Cradling in folly of a perpetual needing,
suckled on the breast of eclipsing pendulums
as they sway like feathers in the wind of oblivion.

Let us dance in merriment to who will be bleed first
on the yearnings of the ever afters creation.
Cradle me till no breath evades your grasp.

Sing me a song of lullabies in static form,
I need to feel expired in the breast that nurtures
me into oblivions cold breath that is stagnant.

i'm not interested

in living anymore

i don't want to die
living just doesn’t hold much interest for me

i don't feel good

i don't feel happy
only tired

tired tired
 always tired
i live in a perpetual nothingness

i can never find words
they lodge in the back of my throat and spiral out flat

may as well cut my vocal chords out
and replace them with yarn
maybe i’ll be able to string sentences together then

i’m buried in layers of ink and skin
they allow me to close my eyes and fall away
into my own personal oblivion

where it's dark and jazzy elevator music plays in the background
and there’s no sharp pings under numb detachment

there's a different breed of darkness to my oblivion
it's soft and shadowy
rippling over all my anxieties like a velvet tide
light shines in dusty shafts from no set direction
it doesn't illuminate anything
it’s nicer that way

i forgot what happiness feels like
not this halfway happiness that’s induced by comfort food and fuzzy blankets
but real happiness
that comes from deep inside of your being and spirals and glows

this is just a long complaint

hem hem

observation
about me

my life

is it really mine?

i feel so detached from it

i spend more time in dreams than i do in it
sweeping castles of words and swing sets that swing themselves


can i just leave?
fade away
into my oblivion
the one with the jazz music and the infinite velvet walls
i've come pretty close
may as well go all the way

i'm an inadequate mess of negativity
i can't function quite right anymore
unfunny angry pathetic boring
i'm me
and i don't hate me
hate is a strong word
i'm just tired
a slowly graying towel
long used and recently wrung-out
hung up to dry
dripping mediocracy onto a standard tile floor

ha

i'll show myself out

I

LEAGUERED in fire
The wild black promontories of the coast extend
Their savage silhouettes;
The sun in universal carnage sets,
And, halting higher,
The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,
Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,
That, balked, yet stands at bay.
Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day
In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,
A wan valkyrie whose wide pinions shine
Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray,
And in her lifted hand swings high o'erhead,
Above the waste of war,
The silver torch-light of the evening star
Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.

II

Lagooned in gold,
Seem not those jetty promontories rather
The outposts of some ancient land forlorn,
Uncomforted of morn,
Where old oblivions gather,
The melancholy, unconsoling fold
Of all things that go utterly to death
And mix no more, no more
With life's perpetually awakening breath?
Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,
Over such sailless seas,
To walk with hope's slain importunities
In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not
All things be there forgot,
Save the sea's golden barrier and the black
Closecrouching promontories?
Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,
Shall I not wander there, a shadow's shade,
A spectre self-destroyed,
So purged of all remembrance and ****** back
Into the primal void,
That should we on that shore phantasmal meet
I should not know the coming of your feet?

Where life permeated through lushest
Colours reaching high, the heavens
Jealousy of such radiance as beautiful
As any sunset ever seen was eyed.

There wrath was swift as clouds of
Rage darkened and a kiss from the
Heavens graced Bark and leaf. All was
Still as ash fell earthwards in onyx tears.

Where elegant shades flowed, wisps of
Extinguished colour blossomed then faded
To oblivions nothingness. The heavens are
Beautiful but hide ominous jealous rage.

leisure up my friend !
   weaken open your shellfish hinge
       and wet your beak
it’s a marked holiday break
   unmarred by family obligation
there’s freedom
   to make the most criminal crown of mistakes
   in the name
         of some frown of liberal investigation

on the town
an eager squad of collaborators are on board
     they have your back
desperate, sick and starving gulls
     broadened to explore the deplorable
on and on to the next and the next
     death defining task

a meandering stagger of a bar crawl
  perpetually   powering through
     as the day spans a revulsion
the heat stays as the day sinks beneath
in place of the suns rays
the heat radiates
        from the baked city concrete
  
stepping out from the shelter of the bar
  the night swelter respires fiercely
not done with our steam of annihilation
  what establishment would take our kind ?
city has already bowed over it's plumage
                                 to our ******* pilgrimage
bark melts and peels in strips off the trees
        (meat shaved off the strip pole)
our heels spark the pavement
vermin and jackals follow our movement
             from shimmering dark spots
             and our vision constricts

our aim   has become clotted...
      ...what was it that we reached for ?
oblivions fruit seemed a doable pursuit

it's the usual downhill shambles from here
familiar yet barely remembered
a rambling guff of bad ***** comedy
there is no plucky legend
just an embarrassment

Ingested eyes
           souls gateways unattainable  

feeding the feathers of oblivion.

They called it the shallow graves, the place where death plays
Spin the broken needle. it snows in July under here.

Under the bridge they huddle in their cardboard palaces ,
psychedelic moments followed by the falling in to oblivions grasp.

They slept in their depthless tombs, blankets hiding that moment
Of alone time where that last hit was the one that hit home.

I watch as so many lives that once were, are now gone, this
Place of broken syringes and dreams. Sleeping in hollow mounds.

It was looking through the barrel of a gun that made me realise that even oblivion sparks before it ignites, the bitter sweet symphony of your voice echoed from the other side and so elegant it was that even the reckless hell in my mind had fallen into sombre;

In the silence an angel seen for the first time through my god forsaken and forgotten eyes that my heart could not deny - I had broken free from oblivion.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

Lily on my crown,
My soul is rooted with sunflowers,
Love springs from my lungs.
Death is a garden.
Affection a coffin.

Hedge around ribs,
Holy light tightened on heart,
Beating carols only heard by dogs
Like a whistle, thistle on my knees cutting heaven real deep.

Tulips lace my tongue
Taste of angels, backwash of Lucifer.
Eyes pupiled amethyst. The healing stone. My world is healing while thorns and samsara hold my ankles to material and the edge of avarice.

World of loom hill parade ecstasy while weather ignites to 24° psychic readings being hosted in palace atrium & column walls where the archaic clock gongs upward to ****** addict ghosts and mental wards in lucid Babylons.

Lovers screaming against bombs, blister billow black clouds and smoke with marijuana haze in flats and compassion for grief cottoned years.
Rumble of music soaked into ratless insulation, long conversations with the insomniac self who hides from monsters inches over his head.

World of daysetting group understandings amidst orange moonlight. Coalmine haired bereaved droop nose man crawls from darkness for another cigarette on the balcony, 4th floor apartment complex in May. Depression hit like **** **** fogging out the brain.
Emptiness is the west.

Travelers who sway on driftwood face The Cascades acknowledging past times, revolving themes and bullet mouthed villains who seek away from starvation from ego lacking.
Their bile is sentences and the rest, anyways.  

Japanese instrumental rolls through closed eyelids in flashing Technicolor, rabbits watch the highways unaware of mortality.

World of bicycle rides on packed ** Chi Minh
City 2016 Winter where twenty-something North Americans go for pho while others go for broke. Palm trees polka dotting college campus in Afternoon, insects whine for the daydreamers. One is writing poetry in a small Vietnamese cafe sipping earl grey inspired by the Oriental clutter and a redheaded girl back home who paces frantically in the attic besides a crooked lamp scrawling flowers to the rotted whitewood panel work

The artist’s craft is a keepsake for eternity, as wells dry out and desert becomes ocean, poems will melt to matter zipping to outer space, satellite ink spots expanding by forever realms.

Pillow foot sole cracks shell casings on forgotten battlefields in later decades, wiping off grit shoeshine boy corpse particle reformation and fairy spit from brow, the last mad prophet sees visions of Christ as arachnid wretch black widow who venomed our bones with rapture,
doom wax peeling away after the damages had been committed.  

Now I check for spiders beneath my sheets.

Banshee howl symphonic sorrows leak in unison with all lanes of commuting traffic. Denial curse for positivity, mindset slate hiding
The weary souls radiance. On the 15x down Johnson! psychedelic chasm quakes through the wheels and my thoughts are spinning sunshine!
Washing machine dynamo recollections of whiskey spilt over carpet dark sand shade while La Vie En Rose resonates from playerless pianos topped with incense sticks in arabesque ashrams, imaginary shelters. We all have one!

Nick Cave is sleeping by back row while we approach final stop in front of bankrupt Chinese corner stores. He’s murmuring Oblivions and the bus keeps on going.

Death is a garden.
Tears are its rainwater and bucket flow.
Nectar pattern reveries honeybee the flowerpots.
Peoples sprout from them bloomed full.

Rosy reaper blasts past the solar system in a comet rocket since she saved the aliens, she hums Vivaldi and huffs a good huff from her cherry cigar.
She tightens her starlight hood and black holes be born.
Torn apart Pluto goes

B    A    N    G

Comet delirious ignores the decimation
And shouts the Lotus Sutra

“ALL GODS WERE TOO PASSIVE”
Reaper hollers back steering by the milky way and beyond on their hallucinogenic trip.

Lily on my crown.
Crown for the kingdom
wherein Reaper resides
and sings with galaxy ukulele to
the great empty.
Great as all can be.

I am in the space between air and skin
Finer than film
The closeness of it all
Cutting me up
Like good snow by a razor
Just before oblivions short ride
I am wedged between glass
Thinner than papers edge
I am membrane
Between skull and mind
With its churning
For illusory answers
In familiar, sullen, sodden, soil
Already turned over and over
I am stitching undone
On that prized dress
The one you wore last summer
In the stifling heat
When all we did was laugh and eat and swim
And fight
I am the reflection on liquid
That stabs your eyes
I am the glint on gold
Driving you
I am marbles sheen
Where the veins of colour snake along
Bursting from stone
Sweeping you from your feet
I am grain of wood
Knotting you up in warmth
Watching you while I grow skyward
I am dawns magic
Evaporating
Missed by the shutter click
Lost to the rising sun
In an instant between blinks
I am the Superfine
I am the Sung Strung One
I am operas Overture
I am The Zahir
I am Legend

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

Unfinished


Emptiness a question enrobed in nothingness stillness cries across the void in its intolerable
State you stand the will wilts the eyes portray defeat and sorrow a searching longing is plainly evident

This powerful demanding current must be appeased chaos screams the idle continues his dreams
Faltering movements are all that is known a stationary seizure pervades the deadliest image an old

Amusement park dead and deserted a mocking sign proclaims thrills inside the torment rushes like
A stampeded herd it threatens sure death your own plaintive dead voice is heard in this arena of

Dispirited dashed hopes a mauling traumatized and once energetic hope filled spirit that trouble
Assailed Then fell back and then with the genius touch as you reeled it simply fell away your steps to

Recover Also ceased with the careless and deadliest words of all what is the point this has become your
Standard if titled in great black letters it would read lackluster lying in the dirt whipped defeated

Disgusted exiled in oblivions nowhere hope has had the first letter changed to D yes Dope in capital
Letters little do you Realize this is the very act of reconstruction the best military force in the world

Engages in this kind of training someone who has potential is the tried and true diamond in the rough a
Superior force is needed take the outward restraints off by reducing the individual to his base when you

Have destroyed the unfavorable elements then begin the renewing process that is clean and absent of
Impurities build with tried and true methods that produce heroes from fired kilns the blaze flared and a

New form emerges pure as refined brass but the man or woman is steeled into purity and honor and is
Made ready to pass into combats immortal glory whether it be military, business, or sacred duty of the

Church know this before just a nameless conflicted person little thought of will do exploits he will put
New building Blocks in societies ever increasing wall and maybe ultimately he will fulfill the words of

Jefferson and by blood sacrifice his patriotism will cause the tree of liberty to flourish because the call to
Fight for peace is never finished

As I wiped the blade the congealing efforts of
what had perspired dripped in raindrops of lost essence,
I started to be nostalgic of when it all started and I smiled.
It isn't easy you know doing this hobby
                                        its a full time commitment,
I have responsibilities. And before you ask just because I live
in my moms basement it didn't have any implications to this
and what led to my endeavours of what I do now.

"You cant just go out stabbing people that bath salts territory
for goodness sakes,

Ok when did it start, around fifteen years ago give or take.
To think about it I was quite violated by the sight of blood,
I passed out at school when someone cut there finger. I know
from fainting to where I am today the paradox of it all.
So I was walking home and I thought stupidly to take a short
cut, I know that's just asking for a dilemma of consequences
but I was running late and thought overrode reason.

"Safer than sorry my mother would say,

I should really listen to words of wisdom than to just throw
them aside and regret them later. Well this time was a moment
of ignorance and I delved into my darker side and threw abandonment
to the winds of chance. I saw that idiot and knew without a thought
that his life needed to be forfeit in the eyes of the many.
In haste I went out and without planning I just used a unregistered firearm. These are so easy to find in ponds, lakes, rivers.You just have
to be stupid enough as I was to delve into them with a wet suit.

It was like swimming in the disgrace of humanity and I accidently
swallowed more of humanity than I wish to admit. As I reached
the shore of the golf course I had found a stupid amount of guns....
Do these pools ever get dredged?? how many angry golfers play
on this field?? but I just cleaned a few out not wiping away the prints,
silly little fools leaving there prints on the weapons.

I must admit the first five or six people that were my pleasure
of ending were just **** holes, total and utter ****-tards....
I know you just cant just going around killing totally
worthy munchkins. But it was my weaving of knowledge
into the formula of departing my subjects in a manner so that
a milk carton was the only focus they would get.
Never to show that they were an item of interest but a random appearance of some disillusioned person in a vendetta of misunderstood reasoning's.

But this lost its stimulation of enthralment  pretty quickly
due to the vacant space between us. It wasn't as if they knew
my face, it was just a finger pull and I ended them to hastily,
I even felt somewhat remorseful for them not knowing the
perpetrate of there demise. and a few ran still lingering to this
existence, do you realize the skill set to hit a moving target.
But none got to far, I didn't take it personally, it was a fight
or flight reaction.

But they were always vacant of life when I walked away
from the scene. I was always throwing these weapons
after a few uses, those that had used it before there prints
still viable. So those that had used it were to blame for
these indiscretions that I had partaken in. Karma was about
to visit upon those lost stories that drowned in that pond.

Learning was a curve that was thrown, and one that hit me
square between the eyes. I had slatted the impression that
I was in the right, and even though I wanted to seep the blade
into the flesh of my perspective victim. I had to watch
the implications of what I had preserved  in that moment.
There were struggles and definitions of what was acceptable.

I still had to hold a job, I worked in a hardware store,
"what are the chances, I know. But where you would think
someone that could easily end the breath of another would
stand out only the crazy ones. We the methodical ones were
patient,  too many and whispers starting and I needed silence this
had to be obeyed and enforced by myself. Urges had to vetted
another way and painting was my outlet for these compulsions.

Each one of us had as we called it our own unique ****** kits,
well what did you think we were going to call them hobby boxes.
Me I had a ways to disable my prey, a motion to move them concealed.
I had a people carrier,
                     "I know the humour didn't escape me either,
I had constructed a vessel to keep them static so not to move
and give the game away, kind of like a straight jacket restraint.
For the murmurs I had constructed a gold fish bowl of sorts,
constructed around the neck and then white noise is pumped
in  revoking the screams because of the frequencies of the
human voice.                
                            "science is so cool,

Do you realize it took five years of planning and a college
class in science to do many aspect of this hobby.
But where do I take them, to there own home, always
checking there schedules. Movement = time = opportunity.
And this is how I have worked all  this time, consistency is
what keeps the path clear for other endeavours.
The sense of smell in each home is unique, some people
though no respect of there surroundings and who may visit.

Do realize that some don't voice opinion as they know
if there in this predicament no words are going to change it.
Some struggle, but I learnt to use a paralyzing agent to render
them motionless. Sedated only tears fall from there suspended
features. I never clean up there mess, I'm not a house maid for
goodness sakes all must be as it was. But I clean up my killing
venture so there is no evidence of there parting here.

I have a little spot, we all have our own hiding places,
research is the key, and mine was a secluded place....
I cant explain where, as that would be telling and who
knows who's reading these passages. I must admit though
this is a full time obsession, "norms, that's you people.
Wouldn't realize the stresses that happen upon my psyche.

All I would say is
                 "Don't quite your day job
This isn't really a hobby for most, they don't have the
patience the needing of planning and the waiting of
who shall gift you their last moment then nothingness.
I am wired different to you people. My empathy for
your feelings is non-existent, we are a moment in time
and I plan to silence your hour glass, your grain is about
to fall into oblivions sights and it will swallow you whole.

The city buzzing
then the ceaseless cease.

The devoured Sun,
horizon seeks
to **** in last rays
absorbed
always waiting for dawn.

Then stars slowly
are splash-sparkeled
upon our black ceiling.

But now
a city metamorphosis,
spaces seemingly expand
as people dwindle-down
and echoing shoes abound.
And the night phantom stalks
to spread his expanding cape
while male alley cats serenaded
with strident love songs of blue-*****.

And obsessions rise under a werewolf moon,
the crooning of a barooom tune
while the city out-light-winks
its squared-eyed goodnights.

Caucasians and noncaucasions
become night brothers
by sharing similar oblivions...

...and we sink within our deep dreamy sleep
being snatched by
the penumbra
of  unconscious thoughts.

And other awakened languished
thoughts
wane into a city goodnight...

Laying within the tallest grass field–
That yellow star's daddy long-legs
grazing with a warm solar breeze
playing shades of hide and seek
into a child's mind, full waxing
waking to an offset world
more than small discovery
that farms in grains of time and space
where ants prepare empire
beetles' carapace form beep their horn
navigating, root bound, primal paths
ignorant of overt oblivions to come
go with candy eyed curiosity
prostrate in solace on an altar of life
waiting to be found

-cec

I never sleep upon the night I hunt upon
The solitude of this time where the darkness
Sulks upon shadows and I am an obstruction
Of all that wishes to bleed upon nights tide.

Ever keeping those that bled innocence on
The earth, always do they fear the presence
Never sensing the reverend of death. I am
There sentence to that eternal damnation.

The Cimmerian shade where all that is ceaseless
Creeps upon clinging earths grave, whispered
Death emanates but is buried upon earths breath
A final moment the oblivions eternal gaze.

I am the imperishable true that haunts those
Who penetrate the innocence that seeks solitude
In the places that never wish to see there truth.
We all hide something in the shadows grave.

All that thrives in the twilight of mans insecurities,
Where hidden things hide, know that their are things
That even the onyx fears for all that is blinded from
Lights gaze fears our continued eternal gaze.

I wanna lose my self in the subdued wood,
where my emotion Oblivions to back to me
I wanna my delightful days of childhood
when my imagination ,with wings of dream flies free.
I wannabe the first ray of sun on the mountain ,icecrowned
to illuminate fuliginous frozen soul
I want to plunge into blue of ocean and to found
the inestimable pearl of smile as a whole

Maybe if I look back far enough
Whip my head into the hands of oblivions
It will snap
Eyes once focused
Sharp as a camera
Now fogged over
Apertures glazed over with misty perplexions
Hazy dreams of aurora
Ghosts of starlight
White splatter paint haphazardly silhouetted against
Void
And recollections of midsummer night
Forever lost to the banks of memory

Embed in me the carcass of my infancy
Propel me like the shadings of faded beginnings
You fathered me upon the ravages of futility
Distended by landscapes of time inconstant
Stuttering mindless oblivions in the vacuum of destiny
See me here …You the one they call Sovereign
I gush beneath the onslaught of your outpouring
A steady depletion of obscure remembrances in my devastated soul
Wrist opened so that my life may somehow return to its origin
Scaling the porcelain that shatters with inner screams
Prepare in this sacred moment a pearl upon the cheek of sacrifice
Like claws from the lowest regions scrape the walls of existence
I powerlessly praise the one casting me into the accursed

A collage of so many  wings blend together
to form a motion of wisps lighter than a feather
unto there colliding forms became illustrations
but these were fake facades of a narration.

Her smiling features fluttered reverberating
All were hypnotized, all were unintentionally baited
With eyes that quivered with each moment passing.
Awe struck at this image that perceived eyes all hung.

Was this beauty that besotted the mind of reality
or was it on the heart and thoughts not to agree.
Which ever smitten were all within her eyes prolonged
gaze that captured all sights that lingered never withdrawn.

Moving towards this illusion that contradicted sight
footsteps lingered towards known oblivions plight
for above a cliff they lingered enticing all to flight
descending to silence, they feed quietly on others plight.

Some will walk away their cares as if they walk up or down the stairs into or out of oblivions face as their mask of poetry falls from place onto the floors with checkered squares that are covered and littered with their words like flares from phrases of I don't care punctuated with the stuffings from ripped apart stuffed bears flogged by improper English weilded stares as imperfect hands in braile will yell skin deep in demeanor not so hard to tell or keep and no doubt to all I have to say as I wave my hands goodbye good day.

Standing on the shore
This line between two oblivions
I watch the sun doused by ocean
and with it i melt into sand
becoming millions of tiny little grains
pushed and pulled by struggling waves
I am draged out to sea
drifting away from myself
in millions of tiny directions
and today I was swallowed by a clam
cooking in the belly of this beast
that anchors itself for fear of...
perhaps one day I will become a pearl
and be carried off to an exotic land
where I will adorn the neck of
the most beautiful lady
and after each dinner party
she will put me away and sigh
and i will still be a million tiny little grains of sand

Snow falls onto the frozen lakes of your glasses. I can't see your breath through the cloud of mine anymore. You're silent, but I can still feel your voice in my fingertips. Your hands verse worry into the folds of your jacket, clutched like a lifeline.

Words don’t come to us, we are two people, breathing out our lives into a world so vacant, honeyed and infinite- we will perpetually feel that we are a few years and a universe away from not alone.

And I’ll recall nothing of the tragedy that beats infinitely behind the bones of your chest- our chests- so fallible, yet drumming its knuckles on its living casket, so fervently, you’d think it knew nothing of sadness or longing or death. I feel that to be true sometimes. I am now only traumatized by soft kisses on my cheekbones, and the sound of laughter inside parked cars.

And even here, now, no words will come to me. You are so close that the heat of your body melts the frost tingling along my forearms. I guess, if I’m guilty of anything, it’s thinking I can move the world, even just an inch closer, just so our elbows touch. Then, I know you’d flush with the terror of importance, knowing that your end is many more ends.

So I keep my distance as we lay with the cold to our backs, faces to the empty-not-empty sky, and let the snow cover our mistakes, dissipating our frail bodies into a million tiny oblivions.

I. He Will Refuse To Find a Way Up
A fifth hole in the wall this week opens and I crawl inside it while your knuckles are still freshly bleeding. I will find myself grasping at straws to justify your rage. You reflect it back onto me, an uneasy mirror that makes me want to tear open my own cathartic hands and find what made me so angry so long ago. I shake my head. I have loved you. I have helped you grow. I have been the soil you have stretched roots in and the fields of lavender you have scorched. I let myself let you go before I crawl into another drywall void.

II. She Will Not Be What You Remember
I can hear the echo of my voice reverberate where I thought your heart was. Your soft hair that ran through my fingers smells like burning hair. Oh, these things cannot be taken back, I know, I know. I will watch you turn to sand in the hourglass on my nightstand, next to rose petals, bottle caps, and other sentimentally valued found objects. You will trickle to the bottom grain by grain and be unstuck. It will mean nothing. I will watch it as time passes and try to break it no more.

III. You Will Have to Let him Go
We did it, like I promised: we laid with the cold to our backs, faces to the empty-not-empty sky, and let the snow cover our mistakes, dissipating our frail bodies into a million tiny oblivions. You fell apart, your ashes blown across several states, thousands of miles. I caught your dust between my teeth and when I flicked it off my tongue, it spelled poems and threats and manifestos in languages I could never understand. You're dragged by your heels into the hospital, cursing my name as my heart breaks. I'm sorry, my baby, my little brother, I'm sorry to the child I tried to raise like my own. Schizophrenia is a hard word to learn in every language, and understand in yours. I did not want to lose you. But sometimes, you weigh your sins, and the heaviest of all is the one that's easiest to utter into the world.

IV: How It Will Go
I've wanted to talk to you for a while.
> I know.
So...
> So?
So, I can't tell if I've missed you or not.
> ...
What I mean is, how do we know this is right?
> It is. We're no good for each other.
We're new people, well- maybe not new, but much different. I don't know if me now will like you now, but me now is longing for you then.
> You're not making any sense.
I know. I just want to say I'm sorry. I don't even know how to begin to say it.
> Sure.
I am.
> Alright.
Some part of me still loves you. She is biting her tongue because she doesn't want your name to roll oh so comfortably off of it ever again.
> Stop.
I'm sorry. I don't want to make this complicated again. I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm stupid I'm-
> Just shut up, okay?
Okay.

That night, I will claw into my throat and release the shrieks of grief snowpacked in it. I will congratulate myself on allowing the sun to set on the most golden thing I've ever been given the chance to hold.

My lungs will still take in air and send it back into the sky for you to return to me. It won't be the same. It won't be comforting. It'll sting and needle at my soft insides, sending all the words you ever spoke to me into my blood in tangles until it clogs my veins and makes its way to my brain. I will be left with half my face permanently lopsided, stuck in a frown, while trying to remember what did it in the first place.

V: Ideally, as if In a Dream*
The sun is dripping down your hair. It steams in golden runnels down your forehead and it casts a halo in your eyes, sainting you.
I am blessing all the uneaten meals, broken skin, and chewed up fingernails. I will bless how I raised hell and then settled it back into the dirt so I could bring down heaven for you and I, and it's warm, bright caress. The sweet, sticky clouds- they smell like marshmallow and clean laundry and kisses on the forehead.
I will be able again to think of your thin hands as being prom-queen-gown-silk swaddling blue jay bones: fragile and masculine and hollow and splintered all in one. I will run my fingers over your knuckles- as soft and as familiar as my baby blankets.
You will breathe in deeply, and I will too, just for the sake of doing it together.
I will say, "I've been waiting for this."
And you will say, "For what?"
And I will say, "this," just looking around.

How to live
is how not to live alone.
To conquer the troll
beneath the bridges you are burning
on the funeral pyre
of your abject hope. To float -
amid the midges and day-flies
of a meadow, most sane.
So, to live -
is to embark on a errand of light
and return home, with dragon's teeth
in your knickers
and a ball of string for a fallen star
to stitch the world with.
To suture the oblivions
where they gape
and applaud the angels
that sent you there
to heal yourself
with nothing more
than a tongue in your head
and a heart on your
sleeve.

and no map.

I saw my love in 'other world,
By the sides of a damp city,
By the barns of faithless forests,
Under the name of Coventry,

I stared deeply into his eyes,
Scared of finding unconscious lies,
I told him scriptures of past tales,
Behind three cups of wine and ale,

He parted and left all alone,
Burning aside all single words,
In love with the sickly false worlds,
Dismantling spirits he had borne,

I was demolished and lonely,
Smothered by violet solitude,
Not one loveliness could heal me,
Not even my Eolian flute,

But soon I found my honest Lord,
Left adrift by disruptive worlds,
I saw Him in sleep and poetry,
I felt His words strongly in me,

I learned and read with two red eyes,
With a rage on furious evenings,
I squinted into the dried tepid skies,
Firm to thunder and music sounds,

I tore through my religion,
I passed by lone oblivions,
All were plain and spiritual,
All were lurid and magical,

All was poetry, that one of mine,
I was stunned, my idioms were blind,
I had found the scent of my soul,
A faithful show I'd strained to hold,

And all was neither silent nor drowned,
But a reality that never frowned,
A frugality that had found its league,
My heart healed and got no longer sick,

And all sprinted towards another way,
A way to which I had none to say,
A delight like the sun's violent rays,
Vanished worlds were real to me that day,

And there was the music of the stars,
The swift dance of the heavens' bars,
I knew my God was not that far,
I could see Him with my heart ajar,

And I too danced to a fairy song,
That I'd drained to sing all along,
To bow and thrill by my poetry,
To hail His instance there with me,

And the world too was dressed in rags,
A dead end blinding to their age,
And their worries and frayed hustles,
Mocked by their cloaks and green barrels,

And all mornings would sound empty,
For as far as my eyes could see,
I would dream in my shy prayers,
Asking bounties from the Giver,

And feel the salt among the sea,
Witness the cupboards of the stars,
Watch the moon take its long night walk,
Hear dusk and clouds hold their late talk,

And kiss the sands within my hands,
Cherish the flower of my senses,
Shine like the sun all over again,
Be relieved from heartaches and pains,

Be healed from wounds and agonies,
Be free as grouse and butterflies,
Be pure and free and fair and clean,
Bear forgiveness to thy worst sins,

Be hefty and feisty and sweet,
Be witty and solid and bold,
Be tough in rain and bloodied heat,
Be hardy in illness and cold,

And to seal comfort on my chest,
To my senses in the whole round,
Whilst no wind yet brewed in the West,
And the lost bits were to be found.

I slept the cold night in my black sleeping bag
Quietly I slumbered, not removed yet the price tag
My hair caught in the teeth, yet I was still time did drag
I was of the notion of underdressed in just my rags.

Eyes wide open on the bench, oblivions vision
I was exposed for all to gaze upon eyes on collision
Was I wanting to be here? that was not my decision
Feeling I was missing myself as opened up for excision.

I was silent that whole time my lips never shifted,
lonely as my belongings now strewn and sifted
I gave others my unwanted, each hopeful now gifted
Death was a silence I was gone but now I am lifted

There were places in the above and below where souls
weren't as they were meant to be. Reverberations of what
had been but for some reason not known, they had dissipated
in to inconsistent particles. They were congregated to a
place of between the realms of passing where they were
reinstated into one. Many pieces made the collection of singular.

A rebirth of separation, that which was collected into a shell
of purest mortal coils. In moments that ebbed away on thoughts
and maturity something was noticed upon the eyes of those
classed as the shepherds, They were of flesh and bone but a
vessel of angels essence, no beat was felt but life of our own
non understanding reverberated in these vessels.

So long had these chosen gathered the pieces that were rebirthed.
a freshness not tainted by either as in the fire the dead the
soulless shards were consumed in the eternity furnaces.
Some gathered in moments, others lingered in their, as if
like ash in a breeze they were inadvertently kept asunder.

Like a leaf they eventually descended and lingered amongst
others that had scorched for longer than even those now
gravitating towards its centre of rebirthed oblivion.
They never thought for a moment that what had been a
metaphysical collection of particles was anything but echoes
of voices incoherent and desolate.

But now as what has happened only a few times in eternity
is spilling like water from a broken vessel. So many have
spoken in the dead language of even angels understandings
but the fragmenting scribbles that vacate their minds saturate
in a repeating rhythm.

"We burnt with our eyes wide open,

So many voices expelled in a pool of white, transparent
vestiges lingered beneath but no ripples were ever realized
till they had gazed beneath and where censorship was
consummated overhead so the lingering wailing below
was all consuming so much affliction was bestowed on
these now seeded souls.

They were never broken remnants of whispered echoes
but were indeed a embryo of a matching of heaven and
hell a new partnering that was misread as feathers lingering
in the winds of eternity. But where a new higher purpose
was meant to have been birthed so now do they burn not
for but a flickering moment but an inaudible amount of time.

Speech of what was singular now birthed into a perplexed
culmination of uncooperative wailing incensing each others
needing's. That was for those at least the yearning to not be
entwined in the illuminated combustion of self. But they were
imprisoned, fashioned into a vessel of multitudes not meant
to be, but only a singular existence was meant to cinder into form.

They wallowed in surreal thoughts, memories of a life that
was a broken picture frame and the faces were etched out so
not even they knew who or when they were from. but the
shepherds were there salvation or so it was thought.
They simultaneously gathered those that were swallowed
in a realm of an uneasy reality. Then they chanted, for hours
they spoke the words, Our wordings will set you singular again.

But what befell those that guided shepherds was unexpected.
They screamed in either ecstasy or writhing pain, but then as
If a curtain fell. Then all that was mortal shed into oblivions
grasp and it consumed them the shepherds were engulfed in
shards of personality till they themselves were twisted in visions.

Their eyes wept one like onyx bleeding frosted tears of all that
was pure, the other like snow but as the raven tears cut upon
there features and blood teared on the floor they grappled
with what had befallen them for these acolytes that for this
instance that joined in ceremony now had not fallen or ascended
But were the rebirth of neither but vessels of everything.

Those of fractured echoes, those entwined with the crematorium
of broken vessels now ascend and descend to the places which
greeted these seeds with such distain. After a time all went still,
silent, within each  realm and they just sat their. Each hand greeted
the flame or light and within their grasp a new spirit was born
not burnt but eased over time and like a seed they grew once more.

morning came very early... like a graduate class.
it dispelled the notion of a snowflake's last Will and Testament
gilding the nettles, where the berries were plump and deep virility
nesting in the fearsome spines of an Urchin
of such Symmetry, that your medallions
become clay; and your Heart is restored
to fullest Rage... where a lark Once donned the Umbral Crown
of a yellow Sun.... Now morning came early in the dark
stealing your revisions from the very skull
of your Mind's Meme. from the skull you etch your herds
Of Bison... some figure with a spear
plunging deeply into the
'Side Joke.

You are Purchased
for a thimble of blood from a white Turnip !
and returned to the Parties, gargling rainbows and leprosy...
chafing the Beauty of a grog of distilled amnesias in a perfect Assumption... grooming our prayers for higher education
via fresh Hells and chipping away, always away, at the ****** Windows !
shards of a slightly opened view to a backyard
over a sink in your feelings, where you cup your hands
and splash a bracing revelation from a cool spring
Sprung from a pipe that runs Under the House, in the Dirt's dirt....
There in the gut of where
You call your Self
by Your
Name...

like a lamb in a lion's mouth
sharing the spoils of sacrifice
as well the lethality
of a Conviction's breach. you groom the best oblivions
running a comb through your Beached Whale.
all the blubber for your candles lit !
to better gloom the room's dark harmony, with all the Irony
Intact. but never the reason
you seldom
spat at Kites -
until the Wind bit your nose
in December...
because you never found a scarf
to match the disappointment in your
imagined eyes
as seen through the crease of your profile,
squinting at pixies
and marsh fires.... loving you in spite of you
is the every day horror of discrete epiphanies
that lead only to a grave of fireflies
and stray orphans from a clutch
of messenger pigeons... painted to look like wisps -
of no more than a grain of shadow...
with feathers so soft they perish
as you tremble your touch... groping the fragile wings
of a robot's grip on soaring metaphors... a frantic sort of hazy.
connections where the frost burns
your navel -
while basking in the
Furnace.

like a peach in a lightning bolt... fermenting in Plato's Cave
bargaining the Mahjong for the Google Map -
to your very next departure.
" Living the Glimpse " is what they call it,
back at Rocco's Bar.
you never drink for free but never pay for the miles you weep
with the tears you keep.
you make a Living Wage... and part with your loot.
and the bourbon back.
limestone heartaches merely caverns
where you least expect to see your Self
cavorting in the dark
with the
Truth.

You Beam Down to Look Up.

most of your amulets are barnacles
but you Sea just fine.

roving the volume of an Emptiness
with flint and a raincloud
by design.

preaching to a Flame about
an Iceberg god
that never Fell a Tree
to set ablaze.

you are never seen again if you catch the bus...

and nothing else happens
anyways.

absent light
of ravens cloak
mournful  shrouds
loss of self

oblivions bliss
'hath serpent coaxed
from open fist
a viscous hiss

stomach growls
for cushioned death
empty howls
reptilian  breath

each cell defines
synaptic binds
in curt expression
apathys agression

bloodless ghost-men
writhe in mulch
enraptured fear
'neath velvelt gulch

blood scarlet river
flows sardonic giver

restless nights
can leave you tired
restful ones are uninspired

bring forth the sunlight
to less taken trails
the darkness lurks
insilken veils

unbroken
beaten
painful solace
kindred heart
singed
blackened
lawless

I was a single leaf hanging around,
just waving in the breeze of existence
I tasted the waters of life as they descended
from not I know, But it felt good as I
was enveloped with their droplets.

But time moved on and where once there
were many of us snuggled up, knowing
that we weren't alone but then the mood
of times changed and where lush greens
of shade merged now others changed again.

Some were tinged in the throws of a burgundy
eclipse, not fully formed but a curvature of a
merging of contemplating. Which  suited
them in this formation of what was and what
they were becoming..

Others were no longer in sight, they were
wisps in the breath of life taken from their
resting and absconded from our sight.
I felt this diversity upon my being, I was
not the same as I was before a shade unknown.

My brothers and sisters malted to their new
shades of complexity. Like before we were all
green but not the same subtle hues, shapes,
made us different from those above and those
descended below now we once again changed.

As if our inner beings were now given the
complexation of inner thoughts, saturated
in these new hues, we were departing from
each other falling into a distance not contemplated
before, we were only a few foliage now near naked.

I couldn't take this loneliness anymore, I was
only one of two that lingered in this abyss of
cold contemplation. I was cherry red or so
I was told now I heard whispers that I was
a withered brown now, my time finite.

Wondering whether to loosen my grip now
frail and lingering of the prospect of just
Letting go and releasing myself in to
oblivions breath seeing where it takes me
beyond this place I falter in desperation.

So weak am I, a shell of my former elegance
that once flourished with so many others.
Now we are singular in numbers and I am  
weak from this breath of life loosening
my holding with each colder day.

Relinquishing my need to be here, I slowly
seed the air with my being and ponder the
tranquillity of my predicament.
Looking I see the branch that held me for
so long, now distant from me as I descend.

Withered I saw the green of the place in static motion
below. And my senses did ponder upon the ligaments,
depleted carcasses of those know now nothing but a
husk and then realization breathed upon me. And I knew
I was now but nourishment for the cold earth below.

In the beating of my heart beneath my clothes, beneath sweaty sheets
I can feel the world pulsate through me

Down below in all my woes
the demons dance and frolic-- happy and so very merry

The darkness outside matches the abyss inside and takes me on rollercoaster trips through infinite oblivions and over timeless hours
I wish so very hard to fall asleep and never wake up
but life is cruel and love is unkind.

Up above and soaring high
are all my hopes and dreams and angels dancing

White filters through in empty shafts that tease and quiver-- a dalliance with my aspirations before slashing them
and brutally cutting them
I try but I have no wings to fly and Lucifer is such good company

Around me all the world's glow
In all it's restless bounty.