Loneliness.
What is it?
It is a concept we so rarely describe in detail.
We've made up a specific word for it-
Three little syllables-
Just so that we can say it and be done with it,
And escape the contemplation.
But I know my own loneliness cannot be captured,
Cannot be encompassed,
By merely the word.
What is loneliness?
It comes in all shapes and sizes,
A space,
A lack,
That can be big or small,
Sudden or excruciatingly slow,
Sharp or fuzzy at the edges.
Hell,
It can even be comforting.
What is it about loneliness that is so insidious?
Harder to rid yourself of than fear
Or anger
Or even such tricky, barbed things as doubt
Or hope,
That stick.
Loneliness doesn't stick.
It seeps.
Steeps.
You stew in it.
It is beginning to occur to me that I don't believe,
Once one realizes loneliness for the first time,
That one is ever truly rid of it again,
Even for a second.
I think it is a permanence that we as a race refuse to acknowledge most of the time.
Some forms of lonely are fairly benign-
The little tingle on the edges of you, when you are home alone and the house is silent,
And for no apparent reason at all-
No sadness, no fear, no thought that is particularly unpleasant that you must drown out-
You nonetheless feel the compulsion to switch on the television
Even if you won't watch,
Just to break the stillness with a human voice besides your own.
Then there are the darker types, the truly ensnaring ones,
The lonelinesses born of the memory of times when,
Perhaps, you were less lonely,
Or even thought that you had flushed the feeling from your soul entirely.
Loneliness is an otherness,
An alien thing that lives in your heart,
That makes you question whether there is anyone out there who would have you
If they knew
What was on the inside.
There is the type of loneliness that creeps up on you and follows nipping at your heels like a shadow on the pavement as you move through your day,
Reminding you, whispering in your ear that here you felt less alone, and there, and that those places are full now,
Of emptiness,
Because those times have passed and not had the courtesy to clean up their cobwebs-
Memories linger in certain little spots, and collect like dust little pockets of loneliness that grab you all of a sudden,
The way forgotten spiderwebs stick in your hair as you move through an old house.
This type is jarring, disturbing, and
Afterwards I always feel the desperate need to wash away the feeling,
Scrub myself down.
There is the breed of loneliness that is a bit more genteel,
And curls cold at your feet like a well trained dog,
Formal and subtle, but constant,
Watching.
This is the sort that makes you feel just somewhat hunted,
When you try to sit in silence by a fire at night in your living room
And find that you must read a book to drive the stillness from your head.
There is the truly hollow kind,
The kind that has no courtesy whatsoever,
And actually slithers into you, inhabiting your heart and stomach and bones
As you try to fall asleep
With ice.
It is this kind that, if it is strong enough
(and you are weak enough)
For it to remain until morning
Forbids even the smallest human touch-
Every gesture of tenderness from another person
Makes this loneliness increase,
Every embrace, every handshake, every accidental contact of skin
Becomes unbearable,
And the afflicted shies away,
Perpetuating a cycle of vicious disconnection.
They all leave a little something cold, even when they recede,
In the core of you, that won't be dislodged no matter what you try.
Loneliness,
Like a cancer,
Can only be considered in remission,
And never truly cured.
For when given room to prosper even for the space of a second it expands and swallows up your thoughts
Until they whither with frostbite.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked-
As humans we live side by side, arms linked with
Most of the things that will eventually **** us,
What's one more, cozying up inside our skulls,
Inside our hearts?
We have a partnership-
An entirely human concept-
With all that destroys us.
And so we live with out loneliness, like a second shadow.
What is loneliness?
I am still unsure.
I can only describe what loneliness does,
Not what it is.
*I think that maybe to understand it
Would be to die of it.

Russia and America circle each other;
Threats nudge an act that were without doubt
A melting of the mould in the mother,
Stones melting about the root.

The quick of the earth burned out:
The toil of all our ages a loss
With leaf and insect. Yet flitting thought
(Not to be thought ridiculous)

Shies from the world-cancelling black
Of its playing shadow: it has learned
That there's no trusting (trusting to luck)
Dates when the world's due to be burned;

That the future's no calamitous change
But a malingering of now,
Histories, towns, faces that no
Malice or accident much derange.

And though bomb be matched against bomb,
Though all mankind wince out and nothing endure --
Earth gone in an instant flare --
Did a lesser death come

Onto the white hospital bed
Where one, numb beyond her last of sense,
Closed her eyes on the world's evidence
And into pillows sunk her head.

Ah Consuela! Invoking vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes,
I discern them again where she left me back then,
                 as we kissed when she parted, my friend.
Through those ruins I tread towards the footlights, now dead,
                 where I’ll muse as her shadows ascend.

                  .
                          .
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes;
her serape entangles her brooches and bangles
                 like lace on the sorcerer’s looms,
and her cape of the night, she drapes tight to excite,
                 and her fan is embellished with plumes.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes;
taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina
                 performs on the music hall stage,
but she shies from the sound of ovation unbound
                 like a timorous bird in a cage.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes;
as the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing,
                 igniting the wild fireflies,
and the piccolo piper’s inviting the vipers
                 to coil neath the cold caldron skies.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes
as I rise from my chair and proceed to the stair
                 with a hesitant sip of my wine.
Though she doesn’t deny me, she wanders right by me
                 with neither a look nor a sign.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the stage with her green Spanish eyes,
(for her senses scoff, scorning the biblical warning
                 of kisses of Judas that sting,
with her pierced ears defeating the echoes repeating)
                 and smiles at the magpie that sings.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching faint embers a’ stir in her green Spanish eyes,
for a soft spoken stranger enveloping danger
                 has captured the rhyme in the room
as he slips into sight through a crack in the night
                 midst the breath of her heavy perfume.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she gauges his guise through her green Spanish eyes
– from his gypsy-like mane, to his diamond stud cane,
                 to the raven engraved on his vest –
for a faraway form, a tempestuous storm,
                 lurks and heaves neath the cleav’e of her *******.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the caravels cruising her green Spanish eyes;
with the castanets clacking like ancient masts cracking
                 he whips ’round his cloak with a ****
and without sacrificing, at mien so enticing,
                 she floats with her face facing his.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes,
while the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning,
                 of jungles Jamaican entwined
in the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing
                 the vaults in the caves of her mind.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching life’s carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes,
and with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations
                 come taunting her tremulous feet
with her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle
                 for jesters that jive on the street.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides ocean tides in her green Spanish eyes,
and her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling
                 and shaking the shipwracking shores,
as she strides from the light to the black cauldron night
                 through the candlelit cabaret doors.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes,
with her movements adorning a trickle of morning
                 as sipped by the mouth of the moon,
while her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming
                 that flow from the sun’s oval spoon.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes.
Then the magpie that sings ceases preening her wings
                 and descends as a lean bird of prey –
as she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes,
                 his narrowing eyes start to stray.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes,
and the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies
                 race, reaching for gold and such things,
even being reminded that only the blinded
                 are fooled by the brass in the rings.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes,
but as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing,
                 and weaves through the temples of stone,
while the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing
                 in the depths of the dunes all alone.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes,
as she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted
                 in tugs of his turbulent arms,
till he cuts through the strings, tames the magpie that sings,
                 and seduces once more with his charms.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes,
but behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain
                 that nothing and no one exists,
and though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants
                 remain within mythical mists.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching as lightning at midnight in green Spanish eyes
kindles cracks within crystals like flashes from pistols
                 residing inside of the gloom
as it hovers above us betraying a dove as
                 she flees from the fountain of doom.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, distilling despair in her green Spanish eyes,
and the bitterness stings like the snap of the strings
                 when a mystical  mandolin sighs
as the vampire shades **** the life from charades
                 neath the resinous residue skies.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the ledge with her green Spanish eyes,
for the terrace hangs high and she’s thinking to fly
                 and abandon fate’s merry-go-round.
At the edge I perceive her and rush to retrieve her –
                 she stumbles, falls far to the ground.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the sparkles a’ spilling from green Spanish eyes.
As I peer from the railing, with evening exhaling,
                 I cry out a lover’s lament –
there she lies midst the crowd with her spirit unbowed,
                 but her body’s all broken and bent.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she beckons me hither with green Spanish eyes,
and I’m slightly amazed being snared in her gaze
                 and a’ swirl in a hurricane way,
but the seconds are slipping, my courage is dripping,
                 the moment is bleeding away.

Ah Consuela! I touch her - she weeps tender tears from her green Spanish eyes;
as the breezes cease blowing, her essence leaves, flowing,
                 in streams neath the ambient light,
and the droplets drip swarming, so silent, yet warming,
                 like rain in a midsummer night.

Ah Consuela! I hold her, am hushed by the hints in her green Spanish eyes,
while her whispers are breathing the breaths of the seething
                 electrical skeletal winds,
and the words paint the poems that rivers a’ slowin’
                 reveal where the waterfall ends.

Ah Consuela! I’m fading in fires a’ flicker in green Spanish eyes,
as she plays back the past, she abandons and casts
                 away matters that no longer mend.
           .
                  .
And she reached out instead, as she lifted her head,
                 and we kissed as she parted, my friend.
           .
                  .
                          .
Ah Consuela! I’m tangled, entombed, trapped in tales of your green Spanish eyes,
in forsaken cantinas beyond the arenas
                 where night-time illusions once flowed,
for the ash neath my shoulder still throbs as it smoulders
                 some place near the end of the road.

He wants a sugar spun girl-
no lemon *****, no licorice, no peppermint.
Hard rock candy.

You gotta be sweet for him to crave you.
Sweet on the tongue, sweet on the eyes
in a package easy to tear, pop, unfold.

He likes it dayglo and with sprinkles,
marshmallow soft,
moldable and meltable ,
milk chocolate, white chocolate.
He shies away from bitterness.

Don't you dare fill him up.
He has a real meal waiting,
somewhere else, later.

Your job is
to be consumed.
What you need doesn't matter.

He wants candy, girl, not a meal.
Better sugar coat it,
or he won’t buy you
and you want to be bought,
don't you?

I.
So long are the thoughts of someone so beautiful
pulled in by a vision of body and mind so young
chasing inspiration to steal the gaze of a woman
like a fire that burns so to a heart seated in passion
and even harder to fight the warmth of attraction,
yet a gentlemen waits until he is given the pleasure.
II.
In a moment, one can see his eyes filled with pleasure
given a glow whilst reflecting something beautiful.
She never shies away from the design of his attraction,
hard to build a foundation on a ground yet so young.
Yet there is no limit, even one such as age, to limit passion,
rarely does time measure wisdom between a girl or a woman.
III.
His pheromones work magic to his beating heart for a woman.
She seeks to be the resting of his desires that fulfill his pleasure.
There is a slow creeping thought that feelings are merely passion,
and there is little but a burning lust rather than something beautiful.
Harder are the connections with the ones who venture young,
but an old soul has the experiences that altered fates attraction
IV.
There are those who walk away from such an attraction
Envisioning a different path with an older woman
Seeing little to gain mentally from a person fairly young
Never realizing that her mind was always his pleasure
Not just intellect, but thoughts that were oh so beautiful,
With words that reflect such a bright heart of passion.
V.
No matter resistances or distances, their connection is their passion.
They write to impress one another, flirting to increase the attraction.
Displaying their hearts for each other in writings so beautiful,
many poems composed for and because of, a certain woman.
Never by touch but a pen evoking feelings with written pleasure,
sharing in a cryptic way the hidden feeling from when young.
VI.
Still one cannot find the power to resistant a flower, young.
Merely looking for a fuel to fire our deepest passion,
never forgetting the strength of giving pleasure.
Baring his shyness to show complicated attraction,
in the pursuit of a hope that she is no ordinary woman.
Like hoping on a sunrise, but knowing it will be beautiful.
VII.
Intricate is the passion in the face of his attraction.
So too is the zeal of the wanting young woman.
Still the greatest pleasure is that she is beautiful.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park,
this is an ode to you.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park
ambles behind
the kids sprawling out of the entrance
like baby spiders spilling
out of the crushed mother’s abdomen.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
flip-flops his way to the lazy river,
shies his black Harley Davidson tanktop
to reveal his sunburnt
abdomious belly
flopping over his camo swim trunks.

He shakes off his flip-flops
and awkwardly wades in,
his hulking mass shifting with
each foot and tree trunk
of a leg smashing into
the shallow water,
sending shockwaves towards
screaming toddlers
in his wake.

Finding a vacant tube,
he turns his body around
and heaves himself
into the neon green donut
with considerable
and farcical
difficulty.

Mother at the pavilion
opens an eye from the lawn chair
and chuckles to herself,
applying another layer of sunscreen
over ruddy cancer-sensitive skin.

Sporting oblong racecar sunglasses
atop flushed puffy cheeks,
**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
basks in the baking mid-summer sun
and the cool ****-ridden waters
he sinks his hands and feet into.

What is on his mind?
I imagine it is as close
to nothing
as he aims to get,

free from responsibility
like a wiry youth
he knew
from long ago.

The piercing screams of laughter
from ambulant children
splashing about him
are fruitless
in penetrating
his enclave.

He coasts about this way
for an eternity,
his red leather hide
burning in the hot sun
enwreathing his glasses.

Meanwhile,
mother reads
under the cool shade
of the pavilion,

the kids tumble down
slides and splash gleefully,
endlessly,

and life lingers on a moment
for a necessary
sojourn.

**** Middle-Aged Dad
awakens from his sun-cooked daze,
approaches the exit
and prepares himself
for his departure.

Waddling left and right,
he flops starboard
splashing magnificently
like a cannonball rolling off the deck
into the ocean.

His sunglasses leave him in the ruckus,
he gropes blindly
with chlorine-infested eyes,
til he grasps the visage
and stands up in the water.

His great body surges
from the waters,
fading tattoos gleam
along with a bald spot
in the sunlight.

He ambles through the waters—
water spilling out of rolls of fat
undulating in the motion—
and sensuously runs a baseball glove of a hand
through thinning hair.

His trunks bunch up around
firm, beefy buttocks
and a tired old *****,
thick tree trunk thighs,
ending its constriction just above
the wrinkled knot
of kneecaps.

Mother snapshots a photo
of the visage,
his fruits spilling about him
in perpetual glee,
his stolid look of authority,
wisdom, drive,
and endearment.

Years later,
the ambulant youths
on the cusp of adulthood

leaf through old photo albums
suddenly eyeing the Father piously
in a newfound awe,

aware of his gargantuan countenance
that shielded their efflorescence.

He was their sun,
he was their shade,
and their sky—

for he knew
when to plant,
and when to water,
and when to wait.

Running a thumb over
the diaphanous visage
exemplifying
an analog adolescence,

they jeer each other
over the Father,
secretly harboring
an amassing reverence
for the great figure,

the **** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park.

All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos,
Cool as the pearled interior of a conch.
Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us.
Around our bed the baronial furniture
Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange.
Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air.
We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were.

Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture
Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained.
Two of us in a place meant for ten more-
Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers,
Our voices fathomed a profounder sound:
The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs
Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others.

Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours
Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood,
That cabinet without windows or doors:
He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she
Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood.
Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away.
They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy.

Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she
Would not be eased, released. Our each example
Of temderness dove through their purgatory
Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness,
Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple.
Nightly we left them in their desert place.
Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious:

We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices.
We might embrace, but those two never did,
Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse,
Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter-
Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood;
As if, above love's ruinage, we were
The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.

Light flanks the snowbanks
my memory thanks the simple soundscapes
of textures closing in
as walls and ceilings
and snow and sleet

We can blame the weather
but we'll be here forever
cursing ourselves
mid-stride

Stopping motion
mid-explosion

a simple thank you from the
particles we've denied

All things moving outward

The molten core of earth
Our mother

Chaos empty space
Our father


     Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...


This is the nothing substance
I'm looking for

Seeking ever leaking truth
of faucet water too heavy

Minerals come to life
and return to the ground
in the instant of
midair waterfall

Weightless feeling fateless
determining the future
on solid ground grasses
fishing baitless

naked sameness

emotion

motion

ion

on


     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...


Sea oh double
em oh en

Common ground
from the firmament I send

Confusion permanent
in an ocean

Oh see an end

Painless drifting aimless
seeking searching
for the seam
into which this world
is born

The lifeseeking thread that never ends

The bloodborne
pathogen

Of caring void
and emptiness

Caress you like a stone

Forever there

In the loveliness
of human hair

Saying, I was there

When emotion became
the firm ground
never sinking

Thinking of the way out
but never escaping

Mountains around
an ever growing feeling


     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...


Your light
is not lost to
my dilated eyes


     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
  
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.


Feedback,
I've got my need back

Shaking like a lovesick
fiend

On every letter of your speech

I'll filter this wormhole
off kilter
into every relationship
in front of my eyes

Until we meet again,

I won't stop telling stories
of jackals speaking english

To fetch our sweet meat
from top shelves
and ruins

Blue and bruised
flesh alludes
to stories unspoken

and broken glass
dreams of unity

Bottle falls

Slow motion

It all seems
like a dream
in endless blue
love tokens

There is this girl that I know.
She dreams in large doses that swallow her up.

She shies away from reality
as consistently as she shies away from me.

She sees the world in black and white,
with paper clouds and dull surroundings
Even when I tell her of all of the colors.

And she always clings to the possibility of love and acceptance,
as if they are the origin of her beating heart.

But still she believes
The world is a big and scary place, waiting to consume her.
That all of the possibilities it holds pressure her to be better, to excel.

She takes the things she has for granted,
and believes that happiness is something that takes an army to achieve,
And she doesn’t have a kingdom.

But how she is wrong,
Her dreams are made up of a gifted imagination that can take her anywhere.
Reality is nothing to fear, nor something to fight.
And the world is her canvas, ready to absorb whatever she desires.

She has nothing to fear,
The world is herbivorous, and feasts on happy endings.
All that’s asked of her is to be sincere and experience happiness,
no matter where that takes her.

But mostly what she doesn’t understand,
Is that she is surrounded by soldiers ready to fulfill their duty.
That love and care for every piece of her,
Honorable or
morose.
And as long as they are there to guide her,
she is invincible.

To live in this beautiful free world,
Is to live in an abode of possibilities.

Were the trees whisper secrets,
bending their skeletal bones to achieve their one desire.

The wind carries life on diverging paths,
Not knowing which direction it is taking till the last possible moment.

Were the sun cakes you with memories,
and allows you to dream of freedom in the most ambiguous ways possible.

Where water carries a current that steals away your troubles,
Carrying them down the winding river frigid with savage desires.
And the rush,
Rush of water is like blood, coursing through your veins and carrying
full responsibility for your parched temptations.

These are things that you never see-
You never appreciate.
Even when these images and feelings and thoughts are POUNDING on your eyelids,
Attempting to find sanctuary in your mind.

Open yourself up, and
Feel the glory of life.

Because the one thing you never do is appreciate the dips and curves and mountains and valleys and
Oceans
Of people.
It contains.

Dustin
     Amanda

Light flanks the snowbanks
my memory thanks the simple soundscapes
of textures closing in
as walls and ceilings
and snow and sleet

We can blame the weather
but we'll be here forever
cursing ourselves
mid-stride

Stopping motion
mid-explosion

a simple thank you from the
particles we've denied

All things moving outward

The molten core of earth
Our mother

Chaos empty space
Our father


     Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...


This is the nothing substance
I'm looking for

Seeking ever leaking truth
of faucet water too heavy

Minerals come to life
and return to the ground
in the instant of
midair waterfall

Weightless feeling fateless
determining the future
on solid ground grasses
fishing baitless

naked sameness

emotion

motion

ion

on


     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...


Sea oh double
em oh en

Common ground
from the firmament I send

Confusion permanent
in an ocean

Oh see an end

Painless drifting aimless
seeking searching
for the seam
into which this world
is born

The lifeseeking thread that never ends

The bloodborne
pathogen

Of caring void
and emptiness

Caress you like a stone

Forever there

In the loveliness
of human hair

Saying, I was there

When emotion became
the firm ground
never sinking

Thinking of the way out
but never escaping

Mountains around
an ever growing feeling


     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...


Your light
is not lost to
my dilated eyes


     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
   
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.


Feedback,
I've got my need back

Shaking like a lovesick
fiend

On every letter of your speech

I'll filter this wormhole
off kilter
into every relationship
in front of my eyes

Until we meet again,

I won't stop telling stories
of jackals speaking english

To fetch our sweet meat
from top shelves
and ruins

Blue and bruised
flesh alludes
to stories unspoken

and broken glass
dreams of unity

Bottle falls

Slow motion

It all seems
like a dream
in endless blue
love tokens

she's outspoken
yet she shies away
she's blunt
yet she's some kind of fake
i wonder how vague this girl can get
i just don't understand her

The way a moonflower shies from the sun
So I shied from you
Turning my face away,
Placing myself in shadow
So that your light would not penetrate me.
In shadow I remain, until the night arrives
When I look to the sky,
Reaching for the moon and
The only light I can grasp to,
Wanting to scream into the torturous quiet.

I am sorry for your pain
but I am not the cause
and seeing how you've treated me
I think I know what was

Dishonest in your ranting
as you're girlfriend and not wife
no wonder why he shies away
from unrelenting strife

Accusing without evidence
eschewing private mail
you castigate me publicly
as illogically you rail

Behaving with much cruelty
demonstrating zero class
you couldn't solve a mystery
if it bit you in the ***.

18 Jun 2015

Sleepless, tired every day,
working for hours no one remembers,
daylight and moonlight don’t get a say,
her clock is her own she says,
queen of night, her struggle initiates,
raise our hats to every hardworking girl.

Her eyes tell the story,
of how they broke the rules of sleep,
sky commands​ world to witness the sunrise,
humanity rises and she falls asleep,
even in dreams her spirits don’t rest,
Nights don’t dare touch hardworking girl,

Bags under her eyes and still she won’t quit,
goals and dreams always chasing,
still she creates time to help a ******,
he humbly praises God for her being,
touches every soul she ever meets,
words are too small for that girl.

Some say she is a myth,
around every corner I find her,
shies away strongest metal on Earth,
fire so severe of determination,
I now weep in her praise,
story of every woman, this hardworking girl.

Your eyes are lightning—
piercing, penetrating—
stunning.
with a gaze,
You turn me,
a mere mortal,
into stone.
Your presence is—
electrifying.

Your hair is brazen,
Your skin is gold.
Your body sacred oak.
the grace of a swan,
the heart of a lion,
the eyes of an eagle,
the mind of God—
is all Yours.

the sun has half Your warmth,
the sky a quarter of Your greatness,
and the stars an eighth of Your brilliance.

a huff of Your breath
could blow all the birds from the sky.
a flick of Your finger
could crush all the earth's mountains.
a crack of Your voice—
like thunder—
could make all men fall to their knees.

the world gravitates on Your inhalation
and shies away on Your exhale.
all of nature sings of Your glory,
for around You,
everything revolves.

on my chariot
riding on a bridge of brass,
torches in the air—
in imitation of Your celestial glory—
i wonder
if there be a place for me
on mount olympus—
by Your side.

The waves brush my toes
   to keep me away from the water
The sand tickles my feet,
   as the sun falls into deep slumber
The tress groan as its branches and the wind
   twirl around each other
All of these happened
   as I walk on a beach in a boring afternoon in summer.

The children's feet dropped to a beat
   as they stomped through the leaves on the ground,
The trees let the wind blow their leaves off
   as they turn from green to brown
The night grow longer and colder
   as the moon calls for winter to come
All of these happened
   in a peaceful day in autumn.

The Christmas lights blinked
   as merrily as the dancing of the icy cold winds
As the sun shies away from the ice covered towns,
   the moon grinned
The snow angels sand beautiful songs,
   as the lakes and rivers sparkle in glitter,
All of these happened
   in a white chilly winter.

The leaves start to grow back
   as the trees hummed to a sweet song to the hills,
As the sun cheers and smiles brightly,
   the blue sky remained still
The people greet each other on the pavements,
   as the new bird harmoniously sings
All of these happened
   in a calm and happy morning in spring.


ns

They say we are afraid of what we do not know.
so now I understand why we let fade the hopes of the fireflies underneath our skin that yearn to shine again -
   the cries of our goosebumps for a reason to get out of bed -
      the dying wish of the fireworks in our lips to be ignited with the heat of a perfect kiss -

Yes, we must be afraid.

Because you and I are God’s orchestra playing a symphony to which there is no end -
Because you and I are passion and eternity on a collision course -
Because you and I are the moon singing sweet songs to the waves at night to lull the ocean to sleep -
Because you and I are too **** beautiful a thought for anyone to dare dream, so it stands to reason I lay awake at night -
    imagining

Imagining that sometimes the stars in the sky play hooky for a night to reside in your eyes, and when the sun goes down it’s easy to mistake them for the ethereal moons of a distant planet -

Imagining the soft curve of your lips is the bend of a bow which draws back to       shoot forth the thirty-two brilliant white arrows that are your piercing smile -
  that your touch transforms the blank page of my body into a masterpiece with every stroke of your fingertips -
     that in your hair are secret love letters written by the sun with golden rays -

Imagining the world stands still when you cry, because heaven is listening for its missing angel, the one who improves upon the silence with her whispers and upon the stillness with the shake of her hips -
  whose words dance off her tongue and play songs on my eardrums -
    whose breath is like the warm embrace of a good friend -
       whose soul billows out with her laughter and mends the holes in my heart -         whose memories keep me company on lonely nights. . .

Imagining the gentle beat of your heart          the         to attention,
                                                      ­             shakes   earth
and           the           out of its skin, because you see it's not blood pumping
       rattles       moon
through your veins like the rest of us but shooting stars and good intentions-      
   imagining you stand tall not on legs but two pillars:
              one of virtue, one of compassion
       each built tirelessly stronger since the day you could walk the path from right to wrong-

Imagining that you live your life so loudly earthquakes cover their ears and the lightning shies away from you for fear you will steal its thunder
  yet the way you say my name lets me know what it’s like to be kissed by a sound wave.
Imagining you carry within you all the answers I’m looking for, if only I would take the time to realize it.

Imagining that my fate is written in the constellations, so when I hold you close the word ‘forever’ is blazed in the stars of the night sky,
that your love erases the line between our bodies and the moonlight letting it sink past our skin and collect in our pockets to illuminate dark nights and clouded minds;
Imagining you are less of a fairy tale and more of a reality, a girl whose name echoes through my bones to the tip of my tongue -

Imagining you are that perfect dream I never want to end -
  that dance I dance when I’m all alone -
     that voice in my head that reminds me everything will be alright

Imagining you could begin to understand the veracity of my words,
the footprints you've stamped on the inside of my memory,
     that an ocean of ink would run dry to quench the thirst of my pen tasked with the mission of scribing the sensation of my soul reaching through the bottomless cage of my body and holding hope by the hand in the comfort of my home

                           Imagining I didn’t have to imagine anymore.

Sit down, take a seat, and hear me;
If you are comfortable tell me?
For I shall begin with words to soften
Your heart, which I wish to own.
I speak to you masses with confidence
For I know that my subject is common;
But with clear and fresh tongue do search
To recite anew song of unbridled love.

Do you all know me? My muse is yours at times
Such as these, a soul such as yours;
May she, Cyprian goddess, flow through my pores,
As with many a poet before.
Her help is needed, for this world turns
And shies her back away from truth.
Lost now are all souls in love, forsaken now
Is a pure emotion for the heart.
You know this, for I speak rights that even courts
Would nay sentence. Sentence me
Though! I would gladly serve twice my life,
For her to embrace mine alone.
No iron bars could hardly hold behind them
My desire, they'll drift on the wind.
She'll hear them as they tap her door,
Funnel under, and sneak passed gaps,
Hidden from the eye and from her ear;
Within her dreams they flow to her.
May visions appear from within my words,
And although her slumbers appear light,
Cascade falling images, that when she awakes
Make her sleeps troublesome ever more.

These words I sing, my dear, you understand
Already but refuse to summit for fear.
‘Tis true our time is now, and within this
Our hour glass continually spits its grain.
Present life is still filled and overflows the brim
With faith, love and tender passion.
Be gone these modern treasures, these allures
Which cause wants of no purpose.
Give in, surrender, and commit to your feelings;
For there is no wrong in what feels right!

To you, my Emily, this little verse is sent,
As with splendour your name escapes my lips;
Is as wondrous as this sight I behold,
Relaxing upon this golden beach.
You bring me warmth that no sun, nor sand,
Nor ocean could ever duly match.
Forever will my kisses linger on your lips,
So love may wonder earth unharmed.
Without you I have clung to sickness while
My pain is joy. Take doves paired off in love
As model! Male and female a perfect match!
Ones wrong to look for limits to loves madness;
True love knows no bounds.
The sun god sooner drive black steeds, and fish
Dehydrate in dry ocean than I could
Shift my passion elsewhere; I'm yours alive,
Yours dead! All your kisses are still too few!
How many sighs toss me from side to side of the bed?
While I can not admit that you will not come.

Unique, most lovely trouble, born to make me suffer,
Your beauty shall be made famous by my books.
I saw you in a dream, my life, my desire, and tossing
On the purple waves, like every would-be lover,
I am willingly your slave! !

Dawn, o Dawn
Sunlight that spills over a distant hill
Teasing the shadows of wheat and knell
Filling the cracks with a soulful lit
Expose the face, the shining face
The earth that shies from night
Expose the blindness of the earth
Just as blind in the light.
The fury that melts the dew away
Casts me long away from me
I stood outside, the weeping fields
Seeking the escape I need.
Futility, oh misery
It pulled me back, the seed
And forced embrace, to love the day
Despite spurn, implore, or plead.
The coming day, I hate the man
No friend of mine is he
Every day, oh, Dawn, oh Dawn
A disappointment to me.
Ev’ry step of Apollo’s path
Is paved with bitter tears
Each minute, forced to swallow
To see my failure’s leers
Each time the day begins anew
I’m forced into a darker world
One where pieces of the previous day
Are halved, split into
Shreds and shreds Oh, dear, oh, dear
You’d think spirit’d be all but dead
But what kills him more is not his thought
But what my eyes continue to see
When those eyes were drawn to me
The sun shows never was
It existed in the dark
Obscures like barley’s shadow does
And if, of course, it’s fantasy
A book intent with end
I’ll rip and claw the dawn away
And fiction I’ll defend
For if you’ll never grace my field
And reap the fruits that grow
I’ll just raze them, sky and all
The passion the earth will know.
A fictitious world, much more surreal
I love my own creation
The sunlight unveils the bitter truth
They are not food, but cremation.
If I could stop the coming dawn
If even for a moment
Darkness would bathe the far corners
Wasted lives atone it.
But that is bunk, the dawn knows that
Reality is taken in full
Who ever knew a crisp fall morn
Could be so utterly cruel?
Laying here, the sun moves on
Soon we’ll both be dead
To face the face, my misery
Confines me to this bed.

inside her lives a monster
with sly eyes
behind her pretty face he lies
behind her dressed robes in disguise
he braids her long golden hair
touches her naked skin
gently and shies
for centuries hes been hiding waiting to rise
playing games dazzling her mind
with a playful voice he asks her to join
she tries to escape
yet she always fails
seeking freedom in vain
she loosens her braids and sighs
she finally accepts her fate

his name is josh,

and he would send me selfies of his other half and babble about her until i am almost praying for the tomorrows we are not promised, all because i want to see them together years from now. on nights when his thoughts are all over the place and he does not know what to do with his emotions, i worry; but he shows me that he can conquer anything and everything, eventually, with her hand in his. that really, sometimes, love can be all you need.

his name is paolo,

and he walks me home even though he doesn't have to. in between coke floats and sidewalks, i came to know a boy who would plan a spontaneous harana because he had a guitar and formal attire; who would find in his heart patience and forgiveness when it was he who should have been receiving it. on the days i fear he is on the verge of crumbling, he keeps his chin up and begins treading the walk home by my side with nothing but stories of admiration for the girl who puts the lyrics in his music.

his name is steven,

and not a day passes that he doesn't check in on me-- to remind me that i should eat three times a day; to ask me how i'm doing; to send me links to things as forms of harmless distractions. he has proven over and over again to be ideal despite certain setbacks. he is fiercely protective and he knows how to listen, and although there is no one for him at the moment, anyone he has loved and will be loved by him is lucky, whether they realize it or not.

his name is ian,

and whenever he talks about the girl he loves, he brightens and i am sometimes left to wonder if he is talking about some other thing; like the celestial beings of the universe, or the wonders of our earth. he is as balanced as a boy can be and as fair as one could ever hope; he is so many good things in the world, and yet, love holds him captive in the best ways known to man. i will never get sick of watching him fall over, and over, and over again for the same person.

his name is niño,

and though he is what you might call a reckless romeo, there is no one in love that has ever equaled him. the things he will do in the name of that four-lettered word has driven me crazy; i have watched him struggle with it too many times. but the beauty of it all is when he still stands after being kicked to the ground, how he fills the cracks in his heart with love and nothing but that. how he willingly gives out pieces of him to complete others. how he will adore his girl until the rest of the world shies away, until he has re-defined it for everyone to come after.

you see, if you ever plan to love me, know that i have stood as witness to heartbreak and heart ache... at the same time, i have also been exposed to the most beautiful brands of love; different fights and different names of courage and different reasons and different people to fight for, but still, all the same, in the name of love.

they have taught me to be brave, and patient, and kind, and reasonable; and soft in all the right places, brutal when it comes to it; they have taught me to be what a person expects in love and they've taught me what to expect from the person i love, as well.

i refuse to settle for anything less.

I have done something “horribly immoral”.
I should’ve never touched her.
Anna Marie Coral

Pale skin, green eyes
Like emeralds among pearls. But…
When I look at her she shies?
Soft skin glowing in the night.
When I touch her
I hear beautiful fright,
Feel heart beats. Faster.
Caused by my careful capture.

Terrified eyes,
Beauty magnified.
Lovely lips quivering
My affection delivering
Undesired, ****** and direct.
What did she expect?

Being told all of my life
What’s wrong is what feels right.
My peace comes not from violence
But from my victims silence.


I crave them, these abducted affairs.
Prison bars, Pleads and prayers
Won’t quench my thirst.
Food’s first bite tastes better in fast.


Anna Marie Coral wasn’t my first and
She won’t be my last.

Temptation shies
From revealing sun,
Its subtleties
Shine on everyone.
Don't look for horns,
Fork and tail;
Its method ensnares
The unsuspecting,
Should they dare
Challenge to outwit.

We'll trade our souls,
For a sack;
Barter what we dearly hold;
Trade it in
For selfish goals.

Some advertise
A soul for sale
By self-service.
That ultimately fails.
Cuckold a friend,
Cheat at the end;
The tempter likes it
When we're lost
In the simplicity
Of detail.

So sly
We think
We lose our souls.
Terrified by
Eternal flames
That burn without
Consuming skin.
We don't
Lose that,
We wallow
In our sins.

This temptation needs
To stick us
In the end.

Come glaze these dark serpentine walls,
With the iridescent kisses of your soul.
My heart is swimming in the calm waters
Of your insatiable mind, my love.
You blaze in the dungeons of my heart
Like a winter wind in a sweltering night
I glide in the blunt blueness of your eyes,
Lost in the translucent clouds of floating melancholy,
I freeze in the stillness of your skin.
The poised moon shies,
Its silver hides in the lining of your
Celestial body. You shine brighter
Than the infernos of passion
You ignite within me.
My limbs are mere meat for foxes and ravens,
As you caress my paralyzed psyche
With your love written in impeccable
Prose. Who are you, calling yourself a
Pariah, travelling with a million stories
Tucked inside the folds of your eye lids?
Come, dip your quill in the very depths
Of my being and weave another symphony.
And maybe, sing to me someday.

Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...

     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...

     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...

     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
  
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.

the jungian concept of the collective unconscious
is quiet simply bogus... why?
it would mean that no one in the rest of us
would or wouldn't know whether they were
capable of being... plumber!
        i find the jungian version of "events"
as scary as communism,
          it just means: a retardation of
darwinism - it means a loss of consciousness -
you do know, that jung is a covert
communist, right?
                 i find it strange that a collectivist
unconsciousness does not allow me to
engage with whoever i like in the dream world...
why is it, that i can't dream up:
  anyone i like?
    why am i not a magician in the medium,
pulling a black 12 incher from a top-hat
instead of a rabbit?! as usual: no answer.
      a ******* **** in the wind,
      a persian falafel in a turkish kebab,
a piece of broccoli in a cauliflower salad...
an eskimo in a sand dune,
about as weird as a zebra among pandas.
so we're collectively unconscious of
each of us are doing?!
           so the plumber doesn't know
why he's a plumber, nonetheless,
he's content with being human, and being part
of the great extract of the universe,
and the subsequent per se,
           and he's not ******* at anything
akin to the exceptionalism of an einstein?!
wow!
    what, an, exceptional, observation!
scary to endorse the psychiatric collectivism
of jung, and oppose the economic collectivism
of marx...
       in both instance: we're all apparently
going to succeed!
          but one thing is for sure:
we're not sleeping walking into one of them...
oh... right... we are...
    no wonder the circus is dead;
because when i think of a collective
unconscious i start thinking along the lines
of: there is someone, out there,
who's a walt disney,
    who doesn't actually think / imagine
himself as being a plumber...
         and then he does a las vegas on
the stage, and he gambles it right...
      which is why i can't actually understand
jung without understanding communism,
and why anyone would an essential part
of freud, to replace it with jungian
ideology, and not accept some minor form
of communism...
the collective unconscious...
   that's a truly unfathomable compound
of words these days...
     so we're all sleeping, or?
we're all awake?
         in the collective array of stratas i already
"knew" i was to be a plumber,
the poor ****** next to me,
already "knew" he was to be a politician?
oh, right, it was in the unconscious
medium, so we won't actually "know"...
   jung was a ******* communist however
you like it or not...
        and freud was just the instigator
of the *****-industry,
      a monolithic capitalist of the *******
agency of the base construct:
       skyscrapers are not, an, accident;
and i do abide by the law of necessary
correction,
   i probably have made a mistake -
   it, whatever ill i've said,
     nonetheless is wed to the already prefaced
intro to:
           i find the collective unconscious
a dire play on words,
   that shies away from the politico dynamic
of communism...
  by suggesting, that when all said and done:
the plumber has no knowledge of
being a plumber, rather "thinking" himself
                     being a zookeeper!
oh ****... i must be *******...
but i just watched the plumber do the zookeeper's
job, of teaching the gorilla sign language,
"telling" the gorilla: i, think, yer, deaf.

it's okay to be in love--

falling for that clerk that toasted your bagel
first thing in the day,
winking at the guy next to you
at the gas pump as he admires
your Femme ride--

this girl in my heart
shies away from feeling,
but expresses so much--

like knowing how to skate but
refusing to because of how free and
happy it makes her---

Pump the breaks!
Seize the ******* day!

it's okay if those temporary others
don't share those feelings,
but rather acknowledge your
gratitude and shift their own thinking--

that clerk's job isn't meaningless,
that guy at the pump isn't a creep--

meeting the right human at the exact
Cosmic time is absurd,
thrilling and anxiety-causing but
smiling at those that pass through
makes the big things seem so much smaller--

just breathe, fellow traveler
it gets easier--

Is undoubtedly scaled with
An attitude
That shies from ineptitude

The nun leaves
the warm parlour

off the cloister
and feels the cloisters’ cold

and biting frost of early dawn.
Each bite and nip

of toes and fingertips
a minor crucifixion.

My self my enemy
you shall not win.

The cross signifies
the crossing out of I,

the I’s greed and wants
and selfish such.

There is birdsong.
Smell that blossom.  

Do not rush, walk as told,
remember that.

Sense that cold.
Feel those nails,

hammering flesh,
co-joined with Christ,

as His bride, day
and tortured night.

See that fresh born sun;
night’s moon shies away.

The nun pauses.
Sniffs the air.

The time of bleeding.
Tombstone of another’s death.

She sees, smoke like,
her rising breath.

As You compliment
The barren wine glass
with Your reflection
that it projects, and
it shies to it's curves,
as Your's are the one,
That it portrays, and I
gazed at You, flattering
my eyes, blushing red,
when You smiled and
tucked Your hair behind
the ears, and whispered
the words with Your
polished burgundy lips,
I realized, The almighty
gave me a gift. I
Poured the wine gently,
The glass was still shy,
As it's wine was dull
to Your lips, Then I knew
That, You are,
The craving to me,
That wine,
Will ever be.....

The withering of leaves complete
   the grass withdrawn
      the plants to peat
         all waste away
            and the fauna
               for famished scrawn
                 flee the North
                    for wind that bites
                        the powdered ice
                           the Winter Dawn.

The hardy sparrow
   fast forsakes
      that gaudy vest
          which Summer makes
             he scurries home
                to cozy fir
                   and shies from flight
                      'til Spring awakes.

This girl
She walks
Down a lonely road

But sometimes she shies
Away from helpful woes
A man that she dearly loves
Has gone to heaven's gates

This girl
She walks
Far away from home

Black clouds, they follow
Wherever she goes
But sunshine peeks through
When this girl follows you

This girl
She walks
No one gets in her way

Hello, goodbye
My girl is understood
She walks a lonely path
Searching for some good