629

I watched the Moon around the House
Until upon a Pane—
She stopped—a Traveller’s privilege—for Rest—
And there upon

I gazed—as at a stranger—
The Lady in the Town
Doth think no incivility
To lift her Glass—upon—

But never Stranger justified
The Curiosity
Like Mine—for not a Foot—nor Hand—
Nor Formula—had she—

But like a Head—a Guillotine
Slid carelessly away—
Did independent, Amber—
Sustain her in the sky—

Or like a Stemless Flower—
Upheld in rolling Air
By finer Gravitations—
Than bind Philosopher—

No Hunger—had she—nor an Inn—
Her Toilette—to suffice—
Nor Avocation—nor Concern
For little Mysteries

As harass us—like Life—and Death—
And Afterwards—or Nay—
But seemed engrossed to Absolute—
With shining—and the Sky—

The privilege to scrutinize
Was scarce upon my Eyes
When, with a Silver practise—
She vaulted out of Gaze—

And next—I met her on a Cloud—
Myself too far below
To follow her superior Road—
Or its advantage—Blue—

A colorless rainbow in a sky of imagination,

a camera-less tourist on a summer vacation.

A cloud without rain, but a sky without sunshine,

a constellation for admiration for a blind man's cloud nine.



A stemless flower in a competitive ecosystem,

the prey born with one leg, the predator without any eyes.

... a chaotic compromise.



A mannequin selling fashion and deadly sins,

a homeless man searching through trashcan bins.

A chalkboard without a budget, a teacher without hope,

the Valedictorian hanging from a rope.



It's just mental complexity like congested New York city,

daily traffic jams with mental crams, and I don't take pity.

Flash flood warning, a fair reason to vent.

Drowning those who don't appreciate how much time I have spent.

Tears of a stranger, throw me some lemons and a stand,

time to sell drama out in the front yard to prove that the supply isn't up to its demand.



Blurred vision, bullet proof heart, it's just a decision,  it's time to start.

Appreciating a rainbow in a storm of dark rage,

the pessimistic cold skin attached to a fairy tale sage.

the undiscovered petals of the cryptic stemless magnolia
scattering in the effervescent breeze
just like our bodies assemble and deconstruct
at irregular intervals we perpetually yearn for breath
wich may instill in us the desire to dream a dream within a dream
as dusk shapes itself gently into dawn like weaving poetry
we heave and shudder beneath the unspeakable intricacies of the mocking skies
interlaced with ancient stars and sacred light
deep in the darkness they exchange secret ciphers with hermetic lips far-flung
unlike your own as we speak in hidden tongues
we may never unravel the singularity
behind their riven frequency
in perfect metric form
even shouldst we prevail upon the dark with our will to power
the endless listlesness of our immortal coils
will in time reveal to us the sublime putrefaction
and we will no longer hear the music of the stars
and every lavish note wich passed us by
will haunt and torment us til dark becomes darker still
though i am but a shadow my love strook pure and true
for i wept at your side throughout the anguish of your life
and i gently persuaded the moonlight to bathe you while you slept
its gentle beams flowed through the gaps in the autumn leaves
falling lifeless and withered from the earthly pillars of life
twixt your bedroom window
a thousand-and-one umbral nights may pass
but the imprint of your countenance engraved upon my heart
like ancient secret hieroglyphs dying to be cast like spells
loud and ardently into the twisting narrow dark
so that our eldritch love may manifest
in the ultraviolet of my heart
often do i think about that day when we first met
on that strange and alien shore
nothing but the silence and illusions faint
of battleships battered and broken
beyond the hazy light in your eyes
we walked along its pale and desolate banks
hand in hand like young wild things do
entranced by the shapes of the strangest seashells
our bare feet oblivious in regards
to the ephemeral depressions of the pathways we crossed
in the wet and cold crystallized sand
white, glittering and gleaming
in the fading misty morning
we may have made love that following night
but we are no longer here to remember anyway
if there exists another plane somewhere beyond
i hope to retrace our steps there once more
and fall in love again and again forevermore
our broken aetherial astral boats
that once crossed some otherworldly stream
may cross oneanother yet again in a dream

1SummersLastAgoI
                                  t
                                  snapped
                                               o
                                               pen
                                               o
                                               ut
                                               t
                                  deldnur         st o
                            the                   e          f
               vaulted          r                            beautifully
      eaves              o                                                        sallow
      o                f                                                                        throats
      f         a                                                                                   thatched
                                                                                                          with
                                                                                                              rushing
     s
       k
          e
              ins of ROSES neatly dull in piles of singing crimson almost small o
                                                                                                                                  r
                                                                                                                             o
                                                                                                                         ffseting
     asymmetrical stemless bulbs adorned with ruby petals
dew damped with shining shimmering goblets of the dawns ******
jewels crackling sternly perfect glitters on the robes of light the roses dumbly
wear on howling green silence. that is that it was most quiet (and greenly freckled reckless hours) those mornings when i would rise and sup upon the supple lash of freshly murdered night.
                                                                  ;
                                                                   ' ,
                                                                , '
                                                                    '
                                                                      ,
                                                            ,


                                                                   '

The door to the apartment was unlocked when I got there, knowing I was minutes too late. The place was typical, exactly what I expected. Tiny kitchen with the basic bar and two swivel stools. TV on a stand and a floral pattern couch with the sliding door opening on the balcony to my right. Straight ahead was the hallway to the tiny bedroom. I gently closed the door and locked the *** and dead bolt. Walking straight ahead, noticing the bathroom door closed to my right in the tiny hallway. A queen bed in the one bedroom, red sheets and red comforter, white walls and an open closet. Fake flowers in a red plastic vase sitting innocent on a bedside table. No window and a single hanging print of Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son on the wall above a folding desk. The desk was home to a record player, circa 60's, vinyl still spinning, Brand New's The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me.
At least she died to something good I thought to myself. I didn't handle the torn remains of the acid green dress laying on the bed. She had put her shoes away and selected the vinyl before they arrived, probably had a glass of wine since there was one of those stemless glasses sitting empty on the bar. I doubted those who had come were the wine drinking type. Death was not unknown to me, neither was **** and retribution nor cruelty to make a political statement. But I did not want to go into that bathroom. I did not want to find what was left. I did not want to add her face to the long, long list of empty faces kept in record by my memory. I hate histrionics and false drama, but expecting to find the Countess gone, I reset the vinyl.

She was still breathing when I walked in. Naked except for her black hose, splayed out in the tub, a perfect 9 millimeter hole six inches above her left breast. It was two in the morning on the dot. In that moment, everything left me. All loyalty, all ideology, all thoughts of advancement, all regrets from the past. Gone in an instant. I gathered what was left of her in my arms.

It was hard carrying her down the stairs, but she put one hand through my hair and it helped. To this day I'm not sure how I found her car keys, but I do remember she whispering to me that her's was the grey Buick out front. She was dead by the time I got to the hospital.