Ah, Yorkshire, thou art purer than Coventry;
and thy promises whiter; than my fluid poetry.
Thou art braver, prudent, and all the way more intelligent;
thy lands are mightier; and perhaps in every possible way-more imminent.
Thou art sincere-and so more delicate than wine, and thoughtful;
Thou adored my words, and made everything else healing, and more beautiful.

In my heart but there might have been no Yorkshire at all-
had I attended not one Coventry last fall.
I witnessed not-at t'at time, all t'is rude twilight-and toughness and madness;
and every chapped breath it had in its roughness, and hilarious-though indeed fake, felicity.
No soul has even bits of a heart, here, to forgive others' soreness,
No being wants to share; no human lives in joy, nor simplicity.
No delight indeed; as I stream my way through every roads;
Everyone is either busy with their selfishness or their coats.
No living is cared for; for humans are phantoms at night and on morns;
Vulnerability is mocked, and demised and often slyly torn.
Ah! Coventry is but a sphere of hell!
For even hell is still lighter when has it not hellfire;
As well cities are, when there is no scoundrel nor liar;
But Coventry is not at all tender;
Its wicked gasp is alive, and never to heartily surrender.
It falls for glory; it bows to such fears for pleasure;
And wanes by the light of whose death; the end of whose allure.
But thou art true-thou art as shy as every flash of virtue;
Thou art indeed-everything t'at is solemnly agreeable and brand new.
Ah, and just now-I had dreams of a fine image of thee;
Smiling within thy fullest verdure, bushes, and lavish undergrowth.
And thy summer is but vivid and friendlier;
Healing every sore heart, and turning 'em all, merrier.
Thou adored the nouns and verbs I wrote,
and admired such simple notions I quoted;
Thou shine upon me-asthe light that shall makest me grow
and the promising dim, faraway region, that lets me glow.
O, Yorkshire, this is still but too early in the transparent evening;
But I am deeply endorsed yet, by t'is poetry writing-
And with thy soul that remains but too witty,
Tearing me away, but with loveliness-
from my cautious present engagement,
Thy charms might be just too hard to bear,
for thy tongue is too sweet;
and thy veracity too chaotic, ye' imminent.
In thee shall I find peace-of that I am convinced,
Peace whose soul is calm, neat and on all occasions, careful-
Unlike t'is bustle which is at times perpetual, and sorrowful;
Unlike t'is very city of Coventry,
Which is damp with exultant bareness, and haziness,
In many ways exalted, but indeed too proud;
And its tongue which is blurred with sin and poison-
Its all-too-loud excitement makes everything but faint,
And at times sends my heart to exile, sends my heart to pain,
In every possible way too unlike thee,
With an imagery, and coaxing voices so sweet
Thou shall leave all my poems bright and freshly lit,
Even though I am still here, even though we are still yet-to meet.

Coventry is too proud and vibrant-yes, too vibrant,
Amidst its own foolishness, which sadly made itself formerly too elegant.
Too elegant to me-in various shapes, and keenly cloaked in unseen deceit,
But only by some beings, whom I was to meet, and my breath to greet.
And as I wake up to an early morning hour,
the plain summer strangely makes me thirst for honest water.
And should I love still-one intelligence t'at is so bitterly repugnant?
I shall certainly not; I shall turn to thee, Yorkshire, who is truer ye' far above, tolerant.
Ah, Yorkshire, but honesty is something Coventry promises not;
for its soul has been maliciously beheaded, and twitched,
It has been paled, corrupted, and despaired-
by its own claws, derived from the jaws of those evil souls
Veiled by their even still inhuman, disguises,
And shall still be wicked, otherwise.
In t'is sea of hate, and these waves of despondency,
I shall think of thee with tantalising depth and scrutiny,
Though thou art still imprisoned in my soul,
Thou who hath flattered and accepted me as a whole.
But Coventry is-still, accidental with some of its bindings,
For mortal as thou art, itself, and is unable to escape its fate,
Still I canst think only of the beauty of thy linings,
And upon thy lands shall I venture to fill my plate.
Ah, Yorkshire, remember that virtue is in thy hand,
but neither is vice-thy dormant enemy, is in its therein,
Virtue who is vile to all of t'is world's inconsolable men,
like in Coventry, as deemed it is, unreasonable and ungenerous, within.
Virtue which is tragically abandoned, in its pursuit of honour;
virtue which was rich, but flattened, and dismayed and disfigured
within the course of one unsupervised hour.
Ah, York, Yorkshire, when shall I ever taste the grandeur
And the very superiority of thy dignity?
For in yon picture, thou art still but a comely neighbour,
Which endorses and attests to my mute, yet unaffected-virginity.

Ah, but Coventry shall despise thee, and with its stubbornness
and overwhelming pride, shall jostle and taunt thee;
Shall defect and isolate thee-when I am but by thy side,
But God be with me still, and blind shall not, my virtuous sight.
Detesting and confronting thee for the remainders of years-as 'tis to be,
Which for thee lie ahead; as how hath it deluded me-just now!
I, who, disconcertingly, placed my heart within its sacred vow,
hath been robbed of my satisfactions, and utmost fortune,
All were perused in centuries and gone in one moon.
Ah, Yorkshire, shall I continue my poetry here-but call out endlessly to thee?
And shall I abandon this tiny caprice of mine-which is a fine, tiny desire of glory
And let myself on the loose, and for evermore be in search
of thee, whom I shall've lost-under the very indulgence of their mirth?
O, I think not!
For I shall mount my poetry-and achieve my silent dreams,
I shall take him with me, if allowed am I-to conquer him,
And make him and thee mine, just like I hath made my poetry,
And be thy light; and thy spiritual and endless reciprocal adoration
All day and night, at the end of our quest for destiny
Wherein I shall dwell, and thrive as my intellect be granted-its long-lost coronation.
O, Yorkshire, for within thy hands now I shall lie my faith-
and trudge along thy forking paths, unto the light of my fate.

Ah, Yorkshire, I am infatuated with these paintings-
these very paintings of thy lush green lands,
And of myself wandering and skulking idly about thy moors;
With my best frock, and his fingers, the one I love, entwined in my hand
As lights procured and on our storming out of yonder wooden doors.
I am shining like a bee is-upon the sweet finding of its honey;
but in whose tale 'tis like thee-to sweet and unpardonable to me.
Be with me, Yorkshire, and be with me forever, only,
As I leave behind this faint malice and commence my journey;
I shall be with thee, and my poems shall be free,
And t'is bitterness of winds shall be no more tormenting me,
Furthermore-be them what they desire to be;
But let me write; and play my song as beautifully as yon naive bee.

Ah, Yorkshire, and wait, wait again for me;
But before let me sink again into a deep sleep,
and tease thee again in my dreams;
Read me once more-the very passages of thy indolent poetry,
Take me out of my stiffness; swing me out of abhorrent Coventry.
Coventry shall be envious, and waiting forever for thy demise;
but honesty is honesty-and one that has no lies,
for thy virtue is clear as thy Western gem,
which is to God, shall always be virtue, all the same.

I want to swim up by your side
Between the sheets, through the tide

Warm my toes and take me under
Through depths and air bubbles we plunder

Your skin has a flavor, but do me a favor

Avoid all the retrospections
Focus on simple satisfactions

Your nose crinkles when you stifle a yawn
The longest hour is right before the dawn

Even if I loved thee a thousand times, still thou'd never be real.
But still, in t'ese dark miseries and dreams of th' night-
ah, just like t'is silent night of ours
And t'ose fierce fairy tales of young hours
Thou'd still be shaken off my realms
As soon as morn comes-and unveils anew, my charms.
O, death, how lush and inviting thou art,
even though at t'is early age thou might
still be asleep and thus soundeth really far.
Thou art but as naughty as t'ose abundant peeping stars,
brimming with locks of divine warmth and wealth
T'ey shalt again, tease up my mind
Whilst capture my rude, hating heart;
and once more shall t'is gruesome life turn into a solitude
Beside promises t'at canst harm souls' benign attitude.
But as soon as thou art gone; thou might just be no longer safe
And to my conscience thy threat is no more than a slave
Thy delicacy is but servile and uninviting
In t'ose choruses of blood and suffering
For which our senses should nay be proud;
but only of our genuine voices and gravity
T'at though sometimes seem virtual,
but still, are crafted within reality.

And yes, my painting, behind thy soul was ever born thy art,
Locked safely within thy summer foliage and forests
But shall I, for your goodwill ever be sketched?
Ah, one swiftly done, and miraculously correct-
yes, one only, my love, for th' very sake of single jests!
For in thy eyes hovers my triumph,
and in t'ose bogs beneath-
yes, th' ones idling about thy feet,
are cuddled-just here like my little heart, my love.
A sacred love t'at is thrown about
But to which my thirst canst never shout.
Ah, as if my voice is hoarse, and not loud-
and soon I step into whose soils, shall be sanely caught.
Caught and swung around thy idyll-though against my will;
amongst heaven's sandy shoals, and t'eir creepy windowsill.
Oh, and be defected with t'ose blades of thy swords, how evil!
Bereft of my sanity, prudence and sometimes too-bitter delicacy
As I dance around to those lands of hurtful mockery.
Be my soul's delighted worry, and mouth-oh, but mouth of blasphemy!
Ah, how of which I'm now devilishly tired!
Though you might be my eternal sire,
and beside whom my virginal soul shall forever feel so sure
As if my pride shall never ever retire,
everything shall altogether be wounded and obscure
But comely and true, just like t'at shimmering white-lipped dew
With breaths so smooth, like one from my feelings for you.

Ah, my prince! T'is craze for thee is an arrogant little devil;
and its longing for thee which gradually eats away my soul
and at times ****** and tells me harshly what to feel.
Just like t'ose ill-hearted fruits of people's minds
For which t'eir villains wouldst even in death bleakly whine
I am but forever bound to thee;
just like thou art already inside of me;
For in majestic times of our days
Thou shall hungrily partake
my fruity; but eager soul, soul away
and marvel about th' visages of my purity
I shall always but love thee once more;
no matter how boastful thou art,
and detestable virginal pain might be!
For thou art always to me as pure,
though unconvincingly art forever in vain-
For t'ose loveless satisfactions thou hath procured-
and premature pain thou hath delightfully endured.
But healthily t'ese senses shall always love thee
And with such tragedies and tears
canst t'ey but forgive thee only
Because, regardless of how untrue thou art;
You lifted my soul when I was down
And cheered me up 'twixt yon last wound
Dark was th' night t'at day, ye' tender was the moon
As both would pass and dusk would fade away soon
And into my blood thou injected th' real meaning of virtue
Whenst I was all wasted and coldly blue
Whilst my thoughts had not even a clue.

Ah, painting, but still, our love is incorrect as a tragedy-
for t'is world is too exhaustive and greedy
And at times elusive whenst but not necessary-
to grant our love th' chance we needst best!
Oh, but hark; hark once more, my love!
Over t'ere are bursts and chants of a heartbroken violin,
Though spurned by heretic hanging clouds,
slandered by boastful chirping winds.
But, no matter; no matter how hard it might seem
Thou art still to me an indescribable story;
and in thy red cheeks lies my stranded vitality
Signs of virtuous tenderness and curtained loyalty
As though thou art but still with no sin;
No sin; and ah! No stain, no stain at all-of
neither viable crossness nor madness
Though thy cleverness is at times no more to be seen
As once thou said, t'at for thee t'ere might just be
no any further happiness.

Ah! And trapped shall I be, within poisonous vileness
Should I not be granted thee
For thou art th' only soul I love, and idolise
Through whom my life was once formed, and characterised.
For love, to me is like a whole pattern;
and thus needst to be complete;
Thereby in t'is sense-loving him is but like denying
my own merit-merit t'at I am part of, and sure of-
for it is not love, though he might; as fate might say;
just as reliable and handsome and sweet.
But still, he is not thee!
And by no chance, is being not thee is but the same,
as being thee!
How fraudulent, and gross-t'is comparison all be!
Ah! And so thou knoweth, t'at he is, too me-
more even not than a stunning evening doll
Like those ones I hath seen so often
strutting about posh malls
Whilst with heartlessness welcoming
and sneering at innocent cold falls
With faces too stern, yellow, and sometimes bold;
Too bold to be true, much less sincere
And wholly unlike thine-amongst those sins;
t'at for thou honestly admit; look still sparkling and keen;
thus so astoundingly charming my veins and curdling my blood
Until thy unread shadows but reach my heart;
With such braveness and th' frankness of a gentleman
Like at that moment-whenst we told each other's life stories, back then.

Ah, and lure, lure my heart, my love!
And play with it soon as we sit 'mongst th' groves;
I would like to lay again about thy breast,
as I whisper once more to thy chest;
t'at it is truly thee that my soul loves;
and invites to love from t'is moment to end.
Ah, but t'is love started I knew not when,
though never have I thought thou art just my friend.
And lie, just lie to me no more,
t'at thou, just like me-but needst me to thy very core,
with a love t'at seems impatient,
but is born still, from pure virtue and resilience.
Oh! How valuable thou art to me, darling!
Thou who art to me such a mindful; soulful treasure,
and betwixt thy impurity thou remaineth but pure;
Thou are a smiling cloud to my blinding sun;
but sunlight to my rain as soon as it is done.

And thick and tough just as yon bough may seem,
thou shall forever be to me more t'an him!
I shall do and always want thee,
it is thy picture t'at I keepest within and about me.
Ah! And to t'is world, I promise, I shall not bluntly surrender
as how my wailing heart it shall never disrupt!
For thee I shall swear with a thousand loves greater,
t'at from actualising thee, I shall never be stopped!

Then please, please me, o my love-once more,
and talk to me and look at me sweetly as just never before.
For I love thee brightly and gently, as how air loves breath;
and so shall I love thee purely and greatly, as how life loves death.

1

I say I'm a designer of systems, plans
Man's
Parts that stand together, set in place to serve
Trees and planets, too, which are unplanned by us
The observant, wise man
Tries to understand
Name the parts, pistil and stamen
Rocks, eskars
Elements.

Winter is shuddering to an end, mud roads
Cardinal pairs
Robin flocks return that will soon pair off
Buds
Soils swell
Will I live to smell it again, learn the lobelias
Understand and name the parts
It ought to be a great comfort to be so insignificant
Go among weeds, a wind
Thinking to myself

One's never alone
A dichotomous key is needed, a book of twigs and fruits
Accumulated over time and generations
Without it mine would be a blank mind

To be blank but knowledgeable
Without any machinery
In a perfect silence
That is the definition of death for which we have only to wait
But in my panic last night I thought death's inert
Grace requires consciousness
Hold on long to the senses
At least a century, maybe more
A boy hanging upside down from a fence at sunset, counting
      clouds

2

Now we go to our daily practice
And chosen disciplines
Sustained by the satisfactions of being good men among our
      fellow men
Women
Choosing to do this and not that
With the finite days allotted us that at first seemed like a lot
They're now few
But the chickadee's life to the chick and the cankerworm
      moth's to the worm
Seem as long to them as ours to us
What question am I asking today
By now, past half a century, I should have chosen a discipline
And been satisfied

To be a war president one must have war
May you live in interesting times - wish or curse?
Squirrels, high in oaks,
Fiber, fat and protein in acorns
Strong runners, leapers, climbers
Should stay off the roads which some cannot avoid being
      where they're born
Natural selection is occurring
Those that look for machinery in motion
Hesitate or don't as needed before crossing
Live in larger numbers than those whose modus operandi's
Guessing
The ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads

I impose my own small order
Having chosen mountains over plains or shore
Go to my daily discipline
And estimate the motions of the seas and stars
Measuring my satisfactions by my children's satisfactions

Today I accidentally saw a preview of; The News;
a disabled sixteen-year-old girl, a victim of abuse
god
The accused is a priest. A round man in a long black cassock
And a snip view from mass of another priest plays shortly
My face turns green as my mood turns blue
He says he has a holy feeling, that the accusations aren’t true.

A cult; /kʌlt/ noun
‘a system of religious veneration and devotion directed towards a particular figure or object.’
We show our devotion, we kneel and give thanks
He applies lotion, looks at a child and wanks.
god
Everyone is entitled to their beliefs, and to the respect of those beliefs.
My belief is that no human is superior to another human.
A priest is only a man.
And this man in the long black cassock had a plan.
And this child will remain terrorized forever.

People should be held accountable for their actions.
Women’s lives are not to be of similar value to male satisfactions.

An article on ‘The year of ‘Times Up’ and ‘Me Too’ movements has been a dangerous year for men.’
Every year from the beginning of time has been a dangerous year for a woman.
Innocent men are not in danger.

I was sexualized and assaulted at the age of eleven. #MeToo
I wasn’t wearing a short skirt. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t provocative.
I was playing chase.
For years after that game of chase
I had nightmares featuring his face

This is not your place to say this year is dangerous, for men.
Times Up

She's a selfish lover, armed with stunning beauty.
She hunts joyfully for an innocent & caring heart,
She wants to satisfy her longing spirit.

Self validation by conquered hearts.
Conquests, like trophies on a night stand.
Each victory validated by a wounded spirit.
Her potent satisfactions soon dwindles.

Repeated victories, must be obtained.
Scores of bleeding hearts form rivers of tears.
Each conquest screaming from nearby roof tops.
Her Reputation becomes known by many.

The walking wounded,
They protect their dulled spirit
With raised eyebrows and gently shaking heads,
With muffled voices they warn, she is trouble waiting to happen.

I have been bitten by her kind of love.
The sting lingers in my heart,
The scars noticeable in my spirit & in my eyes.

I have her disease now.
My heart longs for love.
Not for Revenge!
But, for recovery and for self validation!

Sun and traffic - day economy.
Six a.m. drive to plywood mill. Too tired
to be angry. Each day a step
toward death. What is being accomplished? The
small satisfactions
within each day. Book consciously read.
And frustrations. Package dropped, honey jar broke.

One of 175 soil types. With the fifty
tree species
comprising the canopy under which Eric and Lisa clean
      their baby's face.

Sun in winter, old apples.

Inside the school
a brilliant but rebellious history teacher
is suspended by the school board.
200 students
wearing armbands and painted teardrops
protest. Another 400
are silent.

Within each structure
human dramas and routines.
Nancy will not love
any man who cannot do as many push-ups as she.

Trees grow,
porcupine **** in snow.

No job,
no niche,
no existence.
How you earn money is who you are. You are
what you do to get food to eat
and shelter from the winter, summer heat.

Each morning I seek God
by holding still
waiting for the smoke to be black or white
coins heads or tails
wind dark or bright.

Flock of evening grosbeaks
nipping maple buds:
the sign I need.

                   --------------------------------------

Less need =
more wealth.
2/23/89. So much equipment just to sleep.
More than a bare floor.
Plumbing vs.
wash at stream, find a log in woods.
Implements of human existence
unlike the deer or bear who
nip buds, forage berries.
I cannot eat the gum out of balsam fir
or bark from a popple.

I am not Wendell Berry
with a wife, a farm, philosophy.
I like the accuracy
of counting pear thrips in maple buds.
8/bud = complete defoliation.
This insect has four wings fringed with hairs
and is minute, 2.5 millimeters.
Two species within the genus:
one with tubular abdominal segment,
the other with conical abdominal segment.
Sugar maple their preferred food.

All I need
are names.
Names and habitats.
Elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses.
Marriage, copulation, regeneration, education.
Machinery, accounting, hand tools, laboratory.
I need your names
and histories.
****** histories, books read, imaginings, unrequited loves,
      significant landscapes, broken bones, periods of boredom,
      favorite shows.

                   --------------------------------------

Immediately means
without mediation, intermediate moments
time in the middle.

Time in the middle
time in the middle.
I'm bummed I never saw a dinosaur, an ice age, a cave man,
      even missed the last world war.
Thanks to paleontology, geology, archaeology, history
mind equipped to take
time out of the middle.
It's in our DNA!

Why should she love me, her tenant?
Because I pay the rent on time.

                   --------------------------------------

Excellent. The white sun rose
and lit the frost.
Early February, late March, or in between.
Birds begin
discussing family. Sap starts to flow.
Where the borer spirals in, it comes out wet.
Birch or maple.

I watched from the window. Beautiful
but no desire to go out and touch
swelling buds of elderberry.
Is this shrub crazy? It knows what it knows
with elderberry knowledge.

Come Spring, so much to identify and name.
Insects, diseases and new flowers.
Lepidoptera, root rot, the pinks.
I think I might get married too
and watch the moons pass through the mists.

                   --------------------------------------

March rain.

Some snow remains
roads dangerous
but truck deliveries must be made.
                                                           ­ The light
pushing back the dark.
Bark
getting softer, slippery
at the cambium. Sap
simmering. Summer
and spring are here and there
although only winter birds are in the air.
Some buds
break swell
want
to turn inside out
but wait
knowing better.

I too will not break or run
early
hold hope bound by ropes of discipline, experience
time the magic moments to come
take the last sleet and pain
slap in the face
glad for predictable seasons.
                                                 We anticipate however
drought, maple defoliation, increased gypsy moth infestations
which some attribute to our existence.
That may be true.
Or it may be that the universe
has reversed its decision on us
and there's nothing we can do.
But we will do
what we can
and some things we shouldn't
because that is human.

Continuing
into the space inside me
unconnected to the light switch, plumbing
fairly independent of materials beyond
food and sound.
Where I pray
like an oak
that the light will enter me
unbroken, forever
and I will live the meanings in the wind.
                                                           ­          Basic
necessities, wood
wine
and friends. And
the names
of everything
by which we know our way.

As
Boundaries
Create
Distance
Egos
Fluctuate,
Giving
Hollow
Insec­urities
Justification,
Killing
Likely
Manifestations,
Nullifying
­Our
Purest
Qualities,
Reducing
Satisfactions
That
Usually
Vary,
W­elcoming
Xenial
Yin-yang
Zealously

majestic adjectives
of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity
that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes,
scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable,
incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed -
what is sweet -
what is impossible.
my days ending is
nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of
what I’ve got left

stale panko crumbs,
here come they in
1000 radium-tipped
projectiles of
serious humorous
self-destruction,
gifted to you!
my few
itinerant followers
peddlers brave enough
to offer shelter,
to follow me
into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
of no particular disorders
a thousand times

bless you
richly, eachly,
name announced, pronounced,
we are all proper nouns.

I

Angry stupors succumb her sternum
                                          --battered cavities
                             and shoulder sockets.
   Mates with shotguns and pitchforks
           snapped femur bones holding to hope,
  cat nap toes struggling
                                            to climb the miserable

  The greatest beasts reverberate
                        --Fathom and Torrential/Alice & Skippy,
                                       & Orwell and Bukowski
   with pit mentality swarming
                            her literature
                            his neck.                   Never be the Republics.

     The wall is wood and bare. Ammonia wet seal--
              
            Alice, with her sweet, clawing voices sees
                          this escape is a prison.
        The dove sent to fetch Peace's growth
                  got stuck                                     in the chimney
                             that Skippy built with his stubbornness.

     Alice touches her tacked on remnants
                       --feeling the double home.
                                  Skippy stands still unless Alice calls
     for him
                  and he runs so fast with heart halves beating
                                                                ­       slow.

   *II

           Skippy looks down the abyss and sees Julius Caesar,
                    Cthulhu, and a black flag
     calling back for ceremony
                                 in honor of facilitating fear
                        holding tears
                                   and hugs with arms of falsehood.

    Providing bread for mothers and fathers,
            captors of our tables of silence.
       Fear--making dead witnesses into no soft music,

                                                         ­  no music.
                                                          ­       No,
                                                             ­  facilitators near the top.
                                              What the minds of men
                                                             ­                have done to him...

III

                            Wet paper skin,
                       flat screen canvases--cute satisfactions
                                  asked mean all the world
      but yet                                nothing              but petty questions
                                                       ­                              that break the camel's back.

   "Do I deserve to do this to you?" Skippy asks,
                  helping Alice remove her other lung.
   "Pages will tell babblers later
                           in history", Alice replies.                   Shrieking

    Skippy quarters Alice, the body, the organism's pillow
                    ink
                    oozes
        ­     and    
                             squirms.
Silence,
               as Skippy does the deed.
Wallowing
          back
into
           the
swamp
            of
obsessive
           perception,                        climatic disintergration
                                                 ­                   makes flint hit steel--making another heir
                                                            ­                                       in her litter. Her name is Pain.


IV

       Loving Alice
                           watches         as she falls,
                                                    crashe­s,
                                                and rises.
She smiles softly.


V


  softly with lips of jasmine, the butterfly conundrum is strapping
            fingers made of chalk and other media to
red bricks,
red bells,
it is but a ghost of a casket. She breathes in this casket--in the belly of a bell, she survives.

                                     It doesn't take her long
            to finish
                          what she has done
         --nails faded back to purple polish.

  Falling through her father's philosophy                         a ladder,
                                                         ­                                    a rope
                                         to strangle the blade of Lady Macbeth's sanity.
          Alice takes one last look
  under jasper eyelids--pulls the rope & becomes lactic.
                                                         ­              A motion film.

She's a selfish lover, armed with stunning beauty.
She hunts joyfully for an innocent & caring heart,
She wants to satisfy her longing spirit.

Self validation by conquered hearts.
Conquests, like trophies on a night stand.
Each victory validated by a wounded spirit.
Her potent satisfactions soon dwindles.

Repeated victories, must be obtained.
Scores of bleeding hearts form rivers of tears.
Each conquest screaming from nearby roof tops.
Her Reputation becomes known by many.

The walking wounded,
They protect their dulled spirit
With raised eyebrows and gently shaking heads,
With muffled voices they warn, she is trouble waiting to happen.

I have been bitten by her kind of love.
The sting lingers in my heart,
The scars noticeable in my spirit & in my eyes.

I have her disease now.
My heart longs for love.
Not for Revenge!
But, for recovery and for self validation!

Pass a stranger
Nod a polite hello
Choke on the smell of
Cigarette smoke
Blooming all around
Hold breath till
It's passed
Release and gasp
Fresh new air
But he wasn't the only smoker
Around here
You can get cancer from
Second-hand smoke, you know?
I'm convince we'll all
Die of cancer anyways
Cancer of the body or
Cancer of the heart
Something eating away
All of us and we can't
Self-diagnose the chaos
Looking for something
In all the wrong places
Surface level satisfactions
Nicotine and addictions
Rotting away the soul
And we're all dying of
Some cancer
Cancer of the soul
Looking for answers
Failing to look past ourselves
For Something
Someone
To ease the pain
Satisfy the ache of soul
Clean up a world where
No one smokes
Their souls into
Oblivion

I / Before

I moved slowly,
always wanting to reach
the end of the narrow roads.

I found deceptions and satisfactions;
more deceptions than satisfactions
and more plurals than singulars.

I coveted everything
beyond these high walls,
even so I didn't rush my life.

I believed in other people's beliefs
and I hoped which from me
the time to slip away... killing me, then.

II / During

However, neither it I could get.
I followed so many ways
and neither they could help me.

Ocasionally I sighted daisies
blossoming on the walls
and among the tiles of the streets.

Sighting so many daisies was madness.
Well, to hell with sanity!
And what would be of life without its paradoxicality?

Much suffering for little time!
Little contemplation for much beauty!
Much anguishe for little heart!

III / After*

Oh, the other side:
feared by a few,
coveted by others.

Although the labyrinth
seems infinite and sufferable,
we can find the exit together.

The question is not how we can get out,
reaching, at last, the afterlife;
and yes, how we can end with so much suffering.

To start over, we must wake up!
To wake up, we must exist!
And like this, life will wait for us!

This is the beginning, life has been setting the stage and creating lessons for me to overcome and they have led me to this point, this harmonious balance of fun and change, of inspiration and strength. I’ve fallen down, and those who pushed me there were the hands to pull me up. I’ve lost, and in that misery found a certain peace in knowing nothing more could be taken away.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I’m just now dusting myself off. The sunlight is coming back into my eyes. Burning that hole of darkness, but I don’t want to look away, not this time. Not to fall into the societal trap of striving for mediocrity. I want more for the world I’m living in. I want all of us to reach for the wildest possibilities that our minds can imagine, not just me, not just you. There’s a place I’ve seen in a trance of waking dream state that could be this place. We just have to stop letting the distractions get in the way.

Our egos feed on extrinsic desires but stuff is stuff and people are souls. They are connected to us through the energy of consciousness that is invisibly surrounding us all the time. As out minds get fat from satisfactions of the worlds obsessions, it gets harder to feel this energy of connection. But I guarantee, it is there, and when others feel it, or see it, there’s no way they can forget it; and do everything in their power to spread the awareness of it.

We are not above nature we are nature. Ahisma: for all living creatures. Redefine need from want; convenience from importance; innovation from destruction; oil from energy; and love from obsession. Replace ignorance for understanding, and not just that but a desire to know. Replace trickery with clarity, when you lie to others you’re only lying to yourself. Only then, can we have unity, and unity, is the only thing that will work to change anything. Once there is unity, there is Love; the most powerful force in the universe.

I have mentioned before, that a person doesn’t have to ‘stand for’ the same thing that I stand for, I appreciate uniqueness and difference. Just so long as you see A FLAW in the world around us and YOU ARE personally trying to change it. I see many flaws, but I can’t change them all, I can only do what is in the realm of my possibilities. That sounds like a limiting statement, but in fact, I have not yet found what the limit of my possibility is. It is only when you push the boundaries of reality that you discover how malleable they really are.

        “If you can dream it…” what is the dream? Equality, harmony, free energy? It is everything that will allow us to flourish in peace. It is more of a feeling than a word. Minds get conditioned not to think big, the future mother earth needs is so far from where we are that it feels overwhelming. Like looking at the stars, and trying to grasp the universe with our mental capacities. Use your heart instead. When you look into the windows of each other’s souls, do you feel you want War? ****? Pain? Death Through Suffering? Toxic Chemicals injected into the Atmosphere, the Water, the Ground? Why keep doing this. Focus not on where it comes from, but on what we together can do to fix it. What does your paradise look like? How can we get there.

to her thighs....
my taste buds
so eager to say hi,
if I was asked to describe
I'd say just look
outside,   Around the
time... when the moon
was destined to hide and
air conditioners kidnapped
the space windows and their
sills used to collide

While i strive, tongue
kicks a lure for her
sweet surprise.... That
collapse in time mimics
the anticipation of a
hydrant's refreshing
jolt when it's hot outside

her satisfactions
introduction feeds me
the thrill of that last
day of school during
dismissal time, freedom
for what seems like forever
it's two month limit always
fled past your mind

When she divides
and reveals the treasures
her structure was built
to hide... My taste buds
reunite with the flavors
of summertime

taste like summertime

© 2014 viewtifulink

Carry not the magic spring in less
Than jars of gold; or
Vases of pure fired silver.
Never taint or let it be tepid
Only cool and clean and ready to drink.

Satisfactions degree is only determined
By the users feel, not wish or want
Nor what should have been
But only in the reception digesting,
Waiting circulation throughout.

There is no mystery in the magic spring
It cannot corrupt, only introduce,
It cannot lie, only offer alternative
Never wasteful, sometimes lacking flavor,
But always running, bubbling and full.

The price of drink is forever change,
No return to placid ignorance;
Desires thirst  for more
Constantly prevailing, interminable quest,
For satisfactions degree is determined simply, by feel.

a thousand smiles across the sky.. seeing each face as they begin to fly.. im not here to judge nor to simplify.. i just want to understand why they keep singin this lullaby.. here i walk in this world of ours.. full of bruises, marks, and scars.. battlling each devil dead-on.. forgetting that im human after all.. so i fall.. again and again.. i crumble while my knees tremble to the riddle thats been handed out of me.. how can words set you free? how can thoughts make you wanna see, the workings and the abstracts of life's beauty.. these poems live till infinity.. these words are the mules that my mind sees as tools to change the way humans think to be true.. but most of us ain't got a ****** clue.. to why even the sky changes hues.. to why they killed and destroyed the blues.. we were made to be fools.. trapping us in cages called schools.. exchanging knowledge into ignorant "Duh's" and drools.. we have been forced to suppress what we can be.. we can learn how to destroy the boxes that trap us like bees.. they come at us like blind foes.. wearing shiny necklaces like lassos.. creating depth like black-holes.. taking us somewhere in blind-folds.. these are the people in black robes.. mind controlling us till they crack domes.. that destroy families and smash homes.. my hast has been about writing sad poems.. pushing a pen while lookin out the window.. we were treated like fools.. using us as tools.. i will never stop opposing the thought that makes the masses normal.. we try to be fair, try to be formal.. revolution and peace.. something that never seem to meet.. but this is possible.. all we need is to feel the heat.. this time i will not bleed.. walking these streets feed the need for me to plant these knowledge seeds.. this poet yells there is no satisfactions knowing that life is one of the baddest fictions ever written.. our dreams are shattered and smitten.. do you know where we ride, then? to stop in the middle of no where just to be hidden.. looking for help someone to  confide in.. then i found you.. and just like that, i was like a magnet stuck on you.. it starts with the smile.. a smile i see from miles.. and your glow.. able to flow the hollow space to eliminate my sorrow.. then comes the witty remarks.. able to make me forget the feeling of being eaten by a shark.. i see your shadow in the dark.. teasing me, comforting me to make my mark.. so i raise a toast to you my surfer dream.. may your stars always gleam.. so i can find my way back to the seam.. may your moon always shine.. and not matter the uncertainty of things to come, ill always be on time..

pauldeeeeee
24apr2011

I've peered inside what my heart hides in It's cage now
I know that I've made many mistakes for my age, how?
I'm addicted to the touch, to the ****** and the sweat
Darling,
Moan
Would you still love me through all of my regret?
If I let you hold me close, if to you my heart I gave
Would you trust that you're the one I love?
Could I be the the one you want laid on top of your grave?

If I let you kiss my scars and let you occupy my heart
Would you accept the hurt and despair?
Love my soul, and mend all of my broken parts
Pleasure me when that vicious urge for a ****** lingers in my air

I've done some things for pleasure
I've done things to please
wet eyes
"Please, don't ignore me when I'm down on my knees!"
If you knew what it meant, If you knew how I feel
I'm here for you, I'm giving myself..
That deep stinging pain inside is real
Look me in the eye, hold my cheek
Kiss me hard because your knees are weak
And when I swallow both our satisfactions,
Do not question where I learned my actions

There is a past behind me,
I'ts pawing at my memories strands
Help me forget them
Help me warm my cold hands..
Tell me it doesn't matter,
That you have me now and that I'm enough
You want me forever, for me you are tough

When someone disrespects me, will you be there to set them straight
Defend my honor, even my curious past
Fight my battles with me, vow to me that we have a love that will last
Love me even though I think you never could
Give me a love you think I deserve, and for once dear God, let it be a love that is kind, encouraging, and understood.

They say that love blinds you;
That once you find “the one,”
They will be the only ones you see,
Whether it’s in a crowded room of familiar faces and strangers you’ve never met before
Or in a city with emotionless people wandering through the streets attempting to find their souls-
It’ll always be just the two of you.
Love hides all the darkness in the world,
All the evil and corruption going on around you,
But it also blinds you from seeing the truth.
You see, when you’re in love with someone,
You do whatever it takes to stay in love with that person.
You forget their flaws,
Erase all their mistakes and scars from their bodies.
You block out what others say about your relationship,
Becoming deaf to all the doubts and reprimanding of the adults that “know better.”
When you’re in love, you want to stay in love.
You want it to be just the two of you in this entirely chaotic world.
See, love makes a person blind.
It makes you walk through the Labyrinth without Ariadne’s ball of string to guide you.
It blindfolds you and refuses to hold your hand and direct you to the end.
It makes you want to do stupid things,
And it makes you want to jump off a cliff.
When you’re crazy and irrevocably in love,
You’ll go psychotic trying to make the other person happy.
You crave for their happiness so much that you forget to focus on your satisfactions.
But what happens if you’re so far in love that you’ve become accustomed to tunnel vision even when you’re far out of love?
You see, I know this girl.
She loves the idea of being in love.
She loves all the romance and the sweetness and all the attention when it comes to being in love.
She loves loving others so much that she forgot to love herself.
She’s so caught up in this idea that she almost forgot to get her head out of the clouds and place her feet on the earth for a minute.
See, I don’t believe in perfect.
There’s always something in this world that will corrupt beauty
And being close to perfect is never enough for society.
We’ve all been brought up in a universe of false hopes and harsh realities,
But we still crave for perfection,
We still want perfect.
She wants a perfect boy and a perfect life,
And it’s nice to know that someone out there is still dreaming and believing in the goodness of the world,
But deep in our veins, we know this dream is unreachable,
And I think it’s time for all of us to keep our feet on the ground and not let our heads get too caught up in the moment,
But we all know that might never happen either.

Four walls are screaming...

Lying here awakened by the deafened sound of silence
Casually existing in a manifestation of neighborly violence
Is a martyr of selfish explanation and station
In the mix for chairman on the way the satan
Gates open for him when he travels from his lair,
But travel comes in spurts of gravitational voids,
Filling up with meals as they enter without choice,
Or any sense of repair for what's there,
Entering crevasses and other openings along surfaces,
That allow one to feel worthlessness,
Never hoisting the trophy given to those whom represent perfectness,
Perfectionist can't resist the temptations to conjure mist,
To make sure and valid that works of art are works of fact which exist,
To be or not to be or create or mislead,
Proceeded by apologies that mislead atrocities,
Across cities so wickedly the deadliness of it all is least thrilling,
As a result of the bland toast experience that leaves most chilling,
Spine tingling, neck wringing, spinal tapping, and wired napping,
Saran wrapping over mouths made by ACME,
Causing destruction much like what's seen on TV,
And bought at your local pharmacy,
Where they farm human beings much like cattle, count the sheep?
Because you're snoring, sleeping through class again and looking bummy,
Roaring is coming from the bottomless pits of your tummy,
You devour the tiniest bits of crumbs and feeling crummy,
Misused sense of self existence is persistent to make you nothing

Because four walls are screaming
The world is yours
The world is foreign
The world is burned
The world is corse
The world is hoarse
The world is worse
The world it turns
The world it yearns
The world is yours
The world is yours
The word is yours
The word is yours

Shadows in the brightness of the dark,
Spread across expansive spaces of empty walls,
Suffocating the echoes formed by creaking halls,
Hand rise and fall while final gasps are drawn,
Choked sounds leaving as they enter withdrawal,
Enter into my senses stating that the beauty lies in dawn,
Drawn faces lie on skulls where lines are made of chalk,
The rest of the skeleton remains but must be bought in bulk,
Off branded and made by foreign nations,
Easily paid for with easy to find replacements,
The mind is not a terrible loss when you've only ever had half,
To lose another half would only be half as bad,
Half as much mind to get up out of the shield of bed sheets,
Half as much mind to walk, any given day, across any given street,
100% percent chance at the fate which awaits me,
Yet the safety net in place fools me to believe,
That a life without risk is worth living,
As ant piles form in any which place along the floor,
And the handles continuously fall from the doors,
Clothes, dishes, and homework, pile up into chores,
A fatal scene of tragedy reminiscent of noir,
Ambiguity remains in what lies just beneath,
The surface as the crust of earth acts as a sheath,
While the remainder of it grows rotten due to the cheats,
The liars and the friars who act as moonlit buyers,
Of incomplete factions and fractions of complete mishaps,
Perhaps an axe to the frontal lobe would loosen up control,
My eyes are scar filled and leaking massive amounts of soul,
The soil is darkening with fertilization,
While the source material is dying from being wasted,
It's the typical atypical response to taunts and trails of peril fraught,
With sounds emanating explaining the cause of a shot,
Straight through the heart piercing through the rock,
Cries to forget everything that's been taught, "it's a crock!"

Because four walls are screaming
The world is yours
The world is foreign
The world is burned
The world is corse
The world is hoarse
The world is worse
The world it turns
The world it yearns
The world is yours
The world is yours
The word is yours
The word is yours

To be happy or give family,
Satisfactions of being right you see,
Interactions of puppets tied to string,
Tears next to taxes they're filing,
Humming songs meant to sing,
Has long been the main thing,
To act yet never do the real thing,
It's a monstrosity of honesty,
Honestly saying you are not a thing,
You have no talents you aren't interesting, it's sickening,
That it's truly what they believe,
And thus extend it to fresh psyches,
Of their children like Socrates,
Faith in their words is philosophy,
Till one broke away from topography,
Stopping streams of tears in their streaks, it's done, it repeats,
But all in all is all that he needs,
To defeat the menacing grins to have them at his feet,
Groveling knowing in time that he'll be king,
The sequences flourish from new daisies to trash heaps,
It's a lion stalking and napping among sheep,
The bygones are gone by yet the goodbyes never cease,
The will of the strong is hoisted up by the weak,
But the weak were those who made up the soul of the strong,
The weak were once knights but turned into pawns,
To check into their mates and remain on call,
To stir up disaster by setting up the alarms,
Their charms through voice never lent psalm,
Through all dampening storms he always remained calm,
Even within the shelter of his apartment home,
Ignorance of the outside world didn't disperse of his wounds,
The shreds of skin, metal tasting flesh torn,
Separate the ligaments of the clothes worn,
Mercurial mental in the midsts of complete war,
Picture frames crowd around on the floor,
Commodities in short supply have dissolved,
A death will occur in a mystery solved...

Because four walls are screaming
The world is yours
The world is foreign
The world is burned
The world is corse
The world is hoarse
The world is worse
The world it turns
The world it yearns
The world is yours
The world is yours
The word is yours
The word is yours

There are people you will meet
with pleasant voices and bright smiles,
who can seemingly take away the sting of the world.
They feel like old memories,
like getting out of school early on a fall day
and playing in the crunchy leaves that littered the earth.
Unaware of how rare these blissfully carefree moments would become.
They feel like your favorite hobby,
like sitting outside on a tranquil spring morning,
with the smell of wet grass filling your nostrils
and a cool breeze caressing the
smooth skin of your cheek as you immerse yourself
in beautiful works of fiction.
No longer fearing the passing of time.

There are people you will meet
with pleasant voices and bright smiles,
who will make you question how you ever got by without them.

-K.M.

Ten hours past the seven hand
She says she wants heaven man
And I let her go
Through the fog
Through the mist
Through whatever way she must

Lies layer their own bent betrayal
A fair maiden enters brazen through the double doors
Shouting out, "She wanted more!"
The young are promising
Fallacies hot and empty like a dried river bed
Later unable to recall
That anything was ever said

To breathe onto your neck
To kiss between the specks
Of the echo chambers of nubile love
Experiencing adolescence in its pitter patter
We are the doxies of death
And the ministers of shifting frames

Telling typewriter you are the only
One that does not ask for forgiveness
Only begging for the serene and true
When the light shines brightest
The darkest doth flee

I roll my shoulders forward
So all can be pushed toward
A name to recognize
Yet with a face to terrorize
Each character in this play
Is a prize yet unpaid
In death we are the ones
That have not yet won the prize

Taste the florescent blast
Of a mercury cast
She prays to the song
Of a nymph born in the past

I hear you old one
You wheeze with your creased' delight
When you made your way
To the elderly street
The only one there
Who was wishing to meet
A soul who knew you
Before they saw you

And so you stood there
Underneath the birch of the born
And all mystery wavered within the song of the old
I saw it once within the eyes of the river
They asked for rhyme
And I gave them freshened time
All then grew quiet
Before I could dare to forfeit the next song

Near the mountains
Frost pressed against the rock and
We talked of the liquidity of love
While the tiger stalked the flighty dove
While whatever we were caring for
Was a rifle cocked in an aim forlorn
To the core of what we were wanting so
Was something other then satisfactions caress

Every secret that she met
From her mind past the teller store
What was more the can colored green
Was trying to see what the other had seen
Running along the other side of the conversation
As she dances and ridicules within
Her own forbidden and accepted restraints
To tell the difference between fear a la' hope
Is to kiss the devil amidst the gentile pope

Candle light glides across her freckled eye
The sigh of the angels is the same as the
Howl of the dogged' wolves of the afternoon
The soon to be forgotten sons inside Egyptian caskets
Make all the baskets made of wicker wrapped in plastic
Nothing more than a lie within the panoramic frame
Of hallow enthusiasm shrouded in rubber crassness

Can't you see my friend?
Can't you see you're made to believe?
There's nothing left to tease you with
Other then what is told to you
Venture out
Past the cities
The orchards
The towns, valleys, and the streams

She's a notch on your belt and
And a smell you've never smelt
Making you believe she's the only for you
Though inside
You know she's only going to make you blue

Tear the blinds from your eyes
The whispers are only quieter cries

A knotted wind surges through the waves
Outside a window shutters in a craze

There we sleep amongst the fray
Waiting for the morning
The only one we wish to obey
There is no other place that we can stay

For this is our home
And we will fight
And we will die
And we will live
So in the end one of us

Can see another day

Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation

Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,

I am your mamak kinda girl,
roti telur, roti planta,
banjir, sambal lebih.

I am your HS Cafe kinda girl,
nasi putih makan,
ayam goreng, kuah campur,
sayur, kentang,
nescafe ais bungkus.

I am your warong kinda girl,
nasi goreng kampung,
telur goyang.

I am your Kelisa manual kinda girl,
anything that moves is fine,
as long as we get there in one piece is good.

But I am also your, "how are you?" kinda girl,
where I expect you to tell me stories,
share insights,
and discuss your day.

I am also your, "random question..." kinda girl,
where I expect thoughts and opinions,
discussions and deep conversations.

I am also your, "tahu tak..." kinda girl,
where I want to tell you my thoughts and opinions,
for us to discuss further in our deeper conversations.

Because I am more than just "that kinda girl".

I am more than an introduction,
or rising action,
I am the ****** to your tale and
I expect a falling action,
which eventually leads to our resolution.

I am a simple girl with simple satisfactions,
but I only have one motivation,
I cannot tolerate mediocrity when it comes to ideas and solutions.

I expect love, power, and compassion,
because it is with you that I expect my conclusion,
which will eventually lead to our next destination,
a new exposition.

As answers timidly move in the light
Question of morality I ask of myself more frequently

Is my eagerness to abstain from activities of others truly virtuous?
Or, am I merely lost in translation and its is really selfishness I practice rather than virtue?
Am I hypocritical as I go forth preaching to those who revel in shadow?
Am I unknowingly crowning myself king?
Creating yet another man made god?

Yet I am reassured
My inadequacies demonstrate to me my powerless words
No, I am no self proclaimed god
No accidental hierarchy
No dictatorial government

Day by day I do not and can not offer anything
I do not tempt with visions of pleasure
All I do, all I give, all I open for public viewing is just this,
A smile
In hope that through ample, but temporary satisfactions
Man has not lost his ability to empathize

Feel my happiness
See it through nothing but my smile
Created through loving truly
Acknowledging the small things
And simply, living
Here.

Upon the beaten path I walked
and though I tired still I walked  
upon a glittering stone I came
and I stopped in my palm It lay
upon my gaze It shone
but in my heart reach it did not
upon the beaten path it fell
and still on I walked

upon a young woman I came
her eyes, upon me, she looked
a flutter Within I felt
and in my arms I wished she lay
But upon my heavy tongue my words stopped
and upon me ceased look did she
so upon the beaten path I walked
my tears slowly following me

tired a grew of this beaten path i knew
upon my tired frame exhaustion came
and down I went to Sit
Upon my beating heart relief came
and with it a wash my memory came
Of a time where on this  long road I did not walk
and upon my relaxed heart came grief
brief my rest was and up I stood
and upon my beaten path I walked
my past barely understood


upon an old well I came
Parched my throat had become
so away from my beaten path I strayed  
my journey temporarily delayed

upon the water did the light shimmer beside lay a  bucket
upon it I wished to drink so down the bucket want to sink
up it came with satisfactions wink
upon my lips did I drink
and upon my mind was I releaved
But upon the bottom lay a snake
Its  poison within the water  it slyly  lay
upon the road did I go
blissful in what I did not know

upon my eyes the darkness came
sluggish my legs began  to feel
  and upon my mind worry came
as upon  the path my body fell
Rasping came my breath  labored came my air
But upon  the ground i began to see
all that had been around me
upon the scenery came beauty
And upon my heart did it reach

upon the road had I stayed when all around me I could have played
upon the second when the reaper called
I cursed not the path  I took
for upon   the  moment of my death
at last I came to my peace
upon the goal of the path did I clearly see
For without the beaten path beauty waiting in the scenery would I have missed entirely

Try men's souls. Provocative mind-whip how you soothe me. I scorn modern poetry...not because it is truly bad or truly good. It just makes me feel as if my pores are ever-expanding with clicking, skittering, masses of insects.

Black shiny minuscule monstrosity.
Beautiful in gritty grotesque.

A lamb lights upon the searing dark-light torch...**** them all with glee

No pity or remorse towards humans humanity human nature,
we are disgusting creatures until I cease thinking about us.
Then we are interesting and subject to more discovering and journeying.

Take the child and expose it to everything at once; it shrivels and mumbles distant screams of flaming cliches combined with a burning shot of plasmatic soul searching. How would we approve of such?

Inside the black brown shriveled parchment child-casing: The other children are ignorant. My crooked cracked being shivers disgustingly. I hate them instantly. Not hate. A rigid viscous feeling. Rip apart the sublime ape. She-he in all splendid obsession. Strive, then, no more to ape the emblems of the spirit that was, but evoke anew that spirit in modern life.

I, we trust none. Drama drama dramatic dramatically dramatical in all appearances, but truly flat-line non expressionist.

I love only once.

Burn them and their wicked kindness.
I will soothe my satisfactions and live love only once.

My Muse is the riptide chainsaw hackslash terror of our generation. Reveling in the natural ones. The rocks  scrape phrases up of graves and trees wickle waveringly with pleadings of insane sleeps.

How beautiful is nature. That it can reduce us to nothing at all and raise us upon our grandest delusions.

I love to despise of women's voices. Androgyny is revelation worthy. Epiphany causing in romanticism.
I love to desire my emotional and mental consumption.

she is grandeur made flesh
epiphany constituted within reach
glorious
*******, you sweet, sweet *******
this soul will rest
not mine, not ours
it will take rest and tendril itself through all

love commissions such things
what ****** soul
She I Cannot Resist

Literary allusions: the curse of
Those who overdo—or, as some say--
Overdid the reading thing.
I speak of close associates,
Imaginary friends you’ve not met,
Let alone read (pronounced "RED") about.
Like this guy down at Moe’s Tavern,
An 8th Avenue writer’s bar I frequent.
Let's call him Paulie Muldoon,
A fat Irish slob who claims to be
Poetry Editor, "The New Yorker."
Paulie likes to give me tips on
HOW TO GET PUBLISHED!
Like me, he’s never
Been in print anywhere,
Other than his ***-encrusted laptop, &
A letter he once wrote to the editors of
"The National Kreplach Review,"
A radical Zionist quarterly
Funded by The Mel Brooks Foundation,
Harvey Weinstein & Condé Nast.
Nevertheless, Paulie seems to know
A lot about the publishing business,
Particularly after six stiff Jack & Cokes.
He says the thing is this:  
The best of the Ivy-League’s
English majors wind up in Manhattan,
Slaving away in cubicles,
Working for peanuts—literally,
The publishing industry has some sort of
Barter agreement with Planters.
(www.planterspeanuts.com)                                       ­            
They sit around on their ***** all day,
Getting their kishkes in a twist,
Eating peanuts, perusing manuscripts,
Like chimp Zoo valedictorians.
The manuscripts submitted by the hopeful
And--for the most part--delusional.
According to Paulie, these Yalie, Princeton,
Harvard, Columbiana WORDMEISTERS
Are more likely. . .
(Urban Dictionary: word-meister (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php? 1. Something yelled in place of a cuss word. 2. a rare species of humpback whales. 3. small children whose mother's name is Debbie.)
. . . More apt to be impressed with your scree
If you lay siege their psychic CPUs,
Pushing a few obscure,
Mnemonic function keys, remembrances
Of past Proustian peregrinations.
That's right, you get a much
Better shot at sidestepping that
First smug obstacle of arrogance,
If you slather them; go right
Ahead & flatter them with
Lotions, potions & emoluments,
Arcane passwords,
Vain secret satisfactions,
Tidbits of titillation,
Things that only some mook
That actually had read "The Crucible."
Or "The Scarlet Letter,"
Could possibly know,
Let alone, remember.
For a publisher’s water-boy,
A synaptic switch is keyed,
Tripping off an avalanche of
Marginally relevant,
Yet ultra-literate,
Cognitive highlights.
And, while we're on the subject,
Has anyone actually read Melville's "OMOO?"

truth is impartial to realities.
a human condition set
to diverge honorable practicality
to serve one's comfortfor selfish satisfactions.
yes, a liar is unbranched,
rooted in tasted knowledge
and is self-absorbed,
subject contradicted,
by one's mindmerely fooling
the present.the problem, the dynamic of fact and fiction.
a friction that has perpetuated personal attention
to realize that human intentions are reciprocal
;in protection from the truth within us
with the weakness we try not to expose.

When we were small,
Our parents want us to talk.
When we can talk,
Our parents want us to walk.
Today when we are walking,
We could feel the breeze.
Walk by the road, there's no peace exist.

When we could feel and see,
The world is all about pain.
That's time we realize that people only act like "saint".
When our parents dead,
We could feel the "bang".
Along by the pain,
They attack us like dark shadow fang.

There's no doubt without doubting,
There's no satisfactions without trying,
And there's no pains without causing.
We kept drowning by the "dark" pleasure,
Because the "dark" pleasure is more pleasure
While the slave praise "them" and forget their sins,
All the poor people keep stitching and defending.

Today,  I barely can enjoy the rain.
Yes I hope I can turn back time and become kids again,
Too much shadow and pains I received today,
Most of it from the one i believed nowadays.

a poetic darkness clings to
the edges of the room
ageless in its mental aberration
all the years of its incessant whispering softly the sounds
of a life forsaken to a hunt for
all the things that can never be prized possession
all the things that forever slip through seeking fingers....

my face demonized in the mirror  
unchanged except by the years
still holds the taint and taste of her words
like a thick oily poison slowly seeping
from the soil of my eye
where such lovely dreams once grew
now only a parody of silhouette dark upon a shadow
the void form of a man against the cloudless gray sky

an emperor's tongue speaks regal
but the words spoken fall like black leaves from a black tree
dead and devoid of all aspects of a beautiful fall day
an emperor's tongue lavishly paints visions of such beauty to come
but like the footprints in newly fallen snow they are
doomed to fade in the sun
little lies constructed to tell the willing girl
that her satisfactions lay not in the mirror
but in the pit of some man's soul
in the vile places of lust and longing
her love to become a void form against the grandeur of starlight
her plans for the wedding now only faded ink written by a child

my face demonized in the mirror
I seek to choke out the words that would spell an end
to this mournful song
seek to extinguish the doubts and rages that haunt that image  
I am the one who has made this face in the mirror
carved it out of the stone in my heart
I am the one who sees its ***** lines its twisted fable
my hand slips to the light switch and
turns off the forever eating at my soul

today I have come full circle around
in perversity and  nuances
ask why if you are curious
my ****** thrills have been shown
too much on the internet
quickly finding
and watching so much
I got numb
I sought seeked sorted out some madness
in satisfactions
came up with one thing
that is hard to find
on google even when
incognito
I get a cheap thrill
knowing I am the only one
that gets off
on gnomes.
You can call me odd or off or
psychotic or deranged.
My neighbor who had ten
gnomes
and now five
calls me a thief.