there is a seperation

a pain of seperation

such as a seperation

that only lovers specialise in

where the prevention of thought

is like a fortress overrun

where trampling terrains of concern

stampede upon the praire of the mind

transforming it into a soft savanna

of wating engagements

that murmer with comforing enchantments

lays upon such pain of seperation

as that of a perforated scar

seared across the heart

bringing tickles of soft warm tears

to the cheeks

the happist time becomes

a chasm only conquerd

by that gulping unification

of embrace

where soft burning lips

meet in that unknown

but express language

of clasped reunion

it is that pain, that awful pain

that only lovers know

Pian

Pian

The scars on my  wrists are reminders.

The fresh cuts sting and burn, The red of my blood brings me release of pain that I feel inside. The pain of the sharp and the sight of the blood, it reminds me that I’m alive. But now it just there, there is no pain just numb.

Pain

I’m not scared of death.

No on the contrary I invite it with open arms.

No I’m scared of living. The thought of life is what chills me to the bone. That feeling that I don’t live up to society's standards. That I’ll be treated diffrently if I don’t fit the description of a cis girl.

Pain

It comes in the form of a dress, of long hair, of makeup, of *******.

It does not come in the form of a broken limb or a gun wound.

It is not a physical pain. Though it can be more inhabilitating than a broken leg. You no longer have the strength or will to get out of bed. Or even live anymore.

Pain

It comes from those who do not understand

It comes from words spoken about you but not to you. It comes from betrail of the highest form. That of a friend, of a lover, of family. They talk. Thats what gives you the power to take those pills. To bury the knife so deep in your wrist they can’t take it out. To put that rope necklace on and push away the only thing holding you up.

Pain

It is the friends you push away that can’t help you

It’s the feeling of pure depression. It’s not a sickness that you can see. You don’t cough, you don’t have a sniffly nose, you aren’t pale, you don’t have a fever of 127. You are so tierd becuause if you sleep you dream but can’t call it dreaming. It’s only nighmares.

Pain

It’s not what you think it is.

It’s like a friend who never leaves. Deppression lives with you and you can’t escape it. It slowly invades your sleep and every waking second.

Pain

For me my deppression is my body

My skinny waist, big hips, and *******. From my round face to my girly voice. My shortness and my slender hands and tiny feet. My deppression is my Dysphoria. She huants me when I look in the mirror. I see it in the faces of my friends. So I push them away.

Pain

It’s feeling so loney that it feels as tough you can’t go on any more

It’s pushing away your friends when you need them the most becuse you don’t wan to hurt them if you do leave. And you consider making life better for everyone including yourself by ending it all. Those pills, that blade, the knife, or the necklace of rope makes you feel free.

Pain



No more PAIN

No more PAIN

NO MORE PAIN



PAIN

lost to my world of emotion loathed by confusion i can't define existance between the lines of coruption manipulated human justifyin death wit superior instructions weapon or not  the choice was chosen by deception never recognisin your actions these are the troubles of afections when men are punished by unrealised intention i nw hand my attention my insides made to continuesly feel passion  but lost lack the attitude to not loose the perception beauty in pian wat strange attraction

MUSICA ANTIQUA

I - Time Keeper

Prize of a difficult hunt
fresh meat seared in the fire pit:

The ****-clothed victor
severed pieces with his flint
to feed his mate and son
then idly stroked a hollow log
with his crimson tinted club.

He picked up the pace
when the child began
to laugh and whirl
about the flames -
his mother' contented smile
telling, that for a spell at least,
serenity ruled the glade.

II - Found Flutes

In a time too early for telling.
one of our kind unearthed
a dry hollow bone and blew.

Its tones were pleasing
but many more could be found
by scoring several holes in its side.

Though carbon dating may tell
to a millennium or so, when,
no one can ever say why.

III - To Build a Lyre

A Grecian soldier on a cyprus stump
cut holes in a bow too lax for arrows
and gently swept his weathered fingers
across the new strung cords
then composed a lyric to Pan's amors
and a second to brave Alexander.

The soldier, well pleased
resolved to fashion a nobler frame
for his dulcet strings
and raised worthy songs
to Apollo and Terpsichore.

MUSICA MODERNA

IV – The Music Press

In his modest shop in Venice
Ottaviano Petrucci turned the wheel
and pressed notes to paper
for music's first edition.

Squares and diamonds peppered the staves
and tunes of Obrecht and Josquin des Prez
soon graced the salons
of Europe‘s most elegant palaces.

V - Sonata Pian e Forte

From a desk at St. Mark’s in Venice
Gabrieli pondered a question,
“How can an echo’s diminishing sound
be shown in a music score
so that one group of brass
can reflect the other
across the cathedral's nave? '

With two simple words he shifted forever
the course of music’s stream.
For the leaders he marked down “forte, ”
and their its echo marked down, “pian.”

VI - The Master of Cremona

Stradivarius extracted a maple sheet
From his curing vat in Cremona
and hung it to dry with the others -

Then taking his carving knives
He sculpted a cello's scroll
while a golden sheened violin
awaited his finishing cloth.

His secrets expired
when his time was fulfilled
but his magic sings on forever.

VII - Theodore Boehm, designer - flutist*

A gifted precious metal smith
desiring a more supple flute
applied all his art and skill
to its maze of rods and keys.

Each trial was scored
by his ears and fingers
until the door was unlatched.
to euphonious efficiency.
Clarinetists then coaxed him
to fashion their keys as well.

So behind every dixie licorice stick
or Debussy’s pastel faun
stands a persistent man
with a silver flute and
a jeweler's patient hands.

December, 2007

Good judgment comes from experience, experience from bad decisions
This whole ******* life is a contradiction
It's an oxymoron at every turn
Every decision only gets you burned
If in old age you manage to arrive
That's when life's lessons are realized

The young are bound in the futility of it all
Never seeing the cliff before they fall
Not wise enough to know
God clipped our wings before the throw
He turned everything upside down
When he placed us on this hellish ground

We all where marked
You can't see the light unless your in the dark
You don't appreciate the sun's rays
Till you've stood in the storm for days
Without pian you wouldn't relish the pleasure
Without work, there would be no leisure
What is good, if taken to much only leads to bad
Giving love away leaves you with more than you had
The act of forgiveness is not for the one that hurt you
But heals your soul before its through

So do the best you can in life
Even when it equals strife
For this world will keep you spinning
For the score card is plain, death is winning

But don't you worry, I'm sure that's an oxymoron too
When deaths door we pass through
Real living then will we ensue
In death there will be no rest
This life is but a test
For the oxymoron weaves it's way through it all
Even when death at your door calls

Good judgment comes from experience, experience from bad decisions
This whole ******* life is a contradiction
It's an oxymoron at every turn
Every decision only gets you burned
If in old age you manage to arrive
That's when life's lessons are realized

The young are bound in the futility of it all
Never seeing the cliff before they fall
Not wise enough to know
God clipped our wings before the throw
He turned everything upside down
When he placed us on this hellish ground

We all where marked
You can't see the light unless your in the dark
You don't appreciate the sun's rays
Till you've stood in the storm for days
Without pian you wouldn't relish the pleasure
Without work, there would be no leisure
What is good, if taken to much only leads to bad
Giving love away leaves you with more than you had
The act of forgiveness is not for the one that hurt you
But heals your soul before its through

So do the best you can in life
Even when it equals strife
For this world will keep you spinning
For the score card is plain, death is winning

But don't you worry, I'm sure that's an oxymoron too
When deaths door we pass through
Real living then will we ensue
In death there will be no rest
This life is but a test
For the oxymoron weaves it's way through it all
Even when death at your door calls

Fight not the pain,
Fight not the sorrow,
Submit to the forces tearing at your chest
Feel the cold hands wrap around your heart and rip it from your steaming corps
Feel your body drop to earth
An empty vessel once so full.

Die not this fateful day
However,
As heartless on the ground you lie,
Embrace the raging flames of fortitude and vigor you know not yet
Let your barren chest be filled with the fire of a thousand torches
That burn brighter than the day.
Rise from the stale blood of days that pass so quick

And stand larger than before,
Reborn from pain

Si muove il cielo, tacito e lontano:
la terra dorme, e non la vuol destare;
dormono l'acque, i monti, le brughiere.
Ma no, ché sente sospirare il mare,
gemere sente le capanne nere:
v'è dentro un ***** che non può dormire:
piange; e le stelle passano pian piano.

Makaan selälläni, roikotan päätä reunan yli
Vaiti, liikkumatta, jottei hetki särkyisi
Veri kivistää päätä ja sormenpäistä katoaa tunto
Ilta heijastaa seinälle lainehtivia kuvioita
Pakko olla elossa
Pakko olla elossa vielä hetki
Sillä pian tulee öitä, jolloin pimeä ei ole läpitunkematonta
Jolloin metsänrajaan laskeutuu paksu kerros sumua,
katulamppujen valokiilat kuhisevat hyönteisiä
ja askeleet ovat äänettömiä kuivilla teillä

Sellaisena yönä kastaudun viileävetiseen satama-altaaseen
Uin vaivattomasti, kevein vedoin
Ihmeissäni siitä, että kaiken raivon
vatsakipujen
nielaistujen sanojen jälkeen
minuun ei jäänyt pyörremyrskyjä tai tyhjiä kohtia
Ei edes surumielisyyttä
Vaan aluillaan oleva tunne siitä,
että jotakin odottaa kulman takana

Johdatat meitä läpi kapeiden portaikkojen, poikki kaltevien askelmien, jotka saattavat pettää niille astuessa
Puiden reunustamille kujille, joilla luonto tuntuu tukahtuvan omaan vihreyteensä ja kesäyön hämärään
Läpi ihmismassan, jolla on päällään kimaltavia mekkoja ja suussaan kieliä, joita en täysin ymmärrä
Paikkoihin maanpinnan alapuolelle, jotka ovat nekin laitojaan myöten täynnä
Vietämme niissä hetken kerrallaan, muiden ympäröimänä mutta silti kovin kahden
Halusit eksyä meihin ja siihen iltaan, enkä minäkään uskalla toivoa mitään muuta
Pian kätesi hivuttautuu omaani ja olemme taas ulkona
Pysähdymme katselemaan, kuinka horisontin takaa alkaa päivä nousta heti kahden jälkeen
Korkeiden rakennusten estäessä merituulen pääsyn keuhkoihin ja takin sisään

O dolce usignolo che ascolto
(non sai dove), in questa gran pace
cantare cantare tra il folto,
là, dei sanguini e delle acace;
t'** presa - perdona, usignolo -
una dolce nota, sol una,
ch'io canto tra me, solo solo,
nella sera, al lume di luna.
E pare una tremula bolla
tra l'odore acuto del fieno,
un molle gorgoglio di polla,
un lontano fischio di treno...
Chi passa, al morire del giorno,
ch'ode un fischio lungo laggiù
riprende nel cuore il ritorno
verso quello che non è più.
Si trova al nativo villaggio,
vi ritrova quello che c'era:
l'odore di mesi-di-maggio
buon odor di rose e di cera.
Ne ronzano le litanie,
come l'api intorno una culla:
ci sono due voci sì pie!
Di sua madre e d'una fanciulla.
Poi fatto silenzio, pian piano,
nella nota mia, che t'** presa,
risente squillare il lontano
campanello della sua chiesa.
Riprende l'antica preghiera,
ch'ora ora non ha perché;
si trova con quello che c'era,
ch'ora ora ora non c'è...
Chi sono? Non chiederlo. Io piango,
ma di notte, perch'** vergogna.
O alato, io qui vivo nel fango.
Sono un gramo rospo che sogna.

The wind carries my cries,
the rain pours down my tears,
but still you hear,
yet you dont seem to see.
All the hurt,
All the pain,
But I guess it was my fault,
for holding it in,
saying its fine,
then letting it out,
through my arms.
Watching it bleed.
Letting it flow.
but I wasn't crazy,
I just wanted you to see,
that there was hurt n' pian,
just too much for me.
Now you sing my lulaby,
as I sleep cold still,
and there will be no blood.
The wind will carry no cry.
The rain will pour down no tears,
cause you sang my lulaby,
that only the dead could hear.

It's so much.
not to have you by my side.
not to be around you.
not to be with you.


YOU'RE THE PIAN THAT I WON'T GIVE UP.

All you have is your fire
so baby light it up
set fire to the world
shine brighter than the sun
we only have few choice
happiness is not one
so live through your fire
pretend you are one

All you have is your fire
the rest of the world is ash
your fire burned all of your friends
burned all you ever had
all it wont burn
is the pian of your past
so baby light your fire
make it last

Guardi la vostra casa sopra un rivo,
sopra le stipe, sopra le ginestre;
ed entri l'eco d'un gorgheggio estivo
dalle finestre.
Dolce dormire con nel sogno il canto
dell'usignuolo! E sian sotto la gronda
rondini nere. Dolce avere accanto
chi vi risponda,
sul far dell'alba, quando voi direte
pian piano: È vero che non s'è più soli?
Sì, sì, diranno, vero ver... Che liete
grida! Che voli!
Sul far dell'alba, quando tutto ancora
sembra dormir dietro le imposte unite!
Sembra, e non è. Voi sì, forse, in quell'ora,
madri, dormite.
Sognate biondo: nelle vostre *****
non un fil bianco: bianche, nel giardino,
sono, sì, quelle ch'ora vi tendeste,
fascie di lino.

pian rains out of my pores
as i bleed the death of an elephant.

Si muove il cielo, tacito e lontano:
la terra dorme, e non la vuol destare;
dormono l'acque, i monti, le brughiere.
Ma no, ché sente sospirare il mare,
gemere sente le capanne nere:
v'è dentro un ***** che non può dormire:
piange; e le stelle passano pian piano.

Corron tra ‘l Celio fosche e l’Aventino
le nubi: il vento dal pian tristo move
umido: in fondo stanno i monti albani
bianchi di nevi.

A le cineree trecce alzato il velo
verde, nel libro una britanna cerca
queste minacce di romane mura
al cielo e al tempo.

Continui, densi, neri, crocidanti
versansi i corvi come fluttuando
contro i due muri ch’a più ardua sfida
levansi enormi.

‘Vecchi giganti’ par che insista irato
l’augure stormo ‘a che tentate il cielo?’
Grave per l’aure vien da Laterano
suon di campane.

Ed un ciociaro, nel mantello avvolto,
grave fischiando tra la folta barba,
passa e non guarda. Febbre, io qui t’invoco,
nume presente.

Se ti fur cari i grandi occhi piangenti
e de le madri le protese braccia
te deprecanti, o dea, da ‘l reclinato
capo de i figli:

se ti fu cara su ‘l Palazio eccelso
l’ara vetusta (ancor lambiva il Tebro
l’evandrio colle, e veleggiando a sera
tra ‘l Campidoglio

e l’Aventino il reduce quirite
guardava in alto la città quadrata
dal sole arrisa, e mormorava un lento
saturnio carme);

febbre, m’ascolta. Gli uomini novelli
quinci respingi e lor picciole cose:
religïoso è questo orror: la dea
Roma qui dorme.

Poggiata il capo al Palatino augusto,
tra ‘l Celio aperte e l’Aventin le braccia,
per la Capena i forti omeri stende
a l’Appia via.

O dolce usignolo che ascolto
(non sai dove), in questa gran pace
cantare cantare tra il folto,
là, dei sanguini e delle acace;
t'** presa - perdona, usignolo -
una dolce nota, sol una,
ch'io canto tra me, solo solo,
nella sera, al lume di luna.
E pare una tremula bolla
tra l'odore acuto del fieno,
un molle gorgoglio di polla,
un lontano fischio di treno...
Chi passa, al morire del giorno,
ch'ode un fischio lungo laggiù
riprende nel cuore il ritorno
verso quello che non è più.
Si trova al nativo villaggio,
vi ritrova quello che c'era:
l'odore di mesi-di-maggio
buon odor di rose e di cera.
Ne ronzano le litanie,
come l'api intorno una culla:
ci sono due voci sì pie!
Di sua madre e d'una fanciulla.
Poi fatto silenzio, pian piano,
nella nota mia, che t'** presa,
risente squillare il lontano
campanello della sua chiesa.
Riprende l'antica preghiera,
ch'ora ora non ha perché;
si trova con quello che c'era,
ch'ora ora ora non c'è...
Chi sono? Non chiederlo. Io piango,
ma di notte, perch'** vergogna.
O alato, io qui vivo nel fango.
Sono un gramo rospo che sogna.

Si muove il cielo, tacito e lontano:
la terra dorme, e non la vuol destare;
dormono l'acque, i monti, le brughiere.
Ma no, ché sente sospirare il mare,
gemere sente le capanne nere:
v'è dentro un ***** che non può dormire:
piange; e le stelle passano pian piano.

Guardi la vostra casa sopra un rivo,
sopra le stipe, sopra le ginestre;
ed entri l'eco d'un gorgheggio estivo
dalle finestre.
Dolce dormire con nel sogno il canto
dell'usignuolo! E sian sotto la gronda
rondini nere. Dolce avere accanto
chi vi risponda,
sul far dell'alba, quando voi direte
pian piano: È vero che non s'è più soli?
Sì, sì, diranno, vero ver... Che liete
grida! Che voli!
Sul far dell'alba, quando tutto ancora
sembra dormir dietro le imposte unite!
Sembra, e non è. Voi sì, forse, in quell'ora,
madri, dormite.
Sognate biondo: nelle vostre *****
non un fil bianco: bianche, nel giardino,
sono, sì, quelle ch'ora vi tendeste,
fascie di lino.

It was because I'd known you for years & years
Because we'd always had a tension,
Because maybe when we were young it was hatred
But as we grew older certainly it was chemistry

We kissed in the club a little and you invited me home
I knew what I was doing
You, if anyone, you could cure me!

You were to be my second
To me it meant something
Not everything, but something
Maybe closure, maybe clarity on my sexuality
I trusted you

As we walked you quizzed me on contraception
I felt so immature
You seemed to know everything, more about women than I knew
I felt stupid, and unsure and I ignored my flags because I knew you
The survey about the pill etc 
I imagined you were being cautious, caring even
But in truth it felt transactional, systematic - just your usual checklist for women

You gave me 2 options
2 options, and no more kisses
No touches at all.
I didn't understand either of the terms you presented
Rather than tell you, I chose the 'word' one rather than the number one  - 69 
You gave me my only options after my contraception quiz
You could never have known that I didn't understand - I was so inexperienced, embarrassed
I chose, I repeated your words and waited for what would happen next..........
No more kisses
It all became clear
The pain was unbearable
It lasted 3 seconds before I ended it
It really lasted 20 years.....

And then my parents, my teachers, my friends all spoke, all knew
My sister copped it at school I think
Oh but they would never know about the 3 seconds

And I can't even prove this was your fault either
Probably mine, probably that 1 friend I'd spoken to
God I wanted to hated you
Instead I hated myself
But I gave consent, to something I didn't understand
I didn't want to punish you for my silence
I was disappointed that we didn't kiss, didn't hug
Disgusting, uncomfortable but technically not abusive
It didn't mean everything, but it did mean something
I didn't feel safe, or warm - I wish you knew that

I went home
My father was in the kitchen
It was late
We credit my mother for sensing things
But dad has a strange knack for the big ones
He said very little - did something happen? Do you want to talk about it
I was too shocked, ashamed, ***** to speak, to tell my father what I had agreed to
I had agreed right?

My kind parents never asked me about it again
I guess I've left them to come to their own conclusions.
I only have my lame excuses.

The second time you brought me home
I didn't think about you
This was for me
I owned this decision
I needed this.
You were truly terrible, again no kisses no touches at all
but then so was I..... absent and angry 
But I wanted to control this, I needed to give full consent this time, to choose it
So I did
I had wanted clarity in my own sexuality, I got that too
I said yes, loudly and more soberly this time
To the normal, missionary, experiment - I set the only option!
Even if everyone else would never know, I would!
I decided. 
I joined you and left you quickly again.
I ended it again suddenly, but on MY terms
No shock, no pian, just a short & small *******

It's been 18 years
Of avoiding you
Of moving away from you or your family in cafes and bars
18 years, for 3 seconds of pain and a swift exit

Isn't this why I can never come home? 
A fine end to my childhood, to my reputation, a fine headline 
A final victory to this small town I've hated since I was 7 years old
Isn't this why I can build new relationships all over the world
But I can't look anyone from Irish small town in the eye
This became the reason they needed to talk about me
This was juicy, juicy enough to override years of good behaviour and reading at church
This gave them permission, finally.
Stuck up *****, is even more flawed than the rest of us! We always knew it!

And maybe I've no right
But I do hate you
Do my family wonder if I was easy? Did they hear it and think, she's up for anything?
In the dark, late at night, when work is hard, when I'm worrying over something
Even now
You're there
You don't deserve to be there
And you don't know you're there
You're my worst thought
And you still.......... creep
And I still feel exposed and filthy
I want to scream how I didnt know, how I fled
I want to tell my teachers the truth, my parents
I wasn't easy, I was just too innocent
Who would listen
Small towns prefer scandal, and it's so late now.

Guardi la vostra casa sopra un rivo,
sopra le stipe, sopra le ginestre;
ed entri l'eco d'un gorgheggio estivo
dalle finestre.
Dolce dormire con nel sogno il canto
dell'usignuolo! E sian sotto la gronda
rondini nere. Dolce avere accanto
chi vi risponda,
sul far dell'alba, quando voi direte
pian piano: È vero che non s'è più soli?
Sì, sì, diranno, vero ver... Che liete
grida! Che voli!
Sul far dell'alba, quando tutto ancora
sembra dormir dietro le imposte unite!
Sembra, e non è. Voi sì, forse, in quell'ora,
madri, dormite.
Sognate biondo: nelle vostre *****
non un fil bianco: bianche, nel giardino,
sono, sì, quelle ch'ora vi tendeste,
fascie di lino.

O dolce usignolo che ascolto
(non sai dove), in questa gran pace
cantare cantare tra il folto,
là, dei sanguini e delle acace;
t'** presa - perdona, usignolo -
una dolce nota, sol una,
ch'io canto tra me, solo solo,
nella sera, al lume di luna.
E pare una tremula bolla
tra l'odore acuto del fieno,
un molle gorgoglio di polla,
un lontano fischio di treno...
Chi passa, al morire del giorno,
ch'ode un fischio lungo laggiù
riprende nel cuore il ritorno
verso quello che non è più.
Si trova al nativo villaggio,
vi ritrova quello che c'era:
l'odore di mesi-di-maggio
buon odor di rose e di cera.
Ne ronzano le litanie,
come l'api intorno una culla:
ci sono due voci sì pie!
Di sua madre e d'una fanciulla.
Poi fatto silenzio, pian piano,
nella nota mia, che t'** presa,
risente squillare il lontano
campanello della sua chiesa.
Riprende l'antica preghiera,
ch'ora ora non ha perché;
si trova con quello che c'era,
ch'ora ora ora non c'è...
Chi sono? Non chiederlo. Io piango,
ma di notte, perch'** vergogna.
O alato, io qui vivo nel fango.
Sono un gramo rospo che sogna.