Around me is dying another day
silently falling in surge of emotion
in the mournful dirge of the dusk
dropping on the black drongo
flying home in dream of dawn
beneath the first star of twilight
blushing in the kiss of sky
heralding another earth evening
celebrating death in the dire need of
resuscitating life.

In those twenty minutes Eve sat silently on the bathroom floor her sanity escaped drop by drop through the windows of her will to live. A labyrinth of oblivion exploding in darkness. Her mind had become a maze of confusion coated with denial. To reach reality and regain the urge to continue life it's self meant to follow the droplets of her memories. They represented her only hope radiating down the path of her past. Like breadcrumbs she followed them. She stopped before the first droplet allowing it to surge through her absorbing the memory she had buried deep...

"Help! He's not breathing, he's not breathing!"

The sound of Matt's voice shook and grounded Eve in the past. She blinked hard at Sam who lied limp in Matt's arms. The toddler was blinking rapidly while gasping for air his eyes rolled back displaying only the whites of his eyes.

"What happened to him Matt?"

Eve demanded to know as she scooped her son into her arms.

"He must of swallowed a rock."

Matt answered looking down at the floor.

"I'll go get mom."

Julie blurted then ran to her mothers room. Seconds later Julie returned with car keys in hand.

"Mom said to take him to the hospital now."

Julie grabbed her sweater then ran out the front door. Eve grabbed her coat and followed Julie. Amanda followed Eve yelling,

"I'm going with you."

Julie started the car put it in reverse, then drove down the back roads towards the hospital. Eve looked down at her son whose eyes were still fluttering clearly struggling to stay focused.  Sam wheezed through what would be his only words,

"Mum... mum,mum,mum,ma".

With the sound of his shaken voice he stopped fighting. His eyes closed and his body was still. Eve panicked.

"No, wake up!  Don't go to sleep, stay with me. SAM, WAKE UP!"

She continued to scream at the toddler while she slapped him repeatedly desperate to see  his eyes open. In the back seat Amanda stirred at the sight of Eves panic. Amanda insisted with a calm but firm loud tone,

"Give him to me, I know CPR."

Eve hesitated still begging her son to open his eyes. She let out hysterical laughter when he did open them again. He looked up at her weary and let out through wheezes followed by gasps of air his final words his mother would every hear.

"Mummum, mummum."

"Give him to me, I know CPR!"

Amanda continued to tell Eve and reluctantly she hand over her son to Amanda when Julie yelled at her,

"GIVE HER THE BABY!"

On the way Julie came to a red stop light with no traffic in sight she still stopped abiding the law even in this hectic situation. While Amanda continued to preform CPR on Sam, Eve turned to her friend yelling,

"ARE YOU ******* KIDDING ME? ******* GO. DRIVE NOW!"

Julie in her own state of panic floored the gas driving the final distance to the Out-reach Hospital. As they pulled into the the Emergency rooms round about Amanda open the door without the car at a complete stop she jumping out with ease still  holding Sam in her arms, she ran through the open sliding door. She screamed at the receptionist,

"He's not breathing."

Eve ran behind Amanda in time to see the Emergency double doors open exposing the emergency room and staff behind them.  Several staff member ran to Sam taking him to a room to began resuscitating the toddler. Eve ran behind them all. As she began to enter the room she was stopped by a nurse who instructed her to wait outside the room.

"But I'm his mom."

"We can not do our job to save him with you here, you are a distraction. Please take a seat over there."

She pointed to the chairs down the hall against the wall.

"Come on girl, let them do their job."

Julie tugged at her shirt. They sat waiting until a counselor showed up relocating them to a private room.


To be continued....

Poets...writers...artists...musicians.
Those who eat their words,
bleed their colors,
breathe their notes.
Only dreamers
of no consequence.
Only lovers of life
who write, paint, sing to live.

Movers and shaker
laugh at the starving artists.
Few will make money,
fewer still reach fame.
Many reach the hearts
of other lovers of life,
resuscitating dying dreams,
breathing hope and beauty,
singing glory and brilliance
into dark, cringing corners.

The bleeding hearts begin to heal
and beat, beat, beat as one;
a marching tune, a clarion call
to gather into thunderheads
to storm toward the movers
and still the mighty shakers,
a deluge of words and images
the music of the multitudes
come down upon the leaders' heads
to swallow them whole
and let digestion take its course.

We are in the ungodly hour again,
that sixty-minute stretch,
embedded in the nighttime,
of undisputed stillness.
A fracture of the evening
occupied by deep breaths
and oddly-human silhouettes.

The town butcher spends overtime
breaking bones, working
on the swine, and counting  
the progression of the night
by the swinging bodies.
They’re cold and sinuous
but he likes their company.

The town preacher wastes time
as he knows to pace himself
by half hour intervals,
squeezed between nightcaps.
In every period he remembers
slightly less that, a boy
is to be buried by the morning.

The town beggar walks towards nowhere,
he blows an alcohol breath
into his clasped hands
like resuscitating a needy mouth.  
from his ceiling-less living space,
he looks into black windows
just like we would look out of them.

The town dealer is on nothing
living back some hours he lost
Inside his head, looking, from a distance
through his eye sockets.
Now he’s on a strange sobriety and with a text,
the Londonese and the hood come back up.

In the ungodly hour,
no storm makes an eye around me.
In an un-pretty always, things just happen
to fill the timeless time.
We all assure ourselves
we’re all alone.

Passion of this night is blooming into
What we would only know as love
Naked bodies clutching to each other
Satisfied, resuscitating from unison ******
Never thought that deepness of your eyes
Would convince me otherwise but
**** baby you got me falling
Throwing fear and caution to the wind
Never wanna lose the the rhythm of
Hearts beating as we lay chest to chest
Souls are morphing into one as
I feel your lips on mine
Taste so sweet so right
Never felt more real as I do with you
To you my dear I wish to say “Hello”
Cause in my heart I know that
With you is where my heart
My soul
        And
             My love
                    Belong.

Impervious to the time of day
and suffering the idleness
of sitting in a near lifeless limbo
I am at last compelled
to take up my pen
in the almost vain hope
of resuscitating an interest
in the rhythms of the joyful
side of life.

But being of a disposition
that too easily dons the coat of distraction
my attentions are soon reduced:
to impoverished thoughts
and reflections concerning small talk
about the weather
while standing still in lifts;
to thinking about the same old heads
nodding to each other
in rain-soaked streets;
to pondering greygreen corridors
that stretch the imagination
into cheerless silences
of absolute emptyness.

At 13 she wanted to breathe
live the life the media
exposed on the T.V.s
Her heart and head without rest
all dead-set on becoming the best

Her motivations to do and believe
loving daughter, do good deeds
get good grades before school's end
find a boy to help play pretend

Years had been and not-so-suddenly
shifted
Doing the norm, the drugs
the insecurity temporarily getting lifted
Spirals are so cliche,
addiction is so normal
why make a scene of something
now so informal?

So she's overdosed on the affection
of her friends
their suffocating, being strangled
the means to her end
But her pride and her misery keep her locked
she likes the collapsing
Resuscitating is the last option
so she'll be eternally relapsing

I find things ending, bending, breaking
And not the way they're suppose to be
My love that was transcending
Hit the brick wall that was reality

In my inebriation
I found myself separate from reality
My love hospitalization
Came to a point where there no resuscitating

I am haunted, I think
By the ghost of you
It lingers in hallways
And in the corners of my view

The faint outline of your head
I can see, lying on my chest
Ethereal hair brushing my skin
While I lie with someone else

It is worse when I am alone
Staring at the space between my hands
My delusions resuscitating
The memory of how well you fit that span

Buoys up she from the sea I sail
What poetry can’t address
She serves me well.

The sailor’s misery she knows
His journey’s perilous waves
A rope for me she throws
Dragging to shore she saves.

Watches over her caring face
Suffers the navigator what distress
Resuscitating with her sweet breath
The mariner dying from illusive myth!

This way she rebirths me
Down on earth from the high sea
And till is regrown the sailor’s wings

We talk animated of life’s small things.

you will only look for which road i have
  passed, with girth of oceans startled
  to hip-curve, bow-legged darling
  hiding behind pretense of rose frailty.

when words ripen, they fall.

from vaudeville of fools to silence
in all its exactness, i take my place
amongst people in stations, machines
adorning rotundas, courtyards to a flourish of twilight-bells, the men with retinas spry behind cloaks of smoke—

        plain, **** drunkenness assaults
the billion-blooded sea, each line fraught
with inebriation: a god is borrowed with
what light fruits from a slow nature, quick
to burst and torturously maimed in stride.

fated to arrive at one morning —
being in total placeness and making merry
once again, the dreary face waiting at
the portico of days collected.

when these words start to wind-hover,
a string of birds will appear clearer,
mounting umbilicus of lines.
as in hounds shear the metastasizing dark,
going back to chagrined kens,
i make truth out of the tragedy:
trace the source of this stream and find
my trampled body, floating with
   the sandalwood. when the still, clenched hand clock-punches,
   make real the insignia of my arrival:

words start with limbs to cross
  this scalped Earth which moves suddenly naked, leaning in, gropes you
in stillness, resuscitating the moon from
the working of insolvencies we rear
in derelicts of days.

drags it closely to ends — left trundling
in woe's wearisome vessel. and if in
this newly thatched home it screams,

let this voice deftly shred
so i may once more lie straight to your
half-illuminated faces, a call i
only hear.

We’ve made it. We ***** and moan about growing up, how we grew up, and now that we’ve grown up, what we’re going to do. Maybe the secret to surviving it all is not looking forward or looking back, but looking to the present as the only thing that can conceivably be altered in your favor.
2. Don’t condemn because of what you’ve heard from others. That quote saying “small minds talk about other people,” is cheesy, but also very true. And people, no matter how seemingly kind-hearted, have a nasty way of diverging down roads of rumor and scandal.
3. Relenquish the idea that you’ll ever be in full control. The winds of change, or time, or love, or development are always blowing; wild and strong. Don’t turn your sails the other way, stand in the hurricane and yell, “I am willing!”
4. Believing in the power of something, whether it be an object, a song, or a ritual, doesn’t make you a sucker and it doesn’t mean you are a lesser person. We all need something bigger than ourselves to fall into when the branches of our arboreal haven that we’ve built comes shattering down. Often time, those branches land in the ground as spikes and we are impaled. So turn to your dance, your god, your love.
5. Document your world. It will never be quite the same as it is in this moment. This is a singular event; a speck on the timeline, never to be recreated in all that came before, or all that will come to be.
6. Learn to be alone, and after that, learn to be alone and content. Unbeknownst to you, the face looking back in the mirror is capable of resuscitating you when you find you cannot breathe. "Fight or flight is an animal response,” you tell me, “but what happens when you cannot stand to fight or run because you are at war with yourself?” Darling, I have battled with my skeleton for years, but when the front lines cave in, the only place I have ever felt at home is nuzzled somewhere between my heart and lung. Nail down a “home, sweet home” sign and settle down within.
7. We’ve made it, somehow. Remember in third grade when your class planted beans, and you checked on your sprout every day. One day, you came into class and against the weight of the soil, your green sprout had pushed its head out and was greeting the sun. You’ve broken the surface. You’re new and green, and there’s still a long way to go. But, you made it. So, enjoy this moment, and look forward to the next one.

Her soul's poetry
Written  in deep dark ink,
Gushing through her veins
Etched across her bones
A tale untold

The world rebounds on touching her surface
Nothing ever leaves a mark
Or atleast
That is what she makes believe

Breathing life ,
She walks into the crowded room
Hidden behind her jokes and laughter.
Comedy weaving up the tragedy .
Humour , the only link to her sanity.
She breathes
Broken,  unnoticed.


The world brushes past her touch
Blind.
Oblivoius to the struggle.
Her mind, toxic to her soul
Her skin, her veil.

Yet, her pillows talk of red swollen eyes
And endless nights
Gazing at the moon
Half hidden beneath the clouds
Reflecting light
To cloak the darkness seeping within .

She draws her blinders shut
While her guitar weeps her wounds
The cadence of misery
Into the world of rhythm, she slips.

When shall the masquerade end ?

She walks away
Into the fog
On her own

Brick after brick
A fortress she built
And locked within her own incarceration,
Short haired rapunzul
Afraid to let the knight reach within .
vows of saviours, never heed.

Her facade, flawless
Yet not deceiving those little eyes
Searching for the truth beneath the illusion.
Decrypting the inscrutable dissimulation.

To those pair of eyes,
Slowly fading into oblivion
Lost within it's own ceaseless blue
Seeking for the line between the black and grey.
Her voice , liberating .
Finding its way within the chaos,
Resuscitating.
Giving life to a long forgotten voice
which whispers,
"Take off the masque, You're beautiful. "

make me a dress out of baby's breath, woven together with 424 regrets and i will dance like the gravel that tumbles under your feet as you walk. the friction between the door and the wooden floor doesn't create a spark quite like the unheard voices that fill up cheap wine glasses with bottles of bluff. there's a table with a platter of the last goodbyes of everyone who couldn't keep their hearts on their sleeves instead of putting them back in their chests on a table somewhere, and we're eating these for dinner, resuscitating promises and lies like a new breed of bulimic.

i wake up and the room is always blue with shades of red in the corners and the cracks and i'm breaking my back to not feel so under the weather, but these days i think that even the weather is under the weather. my backbone is callused and faulty, i'm weak with thousands of thoughts of poignant disguises of love and poisonous excuses that explain why i can't find a conclusion. a disease with symptoms such as dissatisfaction with the best parts of myself and attempting to never interact with the bad that leaves a blank canvas and an invisible human in the mirror. all of the sickness keeps me from seeing past the shadows from the bars on this rusty cage.

I slipped beneath the depths of your eyes,
Drowning in the ocean of my soul;
My heart shivered in the shadow of your aura,
My mind corrupted by inappropriate thoughts
I loved at first sight. I do not know how to swim!
Breathless unable to conjure a word
You neglected my silence without a care
And ever since you've been resuscitating me in my dreams.


ELEETE J MUIR

her temperature read 102.5 Fahrenheit
after I put the thermometer in
I knew she was hot
but ****
she got all wet
and shivered
grimaced like she was in pain
called out deities names
I thought she was dying
clawing at my back
trying to take me with her
I got all concerned
gave her mouth to mouth
resuscitating
and pushed on her breast
her eyes rolled back in her head
and she came
around!!!!

Etréstles asks oblation to the unfortunate of the World ..
he asks to give his offering House that is not his house,
to synchronize your departure to be in the company of Solitude,
He does not have his sacred Cemetery before leaving for Nineveh ...

He has disappointed himself of the Archpriest of Ayia Lavra for his strong telluric pains in his marble abdomen ...
The holy oil that furrowed his forehead, furrowed his soul
he has not recognized himself when his own umbilical nap has flourished a wafer of the Messiah who has traveled alongside him by the pavilions of Messolonghi in clarions rubies ..

My father Staktos; come, I have not yet received the indulgence of abandoning what is not abandoned, I need to hear your voice from my sixth reincarnation playing on the roads of the oracles that illuminate the world, which is yours and the Messiah Choir on the Magdala heavens .

Father I have not yet gone, and so many lives I have lived to see your distant face on grass barley resembling your breaths of late sunny spring celestial sermon sermons. But this time I want to cheer you beyond the imagination of eclectic anemia, with the aching pain descending through my impure heart.

Nothing torments me more than to move away from the hells that do not know that I run through the prairies towards you without getting tired, imagining that I will fall into the neglect of your forgetfulness. I quickly lose my Laud from my right arm as a short-handed little fish, to commit the indiscretion of anticipating me to worship you with my dislocated left arm that carries the Harp from Lethe confiscated from Euterpe.

Harmony that ignores Dinora in the false forests of Messolonghi in flames. You are my cobble who pierces the cries of my crucified hands, timbers of lymph incense next to the sweetness of your words that grew green in my dreams.

Challenge with this interloquy of your incandescent soul, this is how The Last Temptation of Etrestles begins with its bleeding fingers, in the inflexible forgiveness of praising all those who want to dance with the mothers of the Shadows; that Staktos is his father, before reviving him and resuscitating him in his exodus to Nineveh, land hunched over by the Host, tortuous and artificial light shone from the recklessness of him who will make him sleep through the desert of life in farewell fantasies. Winds are felt singing whistles of hydrogen sulphide rocking from the edge of the cliff of the cloud, to fall on the shoulders of the timid death, False Blood, clumsy blood to wash my feet on Virgo and Jupiter in the sand. .

Father, in purgatory, make the sounds of the new dawn without any detail or gesture of repentance.

Thus Etrestles receives the Eucharistic host offering in his holy mouth and runs down the corridors of the great mysteries of the Nothing of good spirit of all Mantle.

To be continue…

'It feels so resuscitating,'
Said he,
'To be back home.'
But I stood blank-faced.
What expression, my stone-carved visage, incapable of addressing the liberty of his enthusiasm,should have expressed?
I felt nothing.
And when I could not comprehend the notion of his having this unusually intense sense of pleasure,
I, almost blushing in embarrassment,asked,
'What makes you talk of your home with this melodramatic emotion?'
'I do not see why one won't act like this on a subject like that?'
Said he,expressing an unkind surprise.
I thought it undesirable to speak of the gravity of my suffering and the generosity of the unceasing torment.
I remained silent.
But in a constant struggle to think the matter out, I talked to myself,
'I do not remember when was the last time,I saw relief-gentle and quiet-
Let alone a yet undiscovered fervour, sprouting in me on returning home.
But I,most honestly,wonder if I have ever had a 'home' or have simply kept myself deluded into believing that this fortified chamber is my home,
In which I seem to have been kept a prisoner,
Away from my parents, far away from the family I have always craved for.
My naivete tells me that I do have a 'Father'-and a 'Mother'.
But I do not have 'Parents'-as it concerns the reality of my situation.
I suppose this random assortment of thoughts might just make me seem crazy.
For all I want this very moment is,
Either a home,a true home,
Or an eternal sleep in which 'indifference' becomes the essence of my existence.
Both,I guess,are not possible-
Such is my misery.

Walk i in pallid weird dream
The sun was at its eclipse
Snow of ice flow in me as dead
I was confused at dream ream

Pinnacle of peak I stood in minaret apse
Everything emptying and collapsing in void pace
Many running away from self responsibility
Justice was stabbed lying dead facing impurity

Everyone seems to despise justice
On the pathway all look at injustice
Frowning at me, i was left to make a decision
The Samaritan clothe stains me with truth reason

Coming closer her countenance was a monster
Smirked of an epilepsy gushing out
I become **** dance in a wild romance Resuscitating her with my divine breathe

Giving up my breathe to bullet of injustice
For her sake as i get her clothe
I watch her resurrect and I die with smile
Horseman of life ride by rewarding me with abundant breathe that's unceaseable

by Martin Ijir

I was so young. Just born fresh really. My flesh was as tight
as it could manage itself around me. Somehow
this attracted your gaunt wrinkled fingers; your corroded bones
found their way into my new home.

You tickled until you found the right spot,
and then you prodded until you drowned out
the stops.

You made a holy body
laugh it's way back into the womb.

Who knew safety
was never real? And yet
it would be worth more than
the King's jewels, Made in China gadgets,
and hell,--

God?

You took every intimate secret and made it public.
Shoved a black crystal into my heart, like a child
stuffing a cube into the star shaped gap; positioned
it just right so that every horror would
reflect from any light.

You penetrated the silence of night
and the pleasure you inflicted with ease
lingered for life.

The sweet and subtle pricking
caused ripples that would prevent
me from ever being truly satisfied.

To hell with your lovely disease;
your seductive ways in resuscitating.

Your plague shadow
remains a smeared blotch on the wall
of my humanity.

There is a thing called the in-between.
It seeps into crevices;
canvassing the heart into colour.
Too small to be recognised by all;
but those who seek it;
develop an awareness;
of its internal framework.
Malleable and hybrid;
simply sailing between the real;
waiting to be invited.
Below the surface of the mind;
it calms the stormy seas;
resuscitating the imagination.

like bricks in a wall
we fall under the category of Filling the columns.

*like a cry from a mortal
who writes letters to get his words in place
so i send 'em through a time portal
as he lives in a different age,
making my piece immortal.
resuscitating minds in their conclusive days*/

the way to my sanctorum
filling the void, in place by the devastation caused by your ammunition.
a threat to the decorum(of the living world)
//all the universe's spheres combined
still wouldn't fit the diametre of the iris in my eyes\
when i see through you
see THROUGH your mask you
put on to remove the pollution
purifies the skin
and leaves you with
white and glowing
insecurities and commotion.

people flew with the notion
selling their psych in portions
if i would've bought it
then they would've called it
profit in oceans.
Every year you grew more insensitive
and called it promotion.
------------------------------------
through the strands of your hair
i see a clock
with each of its hands facing the opposite of one another
as dynamic as the hues of your face
but in the center.. have the same colour
a ***** of your nail in my back causes
the epiphany to rupture,
so either im too much into hating you
or half past the other.