I pose high my chest of ragged ribbons
And unravel a fist to stretch out fingers in search
Of a hand glimmering pale like a lantern
throughout this grey
        empty space. Once a pavement, now as good as

Cloud. Frozen lake. Dust. Boiling ashes. Skeletons.

I am walking on the slashed frames of waves
As jesus once must have. Propelled to a miracle unwitnessned
To anyone but myself. I am impelled to corrode
Into a statue; to remain a rigamortic rotting jade jewel in the sun
Until I no longer can.
Until they found me...

Perhaps they'd dust me off, thaw the ice from my shoulders,
Rehydrate me and gorge me,
Restart the blinking light in my brain
And refrain me evermore from having to seek.

But seek I must, for the lonliness weighs me down
Further by the day. I take half as many steps now as when I began my voyage.
My memories are like ghosts of flames that play
Snakes and ladders and hide and seek.
I am the lighthouse man and I sail drunken--
A rubicund mishape of bone and scuffed thoughts,
I can feel every soul which once embodied and huddled this place.

It's like they are trying so hard to posses me but even
Their souls have been smouldered to whispers
So thin they ring as mutely as the surrounding mist,
So soft they vibrate akin to an infant’s pulse
Throughout these walls, these scrapyards, these crumbling arcades, this sandbox grey that begs for a scream.
The spirit of a tarantula trembles along my back and grazes it teeth against my shoulderblade,
Praying that I turn to confirm it's being –but it's a game I’ve long grown sick of–


I am the lighthouse man and I ceased having a face long ago.
What I recall of my reflection was a child so young and so sure
Of a different life that

I cannot be sure it's even me.

I am the lighthouse man; a puckered bulb balancing on too-big shoulders, that walked
  through barren flat closes and exited empty handed, the lonely poltergeist,
a bitter flab of skin.

I am the lighthouse man and I am the final Aspen leaf in the pond of the universe,
I see myself reflected in a sole star twirling underfoot and overhead
rowing my ears so thick with disfigured silence so that I wished I was born deaf.
I am the lighthouse man and my mind is a spinning fragment
    my eyes can merely follow and my floating steps merely trail.

It never changes tone here, I can only vaguely trace the time
By the occasional moon. Tonight it shines half chewed,
  Befitting the levelled star a sideways crown.
It is beautiful but I mustn't stop to admire, lest a survivor
Scavenger loses patience withholding the last of their scran.

I am the lighthouse man and I haven't eaten in years.

I am the lighthouse man and I bled for the first time yestardy.
I am the lighthouse man and my bulb ricocheted off the base of my skull
In a telling fairy tale dream. I felt static in my head
And my light's ink spilled across my hands and for a minute I thought
My light had gone out. I tasted blood,
Trickled down from my stinging nose and I had never been so scared.

I am the lighthouse man and I never knew I could die.

I am the lighthouse man. Once the world danced with magic and I was
A walking satellite that grew to want to dissapear.
I am the lighthouse man and my decrepitude is casted in my hands:
Black as the night from the dirt collected over the years.
The few slashes of skin clear enough to see look rust-like and obtrusive, outdone only by
My veins like wonky bruises that vine across the silhouetted bone;
Bridging gear to gear, clinking shivering knuckles
         That want nothing more than to surrender.

But I am only frostbit, not frozen.
Life was and thus must still be.
I am a raindrop, not the whole ocean.

I am a walking lighthouse inspecting and guiding empty seas,
A form without virtue
That ceased feeling it's metallic steps too long ago to recall.
A cubist teardrop falling down a grey giant's cheek,
Waiting to be captured and swallowed.

Or perhaps I am climbing uphill, slowly along the circumference of his forehead.
So slowly I cannot notice the rise. Perhaps I was destined to amble in hypnosis,
En route on this colourless limboid curve until I forget the concept of
             a destination, a soul, a matryr jester to rouse me awake...
             and perhaps it is then that I will be blessed with the heavenly bulb

Of the weeping giant on whom's flesh I disturb.
I am the lighthouse man and I dream of purpose.

I am the the lighthouse man with a penchant to levitate
I am the lighthouse man and I am a God without tool or reason.
I am the lighthouse man and I'll walk this limbo until my feet dissapear.

I am the lighthouse man and I am cursed.
I am the lighthouse man transitioning between lives and never knowing
Causality nor the answer. There are no questions to have;

I am the lighthouse man and I must have been a murderer in my past life.
I am the lighthouse man and I can feel my inner fuses twist,
Falling fainter and fainter by the second.
I am the lighthouse man and I will not make it another night.
I am the lighthouse man and I am a memory-bank full of nothing remarkable.
If I felt this months ago then perhaps I would make do with the my sojourn of an empty house, atop a parked car, and perhaps I would be content with rotting.

But now the moon shines so luminously bright and full and close! So very close!
I am the lighthouse man and I chase the moon.
I am the lighthouse man and I vaguely recall my mother saying 'do not eat the moon,
It will give you nightmares!’ and it all suddenly makes sense now.

The stars are all out tonight and they await my company. I am the lighthouse man and now I run.
I run run run run for the sky in ode to the rest of the bodies that abandoned this place.

Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ***, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !

Five ...
My body instinctively moves
To the sway of the wind's rhythm
Swinging to the right, left, right...
Swaying, bending, flailing, falling
To the dance of death


Four...
Finally the sweet taste of freedom
Longingly lingers on the crevices of my mind
As I am dragged from the airy convulsion of my body
To slash the splashing surface of slurping waves
With my death partner -
Brother - tied by the neck -
Connected by the root
Staring unseeingly at at the rising sun of liberty
With the last image of *******
Still reflecting in his milky grey eyeballs,
No longer bursting with the dark essence of life

Three ...
The wind gently lowers me
To the soft edges of salvation
As my eyes are glued to the sun
As if to erase the haughty, mocking glare
Of the white devils
My bright screen of light
With the beautifully blinding colours of the sky
Whispering, "Africa"
And producing images of life
Of my family
Of my food
Of my home
Of my life,
Before...


Two ...
My body rushes to embrace
The heavy, yet comforting hug of my sunset
A smile, unused for months, etched deep into my face
As the waves of mermaids wetly kiss
The slashes, wounds and br- br-bruises
That decorate my body
No more
No more suffocating in seas of bodies
Packed into the boat of death
I will breathe
As water fills my body with the air of freedom.


One ...
More second, to...

Seas of concrete,
with fish climbing from the cracks.
Evil portent.
Growing hands brandishing knives.
Tongues in their eyes,
that slither with whispering intent.

Each whisper grows a wing
and a leg, hops and *****;
pointless dregs.

Filling each space,
With slashes and wild blind hacks.
Pain important.
Fatally finally stealing lives.
Teeth to their lies,
that leave all life impotent.

Each tooth a flutter free,
weightless fee, rots and drops;
pointless dregs.

slashes on my wrists
with my mouth open wide
gasping for air
and hearts shoved inside
choke on the blood
passion, lust, love--
happiness is
red drips
at the bottom of
a bath tub.

the soul likes
when I dress him up like this:
few vowels,
more consonants,

syllables, and all the rest
that float
on the white clouds
of dreaming

on the red waters
of the heart.
he could hide, of course,
but would rather

show off scars and slashes.
naked, colorless being,
he needs
the glitter of language,

rhyme and rhythm,
similar, succeeding sounds;
he needs poetry’s depth,
beauty

and immortality
and the lucid glare of eyes,
substance
and stimuli,

to exist
to be more than a song
that plays
in silent frequencies—

so he flows—
from the deep of feeling
washes out burdens
like a mighty stream;

and unto paper
blooms up the slick and scented
petals of pain
like rain.

There's blood on my hand
That same "**** spot"
It won't go away
I will get caught

There's blood on my face
Shame to wash it away
But I mustn't lose my composure
The spot, though lovely, cannot stay

There's blood on my chest
I can't seem to find how to remove it
I do so like it, just where it is
But there'd be many of those who'd pitch a fit

There's blood upon my feet
I must find the way to make them clean
Not at all because I mind
Because blood ought not be something casually seen

The blood, it's stretched itself to be everywhere
With that savory, metallic scent
Sweet and salty, this crimson, tacky blood
And I'm the keeper of the secret; what this has all meant

O these slashes of blood, the drying puddles, brimmed with love
The power that is the grip of life
Shed now in a glorious display of our purest contempt
Flesh weeping after the stabbing, mangling by a bladed knife

The blood has painted me
Always shall it be there
No amount of scrubbing could wash these marks away
Scent eternal, lingering in the air

This bloods borne a stain on my soul
Death a companion who'll never be far
I'll hold hands and walk with it
To hell's blackest star

Hard working father looks in the kitchen
And sees his son who he wants the best for
He wants his boy to become a man
To take everything life can give and even more
But the son has other things on his mind
Unintentionally slashes his father's dreams
To the father he's straying from the footprint path
But not everything is always as it seems

If it ain't broke how could you fix it?
Don't worry about all of your worries
One for all and all for one
Live fast die young, just have some patience

Mother loves her daughter so much
Tries to protect her from all that she can
The closer she pulls her the harder she'll push her
Both feel the other will never understand
But they know when they look deep in themselves the see each other
And after all the yelling and cursing they'll say "I love you" to one another

Somethings are easier said than done
And actions speak louder than words
When living with constant change
Get to know yourself, just take some time

We resort to name calling
When downloading and installing
Upload then uninstall
The preambles to the pitfalls
The hostile hospitality
The aromatic pheromones
But memories who've reprise their roles
And take *** shots and low blows
Overlook the unturned stones
Overgrown baby's scared
Student loans and ingrown hairs
They have an eye-witness
So they come for a search and seizure
Drastic times call for drastic measures
I mean it when I say you're really a treasure
Made of cubic zirconium and pewter
I can't confirm or deny
If it's all according to plan
And I'm inclined to decline
I just may just to your dismay
Or I plum forgot
Because I've lived my whole life with my head in a sling
I discourage the disparagement of  releasing disclose information
But speak of the devil
I almost missed it
This is my own theme song so you all better get ready to sing

The piper's come to collect
Do you wish to go farther or further?
"I will take time to restore chaos and order"
Everything will be fine in the morning, so do yourself a favor and relax

twelve

         If i could write a letter to my twelve your old self, i would mention the pain your about to face, with self loathing and mental health is far worse then the years before. I would mention how when you wake up wipe the sleep from your eyes and read this letter and find two people you loved gone from your life forever. When you leave your plastic car framed bed you will find an empty room in the basement. The first loss is not death but abandenment leaves no answer to the sting a heart can feel when your older sister meant to guide you has ran away.  She has left, and to what you shall soon find out, left you to your death. The second loss has less thought to the idea of why? but still i did cry. It was my great grandmothers time. Her slow pace death lead to suffering till one week to the day after i turned twelve.  Emotional asking questions why, three days later i tightened my silk tie putting on a suit and ending the night seeing the casket of one of you. To think of you as dead eased my head for a while but still have to replace my frown with a fake smile. After all i lost a sister, when i needed someone to talk you were never there. Instead i just found myself cutting and dyeing my hair.  This is the year you feel your fathers strong hand as you tremble below it. This is the year you tremble in fear this is the first year you want to die

Thirteen

      To my thirteen year old self, im sorry life doesnt get better. im sorry that this is year your parents admit they don't care.  Im sorry this is the year you hear the three words no one wants or deserves to know their pain. Even though the words "I hate you" Were uttered in vain. Im sorry no one was there to hold you in there arms, im sorry of how when looked in the mirror every morniing after you showered  telling yourself its a new day and the pain is past. Im so sorry of how you found out how long the pain really lasts. Look at what you have achieved though, this is the year you win first in all categories invited to Kick Canada to again win. You achieve a bronze as a group, silver in your weopons, and gold in kickboxing. With you feeling weighed down your still weightless, with your amazing place and the smile on your face to look in the croud hearing the aplause. Somethings missing though your parents no where to be seen. Im sorry they wernt there to say good job im sorry your dads hand still strikes strong. This is the year you say enough though, you say no and strike back your foe. He stands stunned for a minute and walks away, the bruises faded away from the surface, but inside i still see them.  It is the night of my birthday i fall asleep praying tomorow will bring a better year.

Fourteen

     Im sorry this is not the year it gets better, your father never lays another hand to your dismay doesnt matter for his and your mothers word fly freely. This is the year they make you cry, only to insult you further "your nothing, your trash" there tounges did lash me. Til  i crashed under hate to my untimly fate, your mother is sick and you walk into the room as she slashes the blade across her wrist, you watch her bleed amd scream for help but she pretends u dont exsist she  spends the next year and eight monthes in psycitric care. Left in a house with nothing fair in the air my invitation ti nationals came and past i did not go in fear of leaving my mother would effect her more vast, past her yelling at ke eberyday i walked in the light blue room with the curtains always closed filled with gloom . While my mother on her last heartstrings looked for strength from her groom . Only to be filled with hate she saw me as a reminder he exsists and how he doesnt visit but i did. I walked the long path every **** day to see my mothers face still i wasnt good enough but that is just my luck. It is my last night of this age. The house is empty amd quite but still remains okay just praying thiis new year brings joy to the now broken boy.

Fifteen

     This is not the year it gets better neither, but this os the year your mother is released. It took a week for the smiles to wear away. Then i saw once again the skin tare from her flesh. Soon hate took over the tone under her breath and malace mixed with spite is the only thing left of my mother i once knew. This is the year you once again face death, you and your mother are in a car driving counting breaths singing along to eminem, reciting robert frost. when suddenly a car passes us and my mother is crossed the mid age lady on her phone swirving around, not paying atention to anyone or anything i still see her frown. She ran a stop sighn without a thought hit by a garbage truck in front of our eyes now i know the cost of when her cellphone conversation stopped. This was the first time i watched someone die. Still shocked  my mother had to call the abulence as i and the garbage man saw the damage in case she still did breath. In the end blood filled the scene as me amd the garbage man covered the front window with a sheet to protect what is left of this womens dignity. This is the year you fond a little blue pill that not only eases your pain if snorted aslo goves you a thrill. This is the first year that you almost sucsessfully kil.l... yourself going to sleep for this living hell praying next year could be better aswell.

Sixteen

     This year is a self medicated blur, this is the year you forgot who you were. T3s replaced with perks and shots only to be soon replaced with oxys in your black box crushed and lined one at a time up your nose the powder glides. The first night you try an 80 you overdose nearly comitoce as you spew a frothy white  fluid from your mouth but my freinds saved me to this day i dnt know how called said i passed out and cant drive home so my parents could never figure out how i lay on the tiled floor back from death after this a pill is never again accepted that is your debt 2 days to your birthday that cursid day your sober but that was just babby steps and i promise little soilder babby steps you would not regret.

Seventeen

      This is the year you stopped praying for help thinking you did this to yourself i promise it wasnt you. How could it be your still just in youth. This is the year you watch your father fall. You find the trail of debt 100 thousand dollars owed mine aswell of been a million for we can barely live so how would you like us to pay it back i finfd him stealing money from my backpack. This is the year you find out your dad is the same worth of a rat and you dont have to take his crap. This is the year he snaps and instead you help him back up. He was in achoma five days as you stayed never slept jus sat beside his hospital bed praying this did not mean death. Death came in a different way with your cousin brit stabbed to death by her husband on febuary fith.. this is the year you wished you diddnt exsist.

Eighteen

     This is the year.... you found the courage to see you will always be...good and thats enough for me.

someone who, age-wise, reached beyo[ɑ]nd
20 (quite beyond), but this extremist co[ɑ]n—
—science of a wicked armed
comic book vigilante keeps my mind thinking some—
—times, like: "wish I get to meet someO̲ne
who'd revise this inco[ɑ]m—petent wight into one
surpassing assassin"
[not a hitman, big ******* difference]
so there's a solid why in this ***
existence
["hell's waking up every ******* day & not even knowing why you're here"]
————————————————————————————————
but also 'cause some-thing I wa[ɑ]nt is o[ɑ]bscene mob ****
and tsars with their ***-lickers done
away with, since these swines live off wro[ɑ]ngs (a heap of wro[ɑ]ngs)
that's a base they get their filthy lives built upo[ɑ]n
get your vice-ridden hides
out of your private planes & whips
or your ******* ace retreats
like someone on an invitation list
come in sight & taste some lead
as if it were a plated dish
["come inside"; also, "sight" in the sense of "gun sight"]
or you may get iced, like a dra[ɛ]nk in heat
in ways way more creative, ******
the kind excited by pre-RPG "AC"/Jo̲hn Wick fight sh#t
[3A "Assassin's Creed" games, which have wicked counter kills & coups de grâce]
so it's art of violence, like that **[ɑ]stile rhyme piece
in which I have a despo[ɑ]tic swine fixed (to death)
["punishment of an autocrat"]
or like that wicked bass-musique-led symphonia
made by We Are Magonia
speaking re[eɪ] musique, for a scene in that way, my pick
like a vis. representation de—
—picting me, would be a midtempo-bass-like beat
["my pic."]
hold up, wait a bit
like a meal-serving guy the da[ɛ]maged phiz
of which is like: "PA received"
["waiter beat"; "PA" - "physical assault"]
I was saying stuff like "you may wind up slain by means
way more creative in plA̲ce of ju[ɪ]st
being shot down", like a ba[ɛ]nkrupt biz
["shut down"]
how 'bout a grave blood leak
initiated with an a[ɛ]mple streak
of slashes & stabs with a serriform saber, which
would be followed by
your knees & necks perforated with
bolts from a ******* crossbow? (nice)
my imagination tends to go crazy sick
when thoughts of mine get occupied
with elimination sh#t

He is kind, holds me lovingly
His hands are soft against my skin
He whispers kindness in my ears
His words are like honey, sickeningly sweet
He loves me

His hands are rough and strong
Wrapped tightly around my throat
He screams hatred in my face
His words like daggers in my soul
He loves me not

He kisses me gently, apologies on his tongue
His lips draw me in, he is the lion to my lamb
He says he needs me, that he wants me
I want him too
He loves me

His words are slurred and slow
His eyes are bright with rage
He slashes a broken bottle through the air
His hands bruising the skin around my wrist, I cannot escape
He loves me not

He washes the blood from my hair
Massaging my bruised skin
He cries to me for forgiveness
He wants a second chance
He says he loves me

He throws me against the wall
His body pulsating with fury
His words of hate now turn to threats
He is scaring me
He loves me not

I cry within the bathroom
I hear him banging on the door
He is screaming to be let inside
But I’m scared he will hurt me
He loves me

Is this what love is
To be scared in your own home
To tremble at the sound of footsteps
Coming up the stairs
He loves me not

It is not love
Because
He does not love me

rig was fair
spiked hair
big like an oil rig
six foot tall
square shoulders
coffee-stain birthmark on his cheek
the rest of him freckled
too feared to be fought
betrayed by his own intellect
pacing the lino tiles like a zoo wolf
wrapping tape around pins
to make blow darts
firing them from rolled-up worksheets
sticking in smelly teenage scalps
sticking in the hived cheeks of the quiet boys
muttering accusations
at the closeted gay english teacher
total immunity guaranteed
through hulk and bulk and brazen cruelty
and the fear and the jeer of the crowd

bevans was dark
six foot one
thick black brush hair
face like a gnarled foot
broken nose with one nostril welded shut
nasal jackal yap-yap-yaps
manic eyes with natural mascara
giving the girls piggy rides
to hold their sunned hockey thighs in his dinner plate hands
bevans of the dark monster ****
flashed around the library
the dinner hall
bevans and his boys
pulling themselves
behind the science desks
wiping their *** on the curtains
squawking, crying with laughter
while the rest of us set fire to peanuts
on tripods with bunsen burners
our pale shrivelled pride
tucked away in the underwear
our mothers bought us

for years rig went with a girl
who looked like a pretty frog
‘i’ve been with her so long
i’ve literally felt her ****
grow in my hands’
she lived in a small village known for its golf course
and when he discovered ecstasy
and diazepam dissolved in buckets of lager
and dumped her without warning
she turned to older boys and farmers for comfort
she became known at school
as the nineteenth hole

rig and bevans
were friends of mine
i kept them close
with quips and hoots and indifference
begging each day
would provide some amusement
some mouse in the grass
to draw their keen eyes
and sharp tobacco tongues
to keep their necks from
twisting back
to snap and bite down
on the weak of the pack
which happened, of course, every few days
when my mother asked why
my shirt was soaked in slashes of blue ink
my hair was burned
there were blow dart spots
of dried blood
on my neck and hands
i told her it was a game

Sometimes
we open
ourselves
in faith
in kindness
we unlock doors
in order to
let love
in
sometimes it
penetrates
all those
barriers
built up
over time
like ruins ensconced
inside the earth,
bones and stones
temples unknown
digging deep
we reach a point
where all passes through
into other spheres
then, before we know it
ever deeper
scything off of
       our fingers
into the night
as our hearts
beat ever so twirled
in togetherness
                     tender
Layers
shed rushed
often slow
and always flowing
in the glow
of emotion
and sometimes
it just explodes
all the pieces
tossed into the air
like a grenade
key removed
without warning
in sudden flashes
angel pieces
raining down
in smoldered slashes
fires spontaneously
forming out of what
was just
darkness
and all the
hearts' most
vulnerable places
crush in
velvet smithereens
upon the earth
broken pieces
of glass
sparkling
into the
supple abyss
of
knowing

Vital parts, missing.
This has to mean something.
Held together by a face,
saving face, but still coughing.
“How bad is it?” A head, shaking,
nothing we can do.
I suppose this is what you wanted.
Right?

White teeth flecked red, peppermint breath.
Slow down.
Slow down that heartbeat.
Why you?
Why does it have to be you?
Bet you’re loving this.
The sky, slashes of sunlight over the hills, shades of blue and green.
It has to mean something.

Just listen. If this is the end...
Fear messages, helplessly echoing words
that have always been said by the dying.
Eyes that suddenly reveal the mortal behind them.
And promises
from the one who, shocked, finds an unexpected answer,
both kind and true, ready at the lips.
I never doubted your courage.
Pink spittle, the derisive reply.
Familiar tone, familiar grounds.

Go away. Go.
The dark, the dulling.
Night draws itself upon us both,
the cold, the quiet.
The steady vigil of the stars,
the baring of the grim moon
and the endless darkness in between —
it has to mean something!

On some clear night
Their tale gets retold
Silent sobs fill the air
Thick with grief and memory
As he kneels by the body of a
Dancer

With a gear-made heart
And glassed copper eyes
The ghost of her maker lingers here
And her other half
A few feet away
All in their presence hear the whispers
Of monachopsis

A prince covered in life
Tendrils of Ivy
Spring from his ankles
Slashes of moss
Dapple his shoulders
While twisting trees
Paint his back

His sobs fill the air
Thick with grief and memory
As he kneels by the body of a
Dancer

His lover’s soul split
Two halves
Two dancers
Melomania led the charge
In his demise
A kiss sealed his prison

One heart made of gears
Another smashed on the ground
Two eyes made of copper
Another pair on the floor
Chimes in the distance
One dancer goes on
Unable to stop
There’s no mourning the other

A prince covered in death
Still tendrils of Ivy
Spring from his ankles
And slashes of moss
Dapple his shoulders
While twisting trees
Paint his back

A lover nearby
Corpses of dancers
Lay down beside
Chimes in the distance
Ring without greif
His soul spilt
A prince now alone

MAE HIRAETH ARNA AMDANOT
( THERE'S LONELINESS ON ME FOR YOU )

Her shadow is
laughing.

Her shadow is
taller than a tree.

She is a key
for which there is

no door

a Polaroid photograph
dying in the sun

( fading into the nothing
from which it comes ).

My mind slashes through time
grasps this memory

of her
clutches it to itself

until once again Death
orders it to

. . .let go.

It...does so.

Her shadow
laughing.

Her shadow
taller than a tree.

*

Hiraeth, pronounced "here eyeth" is a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is defined it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire...a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.

Hiraeth is best buddies with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Turkish gurbet, Galician morriña, Romanian dor.

This thing destroys all:
Even the beauty of of your call;
Slashes iron, cuts steel;
Grinds your bones into meal;
Kills men, ruined city,
It is truly a fate that all pity

Your words unfold like a map
marking the journey through a single day,
made from the comfort of my chair.
You wield your vision like a weapon,
bold slashes with your pen
leave me vanquished in your mirror.

Now the room lies still,
the single pulse your hard-bound words,
taking shape the way a fence crawls across a winter field,
wielding life like a paintbrush,
your pictures more exciting
than the margins where I’ve played.

A torrent of musical notes
carried me along a wayward path,
dark and sombre, it was a dirge...
funereal in its essence, a haunting chant
painted black slashes across
my page.

I cried for support, for help...
a prayer to a God I thought
had abandoned me.

Never am I free from falling,
my ears still hear grim melodies
that have an unforgiving harmony.
My feet stand on the precipice,
my eyes looking into the chasm.

Yet through the cold silence of despair,
a warming embrace takes in my heart,
soothing whispers clothe my naked soul.
I am not alone.

For now I see that trail which leads me
through the valley.
My confidence is renewed,
faith is gifted out of grace,
and I am taught to trust
in my God, for he alone
will never abandon me.

Dated memories
date back
to dates
I want to date
some erase
and scotch you
in between to recreate
new dates in old dates

They creep in,
like a haunting breeze,
Goosebumps ***** my skin,
my heart sinks,
it tingles as it slides down,
Past despair,
Past the emptiness,
Past the broken promise,
And broken faith.
Those feelings,
I don't wish to feel,
The hope I wanted to have,
The few shreds of faith I cling to,
My dreams,
The future,
I hope
Oh how I hope,
And long,
Long to be a priority...
My heart aches for a free soul.
Lost in the journey of freedom,
Overtaken by the intoxication of new.
I wait though it kills me,
Burns my eyes, and slashes my heart,
Love though it kills me,
My desire for you crushes me,
Leaves me alone at night,
Holding only my dreams and a tear stained pillow.
All I wanted was your love,
Your attention,
You affection.
Give me love,
Or set me free...
Don't let me wait,
**** me now,
Not slowly.

time heals all wounds and i
overestimated the process
as a straight progression
of burn to scar
but i don't feel stronger bruised, stuck
messy fleshy **** up
hurts to touch
trauma reopened and stitches split
some days gashes slashes rips
some days smooth skin
i want to get over it

would you care
if i died tonight

would you care
if i had permanent
tear tracks
down my face

would you care
if you found multiple
razors hidden in every
crook and corner of my space

would you care
if you saw swollen
red slashes
across my body

i would think not
because you caused them
and i hope you're proud
that today
your little sister
dragged a tool across
her skin
because of you.

As our friend
Is helped to *****
Into the toilet beside us
We take off our clothes
And climb into a bath,
Me smelling too much like cigarettes
To say anything
About the violent red slashes
On your upper thigh