I promise this shall be the last poem of thee I've written of thee. And thus I have dedicated all the love I have for thee into this; in the hope that my heart has none of it left after writing the poem.

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood;
Its taint of darkness dripping down like blood-red hearth.
A breeze of morning moves, that we love, has gone;
For a musk of the skies at dusk must have come down.

Come into the garden, my love, and play around with me;
For a bed of love daffodils is on high;
For a set of faint lights is now there to catch;
One breed of lights that we used to play with.
Bring my that green glass of paint, and draw by me,
While I rub thy dark hair on my lap, with my bronze fingertips.

Run around here, Immortal, and give me thy handsome hand;
Thou art the speed and pace I need here to stay;
Ah, I am not detached from t'is world, so long as I have you;
I am charmed, even in the darkest abyss of yon superficiality.
Thou art the fragrance of happiness found in decay;
Strength in the most diminished, and yet distinguished ecstasy;
A fable t'at becometh real in a flight of seconds;
A temptation no maiden heart canst afford to dismiss.
And look at me, now and then and all over again,
I wanteth to look pretty in my ruffle brown skirt,
Just like in my midnight gown on a flowery wedding night,
One t'at we shalt have above the sun, out of everyone else's jealous sight.

Let's dream t'at this delight shall ne'er wear out, and leave to us t'is nuptial potion;
I hath ideas for us and the most sensible of worldly notions;
Naughty as water ripples and the broadening green plantations;
I knoweth now where we canst go and hide our insightful destinations.
Thou wert always running in thy magical shoes,
And t'eir worlds of visions and phantom-like phantasies,
Like woeful but wise extraterritorial dimensions,
A forest of spells and love curses we never knoweth.
But worry not, my dear, for I shall hold thee in both portals,
I'll keep thee safe by my side, I'll keep thee immortal,
So that we are ne'er to be apart, in such a bright love like pearls,
And the petals of roses t'at ne'er swerve again from our fingertips.
We were always inhabited by our little jokes, and moved by an unseen hand at game,
T'at everything was too tranquil even for being a game as itself its nature,
And the whole little wood we were perched on was one world
Of fun shivers, wonders, and plunder and prey,
Oft' at midnight hours we looked at each other so kindly and peacefully,
With eyes mastered by love and tough loveliness,
Thou looked but wholesomely splendid in thy own questioning minds,
And thy brown hair t'at was turned about by solitary winds.
Ah, Immortal! Immortal, Immortal, my visionary love, my darling bird.
And yet, the night knew then, of our tricks and who we were, funny little liars—
Little liars t'at had but a tender love outta' time and space,
And such a gleaming love for one another,
We whispered, and hinted, and chuckled, with an aroma of love about us,
However we'd braved it out, we felt about it glad and not sorry;
We humans of a naughty, devilish, notorious, but sophisticated breed!

Come into the garden, Immortal, for the night bat now hath flown;
The one thou fear, my love, hath left us alone.
And forgive me for my rigid clauses to them;
For I want only to writ' of thee, my darling bud.
The planet of love seem't be on high,
Beginning to pick away its fruitful colours,
And make itself look petrified and stultified,
Like one from abroad, flown in as foreign woodbine spices.
Ah, as though t'is temporal world is not murky enough for us both,
That our translucent breaths are those who survive;
Who remain rustic in this unmerited ordinary world.

Come again, my love, my impeccable darling,
Let's witness what the sonnet's yet to sing;
All we need t' do is pick up a lil' wooden chair;
And breathe the swampy midnight air before we sit.
Here is my poetry, and I'th written it for thee,
Long like the satin seas, and red ribbons made of clouds,
I needst not say it but thou read still, my heart out loud.
Ah, Immortal, the golden gift thrown at one clean snowy night!
And t'ese hidden memories now shine out back again,
For the drifts of the earth we ne'er knoweth, indeed,
And thus who knoweth the ways of the world,
And the surreptitious moves its soil's done,
From morning to night, from one day to another?
Ah, who knoweth 'em all but the Almighty?
Our Almighty, our very Almighty;
t'at breathed into our souls such loving love,
And made for us t'is decent planet, many suns, and one fair earth.
Ah, Immortal, and thou art the son of literature He had to me,
A joy t'at my hands, as He told, outta rejoice,
A glory t'at my faith should find.
Ah, Immortal, thou art sweet, sweet, and too sweet!
Thy sweetness is but an avarice, one bold austerity to me;
Scenic in its grace—a graceful grace t'at is far too restless and undying!
Undying, unweakening, but strengthening, t'at it'll ne'er die!
Ah, for thy sweetness, Immortal, hardly leaveth me a choice;
But to move and fall softly again and again for thee like before,
And thy honey-coloured skin and charms t'at I adore,
Not his, who knows or feels any of me not;
Not him, who is neither courtly not kind;
Not there, who understands not how to write,
to read, nor even to sing.

All night hath the roses heard songs from thy Eolian lute;
And my unveiled violin, piano, and bassoon;
All shrieking and collating in one strange space.
But hear thou, my love, of my shrilling little voice?
An unheard, abashed voice that keeps calling your name;
Your coloured name, that smells like trust
In its euphoric aura and ecstatic plays.
Where art but thou, my Immortal;
That was so close and definitive to my heart.
Where art but our strings, and guitar cords;
That used to rock up our beneficent loveliness?
That kept our hearts in tune, when desperately falling in love,
Ah, I do not want to leave thee still in thy weird dance,
I want to keep thy heart beating with mine and stay in tune;
I want to run with thee into a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the playful lily, 'There is none but one
With whom my curious heart is to be gay.
When will he be free to catch up with me?
I see him day and night and in dreams of my poetry.'
And half to the rising day, low on the sand
And loud on the stone our passion too shall rise;
Keep us cheerful and our heartbeats warm.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that shall ne'er be thine?
'But mine, but mine,' I swore gaily to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine. Just mine.'

And the soul of our fragrant rose sings into my blood,
That Immortal and his lover shall ne'er be apart.
He'll wait for her at night, in one bloodless Sofia;
She'll wait for him 'till such stars fall asleep.
He makes her blessed even in her dreams,
That all the red roses and lilies stay awake to watch their joy.

Immortal and Estefannia, the happiest ones along those summer days;
Are a threat to those soul frayed and vitriolic;
Too stellar to them romantic and idyllic;
Proud and sturdy in their ascetic life.
The best of love of the world's missing beat;
Daintier than any of this summer's bitter heat.
How fate tests their love we shall ne'er know,
but their love stretches as distantly as it can.

Ah, Immortal, tells Estefannia I shall make thee flattered
In sleep, in peace, in conscience, and in hate;
I shall make for us joy though our stories may be late.
Thy eyes are brown, my love, one shade the world's never owned
And thus thy love is valid and new in itself, ne'er worn.

And I shall hear when thy lips wan with despair, I'll be there;
I'll stand there with my basket, a gift from one faraway;
But with a love neither placid nor drained;
Villainous as t'is world is, what a broken wordling;
Like a wailing starling, torn in its calls and frothy desires.
T'ere is no more signal for us towards t'is despaired world;
I shall take thee yet, through the curtains of such speculations;
For 'tis only thy pride t'at lives, and not one soul of thine lies;
And should thou remain alive, my love shall ne'er hibernate,
But sit and trust firmly in its wakeful sleep, grasping thee,
Grasping thee, my love, 'till exhaust allows me no more words,
'Till my own poetry disobeys me like a cloud of putrefied shadows,
Ah, but still, remaining a gross soulless apparition I may be,
With no apparatus trembling 'round beside me,
Wouldst I still saunter myself forwards,
And greet thee in t'at peaceful vineyard;
Play to thee a lullaby and witness thy dreams,
Rocking thee softly against thy own stardoms,
'Till rivers are awake again and alert t'eir inane streams.
O Immortal, it is for better and fairness t'at I love thee,
Ah, but which love is sweeter than mine, or stronger than ours?

For I trust t'at my love is hungrier t'an that of her yonder,
Ah, and t'an t'at loyalty and patriarchy of our sullen armies,
More striking than a ****** dame's pictorial tyrannies,
One too sweet-scented for a hidden mercenary,
I have heard, I know not whence, t'at it but happened to thee;
Thou wert away, thou wert not under my umbrella, beneath me!
Where is Immortal now, for I need to save him again;
My husband in nature, my lover and immortal darling and best friend!

For t'is world is but a holocaust for the believing;
T'ere is, within which, not one pyramid of truth,
For 'tis a place of happy misery, and too miserable happiness.
T'ere is no place like our little Sofia, t'at once we dreamed of;
Filled with rainwater by its armed forces of Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I shall wait for thee there, by the triple roundabouts,
I shall wait for thee before I pray, and seek help from Our Lord;
I hath written for Him warm praises and delicate triplets of words.
Immortal the delight of my life, the dignity of my love;
Immortal the ringing joy of my ears, the gallant sight of my eyes;
Immortal my darling, of whom I write and for whom I sing.
Immortal like the leaves of the suburbs, t'at turn red and shyly bloom,
One that smells like mangoes and two pieces of orange blossoms.
Ah, Immortal, with his sweet red-mouth when eating dangled grapes,
Immortal the beloved of my father, the moon-faced, merriest son of all!

Where is he now? My dreams are bad. He may bring me a curse.
No, there is a fatter game on the moors, perhaps I ought to look for 'im t'ere.
The devil, I am afraid, hath stolen him again away,
I hath seen him not for a time as long as this day's.
Immortal, I want thy bountiful smile, and see thee not ill;
Immortal, tell me t'at thou long for and love me still.

Ah, along those happy days, and fabulous morning thrills,
My heart leapt whenever it caught thy voice,
And thy sanguine embrace when such came near;
Days were but too advanced, I know, and men were tied to t'eir own minds;
But thou kept me calm, with such majestic love and lil' poems in thy hands,
For t'is world is yet too adamant in t'eir pursuit,
Yet I needed thee, and thou came along.
Long had I sighed for a calm: God may grant it to me at last!
Ah, Immortal, a naughty lil' breach of t'is world, and its affairs;
A lil' cuddle t'at laughed and darted merrily all through the night.
Would t'ere be sorrow for me, for what I was feeling?
I thought I sensed only love and none like hate,
For it all tasted sweet and fierce like neverending fate,
A fate t'at we both accepted in one force,
A fate too astounding from our courageous Lord.
I thought thou wert mine, and thou shalt always be mine!
And t'is swirling sensation, when I looked at thee,
Full of teary happiness and chaotic delights,
I did want not t' think of its possible ends,
Ah, violent as Shakespeare might've assumed,
But I wanted to relish and bury myself in it
For such memories of thou had desired.
Immortal, Immortal, and now thou art gone;
But when all t'is world does is to go flexibly round,
Where'th thou think our missing beats can be found?

Warm and clear-cut face, why thou came so cruelly meek;
A cute lil' wonder to my sight—and for my lungs
To breathe stupidly for now and again.
Thou, handsome lad, hath broken all slumbers
In which all is but vague and foul and folly,
Pale with the golden beam with one dead eyelash
Knifed by the contours on one's cheeks.
And t'ere is also, about, the remnants of one's blood,
Dried and unmoving in t'eir death, but too lifelike at the same time,
Smelling ***** like the air rifles t'at just brought 'em all to death.
Death, ah, living t'is life without thee is like death;
All is clueless, breathless and sightless,
All is burning me strangely and from within,
Luminous, gemlike, dreamlike, deathlike, half the night long,
Growing and fading and growing and fading like an edgeless song,
But all too disobeys me, and disappears again as morning arrives,
Mocking me again while showing off its cloud wives.
I am trapped again now, in t'is wonderless dream of thee;
Which is more buoyant and febrile, unfortunately, than death itself,
One darker than even a tragic tear of one thousand years;
Like a heartbreaking scream or shipwrecking roar,
I am walking in a wintry stream all by myself,
And where is my Immortal—for he is not by my side,
He doth not witness the emerging of such sunshine—ah! It is t'ere today, quite early,
One t'at sets t'is darkening gloom all away, and thus we are all born free,
Free, virtually, both our hands and slithering eyes,
But still thou art not 'ere with me to witness t'is joy,
Thou who hath gone and withered like a pale blow of smoke.
Ah, Immortal, but may I hold t'ese rainy memories of thee still;
For t'ey all scorn and spurn as though I am ill;
I who loveth thee sincerely 'till the very end of time,
I who loveth thee with all the clear and vague powers
with which my very soul hath been endowed,
I who loveth thee like mad, I who loveth thee purely without hate;
I who virginly loveth thee like I doth my own fascinated fate.

Lay again, my love, on my longing lap,
I'll sing to thee one favourite lullaby,
And a basket of cherries t'at we picked nearby,
We shall enjoy t'is merriment before I let you sleep.
I shall let you sleep on my lap—a pair of skins t'at love you,
Love you as much as my other skin doth,
A heartbeat and pulse t'at breathe together
And want thee t'at madly, now and forever.

I found thee perfectly beautiful, my Immortal;
Sometimes thy eyes were downcast,
Spiritual in some ways,
And 'twas like thou wert thinking, my love;
Thinking of the upsurging stars above—and t'eir ******* secrets, beneath.
Ah, Immortal, even the vilest idleness cannot be against my love for thee;
My sparkling stars, and the affirmation traced along my heart is about thee;
All about thee, until t'ere is but none left of me,
Thou art the juice of my soul—far too ripe for someone else's heart!
And one, thou art more delicate than the crescent moon we hath tonight;
More shimmery than its ***** and rays of twilight,
Ah, Immortal, how the heavens hath descended thee onto me;
Thou, my love, art the last life and love of my thorough entity.

And t'is poetry shall be thy last enchanting lullaby,
I hope thou'lt sing it when midnight's swollen and sore,
Hurting thee to the pipes of thy very core,
But let's forget not t'at we once knitted awesome stories,
A chain of moments t'at lasts forever, ever, and ever again.
Ah, Immortal, we are back in the afternoon now,
We must though 'tis bluntly hard to say goodbye,
Of which hearts are unsure, but yet must lie,
I shall cry out my last beating love for thee,
But thou dwelleth in what I see, and thus ne'er leave me,
Like a fallen star t'at wants to rise but ne'er doth,
Thou art still the leaf my autumn tree hath sought;
And thou art the shine to my balmy rootless night;
Thou art the apparition t'at appeareth and teasest me after nightfall.

I'll wait for thee again in slippery Sofia,
And my love shall re-unite again with its winds;
Its walls, its havens, its barns like a spellbound purgatory;
For if I am bound to thee, in love and hate and rage and agony;
I'll write thee poems 'till even the universe is asleep.
I'll be cold like thy saluted Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I'll hold thee with 'till the last drops of my sanity;
Ah, Immortal, and in yon high-walled garden I still watch thee
pass like an authorial star;
Thou art as graceful as my own kind-hearted light;
For sorrow cannot even seize thee, my leading star!

Say love not when I meet thee again one day;
For t'ere is no more a desire to learn or admire,
I shall carry my knigh

With a blistered heart
From unnumbered breaks,
A cloud of unshed tears
From untold betrayals,
I reenter the world
After an eternity or more
Of self imposed asylum
From a world of superficial bliss.

A world unchanged!
A cruel untended garden
Of deceptive beauty
And unkind thorny roses.
Lovelorn shadows,
Masquerading venomous claws
With beauteous flamboyance
And undesirable attraction.

Lethargic feelings,
Dousing my desires
With drowsing memoirs
Of countless emotional abuse,
Causing momentary spasms
In cerebral regions
Parading nocuous images
In the plenitude of projected beauty.

Scarred beyond immediate cure,
I recede from said world-
Too adverse for tender hearts
Back to hibernating moods
To nurse evergreen cuts
Cuts so deep, so lethal
Only the indolent strides of time
Can attempt to stitch!

Awaiting prophetic moments
Moments with mirage qualities
When in-love I can fall again
When a damsel I can trust again
When my heart can beat again
For one with pure intentions
Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors
But virtuous in biblical ways...


© Raphael Uzor

april,
full pink moon,
it snowed yesterday, and still today
many
many clouds of light, like a

statue

i wonder if the light remembers itself,
if the moon knows when it's called  (by nasa) the supermoon  or the pale moon,
when it brings frost, rain,
*******,
ovulation
if it takes any credits,

last week at the corner of my house the storm ripped apart half a tree,
does it remember where?
does it remember the putrefied roots, dry branches blown by the wind,
does it remember the one that still fights,

i look out the window,

the cat jumps from branch to branch, plays with the blue jays,
who memorizes who? initially, it seems, that the cat is provoking the birds,
squatting on a thicker branch awaits the next move,
i have my moments too,
i understand, the truth never barks,
and does not caress you like a kind mother
it also doesn't  kiss you where you want to be kissed

for thousands of years,

it is rumored that many know it, but
the raw reality is that truth is autistic,
the gifted child
genuinely likes the same food, the same road, the same coat,  color,
stops at the red pass when is green, it simply knows what is right,
like a donkey clings to the same people,
roars at the same gate,

it is the only one equipped with the kick under the belt,
it  hits the careless on the scruff,
the rest on the forehead, in the belly,
it hits with a  fist,  feet,  or sledgehammer, like a rumble of  thunder,  a bomb,
it bites by the ear, by the nose,
it's mike tyson,  the greatest puncher of all time,

despite it all

net theater, all kinds of reinvented creatures, weird characters talking about the belt,
they want to abort it and  flutter it on the (right) cheek of jeofrrey de peyrac,
more than likely, to cover the cracks in the palace of culture (the experts
explaining: it is an adaptation response to fresh rehabilitation),

no joke

the truth has nothing to do with adaptation, those in  trend, the saviors of the world,
a boomerang doesn't know about smart people, bullies, or others…

a boomerang is a boomerang

try to make a bow from a boomerang, or a parachute
and you'll have princess diana's headache on her  wedding day; migraine sweet migraine
cancer, brain tumors,
titmouse constipation, broken teeth on TV,
viol in viol, - in,

i don't want to write about what I have  in mind,
i know nothing (tell yourself: big deal), and
i don't want to wash my brain with your memorized truth

*
reality is much harsher than a halloween decorated pumpkin,
when memory mocks you
every morning you wake up smaller and smaller
a shrimp,
stretching back and forth like tasteless chewing gum
promising
hailstones solidified between tangible and inaccessible
free play up and down the column
abandoned (does not mean we are free from mistakes, and responsibilities)
whether we happen or not, all that is not only ours
here or there we are bubble-to-bubble
missing
the freedom with respect to destiny
...
but how about the parrot?
when the truth happens like the full moon, live
în pink flesh
once a month
ones a year,
per century,
once in the millennium
...

I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
                                               struggles to intubate a cat.  
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
                                                      practition­ers are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
                                                                ­     the sternum sore.  

Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.  
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.

Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
       after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.  

The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.  
The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.  
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.  
                                                        ­               The eleventh hour,
                                                                ­  isn’t that what it’s called?  

We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.  
We have to, but it won’t register.  
                                                     ­       After a loss, after a trauma,
                                                                ­   we are on autopilot.  
I think of my mother,
                                        six feet beneath frozen soil in
                                      a pink padded casket and think:
                                                                ­                             I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
                                                          ­                                   I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.  
Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.  
We don’t talk about it.  

We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.  
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)

I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.  
I couldn’t do these things.
                                                 My hands tend to break what they touch.  
The glass bowl in the pet store.  
                               The clay project in art class.  
                                                        ­    The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
                                                                                    good at trauma.

There's a hole in my wall which the wind whistles through
And the wallpaper's mouldy and calamine blue
The carpet besmirched with a decade of grime
And the pattern is lost to a happier time
The journals and books where my memories stay
Have mixed and submerged in a fearful array
The curtains hang tattered in woeful neglect
Where the mildew and fungus and beetles collect

There's a hole in the floor where the mice have a nest
Where the walls creak and groan like a cancerous chest
And a puddle emerges from under the door
Like a serpent, it winds on the laminate floor
Underfoot, fragments of crockery crunch
Still stained with the leavings of long ago lunch
There's a rattle and scratching of verminous claws
The spoon never stirs so the *** never pours

There's a crack in the window that lets in the rain
Where it runs in a rivulet right down the pane
The mattress is rotten and rusted inside
Bacteria thrive and amoeba divide
The ceiling is sagging from waterlogged beams
And catches the sunlight with putrefied gleams
Like powder, the plaster is fast in retreat
With it's choking secretions, the air is replete

There's a trace of a life that was never fulfilled
Like a drink only sipped and then carelessly spilled
There's hope of a future and trinkets amassed
But frittered away and consigned to the past
The wires are old but the bulbs are still new
And pictures of vigor are hanging askew
As if from existence, vitality blinked
A carcass remaining though life is extinct

i will see you, my love
soon
i will see you in a windless country, in a thoughtless world,
with swords, we”ll cut off all roads in the air, from the earth
with our eyes, we”ll dress them up  in feathers of rio abre-alas,
open wings
one day soon, in the valley on the farm
seduced by the dry edge of the grass
crushed under the earth furrow we”ll forget about ourselves,
we”ll fall like a snow belt in the winter, slow, slow,
lazy to get lost in goosebumps, yellow,
create and raw, soon
the sun will call us to a world where love is truly blind
and deaf,
and mute,
and putrefied like an old woman,
older than stone,  birds, air
water
red angels, maybe one day soon
soon
our love will be easy,
so eeeeeeeasy
as easy as blue cheese mold on the tongue,
like a blues that is digging our thirst at night
like a lip gloss broken with a pointed nose,
warm, soft *******, sweet steam resting on the needles of time
caressed by two strands asleep in the stillness of white *******,
milk carved in palm lines,
hungry orphans,
beggars built in the breath of your chest, we will die
we will die, one day soon
and, you”ll come again with your forehead up, your swaying walk,
oh, your swaying walk, no eyes, no air
it will be easy to bite your lips
touch your hard beard
in a distant world where there are no storms
no thoughts
one day soon, one day
maybe

To be here, to be there, and not to be;
   Thou hath the whole rivers inside of me,
Thou art a night, a lonely sunny day;
   That hath melted my souls away.
To be thy blood, thy lover, thy asylum;
   To dwell within thee, to become thy poems.
Thou hath carried all my dried wounds away;
   Thou art meant for me, and I shall stay.

Their peaceful songs, too much noise;
   Titled feuds, crowned falsehoods,
My homeland, unknown to my youth;
   Stealing my sanity, my warmed voice.
Their music too, from a broken home;
   Telling me they would ne’er come;
My hometown, yet foreign to me;
   Adrift in bulk, losing my poetry.

To be here, to live, but not to see;
   Yet to be unchained, and break free,
Thou art a yard, a bush, a pear tree;
   Thou yield the whole love inside of me,
Thou stirred the birth of my presence;
   Thou breathed love to my concerns.
Thou art my reverence, my faith;
   Thou revoked my disgrace, my hate.

Their masterpiece, vainly serene;
   When they could sing, I was not seen;
Too common, like the youth about us
   Not knowing when life could go past.
Today shall end, but merely so
   They could not smell yesterday, no;
Nor shall their hard grieves glance further,
   Now, everlastingly, forever.

I long to be in tales faraway;
   That they shall not see me in today;
Not in winter, nor the heat of June;
   Not in daylight, nor under the moon.
Not in water, nor stark frost;
   They could not see me under their rose;
Then I could break free, I could see you
   To tell you about the truth, to give you—my love.

One island is too grey to me;
   To the southern edge of Earth;
If I said I could sail for thee;
   Would thou be my tree, my hearth?
But not to be here, ever and again;
    To clear my soul of their sold pain,
To be alone, but I could be fine;
    To head to the North with my mind.

One soil thought she was too charming;
    Nor that I knew them, that morning,
And in spring, their snarky heirs
    Bowed down to *** and stark roses;
None of what I did look fair,
    Nor the clean spruce of my prose.
Everywhere I went, just the ground
    Grinning kindly at my crusted sounds.

One land was too high, and glamour
    Encapped the heights of its odour;
Encompassing the love I had, and here
    This is the land of birth, but hear—
Love is felt nowhere close to me, so
    I shall be bound to the other I know;
I shall launch my sails, and my voyage
    Departs at time’s coming of age.

One ground became too proud, and he
    Lifted himself off the myriads of me;
The rebel, the judge, the jubilant
    The only consolation I wanted;
He could not catch in me, my sanctity
    And all love putrefied, and died.
To whom, that I became, still a mystery
    A waste, a wailing, a soiled story.

To run free, to breathe away from here
   To become the whole calls I hear;
Being the roads with stars and sunlight
   By the rosebuds of the Northern Light.
To be the prominent in me, and to thee
   That I come home, every day and night;
To be free to love, and blindly sing
    Until dawn comes to force, on chaste mornings.

To come closer, to be with you
    To drift away from wrong to true;
And call my love back again, from the woods
    Planted wild in mists and dreamful shadows.
To call you home, by the green fields
    With careened paths and gravel shields;
To be the poet again, the one I have—
    To embrace all that I once left.

To be thy finger, thy wrist, thy face;
   To be sole white and pure of lace;
To be the accessories of thy dreams;
   To be the wife of thy white nights.
When thou heard the frost, and screamed;
   My nights went more fearful then they seemed,
Too much fate and moist, poorly blended;
   My nightmares then ne’er ended.

To be the living, the door, the house;
   To drench the desires thou aroused,
To be the winter, the lilac to behold;
   To be felt as my love goes too bold,
And not ignored as I go beyond;
   Not to be halted, be scorned, be torn,
I have loved every day, every night—
   Then I have dreamt of your bluest sight.
  
To cherish my breath, my air, my chest;
   The living power of all our flesh,
The hungriness, but knowledge of my heart
   Not to take our exchanged poems apart;
For I have played my part, and kept my love
   For you, and as here ‘tis not enough;
I have loved, and unloved again
   My heart hath been a scorching pain.

To swim in this image of thine, and see
    Which memory I shall keep to me;
In which my arts shall come to presence
    From noon to night, and prevalent;
In which t’ere is only omnipresence
    With luminous pages, and their scent;
Too ambiguous too deny, clear to hate
    They shall admire it, though ‘tis late.

To be the vine, and grapes of thy yard
    To be the fine fruits of toil, so hard;
To be the last one to read the sky, that
    I shall still embrace, to the last.
Not to be here, in that life again;
    Only the sorrows and dramas of pain,
I shall soar for a greater gain;
    Feeding off clouds, drinking the rain.

To be the tales, rhythms of my heart;
    To admire from far away,
And unite back again when ‘tis time;
    All those cascades of madness and solitude;
Now, all smaller poesies shall rise and rhyme;
   Calling the same hymns and magnitude;
I shall be there, and not long now—
    I’ll stand still, and not flinch somehow.

To be the dress, the fashion of my love;
    My feelings now imitate the skies,
All emotions are moderate, and enough
    My heartbeat shall tell no lies;
Then, all torn sonnets cross my mind;
    At that time though, thou shall be mine;
I shall be there soon, tomorrow—
   Wait for me there, as thou shall know.

To be the kind, the temperate of my heart
   To be the pen and the poem, the bard;
All notions are justified, and seen
    It shall be autumn that I arrive in;
When, all stanzas clearly written
    And all workings exotic and firmed;
At that time though, thou shall see—
   All the loving and excitement in me.

To be the warmth, the sustained cold
    And the reason my sight still beholds;
All thoughts are visible, and bearable
    All daydreamed paths grow’n feasible;
That, all visions notably bound
    Thou shall embrace my tones and sounds;
With graceful moves, lithe and sleek
    I cometh to love thee, every day of the week.

To be the charm, the one in thy arms
    I shall surrender to Midnight’s swarms;
And be the one for thee, for the night
   Over all brief and lengthy sights;
There, holding thee all winter and summer
   A destination that lasts forever;
At that time soon, thou shall love me
   And my presence of eternity.

To be the destiny, on carpeted nights
   That magic works through our frights;
Making fears but a buoyant gift,
   And the beauty of the night so deep.
Holding me, lulling thyself to sleep
   A slumber to remember, too keep.
Thy florid hair falling into my face;
   Thy locks flirting with my embrace.

To be the envisioned, the right
   To be thy illusion, thy envied night;
And be the one who shall not fail
   I shall crumble out of my wooden shell;
To throw myself into that golden mark
   That becomes thee, oft’ by fall’n sparks;
To come with boughs of joy, and laugh;
   To fulfill thee with all my love.

Loyal to my art I am
this is all I am
I am at the edge
by will I destroy you

If you really knew my name
you would so **** your pants
I maybe too f...ing kind
not to crucifier you

My name is of the wings of Angels
don't think you can ever touch me
I wipe my blooded feet at heavens gate
for the liken putrefied **** of you

No Mercy will be given
you ******* the wrong bird
this one will f**k you up
for I write hatred most observed

Glory to God
And the death of you


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Part I: The Elegy of the ******

O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar
And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star

All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit
All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit!

Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods;
Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs

We strip our skins to this detestable madness,
From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness

So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols
On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls

And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys
Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins

As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone,
So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone

Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul?
If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll

Soot blackened fruit of economic glory,
the rolling steel contraption of sacred convenience
propelled from graveyards of putrefied fuel.
Flatulent streams of gaseous, stinking voidance
naught but a cockroach could ever hope to breath.


"A Buck eighty-three per gallon!
**** son, I remember when
Five dollars filled my twenty-gallon tank!
Corporate *******, gouging the sainted American soul!
How dare they abuse the Holy, Consuming Masses so!

That's not the righteous American Way."


Plucked from a tree
nurtured from a poisoned pool,
the maître de serves us with sumptuous flair
the glistening metal fruit of demanding fools
basted in Gaia's own sweet, dark blood.
With greedy flourish we consume and selfishly devour
till the piper appears demanding just payment.

Then we scamper towards the door
pointing greasy, crooked fingers,
as we scurry away with ne'er a simple gratuity.
The entire world pays for our
selfish deeds
and petty needs
for ivory seeds.
A corporate corrigendum stricken from the ledger
with a well-placed bomb, or two, or three.


"Five dollars!
Crap, that's what those haughty Europeans pay!
But I'm a proud American!
I'll yell, I'll scream, and maybe whine just a bit!
I may even e-mail that **** crooked fool in Congress.
I have rights proclaimed by God's own gift of dominion.
I am preserving what's just, only right!

The glorious American Way."


"A chicken in every ***", was once the dream of all but a few.
Now greedy spoiled children; we thoughtlessly proclaim,
"Two cars in each garage is just, and rightly due."
****** all ****** beauty that crosses our path
partial redemption lies in one simple truth.
Not all the world has yet to gain, “Our Precious Way”.
For if so, the pitiful scraps of beauty that still remain
would quickly be consumed in ******, hosted by fattened fools.


"Over ten dollars a gallon!
That's a blasted crime!
**** Politicians
their hands are bloodied black!
Twenty hours of work per week
just to fill my trusty Cadillac!

Consumption is The American Way"


Even a naked primitive, scavenging the forest floor
instructs his children better then we.
"When death's own serpent
lies coiled 'neath a beautiful fruited tree,
ignore the tempting orbs
for their price must and will be paid."

Alas, for us it may be too late.
We lay trapped within a corporate circle of death,
our children inherit a scarred and barren earth.
Will they thank us or curse our very graves,
Or even remember what once was, "Our Way?"


"OK kids, it's time for bed.
Yes little Susie, tonight's story was true
whispered from Grandfather's own lips.
Once long ago, in a glorious lost day
when fuel cost just ten dollars per unit.
Just think of that, one tenth of what it cost today.
Now go to sleep, and tighten those masks.
Oxygen cost money too, nearly five bucks per litre.
Those **** politicians, we should have learned
when we had a choice and air was still free;
memories from a faded time of make believe.

The good old, American Way."

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

the phone rings,
**** its already late
I dress up past, I grab my things
rushing out through the gate

it was a grey rainy day,
the shoe lace was untied.
stepping on the puddles through the alleyway
I smelt the leftovers cornered to be putrefied
in the distance i heard the foghorn bray
and then suddenly the ipod died,
it wasn't the slightest idea of my heyday
and so it made me stupefied.

the alley never seem to end.
for once I was hoping for a commotion.
and then it made a slight bend
and a shadow appeared at the cross section.
everything got a trascend blend
looked like life moved ahead in a slow motion.

the figure was human like
and with each tick it moved slowly-closer.
my body was abruptly covered with spike,
as the motion became tenser.
the cold hit me like a pike,
yet my mind said he was just a bypasser.

I knew I shouldn't have been there.
I stared the figure drenched in the rain.
all I wanted to do now was run anywhere
before it blew away my brain.

before I could make my escape
he cought me by my arm.

his eyes were cold and senseless
but his hands felt delicate.
for a seond life became aimless
as I became his captivate.
his charm was flawless
his beauty was the least I could appreciate.

he suddenly let go of me
I stared into his eyes and realized I must leave
I turned around and made my move away......




TO BE CONTINUED...

Stranded and standing stark naked
Looking longingly for lost love;
Pulling pounds of putrefied protoplasm
From your feeble foundation;
You exist in an enigmatic environment of errors.

Your words ache and your blood seethes and your mind tremors
At the offenses of time since passed.

Give up the fight; you're careening towards a cataclysmic crash of capacious proportions.

Endless void of articulate delusions and vicious delirious,
Dark thoughts fills crippled lungs;
Calling, screaming, find the truth,
To society shadow, the putrefied soul.

Wicked mind, weeping life,
Monstrous thoughts, haunt the mind,
Depression, misery, sees me right,
In this depraved time we call night.

Nefarious illusions of weak land;
Weep, beg, for the execution of men;
This articulate delusions hold the hand,  
Of the black torch of burned plans.

The archetype of flawless man,
See the day of the mystic shine,
Created by love of bright schemes,
And Annihilated by the thought of wicked minds.

Such Reapers haunt the barren lands,
In search for one, true light;
Mist riddled, hidden in sight,
It transforms the mind to unparalleled cry.

it's as light as snow, and the steep hill
when the sun rises must not move a finger,
obedient child, -
the earth wears its white feathery garment,
putrefied by tears
there is no need to raise  up my  eyelids, no need to  speak or be silent,  
when i listen like a newborn wrapped in diapers i let the snow cover my green
eyes,
when you say: not today. not tomorrow. i don't  have to cry,
i look at the world smiling: - what a miracle,  what a blessing,

i don't have to do anything of those things,
i don't  have to expect a breeze, be touched  on my hand by a ladybug,
and ”never ” and ”nothing” is so much lighter than the stone of an arrow,
except
we still dream in the eyes of forgotten children
among the flowers,
now when we are about to get older,
wiser, and
everything is sooo easy,
and it gets easier
and
easier,

You are a loathsome creature
In death, you elicit sympathy

Your mental illness is your scapegoat
How could you **** so many?

The rage you felt
Turned outward towards the innocent

So many awash with the blood
Adam, high priest of perdition

You are not alone in your complicity
Did the NRA whisper sweet nothings in your ear?

Your father wishes you were never born
You’re your father’s scapegoat

You have uncovered a putrefied wound
That we are unwilling to heal

i braved the primordial instrumentality
that ancient architect of my necrotic geometry
wich expressed those waves
that mercilessly envelop your white cliff walls

but this prophecy reveals all things
and i cannot fail
in my absolute perception
of your constant rivers
sacred destinations

the dark repeats itself
and it always plays the same symphonic hell
the agony repeats itself
your movements communicate
the intrinsic cthnonic lie

i dream of disintegration
i want to make love for a thousand nights
and kiss that mortal plasma
a precarious alloy of souls

but i am doomed to dream
dreams i may never touch
i'm a pathetic raging animal
ensnared in chains of violation

i want to explode in sensual ecstasy
as your philosophical knives
carves the most beautiful and elder of runes
into my putrefied flesh

but i feel nothing

i want to destroy you with my kiss
but your love is not strong enough

I’ve died a time or two
and had men try to make me new.
I’ve had my body dug up
by shovels and hands cut.
I’ve been sprawled out
laid down and washed about.
I’ve had tissue excised
burnt around the edges and cauterized.
I’ve been bled dry
left in the sun and putrefied.

I’ve been patched up
glued together and stapled shut.
I’ve had my hair brushed
face painted and voice hushed.
I’ve been gently dressed
socks clean and dress pressed.
I’ve had a role to play
lacking dialogue and out of the way.
I’ve been the perfect date
unnatural but one you chose to create.

In the dark labyrinth penetrates no light
Sight like all else is out of sight
There’s no virtue no wrong or right
Nothing but evil and evil shines bright!
It’s the breeding ground for the darkest of thoughts
Putrefied stinking around it darkness clots
Where is such place where can we find?
It’s lying within us, it’s our mind!

The Lay of the Land

If my thoughts had wings
Or better still had arrows and a bow
To pierce your heart
You will open your emerald eyes
As only seen in the sea of Greenland
Seek my embrace
We will be the sky and the earth
Filling the air with fog
Before we make love
Our Titanic love is too great for
Sluggish humanity to clasp
Kiss me slowly caress me long
And we will purify a putrefied world.

Love is not a possessive noun
Oh, but all too often it is.
When does the possession begin,
When does the flame become hell,
the hell become swell,
the swell
farewell?

Paw patch scratch
One floor down
Below ground
Where the ***** waters flow
Never knowing its ugliness
Thinking its loveliness
Brown water, groundwater
Brown groundwater swell
Groundswell hell
Makes a lovely sound
Maybe not
Swish, Swish
Below ground
Hush, can you hear a single sound?
Swish, Swish
Swish, Swish
A rumbling, swishing, wishing sound
a grating, whining, pathetic, hissing sound
a howling, fouling, roaring, boring sound.
A scowling, prowling, naught allowing
Unfounded sound
Doesn’t matter sound
Putrefied sound of the underground

Paw, patch scratch
Lonely still sound
Underground pounding
Punching bag sounding
Alphabet rhyming
Say something
I’m crying


The attentions’ not on me
What a pity
What a ******* pity
Because I’m so pretty
Don’t you agree
And if it weren’t for me
Where would you be
Pity, I don’t guilt
I’m so good at it.
Come on. Admit it.
But, I’m not above pointing out
Without doubt
Everything you’re doing wrong
But, that’s not what it’s about
But, don’t take this wrong
I’d much rather listen to a song
Then have a petty quarrel
Your hands can’t hide your thoughts
How caught up
How caught
If there was ever a cookie jar
You wouldn’t get far
You think you would never get caught
But, you give yourself away
Away, away, away
And the queen’s slave shall obey, obey, obey
So you make- thought- a thought-
Ok, but
A line you’d never cross.
And you shall remain boss,
Your good guy status is still intact
I’ll catch up to you on that
But, your thought crossed with mine
(we have a sorta party line)
I never agreed to that line
That really is fine, me I opine
That’s fine
That’s ******* fine
But not mine, not mine

Why am I yelling
Because I’m in hell with you
And I don’t know what to do
I fear it’s a small point I make
Because you never agreed to the premise
What the **** are you
A guru, a nemesis
***** you
And ***** you, too
I laid the premise
It is my poem after all
I can be ******* Cinderella if I want to be
Because ******* Cinderella is me
Anyone can see
That’s it’s true
I have met a prince
And it’s not you


He’s charming
And he loves me from afar
He worships the ground I walk on
He greets me with candles and candy
He serenades me with Rhapsody and brandy
We engage in exciting conversation
And it all comes so naturally


And he doesn’t ******* exist!
Don’t mind my cursing
There are worse things
For me
That’s probably the worse thing
No use confessin
To what you’ve been quessin
But, don’t ruin my fairytale
Don’t ever email
Or text me
Or talk  
Or look at me
See if I ******* care
You were no-where before I met you
Before I met you, I was without you
and I didn’t miss you and
I didn’t know you and I didn’t care,
Surely, I can get back there.
before I met you
I brake for my thought
What am I trying to say
Beyond having it my way
(If it’s ok for frank
frankly, it’s ok for me)
That’s it, I guess
If this ******* mess is mine alone
Why won’t you tell me
I hate messes
And try to fix them every day
But karma catches up to me
Because I make more than I fix
Could be a trick
Or could be me
hiding from me under a storybook tree
Hugging a tree
That can’t hug me  


I love my fairytale confessional
It’s so unprofessional
Obsessional
Impressionable
Digressional
Expression­ able
You know what I mean
If I haven’t explained
No need to complain
No ******* familiar refrain
Just maintain the pain
the unvoyagable pain
Let’s you know you’re real
You can feel
You can bleed
Indeed, you can cross the river
Of pain, once again
But never the thought that never crossed the line
Because you are blind


You are free to go
You already know that
Whenever you choose to go
You can go
You know
Just go, go, go
It’s just



I’m waiting for the crescendo
The ******* endo
When does it end oh?
The thought- that never crossed the line
The star-crossed line was never mine
And all the errant thoughts that followed mindlessly
Telling you what you should and shouldn’t do
Reminding you of the awful consequences, too
Good guys could fall from grace
Good guys don’t fall from grace
Nobody could put Humpty-dumpty together again
Better not to begin

So, I agree
There is no you and me
Stay where you are
Better from afar
So safe from a distance
No social insistence
Take the line of least resistance

There should be a quarrel.
Between us
But, there is not
I’ve censored nothing,
Saved some things-
For surprise
Should it ever get too familiar
And I don’t see that look in your eyes


It’s apple pie in the sky
Why even the apples have browned
But, I like them like that.
I, no culinary aristocrat
So, I baked them in a crusty shell
Told them they're doing swell
And hell,
it was the best apple pie in the sky
as far as I could tell.

In the stone city of life
Where images circle blasphemous
Putrefied ideolized deities,
   Carved out of morals from
Their former sins, washed in the Rage
Of time, the stairway of years
Has fallen victim to forgetful dogs
In love with a doctrine read blindly
To justify eating one's own *****.
      Within their water we drink
With the stained images in the waters,
     Combating in a paradise of caged
Jubilation, we become a circus act
Of empty faiths,
    Idols exploding with pastors
Armed with ideas,
Sharpened tongues from a library
     Written by the Sun,
Twisted by the thugs with Holy Spirits
That daunt the saint,
Plotting Edens in their own image,
    We beat each other for the same God,
We ask a name,
Bible,
       Quran,
               I see the body of Moses in both,
Where is the other God?
   The same clouds we look at contain
  The same sins we follow from our
Misreading Shepard's,
       This is high voltage rhetoric,
The industry of Heaven,
     The money of hell,
Cain is well,
Abel unable,
The followers of blind leading seeds
To the dirt,
Grow smeared in to the faith,
Roots of dust,
The fallen have come,
On the knees of blood,
We crown the snakes.