In dreams of shadow and moonlight they dwell,
There was Palinode and Epistrophe whom would sing
Palinode, he was as Hades, as havoc, as hell,
His lyrics were sharp and bitter, a corrosive thing…
Epistrophe was Desdemona, Persephone, Belle.
Her lays would buzz like the honeybee’s wing.
And upon sharp daggers they occasionally fell.
Upon which time the heart full of grief would swell.

In shadows of dreams and glimmering shards bright.
They took to the skies in the dark of the night...
They flew through the murk as is their domain,
And came to an estate with Duchess and Duke.
They prowled by the windows and sang songs arcane,
And tempted the married couple with lyrics to *****.
And a great fear came over the humans and they swoon.
In ghastly fright together they fell to their knees,
And fell under the spell of that music, that morbid tune,
It was like cold death dancing towards them, they freeze.
And Palinode and Epistrophe entered therein,
And began to feast on their blood, this is their sin.

Palinode said unto Epistrophe, “Hark the cry of the rooster!”
And she to him replied, “I hear only your heartbeat in your chest.”
“Of what do you speak?” He said. “Is this some morale booster?”
“No!” Cried she, “this is only the truth I have laid to rest.”
The wind outside blew like the brewing of a hurricane.
With regards to the Duke and Duchess now dead,
They left their bodies where they fell, in disdain.
And so to their lair in the half light of dawn they speedily fled.

In dreams of shadow and moonlight they go,
Drinking the blood of the innocent and guilty alike,
The vampires Palinode and Epistrophe know,
That death to everything will always strike.

Her hand came up to his face when they awake in the dusk,
His lips to hers and drink in the mouth, so soft that kiss.
Then sweetly sniffing in his fragrance, his musk...
She thought for another life she would never wish.
If anyone would take him from her, she would lament,
But not for a single human life she had taken would she repent.
He had made her this killing machine a monster within.
And she knew she loved him for that and would leave it be.
And so, in dreams of shadow and moonlight she would grin.
And in shadows of dreams and moonlight they see,
That they are together lost in gruesome eternal demise,
Stalking and killing all night until the dawn brings the sunrise.

But Palinode did sometimes wonder when the feast was done,
What waited in their afterlife if they should meet the glare of the sun.
With blood-stained lips and gruesome corpses laid asunder,
He thought that his destiny was hell forever burning,
And so, he tried to weave a different song for her to fall under,
One that would show all his woe and all his yearning.
He sang out the tune and called upon the magical talent.
And into the melody he imbued feelings of remorse, so gallant.

Epistrophe heard him singing while draining her victim’s last drop.
She looked to him through the death and destruction they’d wrought.
But the magic affected her not, she was no puppet, no doll or prop,
She could not be controlled so easily with song or with thought.
“Why do you plague me with sorrow?” Epistrophe cry.
“I want for more.” Came Palinodes’ answer, strong and bold.
“You want more than I can give?” she weeps, “can you not try?”
He speaks. “I have tried and tried again but now I grow old.”
She responds. “You cannot abandon me when you made me what I am.”
And so that song of remorse died there and then in the blood-soaked scene.
“We,” says she, “are hunters and they are the prey, I don’t give a ****!
“to leave this life to me alone is hateful and mean!”
Palinode sighs and finds no release, turning away from her,
“Don’t turn away!” she calls, “look at what we are,”
And so looking about the tavern where they have killed all and none stir,
Palinode sighs again and leans on the bloodied bar.
Epistrophe draws near and goes to comfort her vampire lover,
But as she touches him, she does not feel him as she once knew,
Now he turns to leave and offers these words, “I must go and discover.”
In shock stands Epistrophe she thinks that this cannot be true.

And now in shadows of dreams and moonlight they are separated,
And in dreams of shadow and moonlight Epistrophe has little cares,
She kills heartless still but feels a sour feeling of being unappreciated.
And Palinode travels alone, travels the world going where he dares.
Walking amongst the living in moonlit taciturnity
Trapped in an unnatural life, trapped in eternity.

The water shimmering ripples in the moonlight,
The sky reflecting visions we have seen,
The meadows are concealing our secrets,
And the memories behind the screen,
All the traces have still survived,
On the roads we have ever been.

The misty morning brought us closer,
With your scent still clung to me,
The alarm  ring would remind me,
That you were lying next to me,
In the light,the sun would call us to see,
The twinned souls we craved to be.

And everyday, our road would split in two,
Along the distinct patterns and routes we chose,
Miles away we go momentarily,
Yet the petals of the same rose,
Our lives unperturbed by the silence in-between,
And the adios has been our transient dose.

Because i have always believed,
Not much the whispers, nor the feelings enclosed,
But the words in the palinode,
Echoing ,"You are the shadow walking through me,
Traveling with me. Traveling back to me."

I send my poems off
like warriors to war

I send my poems off
like the adventurers of old

I send my poems off
to woo and ******,
to dance and entertain.

I send my poems off
to shine light into dark corners

I wish them luck,
as I wave them goodbye

All bravado and
bolstered confidence

Out into a world of
of readers and writers
and now....
when they, my words
are out in space
halfway between here
and wherever there ends up being

You want me to reel them in
to recant...to put a spear to them....

Palinode, be ******!!!

These words...
have paid their dues,
they have flown the coop
I'm not blowing
them out of the sky now.

⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.

Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth  assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.

The gnawing hunger. I understand it now.

I was stagnant, living with you.
Waiting for you to fill a void, imagined you would fill it.


Why was I addicted to it in the first place?

I need a cure for wellness.
A cure for the human condition.


We all desire something, someone we can never have.


**** fragmentation, **** frolicking in joy.
I'm better off this way.
Palinode. Tear. Shatter. Destroy.



You can stay in the light.
I'll stay away from you.
You can find someone better.
I'll go away for good.
Lest you put out my fires again.


I rip out the tubes that kept me with you.
This dead heart should have never beat for you.

Ongoing communication with the Count De St. Germaine
Born Around 1710 in San Germano, Savoy, as the natural son of an Italian princess.
He visited me again not long ago.
Speaking as he did, he did come and then go.
with endless perspicacity eclipsing empyrean fires,
One's magnanimous susurrus in aeons aspires.
Yet whither art thou, in this age cacophonic,
Where malisons spew from tongues misanthropic?

I perambulate, somnambular, through gloam’s desuetude,
Harkening phantasmal echoes in crepuscular interlude.
Yet only zephyrs, in dulcet effusion,
Intone their clandestine, windborne allusion.

listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence  to cerulean skies.

These polysemous effulgences  both wax and wane,
Guttering yet indelible. We rise above both spectral,  and arcane.
antediluvian hush, betwixt frost-laden dearth,
Manifests a logos, in insipid girth.
antediluvian silences drawn,
vertiginous  in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in tumultuous tide
the fractal that innervates, presupposed  then shied .

A palimpsest of null embraces
where these false augurs drink from hallowed places,
and time itself forgets to turn. Why Obsess ?
For Nihil’s  never but always caress,
Christo- fascist rising imbibe from those urns abyssal,
And Chronos forgets to turn his gear yet again.
How do we start and where to begin.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clock,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
the collection plate from church to state.

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us now in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.

Dearest Count,
Forever must thou linger in shadow’s creed,
As we toil ‘neath venal decrees of greed?
Come forth in augural council and  heed!
Post-haste upon thy seraphic steed!
Deliver us from this abhorrent misdeed,
Enshrouded in vice, in carnality steeped.
Lend thy hand that we might seed
Regrowth!
Rebirth!
I plead.

He visited me again but a fortnight ago.
Speaking as he did, he did come and then go.

Count, oh Count,
Your perspicacity eclipses the stars,
Your magnanimous whispers still linger afar.
Yet where are you now, in this age so discordant?
Trump's deleterious voices speak in tones so abhorrent?

I walk in a somnambular haze through this twilight mundane,
listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence beneath boundless skies.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us know in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.