‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.

Awaking blithe each morning,
with eyes upon the World,
I wonder, are we mourning
with ebon flags unfurled –
or are they but a warning,
some draped like snakes and curled,
stray stars and stripes adorning,
sent from the netherworld.

I wander through the garden
with nothing on my mind
and say 'I beg your pardon'
alarmed at what I find
as winds begin to harden
and fate begins to grind.

Confused, I watch my neighbours,
they're wide-eyed, unafraid
to halt all useful labours
and join the death brigade;
the ritters rattle sabres,
the frail and fragile fade,
morticians tap on tabors,
the potentates parade.

The military blesses
(in tunics somewhat browned)
its crimson-stained successes,
hell bent and heaven bound.
Such scenes no more distress us:
a ****** battleground,
dissevered heads with tresses
and arms and legs abound;
the fourth estate suppresses
the heaps of bodies  found
(collateral excesses
discarded in a mound).

Society regresses,
now living by the sword,
with torture and its stresses
upon a waterboard;
a captive kid confesses,
his innocence ignored -
fallacious facts and guesses,
the guts of justice gored!

With canting vindication
a big brass bully brags
(with pearls of perspiration
and swollen tongue that gags)
of third world  subjugation
for gelt and oily swags,
of human rights' castration,
and on and on it drags.

The manifold migration
of refugees in rags
while searching for salvation
soon finds compassion lags;
uprooted populations
are fleeing from their flags
else dying of starvation
as naked hunger nags.

With trump cards politicking,
two little hands (all thumbs)
may send the Mad Dog siccing.
Insane! All sense succumbs.

Atomic timepiece ticking
until the Reaper comes
as Geiger counters clicking
drown out the droning drums.

Cast out for not conforming,
I wander day by day
to find the earth deforming
as nature wastes away,
with bees no longer swarming
(expunged with garden spray)
and ocean depths transforming
(neath plastic overlay).

With CO2 performing
the climate's led astray,
the atmosphere's been warming,
the grasses ashen gray,
eternal tempest storming
while permafrosts decay,
and ozone holes are forming
in deadly disarray.

The people profiteering
descend a slip'ry *****
destroying, never fearing        
of running out of rope;
instead they sit back sneering
“our wealth’s your only hope”.

Yes, Armageddon's nearing,
it's doubtful that we'll cope,
for Evolution's jeering,
she's scanned our horoscope:
we'll soon be disappearing
with whale and antelope.


           Epitaph

The multitudes were jumbled,
some milling ’round the mall,
while politicians bumbled
when bracing for the brawl.

The World around us rumbled,
our backs against the wall,
as bombs were tossed and tumbled
across our broken ball.

My kneecaps creaked and crumbled
but I, too proud to crawl,
took but a step and stumbled  
yet found no place to fall.

And no one heard me grumble
although I tried to call,
or maybe I just mumbled,
as strength began to pall.

Well now the World’s been humbled
I seek an urban sprawl,
but since the feuds were fumbled
there’s nothing left at all.

~~
When so much light around
but you say the dark
I could not understand
my top layer

When I was in the womb
Then, and not
But there was light
Then when I saw your universe that you have made
everything was there

My playing companions
The Sun
The Moon
My beloved,
And that delighted
Night's north star was
on her forehead  
Where all of my senses have
grown up

Then at one sudden night of the new moon
I saw a thick overlay on the sky,
between you and me
The North Star has disappeared

I think that you were true
In the dark I find my known world
One by one,
Trying out through the thick layer

It seems to cover the end
As light yellow yolk
See a light-colored tint
which awakens my sixth sense again

A shadowy obsession
Which has yet to create an illusion
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self

<=>

drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Crescent Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian Freud painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly naked,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.

p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing

Words don't flow today.
                   Sadness seems to overlay.
                       Smiles can't escape.

it is the scene that comes to one
that opens its palms
like a child might open its own
in delight

the fingered-bamboo on slender arms
and the smooth waters flowing
like a sage’s long white hair;
and the rocks like pauses
and the terrain sliding, gliding down
not to be outdone by the river that flows –
it is the scene that comes to one
and one must come to it, and one observes…

one comes with no preconceptions
and without creed and theology
one leaves one’s history
and expectations and conditioning
and one sees what is before one…
to this one does not bring one’s opinions
and one’s past and emotions
and one’s beliefs and one’s dogma -
for to observe is to see, not to overlay
like laying carpets on mud
or marble tiles on the mansion floor…
one observes, one sees what is before one

and from this one does not take
opinions and memories and revelations
and dogma and emotions and similes and metaphors
…one observes, one sees…
…everything else is conditioning,
structure and formation…

The root cause

What makes so many
Weep and write,
What is the root cause?

Natty boy, c'mon,
This question, repeatedly,
asked and answered!
Turn the radio on!

No, scorn me not,
My answer sino-complex,
mine too.

Many of our devices
Record waves, cycles,
Of which the length, shape,
Endless are the variation.

Your expertise? Your cycles?

Read my **** poems,
A to V.
Even the equations.

I have known heart ache so real
My chest hurt for months.
The doctor had no pills for that.
Risked everything. Lost.
My own weakness seek and sought,
Self-destructing me.

I have known the soul ache that makes
Rising From The Bed,
The most agonizing decision.
A life and death incision/rescission.
A go/no go apparition questioning.

All this long after I was a man.
Two children, reso-possible?
Nope. Choices limited,
Sat in the sunroom,
Contemplating all this.

Say what you need to say.

I try every day to just grab,
Hold, get fastened to me,
The tiniest scrap.

So when I walk by the river,
One atomic iota of sun, a single rain drop,
Gives me cause to pause.

The cycle begins again.
Still unclear? Get graph paper.
Copy this overlay down.
My manic-depressive cycles lookalike,
But the amplitude variegated.
In 59 seconds, Live and Die,
A calculus point on a monthly cycle,
Which in turn, but a point,
A microscopic dot,
In a cycle longer,
A Hundred Years War.

You ok dude?
.
Where is this coming from
On the commencement of a
Three day weekend?

Fair question.

There is a button here,
Randomness incorporated,
Into some poetry sight.

Led me to a eleven year old, poet.
Now,
Know, you understand...the question, posed.

The tiniest scrap of hopeful buried here
In plain site.
These colorful, wordy points,
Scattered, on the cycles,
Usually at the highs and lows.

Maybe I did not answer it well enough.
Maybe nobody can.

Yo, need a job.
Yo, need money.
No cycle in my savings account,
Only a straight line downward sloping.

so I grab an iota of sun,
a solitary raindrop,
make a plan,
write this poem,
a cycle
inflection point.

I ask this question
Every ten seconds stil,
If you must know my truth.
Dueling banjos in my head,
never ever
have stopped playing.

This poem-answer,
Not my best.
But a cycle turning point.
Again.

Having fed the beast,
Maybe I'll get five minutes till
I write it again
In a different shape,
En pointe,
Standing up and beautiful,
I am a twirling ballerina,
who can twirl with out ceasing,
knowing the perpetual motion secret.
For but another mini-cycle

I am endless.
It is endless.
But dear god,
why must you commence with the young ones,
aged eleven?


6:40am Saturday.

-listen man, I got the internet, in my hand.

There is just too much to think about, So true.
Imagine having all the time in the world to try,
and an ai to sort on my search criteria,
-what would I have loved to know?
outline history, done.
overlay Protestant Bible timeline.
overlay Parthian Empire
etc. BTDT ad infinitum fun item
Ai takes a rough draft life,
and makes all its test phazes open book.

To now. At the speed of that does not matter,
cut to the after the chase,
now, what matters?

To whom it may concern,

overtired ramblings,
if you already don't like me,
don't even read it
if you do like me
still don't read this
Dear,


dear....



dear......my...


dear subconscious.

for my entire breath of existence, you've always been an accomplice.
but, you've failed to mention a few things that could have helped me regardless.
like how hurting someone else can turn your organs to tangled ropes,
and then makes your brain laugh until it chokes,
i was just a little kid too, that couldn't grasp onto the weight of the world,
but instead tables have turned and now it's my brain that's being unfurled.
i was never aware that, things that happened between a brother and father and mother,
was something that wasn't easily relatable to another.
i couldn't understand the difference between the definitions of rich or poor
i thought it was always everyone that craved more,
not to mention the similarities between right and wrong
will cause the weakest of minds to think that they're strong,
and i'm not trying to say *******,
it's just that the apology is long over due.

so maybe what i'm trying to say,
is you can't take my emotions and create an overlay,
because how i'm feeling is not what you're interpreting.
so don't walk away as if you've done something liberating,
i have only reached a state of confinement,
and you're still asking me to be compliant,

so maybe what i'm trying to say is,


*******, because in case you forgot,
the emotional damage has always been in your blind spot,
and those more than ever protruding ribs were not what i needed to be "hott",
and the little red lines to mark my days of being in control of my life were unrealistic
because i will not let you convince me of something that i never was,
i never was
a ****, or a *****, or your call for comfort,
i was never crazy i just never had a retort,
and, i didn't sleep try to sleep with your best friend,
i'm just glad it was a situation i didn't have to mend,
just because of of the way i look and react,
doesn't make what you think about me a fact.

there is so much more to a human being than their appearance,
so don't take their emotions as if they're on clearance,
you have no idea how many peoples friendships i'd try a second chance,
but a majority of they wouldn't spare me a glance.

there are so many things i could tell you,
but it would be harder for you to swallow than it is to chew,
i also know you've got things that could surprise me too.


now these things are all in the past,
but the harsh judgements will always last.

so ******* if you've ever disliked me for things you knew nothing about,
or ******* for being rude and condescending when you've never had a conversation with me,
******* for ever telling me how to improve my self appearance,
******* for making up lies and holding grudges on things that never even existed,
******* for not being my friend anymore for being embarrassed about what other people would think,
**** high school, and **** *******, **** selfishness and **** imitation.


**** the fact that none of this should even matter,


and the fact that it still doesn't matter

blood stains her canvas
   congealed crusts, fresh streaks
frayed corners and edges
   the tattered toll of pain, loss

how best to depict my love on her
   overlay her with beauty
to develop a patina of care over time
   reduce her suffering to pentimento

her landscape shifts constantly
   with the quality of her light
I must blend to the shade of her mood
   her want...her need

work from the palette of my heart
   in the spectrum of my love
paint her in courted color
   every tone of every hue

brush her being with my caress
   creatively styled to her moment
pastel tenderness...primary strength
   bold strokes of passion...bright splashes of spontaneity

to portray for her a frameless existence
   of unlimited intimacy and peace
but she does not rest on my easel
   and I am merely dreaming of the art of love

Plan to kiss no one without secret intent.
Plan to kiss no one without meticulous method
Plan to kiss no one without a hidden plan.

Now
You know
Who you are.

To think I should speak with you
Is pessimist-dismissed
So quickly
The pen drops
Before the thought
Crosses
The multiverse
Mind
Contained
In paper Cranes.

To think you would want
To want
To talk to me
Is so ridiculous
So out-there
So cover-up
Alien-conspiracy-theory
Secret-society
Cryptic-code
Cart­ography.

The phonetic
Background
Of my throat
Shuts down
Shuts up.
Vowels in my stomach
Bunch.
Curves
Of your face
Shadows of your mind
Overlay mine
To camouflage.

I could
And would love you,
Not ten fathoms
But deep enough
So
We are suspended where light waves
Cannot bend
Breaking on coral
Breaking on coma

Waking up sleeping sand.

Pained words
Heard at night,
Words rewind
Replay
Repeat, overlay
Become twisted
In the middle of the night.

Pained words
Twisted in the morning
Heard, back turned,
Nothing but empty tears

Pained words
Unshared
Interested and
Harmless.

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important,  now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

<>

Saturday
September
21st
2019

My bones buzz
Electric ecstasy
Split into atoms
Nanotechnology
Plastic anatomy

Ego death is visibility
Vulnerable to all thoughts
Universe displays
Vision overlay
Don't touch the body
That once contained me.

Speakers breaking
House shaking
I no longer feel the need to speak
This vibration is all I need
Music is the air I breathe
I lie in silence
Enlightened

Form roads on my cheeks
Carve into my jaw
Slowly my lungs leak
I hope to see you thaw
I'm over me
I'm over sleep.

I'm learning to free my eyes
To close my mind
From crowded sights
Florescent lights
I'm consumed by night.

I arrived into this world
already overwhelmed
unsteady, my eyes reflected deep pleading and worry,
"I'm not sure I'm ready, are you sweet mommy?
Either way we're stuck with each other, best of luck,"
said I to my mother.

I spent my childhood creating sanctuary
in my world of make-believe
so very often I would retreat
to my inner realm of fantasy.

I spent so much time just dancing around
to my own self composed symphonic sounds
I would improvise in my mind
but if not lost in that endeavor
I'd march about feeling clever
making up stories to speak on the spot
to read aloud from any book
cause I did not care what the words might read
I'd spin my own tale as I pleased

Still in this way , I overlay
a touch of magic into my days
it makes it possible
the supernatural ~
to coincide with what my eyes perceive
what my mind believes to be reality.

So when the night falls
gently over me, I lay peacefully
my body and the spirit of my soul departs easily
into the realm of innocence
where all that is has always been and always will be
th'ineffable thought of infinity.

When I wake to begin again
I understand the master plan
is co-creation
in the dance of Life.
Beautiful and tragic,
but always magic
nothing appears as it seems
when everything
is but a dream.

Bethany Care Centre staff member by day –internationally recognized knitwear fashiondesigner by night, Sylvan Lake resident SallySandusky recently took Vancouver FashionWeek by storm with her stunning Fall/Winter2016 line.

Eight models strut their stuff for Sanduskyduring her recent show where they showcasedher signature chunky knit sweaters, dresses andshorts as well as a number of delicately knit overlay dresses as they meandered the catwalk.

Her clothing label named, Sally Omeme, stemsfrom her middle name and the Cree word fordove Omimiw, a name her adoptive parentsgave her in hopes of helping her to hold on to a part of her heritage.

In addition to the name for her stunningknitwear line, Sandusky also credits her motherwith her love and talent for knitting.

“I had wanted a scarf and my mom, who hadbeen a knitter all her life, said ‘Well let me teachyou how to knit’,” remembers Sandusky whosaid she has now been knitting since the early2000’s. “One year I knit 75 scarves byworking nights and it just kind of grew from there.”

Following graduation from Camille J. Lerouge School in Red Deer, Sandusky began her career withBethany Care Centre before making the decision to attend the John Casablancas Institute inVancouver – an internationally renowned fashion and beauty school where she studied creative artsand fashion business.

Following graduation from the Institute she returned home to Sylvan Lake and continues designingin her spare time with hopes to launch an online store in the coming weeks. She hopes her recentsuccess at Fashion Week could potentially lead to a buyer picking up her line. In addition to therecent Vancouver Fashion Week show, Sandusky has also been featured in two previous VancouverEco-Fashion Weeks.

The fun doesn’t stop here for Sandusky as some of her most recent line may be featured in upcomingeditions of both Vogue UK and Glamour UK over the next year.

While it is apparent Sandusky was born to create, she added she has faced a number of challengesover the past four years as a designer.

“I think because I’m not trained as a fashion designer I’ve had to learn everything from scratch,” shesaid. “The more complicated my knitwear design becomes the more I have to learn as far as sewingin linings and zippers goes. That has been the most challenging for me in addition to learning how totreat it as a business and not just a hobby.”

She encourages young fashionistas everywhere to never give up on their dreams adding it’s hard tobelieve how far she has come.

“My plate is definitely full right now. Before it seemed so out of reach but now it seems like it’s reallystarting to happen and I’m excited to see where it takes me,” stated Sandusky. “IfI had one piece ofadvice it would be to never give up – keep working towards your dream if that’s what you want.”Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

The importance of maintaining balance,
in so much as sanity's building blocks.
A personal reflection of your highs and lows, each helpful for creative growth. Some stick around, as others come in flux.

Historically fixed in a similar headspace,
their presence placed for short or long.
We offer grace to those who help us, listen, laugh or object against the angst and tell us to our face.

An overlay in the dreams we hold,
plus those past mistakes which are often made.
These altered goods, associated schoolmates, bands of buddies, compatriots in cousins, a smile from a chum.
All state a claim in the memories of us aiming to belong, like everyone.

Women should never
be allowed to shop
at the corner store,
where hot dogs, eggs, coffee
gas and scratch offs can be
bought all at the same time.

Inevitably, on a day she is
called to work for an hour
and a half shift, which means
it will take her twice as long
to get ready to work as it
will for her to be there.

This messes up the entire day
that she had planned for poetry
and pretending she does not need
or want a man to pump the gas and
inflate tires.

So she will go to the gas station
completely distraught that the
last 25 dollars before pay day and
her only day off till next week
will be completely ruined by
someone with a dental appointment.

That instead of eggs, hot dogs and coffee
that few dollars will be spent instead on
gas and scratch off's on the outside chance
that that last twenty five will mean she
will one day retire independent.

Hoping that there will not be any sparks
to blow her up as she spills gas all over
the station concrete, while she is furiously
scratching off the silver overlay of her
future.

Or maybe, sometimes we need a little "fuel"
occasionally. to keep us fighting, dreaming
and scratching for happiness, friendship or
for those things and people we need to
believe in.

[ G Major 3/4 time]

Some nights I cant remember
All the things that happened
I never will get over
All the mornings after

How many loves of a lifetime
Walked right out my front door
While I lied-awake hopelessly
Wanting for more

Each notch in my bedpost
Another scar on my heart
Of the ten-thousand maybes
Who turned out to be not

They march right through me
In an endless parade
Insufficient remedies
For someone I cant replace

My pulse is the drum beat
Our love was the war
And their harmonies choke me
As I hang by my
Guitar chords

I keep on playing you
A song written for her
It has a different title now
The contents are undisturbed

Violins whisper
A dull aching pain
And in a hundred "I love yous"
I whispered her name

Each moment of ecstasy
That rips you away
Leaves the empty shell of me
Searching for an escape

But her song keeps playing
A phantom theme in my head
While you reach your crescendo
I'm just here in our bed

My pulse is the drum beat
Our love is the war
And our harmony chokes me
As I hang myself by my

Emptiness chokes me
As I hang myself and I

Suffocate
As I hang by my
Guitar chords

<instrumental - strings bridge>

<modulated harmony and waltz... piano>

<drums and acoustic front + choral vocal overlay "suffocate...">

Her pulse was my drum beat
My love was the cost
Cashed-in in self-sacrifice
It was me that I lost

In mirrors like pictures
I can see who I was
But I look so different now...
I became "I am because"

We shared our heartbeat
Our love was the war
and this song hangs
Something unfinished
I suffocate
Trapped in our tapestry
It's just me
Left to hang by my guitar chords

Gabrielle Union wore a gorgeous fall look in New York City while promoting her show, Being Mary Jane, on Tuesday.

The 42-year-old looked like a vision in her fitted white Sophia Kah dress with crimson lace overlay, as she was spotted leaving Live With Kelly and Michael.

The short-sleeved frock featured intricate detailing on the upper portion, while the bottom half was all white.

The skintight dress, which showed off the Think Like a Man star's amazing body, fit her like a glove.

The pop of color from the wine-colored lace added a bold touch to an otherwise minimal look.

The Bring It On actress kept the bold vibes going by choosing shiny gold heels, which added a new dimension to the look.

She added gold rings to compliment her similarly hued strappy heels with gray polished nails.

The Being Mary Jane star wore her shoulder length dark hair loose and wavy.

Opting for a more vampy makeup look, the starlet wore smokey eye shadow, glossy red lips and rosy cheeks.

During her appearance on the morning show, the She's All That actress wore a more understated look, rocking gray slacks, a black top and bright pink heels as she spoke to Michael Strahan and guest host Ciara, who filled in for Kelly Ripa.

The brunette is married to NBA star Dwayne Wade, who plays for the Miami Heat. The couple first met in 2009 and married in August 2014.

Her husband has three sons: 13-year-old Zaire Blessing Dwayne, eight-year-old Zion Malachi Airamis and two-year-old Xavier Zechariah, from previous relationships.

The 33-year-old athlete also raises his 13-year-old nephew Dahveon.

On her show, she plays the character Mary Jane Paul, an on-camera reporter who has to juggle work, love and family.

The third season of Being Mary Jane premieres on October 20th on BET.

The starlet is also currently filming The Lion Guard, an animated TV series where she voices the character of Nala, set to premiere on the Disney Channel in 2016. She recently wrapped The Lion Guard: Return of the Roar TV movie, which premieres this November.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

"Did you actually write about squids?"
They ask
Not bothering to read the rest
Perhaps it was because
The language in which is was written
Was beyond their current comprehension
Or rather
They dont care to change their impression of me by reading a sad poem with a joking overlay

Battle galactic of supersonic secrets
Nightmares haunt the day in quests for what is hidden
Overlay the sprinkles of perpetual remissions
Disregard the ambiance of the diseased repetitions
Evacuate the hostages
I repeat
Abort mission
For I orchestrated a **** up
No scapegoat in existence to replace my poor decisions

Don't want to hide long
Lake flow of love in silence
Ensnare tears in petals missed
Let all writhing
Because i'm still here in my silence

The sky tells
On the way of events
Among the meshes of time
The trail is also becoming obsolete story implied
Made me choose to remain silent
Stranded on Overlay story

Don't you ever lie to me
You have taken away the night - My night
Thieves of my conscience..!

Never was a Walt sorta Kat, Though I do understand his works and his um desire which has a , distinct overlay into and onto my life, that ****... But Ezra, oh Ezra Pound, See I never even read a lick of his words, but a Picture a dear and well, um, interesting situation friend possibly, we will get to that latter, but A friend Justin Williams did a picture in Art class of Ezra, a pointillism portrait. don't have the picture on this drive but here is the original picture he was copying and it is found here: titled "73: RICHARD AVEDON 1923-2004 Ezra Pound at the Home "
https://www.liveauctioneers.com/item/1901663_richard-avedon-1923-2004-ezra-pound-at-the-home

Now ever since I saw this photo of Ezra pound Ihaving a migraine, which we have in common , I just related, to what I saw, and it was far more than a black and white picture, I saw the hues and colors of a man who was truly troubled by a knowledge, and as "Jesus" Yeshua Immanuel said in the The Nag Hammadi

Jesus said, "Let him who seeks continue seeking until he finds. When he finds, he will become troubled. When he becomes troubled, he will be astonished, and he will rule over the All."
and this I understood in the anguish in the picture and a moment one is hard pressed to hide ones true pains.
so a taste of his work, for today was the first time I have ever read it by choice of actually seeking it out. though this picture is my avatar on my OS system. funny how things are. ehh?

A Girl - Poem by Ezra Pound


The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
Ezra Pound

the day's almost finished and i'm sitting with a glass
of a whiskey and pepsi: sharpshooter...
   what's a sharpshooter? three parts whiskey
one part pepsi... that's called a sharpshooter...
by that i mean: the alcohol will not creep up on me
esp. like they serve it in bars... three parts pepsi
one part whiskey... no: better the whiskey be apparent...

and i'm rereading my first encounter with
Charles Bukowski: i remember the first time i came
across him... i was having a psychotic meltdown
back in 2007... running up and down Glasgow in
the sun... i don't know what was more mad:
me or the weather in Glasgow... usually western
Scotland is bound to perpetual rain...
                 but it was sunny that day...
                   well... i don't know how many trips
i made between London, Edinburgh and Glasgow...
running aimlessly: most probably from my shadow,
whether it was that day or the other
i booked a hotel room... i ran out of it after about
5 minutes in panic mode... leaving everything
behind, except for my wallet which i had in my trousers,
but my passport? i don't know why i had
it on me... i only got it back from the Glasgow police
station after a year or so...
                      long story: bad memories...

but i remember that first encounter with Bukowski...
what matters most is how well you walk
through the fire: in the bookshop i stood there in awe....
because the first poem i read was,
oddly enough insanity

    sometimes there's a crazy one in the street.
    he lifts his feet carefully as he walks.
    he ponders the mystery of his own ****...

    ...sometimes there's a crazy one walking in the street.
       he slips past with a black crowd on this shoulder

obviously i had to buy that book...
back then i was buying books like mad...
i bought that book and the Brothers Karamazov...
oddly enough: i have read it...
to be frank i'm starting to suspect that i'm
pretty well read - but that doesn't surprise me:
after all, reading saved my sanity...
as much as insanity was "fun" i wanted to return
to structures...

            it's not much fun compulsively thinking
about the "secret" meaning of car registration
plates... i'm serious: in my head it was THAT bad
at one point... my entire world view disintegrated
into... a large **** on a pile of spaghetti Bolognese
looks better...

          obviously i'm... sure... i'd recommend going
mad... lucky for me: i wasn't taking to any mental hospital...
maybe that's why i was so introverted for
most of my 20s... hell... i lost all my youth to psychosis...
not all my youth: the youth where you could have
all the ****** fun... but from what i heard:
most men haven't had that sort of luxury...
   what with the advent of social media and dating apps...

but that's the great thing about marijuana (skunk,
it's different in England, the marijuana is illegal
and it's usually spiced with some ****** chemicals)
                                                       psychosis...

at first: oh my god, the greatest drug... i stopped drinking...
i waited for the weekend to smoke...
   i'd sit and write Beatnik ******* poetry...
listen to music... when the stuff was good...
a minute turned into ten minutes...
   ten minutes turned into thirty minutes...
thirty minutes turned into two hours...
literally: time stopped... that's how i came up with
the antonym of Descartes' res cogitans...
   i smoked and i lost my ego...
                it was nowhere to be found...
ergo? res vanus... an empty thing...
              i think it takes a lot of thinking to finally
conquer thought per se...
              to able to merely sense without that cloudy
overlay of thought / narrative has its bonuses...
right now? i have a clog in my head...
before i could tell you something akin to:
i can hear myself think...
    "hear": i was so engrossed in something resembling
solipsism... thought came before the senses...
that's why i missed so many opportunities
with women...

            also: i remember this remark i made...
i remember saying: i can't hear silence...
         guess what's in my head?
                that exact remark... it's almost as if i have
lost my prior "sense" of a soul...
i think i'm soulless... i think my soul has already
left my body... which makes it easier
to coordinate the body... i have this great silence
in my head...

   a moment also came when my vision sharpened...
i started seeing more clearly...

another thing about going mad early on...
oh i did see psychiatrists... i was put on antipsychotic
medication... i used to weigh in 78kg at one point...
6ft2 and 78kg? i was a lean colt...
i put on... over the years... let's say i weighed in
at 120kg at one point...
                   i might have drank back then...
i'm still drinking... but: to think that this sort of medication
doesn't have a metabolic effect would be delusional...

but like i must have already mentioned:
that's the good thing about going mad early on in life,
or rather with madness itself:
you can't go mad twice...
         what's that famous saying?
those whom the gods want to destroy: first drive them
mad...

   about 6 psychiatrists tried to figure me out...
one ******* tried to implant in me the idea of regression:
he insinuated that i was abused as a child...
false memory implants... sadistic little Indian ******...
why do i bring ethnicity into the equation?
oh... reminded of a novel by Will Self...
no: not the quantitative theory of insanity...
   that other one... Dr. Mukti...

                            they couldn't figure me out
yet they still prescribed this ****** medication...
           the medication was making it worse...
                             alcohol? makes it better...
       well... because by the 5th and 6th nutty-professor
i was already well verse in Nietzsche,
Kierkegaard, Heidegger and by the 6th Kant!
why would i need to talk **** over?
   none of them could help me with:
    oh you know, herr doktor... i encountered
a choir in a church that descended, invisible...
then... while in a panic... running around in the church
a great wind descended and dispersed the choir...
well... **** me... if marijuana can give you that
sort of auditory hallucinations:
     i'll wait until i'm dementia prone...
    then i'll go to Amsterdam and jack-up my brain
with some mushrooms... maybe i'll see "things" better...

come to think of it... back in the day it was what
it was... i was in so much distress but internalized it so well
that: i was 12 shadows behind a flimsy veneer...
but i pulled through: right now i think i have:
esp. since my reclusion sort of gave me a spring-like-elasticity...
i jumped back into extroversion with a snap
of the fingers... i was never an extrovert-extrovert:
those annoying *****...
i've learned to be more measured...

  but i pulled through: and not thanks to anyone
except for me... and... necromancy...
which is not some magic... just reading the works
of the people already dead...
    
another saying: music soothes even the savage beast...
tell that to one of my Maine *****...
go on... play her some punk... she's doing a runner...
she is a savage beast... domesticated...
but still savage...
     only recently she scratched the face of a baby...
the baby was: the baby of my mother's manicurist /
pedicurist...
    why did she scratch the baby's face?
     my mother's manicurist / pedicurist brought her
friend along... who in turn brought her son along...
annoying little ****: i was fermenting upstairs in bed
with a massive hang-over... just heard the annoying little
****...
                  
      ADHD+... literally...
            he kept annoying my cat... kept touching her too
"offensively"... she hissed... she started spitting evil eyes...
but he kept on annoying her...
   my mother apparently told him to stop...
the boy's mother stopped being a mother at that point...
he ****** off somewhere to draw, i don't know...
******* circles in the air... when the baby approached...
bam! scratches on the face...
    mind you: no problems prior... babies and animals
mingle quiet well... they did... i was there some other
times... but... all it takes is one silly little **** of a boy
to **** of a cat for the cat to rebel... like a predator...
on something that's weaker: weakest...
     it's a ******* cat... a bonsai tiger...
        
           that's why i never understood man's fascination
with predators, animal predators...
seems like their life just might be interesting...
translate that to predators within men...
            eh... blue oyster cult... something sort of eerie
itch by itch by the end it just becomes disgusting...
no argument: when it comes to the behaviour of cats...
the cat was in the right...
      the cat was in the right... the baby was simply collateral
damage: isn't that the common phrase in modern
warfare? collateral damage?

while Tony Blaire et al. are the ADHD+ **** of a boy
walking away scot free...
            
well... i gave the mother mother's manicurist so many
CDs to copy after i introduced her to Wooden Shjips...
she obviously has a new manicurist...
her friend was supposedly into Viking looking blokes...
but... i've recently saw a brutally honest
video by a woman, she admits to:
having nothing to offer a man... except for ***...
she's a single mum... all the women in my vicinity
are single mothers...

       and she's right... i work... i cook... i clean...
i can iron a shirt... blah blah... if i'm going to be second
best after she panders to her Rugrats...
what am i left with?
   it so much simpler with prostitutes...
although... the one i'm currently seeing sort of crossed
the mark... i think she's fallen for me...
she keeps sending me Selfies while i keep sending her
pictures of trees... flowers... cats... sunrises
and sunsets...

if i were to be stuck with someone like a Denise Royle...
oh **** that... ****: THAT...
     because i would be just that...
a push-over a comb-over...
        recently i watched a movie starring Lara Flynn Boyle...
a film from back in 2002...
   recent pictures? either Jack Nicholson
is the Spartan 300... i don't know...
                    i'm going to grace: if i get to old age...
probably less stressed out...
         like this one ****** i saw today...
the petulant husband... chocolates for the children,
wine for the honey-dubby-dubby-gum-bear...
he might: just get a sniff of the wine...
otherwise! WHIP!
              back on overtime come tomorrow's
Bank Holiday! ha-chi! whimp 'em boy!

existentialism never got along with Darwinism...
for what? my genes?! what about my "soul"?!
i rather find that than pass on some biological fuss
of a glue... someone else will pass something else
on... it's not like the human species will go extinct
because i haven't capitulated to reproductive
"needs"... being a grandfather with grandchildren
or... an old man and death's darling: euthanasia...
always the latter...
god bless the Benelux alliance: reasonable people...
benevolent people... sensible creatures...

****... i knew this was going to happen once i got stuck
into defrosting... "defrosting":
i was trying to get some ice for a whiskey pepsi
sharpshooter refill... a block of ice... no ice cubes...
take out the ice cube container hack at the block
of ice with a knife... fiddly procedure...
take some ice... put the excess ice on the shelf...
hello cleaned ice-cube container...

            i have lost the plot... i digressed too much...
i take it from my English teacher...
a Thomas Bunce... Glaswegian... loved his jazz and his
poetry... he always digressed...
he never taught us... not grammar: only on a must...
once... maybe twice... what did he used to call Shakespeare?
Shaky? Shaken Pear?
   he always digressed... he just told stories...
he wasn't a teacher... you might as well have
lit a ******* fire in the classroom and we'd all huddle
and listen to him ramble...

i've lost it... the day is almost over and i'm sitting
here drinking a whiskey and listening to...
my new found "hobby"... i.e. gothic post punk alternative
darkwave music... rubric!

i've always tried to escape the dichotomy of
the Cure vs. Depeche Mode...

the soft moon... oh... that band is a banger...
2013 release: from the album the soft moon...
songs like: circles,
                     parallels, we are we,
                                            sewer sickness...

there's still so much good music "floating" about...
it's just... so much harder to find...
it wasn't... back in 2016 when the internet still had
some sanity about it...

rubric! where's my rubric?!

the downward path - more than i should
give my remains to broadway - dumpster baby
c z a r i n a - wonderland
morosinthe - nihilism
love of consolation - memory
man + machine & emke - room to cry
ill humans - dramatica
dechakhal - always die
              ciern - the emperor rx
     grey gallows - chains
                       locust revival - no funeral
               two one six - heat
                   the isolators - concentrate on us
                house of breath - make sense of it all
q-7 three times - t-3
                       into her final sleep - heressence...

**** me, now that i come to think of it...
every single shift i worked at Fulham's Craven Cottage
whenever i was placed in Bishop's Park
with a women... i wasn't working...
i was on a first date...
we talked about each other...
Jeminah was the best... even though she kept
talking about her failed relationships...
but we walked into the cemetery and inspect the dates
on graves... my god... she looked so ****
back before she stabbed herself in the back
with rumours about me...

while... in my full view... started swiping left?
right? which one is rejection?
in front of me, indicating: you have no chance
mate... i have these many options... loser...
any of the others make their own wine?
bake? make dogs affectionate enough to lick
your wounds till you bleed and not feel
the pain?
               just saying: ******* pie in the sky!
mash potatoes floating in the lake...

what was i going to write?
   ****... i almost forgot... the day is almost over...
18 minute past midnight... time for closure...
i'm sitting with a whiskey + pepsi sharpshooter...
listening to some underground music...
thinking about trimming my ***** hair
because i need to see Khedra... girl's feeling anxious...

oh... right... i woke up nice an early... 8am...
looked at my phone... ****... no ingress pass for West Ham
vs. Arsenal... what's up?
so i text the manager... where's my ingress pass?
i'm pretty sure that i've booked myself in for this event...

text back... you haven't booked in, mate...

oh crap... crap and no crap: to be honest...
if i haven't booked in... i can't be late...
but i swear i booked in for this match...
the original date was the 28th of May...
that date was moved because West Ham progressed
in the Europa League... so Tuesday was them vs.
Frankfurt... i thought that if i booked in for
the original date of the match-up for the derby
i'd be automatically booked in for today...

while i worked Oxford on the 28th...
   it's not like i "forgot": i just wasn't messaged...
about today... ****** ******* diary keeping...
on my behalf? hardly... i woke up ready to shine...
geared up to do the shift...
arbeit macht frei is my new number one motto...
Wembley shifts... ooh... a blessing...
sometimes going above 12 hours... or thereabouts...

can't you squeeze me in?
   just in case someone blows-out?
  
no... sorry mate... can't print your accreditation
on a whim...
  
   but i already texted him saying: i know what NO
means... fair enough...

****... a whole day to myself... what the hell am i going
to do?!
    i ask dearest... what's for dinner?!
roast beef... ugh... not that crap...
no no... i love roast beef... when it's done proper...
done medium rare in the middle...
but...

    i've mentioned this before...
this recipe... it's a Turkish recipe...
i never thought that beef could be so well coupled
with rosemary... eye-opening...
you'd think on lamb goes with rosemary...
no... beef works just as well... if not better...
i guess the use of rosemary is a way to get
rid of lamb stink... why oh why lamb is sacred
to the Nomads while... pork... the most...
scentless meat in town is given so much
critique: didn't "god" create pork?!
why would god despise anything he created?!
it's counter intuitive...
and i once thought that the Welsh were
sheep *******... no... the Arabs and Muslims
in general have that award covered...
ugly... stinking meat...
  sheep... IT... STINKS!

                        at least pork doesn't... LAMB: STINKS!
maybe that's why their cuisine requires so many
spices... they need to drown the stench of lamb...
pork on the other hand? pristine chops...

tried rosemary: made it worse...
but i like rosemary... as much as i like thyme...
thyme and chicken...
but you wouldn't expect beef to be coupled
with beef...

           this recipe though... oh you know...
some Turkish cook... REFIKA...
hammered beef:

400 gr beef fillet steak
4 cloves of garlic, peeled
2 sprigs of rosemary
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
4 tablespoons olive oil
200 gr kolot - mild cheddar is better
2 dried hot chilli peppers
1 tsp of Korean chilly flakes
1 teaspoon black peppercorns (whole)
1 teaspoon sea salt

i woke up and... gaining knowledge that i wasn't
going to do the West Ham shift...
there's much better things to do with a cut of beef
than merely butcher it a second time via
a roast... ugh... roast vegetables and roast
potatoes... such an European "thing"...

wait a tick... i haven't done my 60km+
       bicycles sessions in a while...
                        want to see the Houses of Parliament
on the 1st of May?!
****... why not... via the usual route... past Forest Gate...
past Stratford... down Regents Street...
past Trafalgar Sq.? back past the... it was hide tide...
the Thames is not a river! it's an overstretched lake!
what river has a tide-in and a tide-out?!
it's not a river... unless: all rivers are like this on
an island! the Thames doesn't have a flow!
it... bubbles... it's an irritated piece of water!
it's not a river!

on purpose... i shoved down those black intestines
with barley and bacon and onions for breakfast...
with some rye bread...
ironed some bed sheets, t-shirts and a shirt...
and my work trousers...

it's best to count within the confines of 0s...
after all... a person's wealth is not measured impirically...
British Empire bound...
can you translate 6 billion in... what would be
the weight of geld... back then?

i'm done with post punk alternative music....
i'm coming back to the altar of Germanic Crusader
songs... Palästinalied...
i hear the music... i turn to proud airs..
mein gott: ich auch haben ein gesichichte!

jetzt?! alles ist bergwerk!

i am yet to eat a more łakomą feast!
a more greedy feast!
  
LAMB STINKS... perfect match up between
the Muslims and the Velsh...
perfecto! plush! mush! plush! mhuah!
finger-licking good!

why? why my disapproval?!
some elder ****- spitting on "my" pavement...
i don't like that...
disrespect the road others have to walk on...
sure... perhaprs in Pakistan you have
******* donkeys to grind a road to apply
to your obedience... by the stammer
of a donkey's hoofs...
over here... du brauchen asphalt...
    you goat loving spitting camel jockey
of a ****-...
                                     what?!

tomorrow's tired... let's have it... right now!
you ******* nonces....
you ******* fading chocolate copper-necks...
pseudo-predators...

i woke up with this great feeling of cycling for 60+ kms...
i did...
i stopped like a Dervish taking a brake...
at a shop that sold...
Turkish bread... packaged from...
the AL-BAHIJ bakery... somewhere...
near Wembley...
       it's not Naan ******* curry type of Jaapati
type of ****...
wholesome...
      
   i tell you... 60km+ backwards and forwards...
a meal like this will make you greedy...
beef + rosemary...
there's actually a difference between
freshly ground black pepper and readily
available ground pepper...
crushed rosemary... another "case" to implode...

unser liebe fraue...
    von kalten bronnen...
    bescher uns armen landsknecht...
   eine warme sonnen!

die trommeln! die trommeln!
               lälarm! lälarm! lälarm!

           alles güt, ja? wenn ein ist deutsche...
nein?!
   dann ist: partei-zeit!
        gütfühlen!
       ficken du: Hessen-Schwäbisch:
   schweinefleischislamischliebhaber-seltsam...
like.... wie... du was?"

oh man... that Turkish hammered beef...
with the red onion Sumac salad...
with the Sumac... with the red chilly flakes...
with the rosemary... the garlic...
the sea salt... the fresh real, whole... peppercorns...
U-BOATS man! Zeppelins!
               olive oil... lemon juice... pomegranate molasses!

hmm... i stopped over between Forrest Gate and Ilford
at this Turkish supermarket...
it wasn't the usual take on Lavash bread...
but it wasn't a ***(p)at(t)i either...
    the bakery? Al-Bahij... NW10... Miverva Rd...
  
i'm greedy for this dish... i'm always greedy for this dish...
do 60+km on a bicycle: you too would be...
you too would relax listening to Germanic
war songs...
            because... there's nothing better to listen
to when you're that much pumped up...
         nichtsenglischgesprochen!
nichtsenglischgesprochen!
         zu vergessenheit wir märz mit herz!
mit spatzen zum die nur schar!
                               unser: hohl von diese gräber!

layer upon layer
layer upon overlay
multiples of subtraction
fools of the oldest days
sunshine stained
blessed by attraction
cooler than the coldest rain
moonlit plain
a growth flourished by ticks and tocks
a love not concerned with any of these clocks.

What greater gift could be given to me
Than that of a canvas staring blankly
Awaiting it's first brushstroke
In a flash a slash of color across its face

This potential has been placed before me
Like a puzzle piece from my memory
I will fill this void with my living energy
I will compose music for your eyes to see
I will write poetry for your heart to read visually

The power in my hands to put pigment upon paper
To portray a picture that depicts my inner nature
It's a purely creative endeavor

I pour myself into the paint
Each masterpiece contains part of me

In harmonious rhythm
I stain to stimulate
I dye to add drama
I shade to give grace

With an acrylic aesthetic
A cosmetic elegance
An oil overlay
A washing watercolor
The media is mine to design
Each line to represent my life

My gallery tells a story
Ever changing and growing
Forever framing and flowing
To draft love in a sensitive showing
Of my true self in painting

we were
in bed
that day
when
there was a midday twilight

a daze crept over us
delicate
as a fast fog

it was the feeling of floating

a barely waking ecstasy
an unreal ethereal delirium
i cant describe it

it was
something
like nothing
ive ever felt before

in the belly of our canopy bed
in that forbidden flat
on a forever day

we laughed as she
pressed her head up
& pitched the draped overlay
wearing it
like a puffy white sombrero


as the
sun
filtered through
the linen cube glowed
a yellow shade

the two of us
waiting weightless
in this unearthly space

a monster teepee on a cloud
a sailboat in the sand


it all could have been
a heavenesque hallucination
but
for the fact that
she asked if i felt it too

i said i did
after she confessed
she had no words
to describe it

it was sublime
too simple
true

& it left by night
as we tucked in to watch movies
a mini projector hovering
images pressed against an endless cinema screen
almost as radiant
as our re-animation

Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!