The lotus wades

     Shallow water

          Even and calm.

Her petals brighten

     In the beating sun's rays,

Glowing of tranquility.

          The onlooker grows jealous

     Venom green with envy

While the lotus rests,

          Mockingly green leaves.

Murky water,
Depthless mud,
Drown by chains,
Bound by blood.

Onlooker, the key,
History, the judge,
Neglect, the decision.
Doomed to the sludge.

Filament of algae,
A shaky explanation.
The onlooker runs,
Blood left to damnation.

Onlooker lives,
Lacking of blood.
Drinking away his memories,
Of the murky water, and depthless mud.

i saw my brother today
for the first time in years
scrolling through pages of
what i imagine the inside of his mind is like
i caught a glimpse
a flicker
of the life he's been living
social media has let me in to parts of his being
i never imagined i'd see
i stand like an onlooker
a stranger
observing a boy
trapped inside of walls of his own making
i know those walls
i know how miserable it is to die a slow suicide
if he turned around
he'd see me behind bars
we're both ravage animals
but he won't
he's got a life i know nothing of
he's got feelings i know something of
he has no idea i want to know him
i wanted to stay there forever
watching the updates trickle in
watching his life
not mine
i wonder if he ever does the same
i bookmarked the page and hit exit
he'll be here in the screen
i promised him
i'd visit soon

Tragedy is spectator sport.
No extra fee is needed.
The equipment never changes.
And there always seems to be matches to linger around.
Screams and taunts can be heard from the sidelines.
Almost always is the advice.
Wrong.
Yet no move is made to rid them.
Blood stains the bout in rhythmic circles.
Etched in over time.
For the paces rarely alter.
Blows are exchanged recklessly.
And the crowds lust for suffering elevates.
Slowly as the two cease in a stalemate of self loathing.
The mob moves on to the next victims to sate the everlasting hunger.
A hopeless unanimous decions.
Humanity.
Zero.

~

do you believe?  

hold that thought!

what you are about to take is a journey.  my telling of this journey is brief; we poets are after all not well known for our long attention spans.  this is a tale of astronomic proportions, an epic years in the making, and now centuries old.

have you ever considered this?  the starry host above us cannot lie.  its movements are as sure as the movement of the clock; as predictable as the tide, a sunset's hour and as precise as a moon-rise's geo-placement at our horizon- precisely where it will rise and at precisely what time.  it is after all  precisely the study and understanding of such things that allowed us to place mankind on the surface of the moon, to know precisely where she would be before she got there, therefore permitting us to plan the journey well ahead of time, a journey that took three days of travelling once it began...  and then returning those men home to us.  but back to our larger journey.  

such things only require an understanding of relatively simple mathematics and a knowledge of each unique planetary orbit.  the only questions remaining then, ones that require acceptance of less proveable things, is do the events of the starry host above us reflect back or point to us, to humanity? are they a fortelling of earthly events and eventuallly a coinciding with earthly events? some have trouble believing such things.  for me, it is not a leap to accept that the visibly established order above me (what we call astronomy) is simply a mirror of the order below, here surrrounding me.  but then that takes us back to the first question... do...   you...   believe?  for this part... it requires acceptance ... acceptance that some things are true, though i cannot see them.  some call this "faith," though i think "acceptance" is more relateable, and therefore a far better word.

if i have not lost you yet, thank you for reading this far!! please continue the journey.

like me, have you ever wondered... what is (or what was) the Bethlehem Star?  according to some who research historically astronomic events, the “Bethlehem Star” was no star at all.  but more on that after the poem... for is that not the purpose of these walls?  

below is a poem birthed out of their research... the poem mine, the research compiled by smarter folks than i.

Virgo's child

~

oh, planetary royalty,
and mother of the sky,
your celestial stage of six,
a ballad echoing our hopeful cry;
pirouette the stars amidst,
sets a course for rising king,
closer with each night's descent,
hope, your brilliant union brings.
conjunctive encore heaven sent,
today our song in advent sings!

oh, wise men of the east,
following a westward star,
the king you sought
you found because,
discontent you were,
to be a distant onlooker
from your home afar.

hallelujahs here composing,
with stunning care the stars portending,
in universal magnitude,
oh fallen man your dirge is ending.
in retrograding motion,
encircled thrice your halo spun,
Virgo’s child in coronation,
the starry night foretells,
and with splendid sky’s array
the joyful birth of king pronounces

oh, wise men of the east,
following a beckoning star,
bearing gifts you came,
and on bended knee
you offered praise, for
empty-handed for a king,
is no fitting offering.

look to the sky, you men of earth;
behold your king in humble birth!
a stable for his sleeping head,
here rocks a mother’s babe;
what Adam lost, in him restored,
oh, Virgo’s child, and living Lord.

~

*post script.

~ Cast~
the six acclaimed celestial actors/actresses of this starry dance

Role ° Played By ° ​Meaning/Symbol

Moon ° ​the Moon ° life cycle symbolism
Star ° ​Regulus​ ° ​King of stars (regal king)
Planet 1​ ° ​Jupiter ° ​King of planets
Planet 2 ° ​Venus ° ​Mother of planets
Constellation 1​ ° ​Leo ° ​the Lion (heavenly kingship and tribal significance)
Constellation 2 ° ​Virgo ° ​the ****** (maidenly and earthly significance)

the basis for this write can be found here...
add: http://www.
to: bethlehemstar.com/setting-the-stage/what-was-the-star/

in summary --
whatever it was, the Star of Bethlehem needs meet nine qualifications to plausibly satisfy what is written in the Biblical accounts:
1. The first conjunction signified birth by its association to the day with Virgo “birthing” the new moon. Some might argue that the unusual triple conjunction by itself could be taken to indicate a new king.
2. The Planet of King’s coronation of the Star of Kings signified kingship.
3. The triple conjunction began with the Jewish New Year and took place within Leo, showing a connection with the Jewish tribe of Judah (and prophecies of the Jewish Messiah).
4. Jupiter rises in the east.
5. The conjunctions appeared at precise, identifiable times.
6. Herod, puppet King under Roman rule, was unaware of these things; they were astronomical events which had significance only when explained by experts.
7. The events took place over a span of time sufficient for the Magi to see them both from the East and upon their arrival in Jerusalem.
8. Jupiter was ahead of the Magi as they traveled south from Jerusalem to Bethlehem.
9. Jupiter “stops” as it enters retrograde motion “over Bethlehem.”  On December 25 of 2 BC it enters retrograde and reaches full stop in its travel through the fixed stars. The Magi viewing from Jerusalem would have seen it “stopped” in the sky above the town of Bethlehem.

according to astronomical research of historical events, the “Bethlehem Star” is, at least by this explanation, no star at all, but was instead Jupiter’s rendezvous (planetary conjunction) with Venus in 2 BC.  this is a tale of two planets normally radiant and distinguishable forming a single-looking, indistinguishable, and never-before-in -their-life-time-appearing large and radiantly brilliant “star”, which when coupled with each of the previous eight facets creates a most noteworthy series of events, all of which match words written centuries previous, and pointed their gaze to a pivotal and altering point in mankind’s history.  

now back to the beginning question...  do...  you...  believe?

(publication of this write is intended to coincide with the first of the four Sundays of Advent, 2015.  tis the season for Merry Christmas, my friends!)

Red haired dame
black roots
dark brown eyes
thin lips

but smiles neat
handles the cell phone
between thin fingers
nails chewed

adding tabs
suggesting networks
that work best
thin tattooed arms

small busted
maybe less expensive
but it's better
she says

Johnny smiles
notes the small stud
in her lower lip
knows her cell phones well

that's for sure
he knows
next to nowt
just to switch

on and off
and send a text or two
and call
now and then

but it's Johnny daughter
who's buying
not he
he's just the onlooker

taking notes
for a poem
just like this
mental note as poets do

to catch the essence
before it takes flight
like some rare moth
into the night.

Today I walked about 70 metres and
saw two couples fighting in their vehicles,
the first couple stopped at a red light
and I could still hear the bickering,
the child in the backseat was yanking on
the straps of the car seat like
a regretful rollercoaster, and
the only thing I saw in the reflection of
the glass was a teen drinking away
the memories
...or lack there of,
the second couple looked well off
they were driving a jet black Jeep Cherokee
and it looked well maintained, the type
to wash his car in the rain,
and his face was full of blood,
no kids, maybe they were older
and off to college but the steering wheel
took beatings and the gas pedal
cut the floor carpet into regretful pieces,
the cause is unknown, the affect is unknown,
I sat staring into an hourglass wondering how
beautiful their first months or
maybe their first few years were,
did he sit in the bathroom
while she did her make up?
did she put on layers of interest
when he told tales of how
****** his day was?
did he accept the concept that
girls do in fact **** a lot?
did 25 years go by quick?
or 5 for the first?
they were younger,
are they ******* right now?
or is she on the ground
or is he on the couch?
this glass of wine
will continue to tattoo
foreshadowings of minuscule information
on my fingertips, and I’ll sit in wonder
all night if they’re going to make it through this,
cause for now, I have no hope.

(1)

This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.

Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.

Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly..

A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices

Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,

Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?

Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers

Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.

The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.

                (2)

This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot,

The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,

The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes,

******* and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,

While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed----

Limbs, images, shrieks.  Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.

O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....

And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material

Through a still virulence,
And a ****, hairy as privates.

                (3)

On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things----

Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness.  Why should I walk

Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,

I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,

And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man:  his red ribs,

The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye----

A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room

An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.

Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.

                (4)

A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.

It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;

They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.

This is what it is to be complete.  It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit

Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?

They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking:  goodbye, goodbye.

Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.

It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,

The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.

                (5)

The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,

The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife----
Blunt, practical boats

Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house

One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.

This is the tongue of the dead man:  remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions

Around him like living room furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather----

The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.

They are flying off into nothing:  remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,

Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here:  it is a stopping place.

                (6)

The natural fatness of these lime leaves!----
Pollarded green *****, the trees march to church.

The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,

Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glittler of wheat and crude earth.

What is the name of that color?----
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,

Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,

Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her lace like fine linen,

Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,

Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,

And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.

                (7)

Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.

And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.

And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,

Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of *******, eyelids and lips

Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children

Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,

Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing----

Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.

For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.

i can't believe i'm giving advice...
this is not what, alexander dumas
taught me via athos...

   the best advice,
         is to not give any advice...

but seriously...
you want to peer into devices,
whether static,
or mobile,
   and you're not wearing sunglasses?
esp. at night?

   where's your western version
of the niqab?!

    you can prop up the shady
gemini, on the tip of your nose...
so your eyes, can actually peer
into the night,
and the social lighting -
of street-lamps,
  and the stars...

but then peering into the tablet,
or a laptop screen,
you're wearing sunglasses...

unless you're like me...
perched with a folded foot,
sitting on it,
with the other dangling off
the windowsill...
   and you find yourself
catching colours in the night,
with the pair of sunglasses
having, made the slide
to the tip of your nose:
so your eyes are actually visible
to the onlooker...

    templar chants:
   mozart who?
                    beethoven who?
classic.fm will not even play
any christopher young:
so why should i even "think",
but most assuredly doubt:
that they might even entertain
the "idea" of playing
  a śpiew templariuszy?
we could debate...
whether that ought to be -
  śpiew templariuszów
            i.e. - of, the: templars...
-ów is this, kind of distinction...
     -y is... a distinction
   only encompassing
of - the given content.

both are terms: invoking the plural -
not... of a templar -
          but of templars...
****! i studied chemistry and
didn't get a job in the industry...
what, do you think,
the remnants of theory,
have remained, imprinted on me,
if i do not create an Ar to mean
argon, or Na, to mean sodium?
   cheap-**** poetics?!
   champagne, ******* literati
bozos?!
                               nein!

- but honest to god,
   if you're not wearing sunglasses,
and peering into any version
of a computer screen?
      welcome to anti-Poseidon's
eye-sight underwater,
give or take 5 to 10 years...
    a bit blurry, a bit:
"all over the place" -
        myopic... you name it...

i'd probably be allowed to peer
into the sun, with a naked eye,
and experience less
damage to eyesight,
than peering into Beelzebub's
pixel phantasmagorical circus
of what, we might call:
the alternative junkies...
                      of information...

- and how many middle aged
men, or women,
will confine themselves to read
philosophy in retirement?
        1%...
   and they'll have an audience
of one, by then...
namely their shadow...

                   "speaking" the truth...
can i just be lazy and avoid
the exercise of the tongue
within the confines of the h'american
standard, and exercise my right:
to write about it?
  by writing i mean:
a delaying tactic...
    a... filter mechanißation...
    why bother speaking -
attracting bothersome flies?
   can't people employ covert methods
of establishing "knowledge"?

     i can't even explain why
people require the right to speak so much...
i go to an Essex market,
and hear the freedom of speech
plainly...

  2 f'er 'un bunch ah bananas!
   'un pund... *** yer bunch ov bananas!

so...
    the problem being...
     how can you...
actually sell... an idea?
when the original "idea" sold...
is the tornado of the monetary,
trans-valuation of all values concept,
within the tornado,
of the use of money?

what idea is actually left, to sell?
an idea is non digestible...
   it's certainly without an implementation
parameters of a spoken of: so
of spoken, translated into an implemented
guarantee...
          voluntary ingestion...
         but crafting a monetary
spin-off of an idea...
      philosophy is not exactly
the sort of originality of a physics eureka!

whoever these modern, "philosophers"
are?  
              they, clearly claim to have
read a lot,
  but forgot to realiße that they...
  "think" like the ancient greek sophists...
    rhetoricians: who would be better
off teaching rhetoric,
rather than focusing on...
  or rather stressing...
    the ontological digestion of ideas...
which are: neither bought,
nor sold...
                  
              perhaps i've entertained,
or rather: perhaps prostitutes entertained
my presence...
     but i do know: what *******
the mind, looks like!
                 i know what the new form
of begging looks like...
      some think that prostitution is bad...
but have these same people,
ever introspected an opinion,
concerning what: ******* the mind
looks like?
    
            not really, no.

He sat on the sidelines and waited
Watching the people go by
Neither was he loved nor was he hated
But only a quaint passerby
From where he was he saw all that happened
But said nothing all the same
He was an onlooker who always looked onward
Quietly from the stands cheering on the game

To: The brokenhearted girl

And to the boy who broke your heart,
I honestly hope he's happy,
I hope he's pleased with what he had done.
I hope he's sleeping peacefully, because you aren't.

I hope he shivers in pain, when he thinks of you
I hope his ears get tired of hearing your name
Over, and over and over again
Especially on nights when he's restless.
Especially on nights when he can't sleep
Especially on nights when his eye lids won't shut.
I hope he remembers the taste of your lips
And yearns for it when your lips hits the lips of another man.
I hope his dreams are filled with images of you
Images of you happier than ever,
Images of you finding someone that's better.
I hope when he eats, he remembers how your hand cradled the food
How your lips surrounded it and how your jaws turned almost hypnotically as you savoured the food the same way you did to his tongue.

And I hope when the lips of another are on him, they'll feel like yours
And her touch, will feel like your touch,
And her hair,
Her hair ..
I hope it smells like yours.
And I hope the kisses of another, will feel like lashes compared to yours
And i hope their touch, will feel like burns compared to yours
As if he's receiving a punishment for letting you go
As if he's receiving a punishment for falling in the arms of another.
As if he's receiving a punishment for using the word "love" too much.

And i hope the minute he utters "I love you" , he'll remember the times he told you,
He'll remember each one of them as if it was yesterday,
Remember which ones were lies,
Break down in tears
And comes crawling back to you.

But darling, don't forget to tell him it's too late.

Sincerely,
An onlooker
(h.s)

Mid morning
On the subway
Out of the corner of my eye
I catch a glimpse of my soul mate
You have no idea how displeased
I am with her choice of outfit

I remember that day,
That faithful day.

The day I fell in love with you.
Right under that cherry tree,
The petals falling on our heads,
That day I looked into your eyes.

That faithful day brought about many moments of sorrow.
Some people chose to move on from us,
Like petals floating away with the wispy gusts of wind.

Those who chose to stay
And support us,
They are truly special.
Like rare flowers only found in the Spring.

But even if no one was left,
I would never leave you.
For we are a flower that never dies,
A tree that is never felled,
An unending embrace.

So even if there are no petals left on the sakura trees,
And all the flowers have been plucked,
We will still stay,
Our love unchanged.

Throughout the harsh winter
And the drought of summer,
We will never die.

When tests of strength are sprung upon us by the gods of the Earth,
We will stand firmly,
Implanted in the soft soil.

In the field of battle you are the sword,
Strong and courageous,
And I will be the shield,
Protecting you with the strength of my spirit and at your weakest points,
Even if blood were to rain from the sky,
And the tall, creamy pillars of this world were to crumble and fall to the ground.

Together, we are one with everything on this Earth.
We hail to no one but ourselves,
And we respect ourselves and the land around us just like any flower would.

But what the average onlooker doesn’t know,
Is that we are no ordinary flower.

You are the centerpiece

All the crystal fragments of your perfect self
Refracting light like a thousand diamonds
Dazzling and mesmerizing me into a
Blissful trance

Strong enough to hold yourself up
A beacon in the vastness of the
Dance floor of my life yet
Fine and elaborate in design

You reflect stars into my eyes
Even though you aren't a galaxy
I'm ensnared in the cosmos
Of your radiance

Far above me is
Where you reside and I
Am but an onlooker like the rest
Continually startled by your brilliance

When all of the guests leave
My hall and take but a memories
I will remain spinning in
Circles alone
Unable to see anything but
The most marvelous part of it all
You
My chandelier

I the onlooker
Looks on the tender sweetness
Of the bond between
Man and woman
Woman and man
Man to man and
Woman to woman

A blissful repose
Is what a yearn for
When the scent of colorful daisies
Or the chime of tiny bells
Becomes only an apparition;
An idea at the back of my mind

In front of that one person
My mind would be blank,
If not of the thought of my love
The one's whose light does not shine through my darkness
But of the light that casts a further spark into whats left of my smoldering fervor

I the onlooker
looks on tender sadness
Caused by love not being able to find me,
Of what was found once but what was lost

Oh a bitter-sweet sensation this epiphany
Love cannot find me now
However I the onlooker;
Still looks on

Brush strokes caress the canvass, coating it with colors
magenta-cyan-purple-seafoam-gray-and-orange-like

-beyond those colors-

This painting is a story drawn from the choices of the artist
sad scenes, happy times, blatant in the backdrop(the mural)
each choice, stroke, and color morphs the painting
into what the artist wants to see

As an onlooker watches, in kaleidoscope glasses,
the onlookers experiences shape that gazed upon

What makes this painting a masterpiece is not the color choices
not the strokes,
not the canvass,
not the onlooker,
not the artist...
but the image of you
energizing happy times and transforming sad scenes in the mural

Scenes of young love,
strolling the park hand-in-hand,
strolling the park with younger us's,
strolling the park as we mature and ripen,
together as two grapes left on a stem,
always by my side,
always by your side

-a thought of you is a thought of me-

Even as we age and crumble (bonded like ancient clay)
we will always hold together,
like ancient clay

One pair of people,
two seeds in an apple,
our union is that of leaf and tree,
honey and bee,
just as you and me,
we're one thought on all minds in this...
unfinished masterpiece of our life.

....the fence
a mere edge
between souls
sealed with words to connect

...the fence
where boundaries cease
and hearts melt
an ore to precious to be molded

...the fence
not a side to be chosen
over the face we sit and stare
into the twilight and through the dark
until the golden morn
letting it cleanse
the crass of our thoughts!

...the fence
a giver of a perspective
granting the onlooker
a perched dimension
and yet calm enough
not just for your tears
be strong even through the ringing laughter
its neutral stance
never just defined the end!

Quite admirable , awe-inspiring , a divine piece of manufacture
It’s capriciousness is an equivalent of swooning of rapture

This carpet conveys itself as flawless , the fragrance is pleasant

The glossy finish generates a yearning to have it present

The blissful texture is mesmerizing , subject to perfect knitting

Not to mention it’s size is perfectly fitting

~

Though the alternative side seems worn and tattered

And the fabric surrounding is scattered

There are pockets and splits

There are strewed fiber bits

Along the edges are multicolored spots

And the yarn had formed knots

~

At that point the onlooker would become flustered helplessly

Were they to take it into their tenancy ?

Sure it was depleted

And maybe it was slightly untreated

Though it was equally handsome

Despite it’s opposing filthy expansion


~


Then the beholder would ponder a tad

And realize the flaws weren't so bad

They were to be contemplated abnormally

Though as well stood out morbidly

The allotment seemed now suitable

And each side was mutable

for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!

i swallowed my fear,
ignored my sadness,
laughed off my self loathing,
and danced on the edges of my instability.

now I'm sick to my stomach
with a growing tremble that demands
I pay attention.
my jokes have gotten old
and i can no longer pretend
i don't have two left feet.

i've been traversing this landscape
with my eyes closed,
and so far my steps have been lucky.
so lucky, to any onlooker
it might seem I can see just fine.

finally the reality of the situation
has found its way to my heart
and my hands.
i'm wandering alone,
bare to elements
and completely blind.

the late onset of my panic
could be a product of shock.
i've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off
for the past three months.

for three months i've been
burying any negative feeling
or thought
deep inside this decaptitated body of mine.

but holy hell,
i'm bleeding out
and the shock has worn off.
my eyes are open to vastness
that is unfolding in front of me,
and i'm still just as lost.

The ship(notified) lost
leisurely drifts over waves
westwards, "Unhurried hereafter"
is the slogan written on it's mast
it would seem to an onlooker.
A net is cast wide,
to catch as much fish
as the tired crew now needs.
Each furious wave
that rushes towards the ship
changes tack, proclaims
a frothy message of peace.
No more communication exchanges
causing disturbances, no hurry any more.
None waits for the lost ship,
in any distant shore, with a binocular,
or spanning a Radar, uneasily .
The crew had already forgotten
every mission undertaken before.
It has no schedule, deadlines, plan
the ship feels more buyout than ever before
,just floats along, as if it's a tranquil thought,
towards the direction where
the purple sun prepares to set dramatically.
Accompanied by two astonished whales,
sailing along like two mates, the ship,
now a lone wolf,with a hidden yearning
has become more alive, once declared lost.

The mirror on the wall
Its cold, glassy stare
Like an intentional glare
At Life captured as a reflection
Observing an image frozen
In our mind , the boundaries
Confined within us defining
Formation of a self-image
Instant Imprints of our conscience
That's searching through the depths
Of one's soul for the affirmations
Needed to sustain an ego
Standing tall over the mantle
Outlining the walls of a room
With hues from a color spectrum
Reflecting light onto the face
Of an onlooker whose eyes gaze
Into this mirror that's on the wall

© 2004 - Pres  Hello-Poetry.com - All Rights Reserved

I can feel you slipping away from me;
imagine what it’ll be like without you again,
because it’ll be different than not knowing you at all.
As I sit on my bed and write
I can feel the empty place next to me
where you should be playing with your iPod
and cracking jokes,
singing and rolling over on your back with laughter
after we sang a funny lyric.

I’m imagining lying here with you,
discussing and smiling and giggling over
my first kiss, and yours,
but somehow the memory
leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I’m reliving you and him
and I, the one on the sidelines,
the one spectating while the game is being played.
And I’m not even keeping score, not even waving a flag.
I’m the invisible onlooker, the one who doesn’t want to be there;
the high school student stuck
at a basketball game because they don’t have a ride home.

And no, it doesn’t matter what you tell me,
how much you say that you don’t mean
to leave me out or keep me at bay,
here you are, doing it again and again and again.
And it doesn’t matter how much you apologize,

because I’m starting to get the feeling of being replaced.

I have braved storms,
I've been stepped on,
I stood next to prettier flowers,
I discovered my powers,
Yet I'm still blooming;
I'm still standing.

I will not pull out my own petals
Just to satisfy an onlooker.

My loved ones, the bees;
They looked over me.
Made sure I have sunshine
and water until I'm fine.
Pulled out my weeds
and gave me all my needs.

You see, I'm the strongest flower;
And I'm still blooming.

-m.b

ghosts I have known
lecherous dream beings
who curtsy with disdain
folly for their nourishment

a requiem to their ***
whispers of pluralism
seeking audience second advent
astrally disembodied onlooker

we shared some wine
flinched at entanglement
she asked me to stay and I did
we bumbled and the night lammed

forks in time birth specters
spooky children dally unquenched
suffering fools with great ease
because childhood is make-believe.

The man stood on a box
In the middle of the park,
When people walked by
The old boy would bark
“It’s in the Bible,” he cried.
And some people would ask
What is in the Bible, sir?”
Prepared to take him to task.

“Everything’s in there, friend!”
He answered with a smile
Feeling the people there
Would stay and listen a while.
“Well, that’s an easy answer!”
One of the onlookers said.
“You have left nothing out!”
The orator nodded his head.

“The Bible has answers for you
To any question you can say.
It will be your salvation, sir
No waiting until Judgment Day.
It tells you what to eat and then
Tells you how to choose a wife.
It tells you how to go to heaven
When you reach the end of life.”

The questioner replied, “Yes, sir,
And it tells of women made of salt,
And a fellow who walked on water
Another brought the sun to a halt.
It tells of a boat quite big enough
To have two each of every animal.
And people floating up to the sky.
Don’t you find these things incredible?”

“Not all,” the soapbox man said,
“God can do any holy thing at all.
He has made the planets, the sky,
The heavens and the waterfalls.
God knows everything and he is
Who speaks to you in your heart.”
The onlooker shook his head, said
“So, when does that stuff start?”

“What stuff, sir?” the orator asked.
“The part where God speaks to me.
I haven’t heard a word from God
And I have been listening, you see.
That would be a truly wondrous thing
For this God person to finally do.
But, if God speaks to all of us
Why the hell do we need you?

Every morning I see the sun rise.
Opulent, magnificent,
Color splashing on the renewed Earth,
Opalescent wonder reminding onlookers
That color is only a feast for the eyes.
Mountains of clouds break against the ocean ceiling,
Asking the onlookers to dive deeper into the
Depths of the endless, glorious sky.
A master painter could not compare in excellence
Opposed to this ephemeral masterpiece.
Such detail in grandeur,
Holy awesomeness in finesse,
No mark absently fashioned
No stroke of paint unadorned.
Yet beneath this wonder
My heart longs for a sunset with no sunrise.
Let me play my part in the morning’s scene
Rather than sit as the passive onlooker
Never to create such beauty.

she grew up with a beach of sand next to lake
i grew up near a beach with jellyfish & sweet salt air; home.

so one day i will take her to where their eyes remind me of

a honeyed landscape of granual sediment,
millions and millions of years of erosion,

just to look soft & warm to the onlooker

the tide pulling in and out. the seagulls flying above, cawing, while a cool, sunny day shines upon the sparkling waters frothing with movement.

her voice is my ocean breeze.

Can someone tell me
What it is
to live?
Dying seems easy,
An every-day event
And like weddings,
or birth,
adorned with flowers,
gifts like love, respect,
and memories,
so many silver spoonfuls
of memories.

Now I have seen it
so many times,
the old,
the young,
the kin,
the stranger...
In war
And peace,
In feast
And famine.
With duty,
with a duty of care,
an onlooker
full of compassion...
every-way
imaginable.

In places undreamed,
In inevitable areas...

In the family pews
On rainy dismal days,
And on the faraway ghats
Before a hot afternoon;
each experience
leaving a feeling
that one shouldn't be there.

Now everyone has packed
and shuffled,
And I have wrung my hands
for the last time,
I tell myself
unconvinced.

Now that everyone
has left me
In this landscape,
I look around
And recognise
nothing.

Age does not matter,
each one
an orphan,
each telling themselves
that it is for the last time...

Lead me away
from that funereal path
where they all are
and are not,
simultaneously;
something else
awaits me, down this byway,
across a different track,
In a different part of the mountain.

He took issue with the small gestures in life. The birthday message from a friend not seen in a decade, the idol chit chat that filled the cafe's, cinema's and other such places, proclaiming them fraudulent unthinking habit, a motion with no true sentiment and in return the followers of such social constructs took issue with him - or worse, pitied him.

He despised most human interaction because of this. Often being told that he 'rubbed people up the wrong way' or was 'too antagonistic' He just saw this as another excuse to expel him from the group (whatever that group was) All because he didn't partake in the usual social etiquette and fakery of the masses- this view only led to him being mocked further and neatly labelled as a stroppy, teenage rebel. His thoughts and voice cut down with replies of "Aaah stop feeling sorry for yourself!" "Stop going on about it!" " You're soo negative!" Because in all honesty nobody wants to be around a down in the dumps, killjoy, party pooper right?

He could find no solace in the little things nor understanding in the greater questions of life, so he drifted along. Bitter onlooker to a species so separate from his own. Desperate to somehow integrate into their ranks but convincing himself that such thoughts were mere acts of desperation.

And he was a desperate young man, desperate and despairing at his separation from the world and all others in it. Yet admittance to such feeling would rarely depart his form. No, he would mock and ogle at them from afar.
**He would rather be Outcast than Cast Out.

her mind
wove assorted ornaments
          of vivid hues

each stitch
      an alternate reality
a story she wished she knew

her view,
a distant spectacle--
a casual onlooker
upon the lovely scene

emotions spin
      making its own ball of yarn
a tight knot forms

she is
her own
great nightmare

distorted reflections
grimace in horror
                her own doing

a black sea
bubbles and gurgles
liquifying sensual sins

beauty hides
the facade
         of her own madness

(b.d.s.)

At five a.m. the doors swing open.
The throng of shoppers lined up at the store
Pushes and shoves and jabs and elbows
Its aggressive way through the wide-open door.
 
Once inside, the crowd scatters
This way, that way, in chaotic motion.
The store clerks gasp, feeling like islands
Surrounded by a raging ocean.
 
"Oh, no you don’t!" one woman shouts
At another woman clutching a box
Containing the last flat-screen TV.
"Hands off; it's mine!" the other one squawks.
 
A mad tug-o'-war ensues
As the two women grapple to claim what's theirs.
An onlooker who is knocked down in the skirmish
Shrieks, "What a sorry state of affairs!"
 
Everywhere you look, items are flying.
The store resembles the scene of a battle,
OR, perhaps, a giant herd
Of loud, thundering, angry cattle.
 
A man stops to pick up a bottle
Of perfume that he dropped--a gift for his wife--
And is trampled by the surge of shoppers.
The poor guy nearly loses his life.
 
One bold shopper with her canister of pepper spray
Threatens to douse the belligerent crowd
Until she is tackled by security guards
And is escorted away, cursing out loud.
 
Announcements blare from the loudspeakers:
"Shoppers' special on aisle three."
Suddenly, the rivers of shoppers change course
As the curious hope to get something free.
 
In the background, Christmas carols playing
The hopeful messages of joy and peace
Are drowned out by the ear-piercing din
That sounds like the honking of thousands of geese.
 
"I want my mommy," a whiny child cries.
"What do you want for Christmas: a dolly?"
Asks Santa, losing his last bit of patience
And doing his best to try to act jolly.
 
The chaos never ceases to wane
As the shoppers vie for the best shopping deals.
One man rushing to grab the last smart phone
Slips and falls head over heels
 
And slides into an obese grandma,
Sending her sprawling into some shelves
Of decorations, which all go flying.
The injured lie covered with reindeer and elves.
 
Interminable lines at the registers await
The exhausted shoppers. You get closer; hurrah!
The woman in front of you then needs a price check!
No, that can't be! That's the last straw!
 
Another day of Black Friday madness.
Would that it could be over! But no.
You've barely started; that's store number one.
You have four more stores to go!

- by Bob B

a bit over a year of efforts, I
admirably

return your stubborn affections, directing romantic intentions towards you.

with your heart

Exalted in the remembrance of your existence, I

sigh towards the heavens,
the hells,
the Earth with her mountainous regions and varied terrains,

the sky and her innumerable
galaxies and novas should come hither and listen to the treasure of a lover. I

sigh

the miracle

of your name,

as though it were the answer to every question that has ever mattered.

I weep as the layers of my heart tighten at the sound of your sorrow, it constricts and feels to twist and rob me of senses and oxygen.

please smile and gift that treasured breath of air into my lungs.

should I now mention, that
for some inexplicable reason,

I love you?

Find comfort in my voice.
Feel free to unravel tears of the hardships endured in this life's trials, upon my shoulder

as I do my best to gently recover the fallen shards of every loss you've suffered, with my tender hands and your sharpened memories we'd find a way to salvage the most of these losses.

let me adorn your scar filled soul with a balm of my own making.

let me bring you
a sea of solace to delve into.

Would an infinite caress of kisses, a tsunami of age old yearnings and present desires satisfy your crave for love?

Would I need another person to fill the shoes you decorate the doorstep of my heart with?

With the place mat adorned with an intricately designed Persian rug which display a blooming garden of both our favourite flowers in a way that'd perfect the unusual combination of my tropical forests and your poetic love of romantic flora.

A sight, regardless of how many times seen encases the onlooker in a feeling of love and comfort.

It will say,

" Welcome home my love "

And there will be song birds in the trees,
there will be wind dancing with leaves,

On the eve of summer I will snuggle myself near you, to muster the courage to read you the poetry I'd written all before we'd made it known to those who mattered that we belonged to the other.

Friendly reminder that,

I love you.

And the answer to needing anyone aside from you?

The answer is no.

No one can amount to the endless stream of shooting stars you give me to wish upon, and for you to make a reality.

No one else,
can say my name with such reverence,

that to any who didn't know about us,

my name alone seemed to be one of the most holy and savored of things?

To whisper on a night of troubled sleep as your fingers weave their way to mine, interlocking and silently promise to never let go of this.

This overflowing love..

Why wouldn't I want to keep it?

a dance, a waltz
captivatingly intense
like a dice being thrown
and the adrenaline of expense

what's more enthralling
to the onlooker's eye
than the blood red streamers
shooting up to the sky?

and what's on the mind
of a mad, callused arsonist's
other than the pleasure
of an embrace of a goddess?

my friend, its the chaos
and the rush of the game
its the sting of her arms
wrapping round once again