O, it is December,
A brumal, solemn,
Algid December;
I do fall
And I do quiver, in
Reminiscence
For it is December.

A throne
Worn, earthen-millefleur recliner
And I
Vestured in dereliction,
Crowned in
The Diadem of Loveless Blight:

Your utterances resound in
The dense sense of the past tense;
Ineffable magistry,
Where our
Scintillations and propagations might emblazon
The Luminous Seeds of the Stars.

Your soul
Waxeth Messianic,
In those
Pithy moments
Of our ethereal communion.

        Your porcelain epidermis
                                                And azure irides
                                    Quaked mine senses
                                                          ­ Until every sight was
                                                 ∞Arcadian∞

O, Where
                        Have you gone
            Glaceaen Arcadia?

     O, Is the
            Fulgurant Vista
     You sparked in
Mine Mind’s Sky
              Now twilit, a starless Aether?

Breathe me
            Anew, that the Auric Chalice of Amour might pour
Me into thee, set me free, let me be
                              Yours and yours
                                        Alone (∞).
            

O, it is December,
A brumal, solemn,
Algid December;
I shall transcend
And I shall remember
Your infinite arms,
For it is December.

Sometimes at night when I turn over and my hand slides along the small of your back
I can feel the changes beneath your skin.
Sitting next to you, I read you like braille
Like something you need to touch to feel the meaning of.
I know you are a storm beneath your skin.
Sometimes I feel lightning reach out
To the answering chaos in me.
Our suffering makes our togetherness
Electric.
Cataclysmic.
We could crumble mountains.
I don't know if you know your own wildness inside,
Wilderness.
I think inside you are vast and lonely, wonderful but vaguely sad,
The way the trees sound when a breeze sighs its way through them and makes them sway.

Sometimes I feel a coldness from you like a chilly night without a fire
The kind of cold that starlight and silence bring-
Not a hostile chill, like the sharp fingers of frost or ice,
But just a distant kind of... Containment.
A solitude, like the desire to curl into the rocks by the river and become one by touch.
A desire to be still.
It scares me. I don't know how to reach that part of you.

Sometimes I look at you and I see storm clouds and wildfires in your eyes,
I see the end of days, and earthquakes, and brutal hurricanes,
But I see them through glass, as if you've stepped inside a mirror and imprisoned your rambling hurt to keep the world safe-
I see it through the cracks in a briar wall that's sprung up suddenly and sharply, tangled and complex, a warning.
And although I don't want to be
I am warned.

I want to touch
But I am so very good with boundaries
So very
Sensitive.
I feel the changes in the air
The way a deer in the forest may shoot its head up at the scent of a hunter miles away, caught on an errant breeze.
You change what I breathe in and out,
You change my weight and my texture.
Sometimes from you I can close my eyes and feel what warm honey must feel like in essence-
If sunlight found purchase in the air.
I feel fields of wildflowers and slow, dreamy, balmy nights and days at the seashore with diamonds capping the waves.
Sometimes I feel from you the tickle of cut grass, and the smell of fresh rain, and what a butterfly's furry wings would feel like if stroking them wouldn't make them crumble like spun sugar.
Sometimes I feel from you the slow, deep pull that I remember from sitting at the bottom of that coral reef in St Thomas-
The heat of the day sinking in layers through the water to hold me suspended in graceful pressure-
Poised to be swallowed by something much more significant and much hungrier than me.
And sometimes there is simply cold, the way I said,
As if the wind has somehow changed and left me adrift, sails dead, in a sea that offers no sustenence and no explanations.
In those times of stillness I wait, breathless,
Cautious-
They always pass,
So far.

I sit beside you and hold my breath
Hold my hands.
I sit and look at the grass
At the sky
But I see you instead
Silent beside me,
An unknown, a mirror maze
All of a sudden sunlight
And all of a sudden shadows.

When you go dark and silent I want to start digging.
I want to sink to my knees and pull apart the earth,
Find its heart, hot and sticky and molten,
Burning with the secrets of a forever life in the belly of a fragile stone.
I want to claw it out and put your hands on it,
Watch it feed your soul and sear away that terrifying cold.
Light you up so that you will never curl up silent around a black glass starless hailstorm ever again.
I feel the dirt under my fingernails and how
Odd it is
That it is familiar, from scrabbling out of grave after grave,
Confused and reborn and shivering.
How odd that now I am tunneling towards what remade me so many times
To try to break the laws of nature and bring it to you
Before you ever have to sink towards it.

But I feel from you. And then I don't. And then I do.
And it wakes in me an unsettled longing more powerful than my history.

I feel from you the silence right after the last note of a symphony fades
Before the audience applauds
Before anyone has even taken a breath.
I feel that exquisite beauty
And the fear that it will shatter.
(The fear that is the knowledge that it will shatter.)
I feel all of this from you
For you and
I think it might be
Love.

I am he
   who blistered and
   purpled his aching
   fingers, upon playing
   the saddest, dissonant
   melodies out of
   his old, untuned
   guitar, whose strings
   of somber used-to-be's
   he ceaselessly strummed
   and plucked under
   the dullest starless
   night sky; and
   sing of his
   weeping heart the
   poetry of melancholy
   notes half-composed.

It is me--
   the lone guitarist
   on broken avenue
   who never stopped
   playing his love
   song of rue
   since you left--
   whose only lyrics
   is your name
   and your words
   he dearly kept.

The heart it leaves is broken and cracked
All that remains can't get itself it back
In the withering hours of the starless night
The tattered bits work hard to make themselves right
As the dark and cold winds blow across those feverish dreams
Pieces slowly get sewn but it's less effective than it seems
The air holds a certain mystique hidden under a scary mask
With feelings of pain and envy, and questions too difficult to ask

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!

“a starless galaxy carrying gas and shrouded in dark matter”

a townless galaxy
rich in sulfur

a gas cloud plummeting towards the milky way         home

you are reminded and now pale peels off you, shaved as ice

the implosion completes itself in four ways
replicated by the gravitational lens
of something heavier than itself

time in time in time rich in sulfur and algae blooms

everything beneath the meniscus
heavier than itself

drowning in algae blooms

purple mollusks, sardines
sea lions
swallowed by forests of kelp
guts full of domoic acid and forget

we eat the toxin-laced fish
and cannot talk about what we wanted to talk about

star matter, rich in sulfur
rich in

dark matter, heavier than starless towns

home
heavier than itself

toxin laced, eating and drowning
on matterless stars

It began, as these things often do
With darkened skies and all around
The night had paused to draw a breath
And through the streets rebounded sound
A slow and steady fall of foot
I stepped the cobbles free of care
My eyes were drinking vivid light
A fragrance tangled on the air

My purpose set
My heart a grim quartet

The door was mere scenery
A sight to see but not recall
The passing gaze is pushed away
And sees there, just another wall
No movement could I hear within
My knuckles whitened on the knock
Relief recoiled hastily
A scratching from the rusted lock

My fingers clenched
Anxiety deeply entrenched

The woodwork inched a little back
A brow bedecked in withered hair
A pupil sharp as autumn frost
Surveyed me with a butchers glare
Her voice, a blade across my mind
Invited me to step inside
A shiver shook my frozen bones
My feet took up a timid stride

Her tone shallow
Her skin like warm tallow

Within was soaked in tepid gloom
In candle light the shadows danced
The flames grew quick and paranoid
And leaned away as I advanced
Behind me scurried shut the door
And down my spine, an angel tear
A leather chair of ages past
Held consort with my falling rear

She sat near
And whispered in my ear

With lizards hiss and jagged tone
In fragrances of smoke and gin
She sprinkled such a parable
That tingles bounced across my skin
My mission lay ahead of me
But caution of a reckless choice
A curse that fed on failure
And menace edged her ebon voice

Salvation awaited
But hope swiftly abated

Away into the night I strode
My razor wits with terror blunt
I packed a satchel prudently
For sustenance about the hunt
A dagger dangled on my hip
A bow and quiver on my back
Its bowstring plaited spider web
Was ever strong and never slack

Horizon bound
I broke the ****** ground

My quarry was a worthy foe
And many days I tracked until
By moonlight on a starless night
I caught a glimpse and stopping still
A sight I've struggled to forget
My bounty and my nemesis
Was bounding past me heedlessly
As fear wrought paralysis

Eyes like death
****** hung on its breath

It stood a daunting seven foot
With talons jutting from its hands
A mass of quills and tentacles
With extra spleens and mucus glands
A mouth with room for seven men
And teeth the size of ironing boards
A single but enormous eye
With lashes like a row of swords

My face paled
My bladder faultered and soon failed

I faced my prey and crossed my legs
My stricken blood had turned froth
I ****** myself in abject fear
But stopped just short of touching cloth
I turned about and ran away
While screaming out profanity
And crying like a baby
And adopting Christianity

Pleading with fate
My pride a sorry state

I fled the county swiftly
Finding shelter inside a cave
My punishment for failure
Would see me to my grave
And so I existed in exile
Eating only what I caught
In time the wind grew colder
And the days were ever short

Winter grips
The solar zenith slips

I huddle to this very day
Amid the gloom with frozen breath
And keeping warm is paramount
For stretching life, postponing death
Though purely for survival
While I weather every storm
I've taken to bumming weasels
As a means of keeping warm

Blunt trauma
Weasel skin *****-warmer

I see no other endless tomorrow than

To lie face to face with you

On a bed of lavenders and violets.

The cool sun magnifies

The verdant fields in your eyes

And the radiant shadows of my hair.

Morning breeze enshrouds our bodies

Sustained by flames more eternal than Vesta’s.

Here forever after

In my ideal world.



If I felt hunger it shall not last long,

For there are nectars from the giant continent that is you.

If you knew thirst it shall be quenched,

Just drink from my hidden wells and fountains.

But remember that I’m not like the ancient Eve

And you can only be the Adam in our own accord.

The butterflies or birds won’t shame me.

The grasses or trees won’t complain.

For loving you is the only truth

In my ideal world.



My hands are here to heal and amuse you,

As long as your arms embrace me from harm.

We own only the lips and ears

Where sweet sounds pass by

To lull as to dream or memorize

We’ll not know starless night of horror,

The way the moon becomes our constant watcher.

We’ll fear no lightning or thunder of wrath

For the rain will be our noble preserver.

Come and stay

In my ideal world.



We don’t have to worry about Sunday

Or think of God to pray.

Nature is our divine link to the cosmos,

And us the perpetual worship fleshed out.

Celestial or earthly we need not know

For this is the spot where boundaries depart.
But all these remain as bright colors in my head

Unless you key in yourself in my mind

And enshrine me to your heart.

Our story can be written by our breath

On petals and foliage of existence to this place.

Somewhere we can call ours,

Come and take

My ideal world.

It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris. It was stifling.
A starless drought made the nights stormy.

They stayed in the city for the summer.
The met in cafes. She was always early.
He was late. That evening he was later.
They wrapped the fan. He looked at his watch.

She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines.
She ordered more coffee. She stood up.
The streets were emptying. The heat was killing.
She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning.

These are wild roses, appliqued on silk by hand,
darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly.
The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience
of its element. It is
a worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps,
even now, an inference of its violation.
The lace is overcast as if the weather
it opened for and offset had entered it.

The past is an empty cafe terrace.
An airless dusk before thunder. A man running.
And no way to know what happened then—
none at all—unless ,of course, you improvise:

The blackbird on this first sultry morning,
in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,
feels the heat. Suddenly she puts out her wing—
the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.

I’ve spent twenty three years at war,
so when he looks at me,
he doesn’t ask why I haven’t gotten up off the floor,
doesn’t know that I’ve played this game before,
and I choose paper,
specifically the paper I used to write my first poem,
the piece of paper where I drew love out in hieroglyphics,
carved constellations into the page,
I think I first learned to make pain sound beautiful when I took your broken fragments and built a church with my bare palms,
I think it was around the time
I picked up the pen,
so I haven’t picked one up since.
they always say it’s such a shame,
but love to me is a shattered domain,
and this world is still ill prepared to swallow the pain.
decoding my feelings,
I’ve spent a lifetime baptized in shame.

I choose paper,
specifically the paper that declared my parents love,
and the one 12 years later that made the former a will that left me in possession of a starless sky,
an enigma, but still I never asked why.
left me in possession of all these matches,
with nothing to burn but my own flesh,
from what I’ve learned from love, I wouldn’t expect anything less.
there isn’t a map on the surface of this earth that could tell you where love lives in this body,
and if there was I’d use it as a my weapon in this game.
strike a match to its skin,
so even if there was,
you’d never be able to find it again.
put its ashes in a frame,
trust me,
no pair of scissors will ever damage your life quite the same.

I choose paper,
specifically the anatomy of every card sent to me with love,
because each one was as empty as the wine bottles in my closet,
each name signed marks a grave where I buried a part of me,
nailed myself to the cross,
just so other people could find meaning in my pain.
oh to be a saviour for the shattered,
still over and over again,
I found my heart slain.
I still don’t understand what there was to gain,
told that story on a 8.5x11 sheet,
and I’ve never seen a rock carry the same amount of defeat.

rock, paper, scissors
I explain this game resembles my insides, broken at its core.
rock, paper, scissors
like clockwork,my opponent heads for the door.
rock, paper, scissors,
don’t worry, from my eyes, you’ll never catch a drop pour.
I told you,
I’ve lost this game one too many times before.

Solace is a cold and twisted mistress,
her touch is often empty: without love;
yet in her presence, I am rendered helpless
and thus I sit atop my house above.
My lover, with her lifeless, pale demeanour
just sits beside my hollow, broken shell,
the vision of the crystal sea beneath her:
my only comfort here within my cell.

Solace is a memory etched in darkness,
as if no words were written in a book;
although I know the sky above is starless
against my will she forces me to look.
I think of times I’d spend the whole day wishing,
I’d ponder on my future and my fate;
and now it’s for these memories I’m fishing
with nothing but my hopes and dreams as bait.

Solace is a stern, relentless teacher,
reality: her lesson taught in full;
a feral, vicious, unforgiving creature,
on the reigns of honesty she’ll pull.
And so I sit upon my house in heaven
with Solace, my companion and my friend;
I’ll fish until my soul begins to leaden,
until the sands of time come to an end.

The pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn’s undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.

O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy wordly way,
And the billows of clouds that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day,
Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.

This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unencompass’d by nerves of steel:
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.

The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live, to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.

Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we see?

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in the saffron mist and seem to die
And I myself upon a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie,

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face! -
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me...

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the star.

Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones.
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a cloud of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.

The earth revolves around with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with the rains...
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...

  ... it is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It was by far the most sophisticated machine ever built..  The breakthrough came to him while he was composing a star among the starless Saren system..  Two of them he built..  For each other for all of us..  And now after millions of years.. They have grown into a race all their own...  They call themselves humans..  And there is now enough of them to sustain us all.. A once dying race we were..  Now we must absorb them.. The time is now..

I can no longer be lost

Among the stars

Wishing to shine

More brightly than others

Never content in my own

Light


When I have finally realized

That it is no longer the time

To light up a starless sky

In this age of dreams

Bright than a thousand suns


For there are trinket souls

Of a rare and fragile beauty

Like corals in a paperweight

Abandoned by a world

Mindlessly chasing transient

Glamours


I cannot sow every seed

In this spring of an evermore

Inexperienced yet happier world

Of self-fulfillment


I cannot bring the sun

To every shadowed

And unfortunate being

Yet to be blessed with the

Summer of a much

kinder world

  

I cannot save every leaf

Falling soundlessly  

Within this autumn of a

Wizened universe


I cannot shield every

Hungry soul from

This wintry world of

Indifference


But I see a trinket soul

Around me, around

All of us

Fading, almost invisible

Withering and suffering


They are beautiful

But not glamorous

So no one praises them

Like they do to the others

Around these glass souls


They are not poor

Not hungry

Not visibly sick

Nor in desperate

Need of care

So no one ever

Rushes to their side


So they've build a wall

Around themselves

Without doors

Not that they don't

Want anyone to knock


It's just that they know

No one will knock

And deafening silence

Suffocates them


And they can’t stand

Being overlooked

By the seekers

The seekers of

The brightest and darkest

Stunning brilliance and

Obvious sorrow


Some of them feel like

They need the whole world

To love them to death

And no attention is ever enough


But, no one can really

Handle the weight of

The universe

The weight of a billion

Judging eyes on their

Already vulnerable and

Solitary shoulders


They have so much love to give

But they don’t know how to give

Those that already have enough

Couldn’t care less for them


Those that also built a wall

Around themselves

Cower to be broken

By equally fragile mirrors

Of themselves


Most of them have turned to hate

They despise this indifferent world

That have rejected them

Even when the world have done

Nothing to them


Like the empty glass shells

They have become

They project their inner

Bitterness upon every

Living soul

Even those that are hurting

Invisibly just as much as

Them

So the world stayed away

From each and every

Glass child

As it seemed that

There is no cure

For an unseeable illness

Spreading among those

With healthy and able

Bodies


And I was one of them

I wasn’t exactly sick

Mentally or physically

I was just angry

Stubborn

Unhappy


I tried to fight the world

And despised everything

Threw my tantrums

And begged for love

While being the least

Lovable person


And then something happened


I wouldn’t say I burst through my wall

I wouldn’t say I tore it down completely


But, I found my mirror

I found another glass being

That seemed bitter on the outside

But held so much sweetness

Ready to burst through the shell

Yet afraid to be wasted on

Another bland or bitter soul


I gave it all of my love

Even if it’s like artificially

Earning that love through

The looking glass

Loving myself in the process


I never broke both of

Our walls

Yet, I learned to be

A little happier

I learned to love the world

Just a little bit more

Not because I was for once

Or ever above everyone else

In this world

But I was at last a more

Significant part of a little universe

I wasn’t never the sun in anyone’s

Heart

But I like to think I was a moon

In the starless dream of nights


And

At last I was in possession

Of a trinket soul

Beautiful and sweet

That might never light up

The sky

But it finally

For once,

Lit up my whole world

she spoke to me, on the daffodil sweetness of the pasture
while the grasses, waving, muttered their moist message on the wind
of rot, and renewal,
(but hold your lips, be still for an explosion of intimacy, for a moment)

'Are those a constellation?' she asks.
"The Pleiades."
'You don't know that.'

she doesn't care where the car begins, exhaling gently, to stop
and she commends its forward motion
(the keening love of a sodium light
and forgetfulness in every bone of my body)
I love the thrum of it, below my feet,
murmuring vibrato in the pedals.

They have a Huck Finn cave display at Disneyworld. In Adventure Island, or somewhere, or one of us, deep in the vastness of spines and fingers.

Its fiberglass walls are a portrait of America -
the glean of dew a reflection of that spirit
that drove us over the borders, the rivers, to Oregon,
so we could love under a naked moon,
and renounce our lives of glee, and security
for the bright unsettled plantation of the starless fields.

'You don't know a constellation from a cloud of dandelion seeds.'

But oh, my relentless pioneer love, I do - I know a constellation
is made of stars, and rough determination, and I know that,
love is a today thing, and we are yesterday people
that pain is tomorrow, and we will always be children of the dusk preceding
destined, dear, to find our love receding

Are you prepared, or will the wilderness this time swallow you?

Starless, chilly an autumn night
It all started right
A dance it would be
A stranger I was
Amongst a two roosts of Latter Day Saints
Popular, I was not
Neither shy nor sociable,
I stood in wait for a suitor
Then a lad glided in
A bit taller than I, blonde hair, green eyes
And an adorable hat on his head
Chitter-chatter,
Smiles, laughter,
Then the Games began
This suitor, Gage he was called
Had speed, but not dexterity
And was soon defeated
Charming, cheering, continuing
The dancing came
Clumsy, was I ever so
While he radiated mastery
Every misstep spin on my part
Made him smile
He whispered in my ear,
In hot breaths,
Compliments of golden rarity
A suitor of suitors I see
A spectacular dance, then another...and quite a few more
Each spin drawing me closer,
As we learned the ways of our bodies purely
The intense stares making my cheeks glow rouge
Beguiled in the moment,
I followed Gage out in an innocent move
Outside, taking a walk around the sacristy
We sat upon an abandoned stair
We spoke, we laughed, and...
His sparking eyes locked with mine
And I knew such a day would come!
An elegant milestone!
Lips in incoherent shapes as we did the most ancient of things
Simple and sweet
Breathless, I was
Yet I wanted more
We kissed once again, longer this route
Your lips are sweet, he said in my ear, as I shook in delight
Paper and pen, number in hand
My phone in his hands, exchanging modern things
A quick hug
And a long night of thought for me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since then, contact has been strangled to a near death
As though it was alive beforehand
My hope has faded
But still, I choose to see it as a lesson for the wise
Not a regret for the stupid
It was magical,
It was ordinarily extraordinary,
And blessed I feel for the experience.

You are my shoulder and soldier,
to live is to love you.
From you I gain happiness,
yet I experience sadness.

The rain reigns in my heart,
my sorrow is like an arrow struck in ny heart.
Hurt like a blade cut through,
I'm bleeded and wounded.

I expect too much to realize not,
you love me no more.
I became a starless night,
full of sorrow and emptiness.

.how similar does the braille N(⠝) represent the Hebrai lamed (ל), fascinating, the, similarity, isn't it?

it just so happens that i enjoy music too much, to listen to the anglophone arguments of existential-Darwinism... the whole Hitchens "thing" concerning eternity only being experienced via the passing of genes... sure, sure... no problem... English existentialism is so... so... pish-*******-poor that i don't know whether to abrupt myself of sanity by wetting myself, or take another drink... i guess the whole, French, cafe culture... and what, with the English pub... Darwinism has a reality, in science... applied-Darwinism, or rather, an over-bearing presence of Darwinism in the humanities? monkey say, in braille: ⠃⠕⠗⠊⠝⠛    ⠁⠎        ⠋⠥⠉⠅.

in the good old days of
the Catholic Reneissance...
what?!
  so now i'm supposed to listen
to these pampered western european
*******...
telling me...
  i need to watch the only
***** available...
which includes making fun of
the size of my *****?
while she ***** a black guy?
you sure... sure you you want
to tread these waters?
can i compliment the *******
armchair of an ***
attached to a black woman's
spine?
  like cedric of wessex stated:
we don't mix with these
women...
why am i supposed to sit
out through this ordeal
like some cockload *******
spank face?
****... you're on your own
from here, (as a gay might
say) darling...
the star in my starless night sky!
****...
and people thought that
the Catholic restrictions were bad...
um um um...
nail-biting moment:
and the secular feminists
do not employ a more fervor imbued
reinterpretation of ***,
via secular feminism?!
no?!
        just give me access to
a Bulgarian ******* twice
a year and £220 skim...
     which includes no worry
about S.T.D.s...
             given, we're latex friendly,
and ****** prone...
i never imagined an S.T.D.
as being ingested via oral ***...
****... £10 extra... make that £240 a year...
two ***** and happy and a *******
flock of seagulls... hey presto!
- but there's no *******...
         i ****, i leave, suave perfume
of a woman's flesh...
i skip taking a shower for about
three days...
             life becomes rosy as ****
on steroids...
          back in the day...
the Catholics...
    jeez! the guilt from fornication...
but now? now?!
now is worse...
              i have to sit through a lecture
course about how white western women
prefer a big fat black ****...
   a B.F.B.B. -
   well... better than what jerking off
probably feels like doing ****:
i.e. banging the ******* hole
   (B.B.B.H.) -
               whatever...
              you know... the white guys who
engage in this sort of ****...
i wouldn't touch someone
with a ******* fetish...
   but these *******?
              i'm licking a shaving razor
and thinking of ******...
western women...
          and their little carousel run of things...
they ****** monologues and
their ***** windmills...
   like hell me reproducing with them...
i entertain the presence of
prostitutes: so am i bothered about
promiscuity?! no!
            but when you read
some Marquis de Sade...
      you spot the sadists, and the masochists...
personally?
    i once deemed it necessary to
put out four cigarettes on the tips of
my knuckles...
  well... i was never into tattoos...
i guessed... if i punch someone with my
left arm... they might be punched
with a lesson in arithmetic to boot!
honey, hush...
   i'm not your daddy...
feel free... enjoy...
            but i'm not going to have anything
of worth, having to associate with you...
hey... they weren't wrong
in the movie get out...
         i look at it as...
"migrant crisis"... crisis?!
      NO!
         it's an army of marching ******!
but no... you don't begin your
command of argument...
elevating the original Catholic guilt
concerning ***...
   no chance, in hell... oh... wait...
this is hell...given that Catholicism has
been translated into
a secular most-modernist  (here comes
the verbiage) feminist "theory"...
so basically nuns 'r' us...
                     you do whatever the hell
you want with your ******* feminist males...
hard-on slaps in the face...
last time i heard...
the ancient Greeks thought that
enlarged phallus end-to-ends-meat...
(yeah yeah, no, not EE via a ******'s...
"floral" pattern!)
                  were a sign of barbarism...
wait... could it possibly be that
i write... but can't read?!
               my my...
      frustrated?
   i take out my frustration on
a bottle of bourbon, *** or whiskey,
or *****...
      after a while...
            it all sounds the same:
   a swift return toward a sweet,
                                                          ­  lullaby.

p.s. i didn't say that Darwinism was
wrong... but after you've read
some French existentialism,
   or esp. German existentialism...
you've already accepted the facts...
and move... forward...
             the encompassing mantra of
yes, yes, no....
    the no... arising from post-modernism...
or whatever the scholastic term
is...
     all of a sudden people
are focusing on the usage of both
nouns, and pronouns...
     just two, just two grammatical
categories of words...
              apparently language has
become a pancake reality,
squashed... and it didn't even require
a dictator to perform this "magic trick"...
and i was considered mad
about 10 years ago...
        i'm not about to join
this ******* circus...
   no acrobats, no lions,
no clowns...
               n'ah...
                                i think i'll pass.

We are the savages,**
normalities stand from a distance and secretly admire
the domesticated eyeing in envy to our resilience of society's taming shackles
so they reject us with pointed accusing fingers
forever deemed an unworthy animal.
We belong to nature and they're all hunters
fully equipped with  nonfictional weapons to destroy the wilderness with in
poaching our furs and horns
only to hold the satisfying idea we are becoming extinct.
We believe in something greater
its a diamond ring proposal of freedom
sparkling in the sunlight of judgment
unfazed by  starless nights
we still shine bright in total darkness
becoming a beacon of light  to the helpless moths.
We are born as nomads of law and principles
they want to break us, bind us in rules and regulations
take our souls and throw them to the masses of cold blooded creatures
they all swim mindlessly in a wonderland of controlled morality
but to the hot blooded, these cool waters are foreign
forever belonging on land
letting our predator  instincts be the guide
knowing what is right and where to flee when its wrong
but they expect us to drown with the rest
in the materialistic greed infested river of the world.
We will never be broken
we are the wild
we are self thinkers
we are the untouchable spirited winds of the world
rebel eyed with our backs against those who have become the thoughtless corps
filled with animosity and jealousy
we are free and we roam the jungles of prosperity
still shining bright, a true savage.

You are my best friend,
my loyal companion.
My sunshine on a cloudy day,
My spark in a starless sky.

You are my worst enemy,
my biggest nightmare.
You betray me everyday,
you hurt me more and more.

You are my addiction,
My Frenemy.

-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable.  I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation

I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone

Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.

I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise

I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong

The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences  between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.

Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.

Come away with me, I know the perfect place.
A starless night where I can't see your face.
Surrounded by the death and decay of centuries past,
A place where I can bury us at last.

We'll consummate our hatred on consecrated ground
An epitaph, screamed into the void of the night is the only sound.
We'll shatter the peace of the dead as our bodies clash
Our hearts, kindling, our flesh, the flint, we'll strike together and burn it to ash.

Open yourself to me, time for one last round.
Look into my eyes while I pound you into the ground.
Scream my name while I use your body to misbehave.
I'm going to hate-**** this love, straight to the grave.

The smoke stacks that line the waterfront be like giant joints puffing thoughts of her into air embalmed by hundreds of rainy days
That slow burn, against the icy bay and the barges that carry their loads through them
This corner of the world gets six hours of daylight, tops
Greys seared by neon, smoke and clouds and fog produced as one
continuous substance
There's a pleasant blurryness here
floating amid the buoys and the docked ferryboats,
In the way the monorails glide above toward a 1960s dream of the space age through an Amazonian jungle of glass and cranes
in harmony with the clouds sailing overhead
Here is where you go to let off steam deferred, where you ride trains through a kind of dark that arrives early, stays up late
as shadows wander across the gum covered walls of Post Alley
like ghosts made of espresso mist
freed from lit joints protruding from the skyline
to a high beneath starless heaven
Resting into the glow of that harbor
against thoughts of her that cloud the view of the sea.

How to start off this poem?

The words they don’t come easy,
Nothing sounds quite right.

I've done so many terrible things,
How can I possibly expect you to relate?
It is impossible it's a dream, but here we go anyways.

I believe this to be my destiny, my fate,
Even though every action is mine.
So when I tell you this story, please try to understand…
That you can’t.

Beginning under a starless sky,
With the orange glow man creates for night.
I fly on the wings of the innocent,
The blood and tears of those who… have died.
They fuel me, and feed me. With their pain, with their face.

I walked down that road,
On the wings of a satan.
And all those around me,
Smiled and puked.
And oh, the terror in her eyes,
When at last my journey reached its conclusion.

My eyes, although they are not quite eyes,
Bored deeply into hers,
And the pools of water parted for just a second,
And I could see my own reflection.
So… intense. So… lost.
I’ve been in snowstorms at sub-zero,
With more warmth than those not quite eyes.

Every beat of my heart, and every breath I took,
Implored me not to think,
But to **** in my just agony,
But think of the lies that would create.
I had been looking so long, so hard,
Just to **** the one thing I want to save.

This woman, in her intelligent innocence,
Pure as the blackest coal,
Born for me, as I was her.
Who challenged me at last, at first,
Not to slay, not to slaughter.

At first I laughed, in a bitter theatric…
But as it settled and tears created disaster…
She held me there, in her hairless arms,
Cooing and creating a space for banter.

I am almost as confused as you are.
Speaking so honestly…
I didn’t know what to do then or now either.

But I will say one last thing,
Something you may not want to hear.

On that cool winter night, I ate her.

Am I a stone and not a sheep
  That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
  To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
  Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
  Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
  Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
  A horror of great darkness at broad noon,--
I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
  But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
  And smite a rock.

The emptiness glides through my veins
Like empty subway tracks and tunnels
The vision of the cleared sky, starless
Yet so obscene. The emptiness. Vast, yet
I am confined; trapped.

makeup messily blurs the outline
of your face, the one the sun is
beating sandpaper ciphers across--
translated they reflect the cesspit
of the first smile I have meant
in months--please just caress
the entropy of this water-winged sunset,
you cannot swallow your shyness
by intimidating everyone into not
speaking to you and by god
I don’t want to hurt you but
I can feel a hot one.

if those who’ve known hell
never talk about it
and nothing much bothers them
after that
why do we talk circles
around each moonrise, exhale
leaden stories like smoke
and charred vapor
everyone tastes like brimstone
so why are you so afraid of
being beautiful, why am I
so afraid of my ligaments eroding,
and we are so *******
tragic ****-it
we’re ******* tragic
time blurs you
whipped the insomnia into
a frenzy
the way you kiss me
when the sun lurks backstage
waiting for her que makes it
okay for now not numb
so much because ******* was I
knife-fight numb. I can talk
about the hell with you the
other girl, not so much, the
tricky-***** was that she
made it go away but it
never really does does it?
just blurs the time so
it can fast-pitch the happy
out of your lungs, like
my me is still here, so maybe
we can rub selves
while the sun bears down
from behind her curtain
of starless sky.

I cry into buttercups
where bees sip
their latest sup
I rage in rivers
that are just sand beds
sitting cross legged
watching my skipping stone
just sitting, it hasn't skipped
as I sit and beg
for it to move
I watch the Moon
cross a starless sky
and I cry, I cry
for it to touch it's angel
For should the Moon
ever meet the Sun
the Earth would rejoice
and a love would be caught
but, alas
the Moon never seems
to catch the Suns eye
even sitting in the sky
in daylight, waiting, waiting
for the time to be right
I cast a penny into the fountain
my wish drowned, just like the last
I scaled opposition like a mountain
breathing ghosts from within my past
I kissed a girl and made her cry
I kissed a woman, she liked it
I kissed a man I thought I could love
I kissed a child, a product, despite it
Sitting at the crossroads
simply playing my own tune
I'm sitting here, solo
hoping that someone tunes in soon
Love!
It's just a memory, skipping stones
and moonlit walks
Love thyself in all thy forms
Self love
walks the talk

How do I tell if
You’re only a dream
Or my reality

Not by the ecstasy
Of coexistence
Simply standing next to you
Moments at a time
Yet,
Each second a lifetime of joy
So short lived, mere sparks
In my dreamless night
Yet, each of them
Brighter than a thousand suns
Bringing everlasting warmth
To the starless depth
Of my soul

But, by the intensity of my pain
When your flame suddenly
Extinguished within me
Within my reach

At that very moment
And forever after
There was
A hush
The silence of deafening screams
At war with one another
That annihilate my reverie
Of living

For you have taken with you
All of me
My words, my breath, my being
Ever stretched between a world
I struggle to remain within
And the senseless
Abyss

I feel every pinch
Every twinge
Every insufferable pull
Yet, I plead not for numbness

I savor this
Savor the intensity
Of this unbearable
Suffocating pain
Of longing

For, only then
I know
You are my reality
You can never be just a dream
With such profound
Suffering

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure *****
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skift
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breahing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Of the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.