like all the mimicry in a quiet play.
Hearts full of glowing love, and at the same time, of disdain;
all pass by gates and bars and entrances with nothing serious to say.
Ah, perhaps I am the only one too melancholy,
for even at this busy hour think doth I, of such poetry.
Yet melancholy but real, for if I ever be dear to someone else,
then I decide that should I be, to myself, far dearer.
For I believe not tales another creature tells,
they can be lies, they can be unfairer.
Like a nutshell too hard for the very poor shell itself,
I do feel pity for him and his ignorant self.
Unlucky him, for I carest more for every puff of his breath,
no matter how eerie-and she, rejoices over
the bashful lapse, of his death.

My life hath crept so long on a broken wing
Through cells of madness, horror, and fear;
Fear that is brutal and insidious, though inviting
and lies that eyes cannot see nor ears hear;
My mood hath changed, at least at this time of year
As I'th stayed more about and dwelled mostly here
And my previous grief hath outgrown itself like a butterfly
Too I witnessed as It fluttered and flickered madly,
and at the very last moment, died silently 'midst its own fury;
All weeks long, I hath listened and learned tactfully more
Lessons that I hath never heard of, never before.

But still, hate I this severely clashing world;
too much torpor hath we all borne, and burning, virile hurt.
O down, down with laborious ambition and ******
Kiss this earth's silent layers and fold down our knees
Ah, darling, put down thy passion that makest thee Hell!
To all madness of thine thou should sayest, farewell-
Hesitate not, and leave thy curious, and agile state
Be honest and precise, be courteous and moderate.
Crush and demolish and burn all demonic hate
Thus instead cherish and welcome thy realistic fate.
Entertain thy love; with dozens and dozens of new, novelty!
Brush up thy pride, but leavest away, o, leavest away thy old vanity-
Ah, and profess thy love only to me, for it brings me delight
It returns my hope, and turns all my dissolutions to light.

And tease, tease me, and my frenetic, personal song
Though I but be a wounded thing-with a rancorous cry,
I am wretched and wretched, as thou hath hurt me all along
Sick, sick to the heart of this entire life, am I.
Many one hath preached my poor little heart down,
Neither any merriment is mine, 'mongst this serene county town.
My only friend is my oak-room bible, and its dear God
Who mockest frenetic riches rich at diamonds but poor at heart
With cries that rulest turning minds from each other apart;
and with wealth running away to selfishly savest their spoilt, cruel hearts-
o, how I am lucky-for I am destroyed, but not by my dear Lord;
I am healed and charmed by His generous frank words.

All seemest like a vague dream, but still a dear insight
For he, above all, taught me to see which one was right
I still miss him, and dearly hope that he canst somehow be my future poem
And together we shall fliest towards joy and escapest such unblessed doom;
His musical mouth is indeedst my song,
a song that I'th been singing intimately with, all along!
For this then shall I shall continue my pursuit,
with a grateful heart and so a considerate wit,
for I am sure now-that he is mine, and only mine,
and duly certain of these promising, though long, signs;
But now I feel my heart grow easier;
as it now embraces days in ways lovelier;
for I hath now awakened again, to a better mind,
so that everything is now to me just fine;
Still he bears all my love and intuitive goodwill,
yet how to waken my love, God knowest better still.

Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its ******, death, what savour hath
Life? an impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.

His body a ******-ruby radiant
With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer
Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden's imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.

mediocrity isn’t
something to be strived for
and being a nonentity isn’t
a relief of pressure

it’s heavier than any weight
that could be strapped to your back,
larger than any expectations
you delude yourself into thinking you must meet
emptiness fills
more than you would think

your feeble body on the ground
stirs no pity in me
i hope the steel-toed boots
striking you from every direction
leave bruises that last
i hope the stench of your rotting flesh
gags you and brings up the lack
of what you hold inside
i hope old scabs are ripped open again
and your hands lay weak by your side
unable to stop the flow of blood

let me hear you say that you are nothing,
           that you have nothing valuable to offer
let me hear you say that you are a waste of space,
            an unwanted burden
let me hear you cry and plead for an end,
            although you don’t deserve that escape

i want to hear you say that you’re a murderer

i want you to go back:
             look into his eyes
             watch them dilate with fear
             and then see the light leave them

             feel his blood on your hands
             leaving a permanent mark
             that doesn’t wash off under water

             feel his body turn cold
             as the life inside him stops
             with his heartbeat

your sniveling apologies do nothing
but turn my stomach over
don’t touch me,
i don’t care if the blood is gone

being a nonentity isn’t
a relief of pressure
i hope you never get away
from that weight

While tufts of gloom engulfing the sky,
With no space and time between
Us, you and I,
soak ourselves in the stationary delight.
Like a hypersensitive scheme,
Yet an irreconcilable vibe,
You smoke, and I sigh.

While others argue to be or not to be,
You and I, standing in front of Robert Frost’s fork
—to smoke or sigh
Without hesitation,
You choose to hold a cigar in hand,
I choose to release an unknown in mind,
And sigh.

We then, ask each other why
You say, if you ever woke up in evisceration,
You would quit smoking
I say, if I ever woke up in nonentity,
I would stop sighing

Basking in the glow of flickers,
Inhaling the essence of meteoric laughters,
We look into each other’s assuring eyes
—I respect your choice,
as much as you respect mine.
Palpably, we’ve educed a compromise
It’s neither you smoke, nor I sigh.

Sit in stillness
Allow the unrest
Of idleness
Contour the shape
Of nonentity

Soon you’ll hear
A loud ringing
Within your ear

The same noise
Howling staunch
Before you sleep

The same sound blaring
As the world stagnates
And time loiters
And sorrow seeps up from the rug

I don’t think you realize
You will never see him again
As long as you live

For now he is a tall tale
Retold to offspring
A distant memory
A mythic architect

Nothing in the past has ever occurred
There is only now
And now
There is only the wind

And the world moves on
And time resumes clockwise
And his ashes are spread about the sea

Was crossing the road

It is not like crossing anything else

A Trailer
Might partition into pieces
Or a Hummer,
In a second, make one a nonentity
Or a tin can of a vehicle
Take away your hand or leg.

Even if your last wish,
In case you have to die in an automobile crash,
Is that it should be the red lancer car you are very fond of,
Which court will listen?

On the other side of the road, there is a neem tree
Its dark green leaves are visible.
No, cannot see the bitterness,
But it is possible it is.

I have to cross the road.
Then
I have to stand a bit under the green on the other side
Those birds have to run away (no, not fly!)
And come back just the way they went.


What then? It is, after all, the road that was crossed,
Which is something!


While crossing the road, came a Trailer
Whose driver was a Tamilian


A Hummer came,
In which there was a father, his friend,
Mother and two kids

The kid was singing loudly
The friend was thinking about his girl friend

A rickety old tin can of a vehicle  too came
It was full of wine bottles
For the next century

What then?

Trailer was divided into many pieces
Hummer made one a nonentity in a second
The old vehicle took away two hands, one leg, and two ears.

Now the one who looks this way from the other side:
Is it the one who reached the other side,
Or the one who was standing here,
Or the one who crossed the road,
Or the one who has to return?

Starred at her like she was a virtual machine,
Like I was working with rhymes and stanzas,
She stood there unseeing and overlooking,
I didn't know I liked her until she fell into my view,


My existence never touched her sight,
Since I saw her today,
I'm in hopes of being what she dreams about.
At least she exists in mine heart.

She provoked my heart to senses unknown to me,
Now she walked away without even saying "Hi",
I felt so nonentity,
She left I so recluse and dying.

Fallen words roll steadily of his tongue,
as he sings and swings upon the strings
of a love song that is about to be sung.
But before this song begins, let me remained you,
it is foiled by the sins of useless hearts,
breaking the strings of the violins
that once seemed so pure and clear.

When will you realise, that love like politics
is nothing but a front.
So forget the conspiracies, tear up the theories
of sonnets, both old and young,
and ones that are yet to be sung.

Because that smile, that you think emulates the sun
and creates emotions of fun, right from day one.

Is a nonentity.  

With a slightly snarled pursed lip
Pursuing sweet nothing, yet your heart stays eclipsed
and you lean in to kiss.

Then 10 months down the line, you here a chime
you open your eyes, she’s gone, you’re out of time,
and finally you realise,
Love is like politics, it’s nothing but a front.

Was crossing the road
It is not like crossing anything else
A Trailer
Might partition into pieces
Or a Hummer,
In a second, make one a nonentity
Or a tin can of a vehicle
Take away your hand or leg.
Even if your last wish,
In case you have to die in an automobile crash,
Is that it should be the red lancer car you are very fond of,
Which court will listen?
On the other side of the road, there is a neem tree
Its dark green leaves are visible.
No, cannot see the bitterness,
But it is possible it is.

I have to cross the road.
Then
I have to stand a bit under the green on the other side
Those birds have to run away (no, not fly!)
And come back just the way they went.

What then? It is, after all, the road that was crossed,
Which is something!


While crossing the road, came a Trailer
Whose driver was a Tamilian

A Hummer came,
In which there was a father, his friend,
Mother and two kids

The kid was singing loudly
The friend was thinking about his girl friend

A rickety old tin can of a vehicle too came
It was full of wine bottles
For the next century

What then?
Trailer was divided into many pieces
Hummer made one a nonentity in a second
The old vehicle took away two hands, one leg, and two ears.

Now the one who looks this way from the other side:
Is it the one who reached the other side,
Or the one who was standing here,
Or the one who crossed the road,
Or the one who has to return?

I question the laws which are shared among our youth during these hard times; we have no great war, no question that burns the nations to their knees blaring. We simply have our poverty and power, our endless struggles and our eating disorders.
                We are the nation of winners and runners; we are the hypocrites of our father’s religion. Welcome to America, so jam packed with fast foods and cigarettes that you can hardly taste the reality before it has bombed you down.
                And then there’s you, and you’re sitting there, staring at the screen… laughing at the mother with the black and white face have her daughter slaughter and eat her, and I’m laughing to, trying to hide the little girl inside me screaming.
                “Kiss me,” I’ve had enough broken hearts and sleepless nights to know what it means to have a hand to hold and a body to cling to when the street lights flicker and people ponder about your past.
                Talk to me, open your mouth and share with me the secrets of your mother, tell me what tragic car accident brought you to this position and how far you’d run to hold her hand. Question my beliefs and my relationships. Chose kind words over replaceable concerns, fight for my attention, and question my devotion. I want to watch movies with you, discuss some kind of universe beyond my mind, and our boundaries, hold me close while the lights in the theater are dim we’ll dance behind the stage. The lights will be our stars, predict my future with your soft hands and gentle grin.
                Because you’re a stranger, I can get away with wanting, because you’re new to me, I can fantasize, holding your hand in mine, resting my head on your chest, listening to your heart beat as you sleep.
                Because I’m alone tonight, I can ****** a thought, fish for a chance to be on my own with you. Tell me something; open your mind to the possibilities of me and you.
Of course, all this is wasted on time, and I’ve tried to send you signals, I want to be your friend, I want to talk to you into the late hours, stand in the midnight man’s circle sweating, calling out into the darkness, sharing songs and secrets until the dawn shatters our dream.
Then the bell rings, and you move, get up and leave, go outside to smoke, and my mind goes blank, the thoughts and dreams of the tomorrows that we could have spent together have disappeared, into nonentity. The audacity of my fantasies have brought me nothing, so I move back to questioning the laws which are shared among the youth of these hard times, and I am shaken into a reality of obesity and anorexia, of Christians and Muslims fallen in line with the atheists, I don’t mind, because tomorrow, we’ll meet again and I’ll smile and you’ll nod, and I’ll dream while you giggle.

Absence of nothing
Full of everything
Who I supposed to be
While I´m writing here

Absence of pain as a joy
Trading on ambiguity
Absence of a nonentity
Still a proper entity

Absence of darkness as a light
Darkness or absence insight
(Un)consciousness always fight
Nonexistence invites

Absence of existence as a non-existence
Unicorns don't exist
A square circle essence
Dangerous mental twist

Absence of unreality as a reality
Into an absolute nothingness
In any universe timeline
An insane tragedy

Absence of demolition as a building
Existence is not a negation of negatives
Feeling absolutely nothing
Sharing words as a sedative

Sara L Russell*

Bright colours in a pool of crystal clarity
reflecting all the spectrum of our days
slip down into a quagmire of nonentity
with nothing left to sully or erase.

This cold disease that strips a man of human soul,
is worst of all the ravages of time;
behold those eyes, devoid of everything you stole,
yet blissfully unknowing of your crime.

This bright man, worn away to barest minimum,
this one-time writer and great raconteur,
this poet - will not travel to Byzantium;
his world is fading to a senseless blur.

There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block

Vacuous things in empty gales dripping
shamed impotent poltroon cackling witlessly
take odious face away and lose thy name to a letter
even kidadult coward begs anonymity for inadequacy

Old lout in fanciful fare seeks Zen knowledge
oh see the mask and pretensions in the arena of harlequins
where acts and deeds unmask to confirm and disgrace the uber clod
our nonentity bully who ascribe Enlightenment whilst a dullard dark

The Narcissist mentalist presents tosh prolifically
in mindless puffs praised by acolytes and him in other guises
childish taunts and deluded piffle showcasing stunted academia
standing that peculiar trait of ignoramus incapable of introspection

Nichiren says though its impervious to bullies
That which you give to another will become your own
sustenance; if you light a lamp for another, your own way will be lit.
our faker zen knows this, methinks not as he's still in the play-ground

Lest it not to mock the afflicted or crippled mind
but to remind that, "Cowardice and Hypocrisy are brothers
Born from Self-Interest, Insecurity and Fear " this a sanguine fact
Our under-endowed zenist (sic) knows hence the facelessness  and abbreviated identity




Do not do shameful things to make yourself hide in shame.....

I'm young with no identity,
A faceless boy, alone and shy.
To classmates, a nonentity;
My parents fret and wonder why.

I'm part of the unnoticed pack.
I step aside as others pass.
To be alone, I sit in back
And never volunteer in class.

From social scenes, I disengage,
Avoiding bullies' taunts and laughs.
I cannot dance or speak on stage,
And hate to pose for photographs.

I tend to blush and shrink from hugs
And ***** jokes embarrass me.
I'm scared to try if offered drugs.
At lunch, I have no company.

I dread the days we swim at school
And shower with the other boys.
I try, but nothing 'bout me's cool.
I lack both confidence and poise.

I'm frightened by the internet
Where vicious rumors often spread.
And mockery's a constant threat
While thoughts of vengeance fill my head.

The girls and jocks just walk on by.
They're unaware that I exist.
No welcome wave nor friendly, "Hi."
I'm seventeen and not been kissed.

The popular comprise a clique
Where bolder boys have fun and flirt.
Among my peers, I'm seen as weak,
And girls avoid an introvert.

The meek inherit all the earth.
That's what the Bible verse asserts.
But while alive, we've little worth.
We're targets for disdain and hurts.

Tomorrow's graduation day.
The high school torment will have passed.
When college life gets underway,
I hope for friends and peace at last.

Two years in recovery;
Emotions disregarded.
While antibodies made homes
I created something new inside.

Have I forgotten how to feel?

Three years in secrecy;
I lived in ignorance
While whispers lie caught in webs
I discovered something new to hide.

Choosing nonentity.
A heart that is void.
Backwards living, Forward talking,
Influenced by all that is around
To grasp the idea of truth.

There is far more to all of this
Than memories, and words.

the women in my family always have answers they don’t know how to pause wonder me and nobody meet today she walks funny strange we glance smile giggle i am captivated ask for her number she gives it to me i wait day then call we make date meet for coffee talk laugh she tells me about her folks brothers i listen we walk home flirt tease she admires my place paintings i pour 2 glasses of red wine she grabs embraces heart beating wildly we kiss ***** caress strip **** **** cuddle no one and i begin seeing each other falling in love feeling happy content take each other wherever we go celebrate our anniversary i want her so bad ask ms. nonentity to please marry me she laughs nervously says yes our parents family disapprove we elope me and no one create a life history no that’s not actually true i chickened out lost the love of my life now never married no children no one interested wants me my paintings ms. nobody realizes we have been married for many long years what’s wrong why am i so unnoticed hello? are there words on this page? invisible fiction nobody smiles approvingly she takes my hand kisses it lays her head on my lap i gently stroke her head long hair

I get it
I believed
I thought
I suffered
for you
for us
for me
for my inability
to love you
again and again
I get it
that is not so
I
I am not inadequate
you
you do not love me
you
you want to possess me
your pride speaks
your cowardice
holds me to you
your selfishness
hidden by  layers
of mellifluous sensitivity
hits me
you
you want to hurt me
you do not even notice
what you say
you do not see
the bleeding gashes
you  keep leaving
on my skin
you do not feel
swollen and distorted scars
on my mind
on my heart
pains
you've inflicted to me
with your silences
with your absences
with your looks
with your words
empty and useless
and false
drawn with black ink
as the planned route
on a cold map
you see my pain
you see my insecurities
you see my guilt
and you walk to your way
heedless
you do not care
it’s been all about you
fake victim of the world
hidden
by a mask of dignity
papier-mâché made
glued with slime
script writing
for an ignorant audience
vacant and bigots faces
you speak
you do
you look
lies!
they’re all lies
black like  pitch
you pretend
you mislead
you are sneaky
with me
against me
I believed
I thought
I suffered
for you
for us
for me
for my inability
to love you
again and again
but I
I loved you
I fought
I gave
I kept quiet
I waited
gestures and words
that never arrived
I was
I was there
you could just have
to see me next to you
you've grown
our most beautiful rose
now
it is buried among the thorns
dry and withered
its scent
is consumed
in waiting wind
a persistent
moldy smell
into our  nostrils
I was alone
the only color
in a gray landscape
holding a watering can
without water
the fire has gone
no embers under the ashes
I get it
I am not bad
I am not inadequate
I am not inept
I'm not nonentity
I am
I must
I exist

During a time not long ago
When children played tag in alleyways,
There lived a man, a hero,
In worn clothes with very humble ways.
\The neighborhood kids called him John.
No one was sure if he even had a last name.
He was a mystery, a puzzle this John.
Guess his last name and you win the game.
\John walked up the same alleyway everyday,
The kids would listen for his whistle
And the tap of his cletes gave him away,
Not bothered by Life's sharp thistle.
\He greeted us with his eternal smile
Which he wore like the cap on his head.
We always urged him to stay awhile
He would nod,"Maybe tomorrow," he said.
\We decided to give him an identity
As we ****** popsicles on a hot day.
He'd no longer be a nonentity,
He became John No Name in our child's play.

We are
A nonentity,
An almost,
A could-have-been,

A wish,
A dream,
A hope,
A longing.

I live.
I die.
I conquer.
I stumble.

You play.
You speak.
You neglect.
You enjoy.

A breath.
A whisper.
A shout.
A secret.

A game
That will someday end in despair.
A desire
That it will not be too late.

A dare.
Go ahead,
Be a guy, my dear.
‘Cause I’m told no longer
Are you a man.

Two bites, just two and you're free
You did it yesterday
Tell me, why can't you eat
Is it because you're guilty
Or because you think you're fat now
Do you choose this freely

One more, and sit, explain
Tell me why it haunts you, why
Human need has become shame
Why is one meal such a fight
Is your brain stopping you or
Are you just wanting to die

Starving is not an art, or poetry
It is not about looking good
I don't want anyone to want me
I simply don't want to need
And now I find myself trapped
By the fear and fallacy of greed

Those bites meant internal war
One of attrition, locked inside
What the hell am I fighting for
Do I want to be rendered ugly
So unattractive I won't be
Hurt, attacked once more and seized

Do I want to repel, or is it now
To be thin and perfect in
My miniskirt and arched brows
Do I want control over my world
As I feel it, myself, slipping
I am becoming an insane girl

If I starve can I stay alive
Can I bear my form and figure
Convincing myself I can survive
On smoke, sugar, and caffeine
On air and diet coke without effect
Do I just want to not be seen

Finish that bite, just swallow
Are you afraid of feeling full
Afraid your humanity will show
Do you fear being seen as weak
Or needy, somehow sad
Is a bone cage what you seek

Don't purge, your body can't take
Another absconscion now
However much you have come to hate
Feeling your heart and eyes
Brighten, really function again
Are you a slave to lies

The thought of it makes me sick
I see the swelling, bubbling
Fat and I seek to destroy it
Or to destroy myself maybe
I can never be quite sure whether
Living or dying is meant for me

I don't know how to live
How to exist in this world when
I have nothing new to give
No originality dwells in my blood
My brain sings familiar tunes
My thoughts linger dark as mud

How could anyone need me
Such a vacuum of malcontent and
Self destruction, I'm never free
To love; I chose not to anymore
To breathe; it only hurts me
To laugh; I closed all those doors

I tore out my heart and pretended
I was Davy Jones, or a skeleton
I wished my life had ended
At all those times I tried to die
Now you ask if I can eat
How can I when I don't see why

Sit still, don't go expending it
That fuel is precious, please
I promise that you need it
I'll remind you through the weeks
You promised to try now
You said you'd learn to breathe

Well you need to learn to sit still
Feel full and not poisoned
By food, you should not feel ill
For finally treating your body right
I know it feels strange
But maybe you will sleep at night*

I hear your reasons, I really do
But I'm so worthless inside
This feels like hell, I tell you
The pain, the sweeping sickness
The endless need to be empty again
Have I descended into some madness

Have I lost my mind along the way
To cutting out my heart
How can I bear another day
So laden down with shame and guilt
I'm forever waiting, it seems
I'm waiting for the hole to be filled

There is a hole inside my heart
My soul a void, a nonentity
Blackness; how could I start
To conquer it when I can't see
When I am blind, I am trapped now
By this hatred and yearly deceit

But you've sat and listened
You know I am not being spiteful
I feel one day I'll be forgiven
By parents, by lovers and old friends
I'm not defiant, I'm so lost
I guess this isn't how my story ends.

an uninterested archaeologist studied the bones of eight
dead citizens who had a gradually tightened their grips around our dreams, tapering
as furling curtains swathed the incoming light, swirling, forcing it into nonentity
one would steer the ill-fated course of all.


bury the hatchet that was used to hatch you
put all of your eggs into one spermicidal basket
only the heavy-handed preamble to my funeral
could weigh against such lofty comparisons

we commuted to separated isles, each with their own emulation of truth
with cathartic perspectives, trees wait to abed in your predestined lynching
placing viney nooses into mother nature's scrapbook, a cherished keepsake,
your freckled dna, an infinitesimal page in her tattered cookbook

only in an afterworld will you be allowed to read your book's foreword
know that there is no snooty producer to create for you a cash-in sequel
they all watch you from afar, hungry, salivating
failing to make a distinction between your life and demise

their story's nothing but an interminable sad ending
a null conclusion with nothing to conclude
it holds its breath, crosses its fingers
hoping again to come through
as I placed defeat to my temple and squeezed

I veered into a claustrophobic brick encasement
colored with lifelessness, detachment
and learned infinity is combustible;
an unfolding polygonal paper
forever unwrapping

I've walked with wrecked leagues
casually entered fiery caverns
and the chilling daytime before me,
never is it compelling

I resigned my mind, contemplated grave comprehensions
redid everything, coughing opuses, deftness, drugged insight

my tactics turned to taciturn. no one was conducting
the open metaphor of your eyes, rendering
internal captions. endless captive renditions

my adoration:
the thickly-caked rust in the kitchen faucet
if you catch my spotty, deposited
despot eyes in direct sunlight,
you'll realize their dimness

staring vacantly
into oncoming traffic,
looming passages

With them in his pocket he broke in swinging dance
But now nonentity two penny gets no chance

Two penny is so poor got no clue what to do
No fetcher it can’t bring him a slice of the blue

He wanders on the way on him was fifty buck
Spent them on tangibles soon ran out of luck

Two penny is so poor can’t bring his eyes a gleam
Can’t make him a winner can’t weave for him a dream

He sniffs the evening air smells palate tickling food
But what with that two penny that isn’t any good

Two penny in his pocket with a little try
Fetch him a little blue a piece of his sky
Where he can paint his wish find fulfilment
Fly in the happiness of two penny well spent.

They say you are born
Naked, with no identity
No name
And no face
Like any other
You are born, crying
A brand new star
Another unknown amalgamation of all that gives life
A fresh start
But not to everyone

For some of us
Are born closer to the earth
A genetic result of a thousand generations
Manifesting its way into marks on my being
Unseen
Unknown
Unwanted
We have a name for us
By Birth

Wherein we are doomed to the fires of hell
If hell were on Earth
And it is here for us
A simple cage with no bars
The burden of a thousand years
And markings made by routine
Justified by the Great Souls
Deeming it but mere control

And even if I change
Resist and break
They say I was born this way
That my mother's womb has left indelible marks I can never erase
A curse that made me wonder
Should I have been born at all?
To feel as deserving as literal baloney
Never to be touched
Never to be felt
Never to be heard
Never to be seen
Dehumanized to an extent where I cannot even believe any more that the sky is blue
Or that there exists the air around me which I need to breathe, to live
I'm no more than a pollutant
Upon the back of whom this world works
But who never sees the light above
Who was supposed to be filtered away into oblivion
Who was always supposed to be the nonentity
The stubborn stain that will not go away

I can never erase
My name
My identity
Even if I pretend
Or literally rip the skin off my face and wear another
If I achieve anything in this world
I shall be put up on a wall to showcase
The marks my mother's womb left
The marks that I can never erase

For some of us were born to hug the earth
Make it our home and heart
The backbone of this whole wide world
The wombs that faced physical retribution and degradation
Of the cruelest kind possible
To be told you can never be better
Than irrelevant specks of dust
Swept beneath an apologetic herd

For some of us are born closer to the earth
I bear my marks with shame no more
I shall take what was mine
I shall bow no more

Certainly time will blow the memory
By and by of our existence away.
Only our shadows will then remain verily
In words and deeds, anyway.
Few our efforts and names will recall in this place,
Nonentity or celebrity, king or slave
And even the affluence in life now displays
Will surely melt and slide into darkness itself,
For despite the greatness of our achievements
Into oblivion all men shall sink
While the gist and praise of today's glories
From distant lands someday will echo back.
We're born to die once and die to live again,
Yet none shall live more who die not born again.

He's searching for all that will destroy him and everything he knows;
anything that will help him forget the trauma and the surrounding despondent shadows.
First came the shots of ***** and the little white pills he'd swallow each and every day,
then came the self-tattooing of his skin using a thin and sharp silver tip in every which way.
Soon it was the rush of taking an ****** cocktail in the hope of drowning out the violent voice in his head;
and staying in bed for days on end, wishing to be nothing; to be neither alive or dead - but to be a nonentity instead.

around are men moving faceless
a blurred streak in the rush
a nonentity with no address
like the man sitting next in the bus!

who looks up and who sees
the lump of one moving mass
like a line of disparate trees
we're men sitting next in the bus!

boarders on traveling wheel
chained in creed and class
who does bother to feel
the man sitting next in the bus!

the world would have been so nice
had mine weighed lesser than us
but who would pay the small price
for the man sitting next in the bus!

Some superiors know how to hold a grudge,
That only death could pry them away from it;
Some colleague are inexperience in every aspect
Of their work, but well verse in treachery and groveling;

Some customers know how to transfer their aggression
And run out of patience at the sight of frown;
So we overwork nonentity most remove our crown
And put a barrier against these office hurricane for protection;

We most tell ourselves little-lies everyday that we're strong,
For this little make belief is our safety at work;
Like we hope for heaven we hope today won't
be as bad as tomorrow and our joy to be long

Condemn me Lord, for l have eaten the fruit of iniquity
Cast me away, for my heart knows no purity
My mouth have tasted the wine of iniquity.

In the chasing of shadows, l saw vanity
On the wings of pleasures, l saw calamity
My heart has built her walls on vanity.  

Condemn me, for I've not departed from iniquity
Merciful Master, will you allow my soul burn in hell till eternity?
My sense have come to it's sense of sensitivity.

May the sins of my fathers push me to depravity
Compassionate Lord, will you allow me bear the burdens of my fathers iniquity?
Pour on me the oil of heavens charity.

Curse my precious a soul to die a nonentity
My Creator, would you rather have me in hell than forgive my acts of iniquity?
At your feet l rather die, than die in my iniquity.

Condemn me, for l am held captive by the dagger of captivity
Loving Master, careth thou not to save me from captivity?
Lord, will you also condemn me for iniquity?

I am a prisoner, doomed for hell till eternity
I am a captive, stabbed with the dagger of captivity
Condemn me, if you will not forgive my deeds of iniquity.