I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.

Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.

I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.

Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.

I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.

As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.

Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.

Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.

Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.

O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make

in me is my bliss.

If my canvas was removable
I'd have snakeskin sheddings
piled at my feet
tattooed by a pen in
languages I'm still learning.
Lessons may have missed,
but concepts still birth
third-eye conception,
without static
the reception looked perceptive
but lacked the proper method of thought,
though those with lacked grasp
are gasping to breathe,
are constantly seething
in serial reading,
your glasses reflect crystal *****.
Distortion skewed what you said,
proportionately blowing away my thoughts
with what wrath you wrought,
temper tempering timid temerity
to take tricks to the thoughtless actions
making affairs public
and tricks tickets to freed selves.
I'm tired of feeling like an addict,
your trips to town
leaving me shaking,
the absence
a strong shot of absinthe
followed by detoxification
of my blood
and thoughts.
Atrophy caused apathy
and heart-rot.
This shaking has to stop
or these words will forever
go unread.
Lines becoming waves
I'm seasick off thinking,
sea, I'm sick of thinking,
sick, I'm sea, cool blue
holding vast universe
and creation claimed creatures
in crevices buried
under self.
Thunderheads strike me
with glimpses of brilliance
as they reiterate what already was,
composing a self-made being
prophesised by ancients
who became whole,
a collected conference of ne'er-do-wells
and great lakes of depression
mistaken as puddles when the clouds
reanimate their deadened self
with soul of we,
with ***** and spirits,
both happy and deadly
lost only in the way
they lost self
to selfish thoughts
of a growing (m/w)e.
And when essence is discarded,
replaced by common cents
or otherwise deemed useless
we are left to wonder,
who's this?
Eyes
look, nearly censored
by silver backings and
dulled centers
seem lacking in humanity,
left more to primal urges,
hunting for those thoughts
left behind and gathering
pieces of rotheart
to rekindle that passion we've forgotten
after complacency compromised
our composure,
leaving heads slung in hopes of finding
a small piece of fragmented earth
in which to glimpse
a reflection of our core.
It lies dormant, though not dead,
we fear eruption of emotional enticement,
instead sleeping giants be we,
volatile and awe some,
do not catch eyes
lest we be the last things seen,
two peaceful for something not known
in the unknown languages
that cover us,
nor seen in the depths
of collective conscious,
though treating us apart,
hair by hair,
limb by limb,
being by be ing we are separating,
nay, unraveling,
untangling me from the complications
of we
only to see we
are incomplete and
alone.
Broken to pieces it's easier
to accept
the whole of who we are.

Piercing with the paled eyes
Doctor gave verdict:  
‘’It is spread thru water,
has to be cared’’  

"No, it is because of
seeing Vangoh’s paintings"
Friend commented.

"Following the funeral procession of
Jose Arcedio Buvendia every day".
Lover ridiculed.  

"Without searching for job
sitting idle
swallowing the news papers".
Father scolded

"Giving no importance to feed
Untimely urination
thinking many pranks.. "
Mother panicked.

"It is the yellow card shown by god
for the foul committed"
Priest prophesised.

Hey, you all those who gathered
with complaints around my liver
coloured like  a crock pecked mango
please remember:

Often life turn yellow
when there is no greenery around.

The sixth opened on the sixth
history prophesised, future past

sun and moon eclipsed
heavens and earth shaken
moon bloodied, stars fell
earth ripped apart, time perturbed

graves opened
the dead arose to life
the living buried themselves
immortal died
mortality perished

blood spilled, living marked
wait for the number of Man

you are so unbelievably oblivious,
even by my standards.
I sent you that picture
yeah, I know you have it.
love,
I wanted to talk to you.
I wanted you to whisper in my ear
all of the things you told me this time last year
but apparently
you don’t feel that way anymore.
but I have evidence you once did
when I can't sleep, I type into the search bar "love"
finding bittersweet comfort there,
burying it somewhere among the tears I shed
over what isn't anymore.

2. you are so unbelievably clueless,
even by my standards.
because yes, I took your picture
because you make me happy.
I also took your picture
because I love you
because I need you
because don't know how to be without you -
you’re the only person who’s heard about my writing,
and never asked to read it.
ask, love.
ask.
please ask.
I think you’d be surprised as to what you find.

3. you love, (or, loved) me so unbelievably much
by anybody’s standards.
you held me those nights under the stars
I know you’d not held anybody like that before
love, I could tell.
but love,
every night I lie in bed and I go back to those nights
I’ve never been able to replace them since.
those nights, drunk on moonlight,
I lost, drunk on ***** -
will they ever come back?
darkness is so empty
when I am trying to hide from pleas(e) -
these days I am so very afraid of tenses.

4. our lives are such different paths -
even by my standards.
how I fooled myself for so very long
thinking you were no fork in the road
believing that our walks were parallel tracks
willing my way of thinking to envelop you and change you
part of your appeal, love, is that -
compared to me you don’t know what you’re talking about.
I’m just more careful as to with whom I talk about it.

5. you don’t care as much as I do.
but, by my standards, nobody does.
“right.”?
I’ve poured my heart out to you many a time-
“right.”?
oh, but nothing's changed between us-
"right."?
when you wanted to talk to me
your words fit mine like you were made for me.
now you don’t-
I’m always the one to send the last message.

6. you are not different
even by my standards. and by that I mean
you held on for long months at a time
still seeking after me in the ways that you know how -
and now, as if it had been prophesised months in advance
my fears have been coming true and
you are slipping between my fingers
like sand, faster than I can catch you
and I am so scared.
I never wanted to lose you this way
but the truth is you are not different
you are not special
you are not unique-
not any more so than anybody else.

7. but you are unrivalled.
by anybody’s standards.
the day I stand by and say “I loved you.”
will be the day I cease to fear tenses
and while that day may well come-
that day is not here yet.
until then, love,
I hope we keep seeking each other
in whatever way we know how.

Silently He watches
Always from a distance
Things turn slowly
Within His favour
His hand remains
Withdrawn for now
His smile on his face
Reveals its near the time
He bates his breath
Things are almost too good
Darkness enclose him
From where he has stood
Theres a time,
So its written
For Life to unfold
What were prophesised from old
Must be brought to the true
And he silently watches
As a tear leaves his eye
Its within darkness he longs
For the Light lost inside....