Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem


This one knocked me askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
http://youtu.be/xxTF2umRtqY
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled,
wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck
on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days
existence.

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs

Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
suffocating,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on white prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,
*******.

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry so sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

Stop!
Why?
You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so
real.

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat, belt,
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
not a folded twenty,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying,
hey, to the blind,
careful,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity.

All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to
Ethereal.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.

Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem


This one knocked me Askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take a nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
http://youtu.be/xxTF2umRtqY
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled, wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days
existence.

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs

Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
suffocating,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on pristine prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,
*******.

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

Stop!
Why?
You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so
real.

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying
hey to the blind,
careful,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity
All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to
Ethereal.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.

To future conquering civilizations
in galaxies far far away . . .
don't worry about polluting the air,
our smokestacks have shot *****-bombs
into the clouds for centuries,
mixing rain drops with the
black grime of industrialization,
transforming our children's tears
into cesspools of sulfuric acid and ddt.
We've also drained the bayous and swamps
and between you and me
don't even bother landing in Africa
there isn't suitable drinking water
for miles, you see.
You can thank years of colonization for that.
In fact, you may not want to land
on Mondays, Tuesdays, or Thursdays
in LA either-
on those days the air quality index
is 175 and far too unhealthy for any
biological organism to survive.
But at least you won't die of malnutrition
you've got decisions:
McDonald's or Burger King
choose
cholesterol and diabetes are your shock troops.
Send them in immediately,
there won't be much resistance
we've got these things call lazy boys
and daytime t.v which have
enslaved the population and decreased
the distance
between fully functioning
human beings and mindless apes.
Don't worry about bringing weapons
we've got those too
we've perfected the art of blowing each other away
there's not much for you to do.
we destroy cities with fire from the sky
and our mushroom clouds rise
at least ten miles high.
And god can't see, there's too much smoke
in his eyes
and our radiated children die
with radiated sighs.
While we are on the topic
don't worry about us spreading
propaganda
we've lost the ability to communicate.
We've learned
books turn a peculiar dark yellow
when lighted and burned.
And forget erasing history,
we've done that too.
Our subjugation of native peoples
is masked as 'patriotism'
under the red, white, and blue.

But don't get me wrong,
I tell you all
of this not to dissuade,
please come and attack,
please come and invade.
Here, I'll even turn
on the lights . . .

the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:

1.

he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window

2.

can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?

3.

for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this

4.

“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water

5.

yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?

6.

and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float

7.

as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air

"What do you mean you've never seen Blade Runner? My GOD! I didn't think there was a single person on the planet that hasn't seen that. They showed it to us in elementary school as an example of a prophetic, foretelling, social commentary."
"Well, I never was a fan of fiction or science, even though somehow I've still managed to live my fair share of both."
" Do androids dream of electric sheep? What are your dreams?"
"Electric...sheep?"
"Yeah, that's the title of the book the movie is based on, but like, I'm honestly curious about the second part. It's a better ice-breaker than your deprived childhood".
"You wanna' know what I dream? I dream of a world soaked in gasoline, and a lone, shadowy, figure masked by deceit and decay, filling the air with a rotten sulfuric smell as he festers in his own filth. I can't see this guy clearly, but I know him. I know him in my head and my heart and he just stands there, idle, in a place where he can see the silhouetted skyline of the entire wretched city. Trapped between his forefinger and thumb is  a match donning a dancing flame for a hat, performing a flamenco routine for two wild eyes.  Eyes that indicate a sureness of what to do, but make no use of intentions. They seem to sort of flip between question and answer with each dimming and brightening of the match's beacon.  The question appears to already have been answered, but has yet to be acted upon. He's tinkering with the notion.  Is this due to hesitation in the man's mind, or is he simply toying with the already squirming city? The final act is inevitable, yet the ulterior option, to extinguish the trigger, still stands...". He pauses.
His new partner's face has lost most of its color and his mouth is propped open with a jack made of sheer horror and curiosity.
"Well JESUS man! Aren't you gonna tell me the rest of it?"
"The rest of it is: I wake up".
He languidly looks around, takes a pull from the bottle, and proceeds to pull his mask over his face. His partner isn't sure, but he thought he'd caught a smile crack before his mouth was covered,
  "...and not like a haha I'm yankin' your chain kinda grin. This ****** meant it", his partner would recall later to some buddies in a bar.
"I wake up and wonder whether I'm the man, or the match".
He slams the magazine into his weapon and rips the slide back to load up the first round of ammunition. He exits the vehicle, and heads towards the disheveled building that has more or less sunk into its foundation. His new partner shakes his head, wipes his face with his paws of hands, pulls on his mask, and flicks the *** end of his cigarette whose embers have already begun to eat away at the cotton filter out towards the woods. He catches the light from the buckshot of the cherry out of the corner of his eye and imagines that match spinning towards the city.
"What the **** have I gotten into..."

Our souls
are one thousand firecrackers
each stick waiting to burn.

Sometimes our souls are quiet,
and the firecrackers are stagnant
and wet.

And sometimes we burn slow,
the firecrackers smoldering sweet and terrible,
the ashes falling in poetic teardrops to the ground.
We are tied down and the firecrackers
are screaming to burst out with a jubilant
expression of WOWWW!

But they are denied.

Until that one moment when all the pieces are set
and finally the firework of our soul is
let loose and explodes with loud, sulfuric glory,
spreading its light and smoke and wonder
across the quiet plains.

Her eyes were the color of solar flares
and the remnants  of super novae,
eyelashes damp with Venus’ acid rain.

Body in the curves of the Northern Lights,
there were stars at her fingertips,
galaxies twined in the star dust of her hair.

Constellations lined her dress
as she danced in the celeste of red ribbon clouds
the storms created.

She travelled across the icelands of Neptune
though days never passed through the tail of Hailey’s comet,
only sulfuric nights on Io.

A drab drop drips
Downed casualty
Down casually.

A sulfuric gust cycles
In three fly-by nights.
A gust hoping,
A breeze yearning to dab a wet tear off a moistened spring cheek.
Floating by on a wisp of breath,
Breathed once by the blessed. Now irreparably tainted, then incomprehensible anew:
Treated by the respirations of the perspiring, expending breath on czarist ears, aspiring;
Cured by the tongues of the insatiably dying
And by those primary soothe-ers, invisibly crying.
Alveoli gripping that sine qua non of civilization
Until they must release the once-oxygen into the hills of Kyivan Rus.

A first breath and second
As much as a penultimate and final.
And witness to the chronology that led to such a
Bloodbath-blessed blast
As this.

Steam spilling, white froths licking
Marble mantle pieces, stone white
Opaque ghosts swirling conspicuously,
Silently naught with disturbance and gloat
Humble in nature, the steam spills
From the open pours,
Streaming running water
spring, a delightful swing
slight melodies of sulfuric and mountain
flirting lavishly , emitting heat
an early morning bathe,
bright sunshine invades
sleeping shadows tinted cold
a chilling sensation humming
with that of the pool’s lip
--fluttering autumn leaves—
--cascading crystal flakes—
--rustling green trees—
--tickling cool rain—
The surface of the spring’s pool remains
It stirs with the slightest breath
Occupying stark bodies
Gleaming baby red
Washing away, cleansing a new day
As sunlight sparkles on the
Mirror surface

Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,

An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.

The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.

We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.

Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.

Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.

Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.

The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!

And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.

Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.

Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.

Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.

It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.

By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.

“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”

“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”

“Probably not
until
late.”

The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.

The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.

Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.

By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.

98 degrees and cloudless.

Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.

My shirt is soaked already too.

But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.

When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.

When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.

But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.

Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.

venus
morning star
lucifer  f a
                  l
                     l
                       i
                          n
                             g    backwards and forwards in time
                                                            ­                    in rotation
                                                        ­                        in retrograde rotation

(“the fall of lucifer” painted darkly against the bright spot in the sky)
                                                                ­                         ((i see myself in the
                                                                ­                             shadows beneath
                                                                ­                       his tumbling figure))

light-bringer
dawn-bringer
the rising sun in the east
a supernova exploding in the background: there are subatomic particles
bigger than what i can offer
                                                           ­       there are greenhouse gasses that
                                                                  give off more heat than my body
                                                      will ever be able to produce for anyone

day light
night light
the setting sun in the west
a constellational birth in the foreground: there are
not enough moons in the solar system
                                                          ­           there is not enough space
                                                      between planetary rings to explain        
                                                          gravitation and the human body

(aphrodite tell me: is this sin or is this love?)  
                                                                     ((i will dip my toes in sea foam
                                                                ­                             until i deteriorate
                                                     ­     i will put my ear against conch shells
                                                                ­       until i can hear your answer))

venus
evening star
lucifer pouring sulfuric acid into the car vents
                                                           the air ducts
                                                           the atmosphere
it becomes the thick dark clouds that obscure
my vision of      myself      from      reality

Hey!

Check out my profile on Facebook. I started studying science for the wrong reasons and I started with biology and will end with astronomy. I was just looking at proven science in all departments. What I found was some awful stuff about stem cells, plasma, carbon, and nitrogen. I refused to be someone who just believes theories from uneducated people. What I have found is that the planet x nibiru stuff seems true to me. I am seeing ionic clouds form and then change into different things. Like an eagle and a fish, deities of India, and other things that blow the mind. I also saw and filmed other things...like a planet and two suns. One sun setting in the west, while more light came from the south. I have photos and video of this. No camera lens flares at all. Black clouds following a bright moon, or planet, that look like clouds of birds in flight. My friend in town recorded what appear to me to be living bald eagles or osprey that fly in different directions, including backwards. These birds seem to have a triangle or pyramid  shape on them. A crow has been hanging out near where I rent, and flying around me in circles. I have always had a thing with animals and they have let me live on them, and I mean wild animals, including mice in open areas, and many snakes, possums and raccoons. I am not sure if this crow is friendly or not, but it seems to be in charge of starlings and robins. I am off of drugs, for the most part and I take no hard drugs(doctor prescribed drugs) and barely even smoke grass. I was told by a doctor that's would die in a short amount of time if I stopped taking my heart and blood pressure pills. It has been over a year and a half. I had many encounters with buckhannon police and one by the name of angel mccauley has been here many times. She has told me that renters do not have the same rights as homeowners and then actually entered the house as soon as me and the others left, for a welfare check. I have in ones the power of goodness and now the police seem to be nice to me. I have not even saw angel since she entered this home. Wvhas had sulfuric acid spills and the factory next door to me is releasing some kind of gas that is heavier than air. This is so bizarre that I know it is hard to believe, but I have some videos and photos.

I have went through many changes of self and I realized that I was not forgiving others of what I thought was trespasses. I would help anyone I can, but my life of minimalism has trapped me. My friends are all poor also. They are the broken ones that I go to when they need me. People are being ran over by trucks and they are people who really cause no harm to others. Hospitals are calling people to come in, and then those people die. I am not anti American, but the next eclipse is going to be only seen from here and it will be total darkness all day. This makes no sense to me, because the planets shouldn't move together.
.
Has anyone else experienced this?

Please keep in mind that my criminal record has some false stuff, and I have never been to prison. I don't answer questions for cops, and I have never been convicted of a felony. I take responsibility for my wrongdoings and I have done some wrong things. I have been rude to people on sites also, but I do not think I abused anyone. It was more of a moodiness and me acting like a fool. I was never out to make fun of gays, nor have I ever a used a woman. I got a little bitter with women for a bit, but I know that not all women are bad, and not all men are bad.

Please add me on Facebook if you want

Facebook.com/gary.loftis.14

I love humanity and I want more understanding. I have realized that I am not as smart as I thought, and I actually feel like I know nothing at all

I.
In the land far away,
where the feared knight
still roams night and day,
forgetful of his steed and might,
I lay in forgotten stones.
In this ancient coffin, my abode,
I listen to whispered tones,
from ages and times, about
to lose their pale.
The scratched tapestries unveil.

II.
When this tragedy is tangled no more,
I will sleep my rest,
closed eyes with sore,
and a hounding pest
at my feet that plucks me apart.
If without a scream I shall lose,
my sense of being, my heart ****
with the anguish of my dearest Muse.
The chivalrous soul of mine,
would disappear in time.

III.
A fatal blow would prove to be,
the sorrows of my people, my love,
for they hold out candles out for me
when sways in wind a pale dove.
Without this lighthouse,
just like a corsair without his men,
- my fires ***** and douse
quick as they darken -
Foreigner of the people that once were.
Stranger of his neighbors, fellow pair.

IV.
All this I uncover in our misty
and dying chronicles,
that seep from the attic, a dusty
worm-filled hole with obstacles
thrown all around.
Somehow, the sulfuric hand
guided and bound
me to this newfound land.
Now, I leave my diary to rot
with the rest of this abysmal lot

V.
and see for my self I will,
through the eyes
of great delight, that still
thank the Lord for the rise
of my homeland, my dear Spain.
So speak to me, not through whispers,
but thunderous march. In vain,
I've called out to you, disperse
my puny efforts and become real
or my crust, my shell you'll peel.

VI.
Forever, for forever engravings
shall burn with lushness,
the tint and stings
on my canvas. Redness
eaten away by heroic equals.
Forever, for forever I wear
this cloak unwrapped. Rumples
or smiles come up. I spare
them of their rugged hatred.
Here I come, my love, forever sacred.

VII.
While birds have sung
their heart's quaver,
from threads, I hung
not to waver.
The one leading, guiding,
and scheming my escape,
the one who brought me to the brink
of death, as Zeus tried to ****
Europa so did Mother Nature.
Her vivid corpse cold as a glacier

VIII.
I've kissed countless times.
She brought the beast back to life,
like a beggar awarded with dimes.
Now I've caught up to the strife,
the woe that plagues me I've seduced
with frisky moments, and pedant
efforts to capture the spruced
scene that grows around. Hesitant,
my chimera has become.
I await the return of the lost one.

IX.
En Plein air, that's how they call
my unhinged creations,
when behind the marble wall
a mess of colors invokes sensation.
While my dreams still lure
me to believe far voices,
some have caught here for sure
and my attention poses
openly to these claims.
So I have taken a few new names.

X.
Heat shines
among the littered bricks,
that shape these cheerful chimes
and clouds puff and huff. Cheeks
of young and fertile women
reflect the solar flare
that forecasts a prosperous omen
about to arrive and meet my stare.
Beautiful, sweet, and sunny. See
them exit my breast free.

XI.
Smite me almost did Saint Peter
when into his otherworldly
palace naive and eager
I walked boldly
on thin ice for a silhouette,
****** Mary, I thought at first
I saw. Godly choral, a duet,
with a phantom throat, full of thirst,
I couldn't quench
and closed shut, the hinge

XII.
wouldn't move.
Truth be told, I was in heaven.
Bliss and sooth
fell on my shoulders. Raven
of doubt, nowhere near.
This is it, come here, my angel.
A single tear
drowned in a bust stable
with years. But the second
briskly happened.

XIII.
No more could I look at her
with these sinful hopes.
Bind her figure and tear
that coal habit. Robes
of pure essence
defend from ***** folk.
They shine of transcendence
that God willed to stalk
their highness.
Look could I look no more, no less.

XIV.
Steps turned to miles
from wings, I stole.
Once church's tiles
now are a single pole.
Like a chess piece
without the restrains
of playful dynasties.
Still, it pains
me when I escaped
and the way I paved.

XV.
Here I notice
your toppled towers.
Giants left this
as a reminder. Showers
of needles deep in your skin
I enter and cry.
Where did it begin?
I ask while I sigh.
My lips against yours
where attack did sores.

XVI.
Final light
shines through your veins
as I uncover what's right
while stains
of buckets of blood
collide with my
own sacrifice. Flood
hardens my tie
to you, dear Barcelona.
I become one with your persona.

How "Gay" do you suppose, do you suppose you'll be
When In Hell you burn, for all eternity
-
Every ****** every Queer, every **** and ****
You're going to burn in Hell, while Satan ***** your ****
-
He'll tie you to a stump, barbed wire he will use
Sulfuric acid boiling hot, out his **** does ooze
-
Then there are the Demons...can't wait to get their turn
Pumping ******* pumping, in the place of no return
-
When they get tuckered out, a red-hot ***** they will use
They'll ram it up your ***, while they put to you the screws
-
Yes-sir-ee you'll be so "Gay", while you burn forevermore
You ****** Queerass Fruitcake, God does you deplore

Here is where gravity is null, and I am void,
I've fallen, I know I have,
Into a hole, I must have died.
I only just landed, some how alive.
Everything is silent, but I'm screaming,
"Talk to me! Talk to me!"
All that I hear now is whispered out of dark rooms,
from figures staring out from stained glass
as I stagger down a dark church corridor,
and they talk to me slowly.

Live in the darkness,
thrive in the shadows,
You fell into our realm,
from the one up above us,
A gift from the light,
A dark shining candle.
Light washes over us,
Leading us and healing our wounds from the life we lived before.

A wicked ebony carriage creaks and whines as it is pulled,
intricate designs are revealed as it draws near,
thorns of pyrite wrap around its doors,
The windows are old and flaking mica.
There are blood red roses that shed petals at every corner,
they move like magic and turn brown as they descend,
before settling on the floor, undisturbed as the carriage wobbles onward.
The carriage itself is pulled by two huge black figures,
spewing sulfuric smelling gas as they exhale,
gnarled brown horns extend from their heads like a ram,
and each is fitted with harnesses of black fire,
Though it seems not to burn them, I pity the poor souls.
I pity them, but still I fear them more.

They settle in front of me, looking upon me with colorless eyes,
Their harnesses disappear as they stop pulling,
They stand straight up reaching at least seven feet tall each,
towering over me as they pant out thick steam.
I raise a quivering hand to touch one of the beasts,
To prove it's real and truly standing in front of me,
I see the sweat glistening like diamonds on it's short black fur.
I look into it's eyes, but I can't see any threat in them,
However, I can't find any comfort in those dark obsidian eyes either.
I can feel the heat radiating from it's body now,
I can feel it's hot breath baring down on me.
I hesitate a millimeter away from touching it's coarse hair.

The door to the carriage is thrown open with a bang,
shocking me into stumbling away from the beast before me.
I glance up at it and see it still staring at me with those dark empty eyes,
I am nearly hypnotized by those eyes.
A small man, no more than four and a half feet tall,
approaches me and I tear my eyes from the beast's.
The man is old and wrinkled,
his skin grey from age and his obvious decay.
He has no eyes that I can tell,
his lids are clenched and wrinkled shut.
At his side is a whip, nine tailed and barbed,
made from black leather, caked with blood
and still clinging to bits of flesh, torn from it's victims.

The man takes his ****** whip in hand
and strikes the double doors in back of the carriage,
I cringe and step back, fearing what might come out.
The beast in front of me grunts, breaking my concentration,
I look up to his eyes and find he's still staring down at me,
he drops to one knee, now eye level with me, and extends his arm.
It's huge and obviously muscled, He could tear me in half if he wanted,
but now I can see the emotion and colors in his eyes,
Swirls of blues, accents of purples,
hint of green, flecks of yellow.
I feel calm, I feel safe with this beast of a demon kneeling before me.
I trust that he will never harm me, but I don't know why.

The old man lets out a stern yell in a tongue I can't understand,
The man's eyes are open now,
But I find myself looking at empty sockets.
He raises his whip at the beast kneeling before me,
approaching as small imp like creatures unload the carriage,
I am frightened for the beast who stays unflinching.
I can see the beast not even bracing for his attack,
I can see his powerful clawed hands,
one limp at his side, the other stretched out to the side of me.
Neither is going to stop the little man from tearing chunks of flesh from his body,
neither is going to attack the man who is still yelling in that foreign dialect.

I find myself staring into the beasts eyes again,
I am drawn into them, towards them.
My feet move of their own accord,
taking me closer to this hulking monster,
I smell the musky scent of his fur,
then I feel it, coarse and oily against my bare arms.
I don't know when I wrapped my tiny arms around his neck,
but I can barely get them around him.
I feel a strong arm go gently across my back,
then a hand at the bend of my knees.
I close my eyes and can feel myself being lifted up.

The man stops yelling and I open my eyes again,
He's fussing about at the beasts feet,
muttering something about it's height,
he turns his empty sockets on me.
I bury my face in the demons neck fur,
a cowardly thing to do, but I am so frightened by those empty sockets.
I hear him laugh and scoff,
saying something about frightening too easily.
I look back with one eye and see him setting up the thing from the carriage.
It looks like a painting with a ***** burgundy tapestry over it,
I can see golds and browns weaved into it,
but it's deteriorating like the man fretting over it.

He motions for me to look at it,
so I obediently face it fully,
my demon settling me comfortably in one arm.
The man pulls the tapestry from the painting,
I peer down at it wondering what it could be of,
it seems enchanted like the roses on the coach.
The colors themselves seem to dance and writhe on the canvas.

It's a picture of lithe little woman,
She looks to be sitting on an invisible chair in midair,
all around her is darkness and death,
scattered bones and a broken carriage lie behind her,
as swirling purple and blue dust swirls in the air.
Her hazel eyes burn like embers from a slowly dying fire,
They seem to be able to peer into my mind, if she so pleased,
Even see into my Soul through her thick black lashes.
Her coal black eye shadow is painted to mimic a spiders web,
and as though it had been woven on with the silk itself,
it shimmered in flickering candle light.
I could see she was resting on shadows, not the air,
now that I looked harder at her,
and she was surround by them on all sides.
She is the lone bright color in the painting,
A white haze, like gossamer curtains, drapes over her body,
I watch, mesmerized as the haze forms to her frame,
making a dress that looked innocent, yet deadly and beautiful upon her form.
She looks familiar somehow,
and I reach towards the magical artwork,
And she reaches back for me.

I freeze, goosebumps raising the hair on my body.
I wave, and she mimics,
I nod, and so does she.
I look to the beast, and to the man
He nods and I need not ask the question.
This was not a painting,
Just a mirror,
I was only watching myself.
I look again and see the haze left over,
it's above my head, drifting over my hair,
settling into a tiara of demons and spiders
all made from fine crystal that seemed to make a light of it's own.

More whispers came from the closed doors,
whispers that turned into a chorus of voices,
Voices that seemed ominous, sad,
friendly and threatening,
A chorus of evil things that hid in the shadows.
The things that ****** children from mothers,
and lead men astray to their deaths,
yet I loved them without question,
as they repeated again;

Live in the darkness,
thrive in the shadows,
You fell into our realm,
from far up above us,
A gift from the light,
Our shining candle,
spilling light in the darkness,
Our queen of the night.

You have your demagogic president-elect,
Dreaming in shades of Mussolini
And will sit in his downtown skyscraper and laugh that all the populists
Were not in on the joke,
And thus could not be in on the punchline.

The progressives hotboxed the shower the night we handed the country to Trump.
Pennsylvania, the center of the cataclysm.

The vortex has opened and engulfed all the steel,
All of the illegal immigrants have been scooped up and swallowed,
Reproductive rights will be voided in a stacked Supreme Court validating the opinions of white male legislators.

Tensions twisting to contort and ignore the onset realization
That all progress is halted to return the country to the era of segregation,

Deportation Gestapo formed with the lone intent to displace the children of those who dared to dream of a brighter life.

America, look what you've done and face yourself with your objections.
Look dead in your eyes and see all the minorities, tears in the diaries of closeted teenagers,
And the judicial dread of the gentleman who only wants to live comfortably with his husband.

You've made stepping stones of the counterculture, all crying in dorm rooms or next to their gardens,
All together in sorrow.

Underground America has been sold out,
We're a social experiment for what can happen when sulfuric acid is poured upon the voiceless.
The silent majority has shut us up.
We've been yelling to change history and now are tracking back.

Bigotry is back in style and I'm terrified.

Death's Icy Kiss
I’ve heard tell
that
when someone freezes to
death, the end
comes after the dying
mind sends a
false warmth throughout
the body;
life’s final trick,
although I have
to admit, that last
lie is
more merciful than
most truth that
I’ve experienced.

I wonder if
the last
few
moments are filled
with fond memories of
better times;
sweltering July nights with
the kids,
the sulfuric smell of
fireworks filling
the air?
I wonder if the
freezing
man could almost
taste the
warm apple pie or
the grilled hamburger with
mustard dripping on his
silly Hawaiian shirt?
If this is the case
death’s icy kiss
isn’t so cruel.

take a step back
grab the mirror by the edges
bracing myself to dive deep
forever into an ego

detached from this world
floating in a sea of grey
passing islands of lost memories
scraping the reefs of regret

dead silence
breathing in the fog of introspect
exhaling confusion mixed with frustration
embracing a salty taste of red

looking to the heavens for guidance
struggling to pierce the cloudy mass
a moon behind veils
made of should-haves

drifting along
stuck in the perpetual
overwhelming, maddening
twisting my reality

peering overboard
calm lights of blue
an army of mannequins
where there should be friends

eons later
banking on an unknown shore
smelling a sulfuric sharpness
not here, anywhere but here

scrambling across
fine black sand dotted with slippery domes
of golden flecked flesh
is there any hope now

voices seem to spontaneously
form in the acrid mist
a green beacon sits
watching, judging in it's omnipresence

fumbling on my accursed path
the monolith appears
all fears come forward
mental collapse on blackest obsidian

an eerie spotlight
making it obvious now
i am not wanted here
even in my own creation

a thousand questions barrage
instantly, paralyzing any hope
of rational thought
a bloodcurdling scream pierces the eternity

shuffling in the distance
sickening popping noise
signals my worst fear
what is that awful smell

so foreign
yet so close
a step backwards
is all it takes for me

but that's what landed me
right into their arms
all familiar faces
twisted with time and malcontent

gaping mouths full of blackest night
twisted appendages discolored
fondling, groping
fingernails scraping off on my skin

an only constant found in stillness
that eerie air, foul as it is
becomes my refuge
beaten by my memories

tears, so long in coming
finally roll down my cheeks
oddly resembling the greasy texture
stuck on the skin of my enemies

eye contact makes time still
seeing the depth of sadness
reflected in theirs
sinking into the fine grind

drowning in the very base
of this worst island
forgotten it should be
unshakable, given i survive

tears amount to nothing
against this fine dust
falling into every pore
making it impossible to blink

finally as my last finger has disappeared
whisked away to a higher place
shooting for the stars
vaulting through the mist

ascending, still blinking
the dirt off my eyes
an unbearable light ahead
a gate, barred of course

too fast now
knock knock
please open up
please let me escape

suddenly i am back
in my bathroom
surrounded by a crimson water
still blinking the dust off...

I attend the funeral of hope,
weekly
Watch the birth of despair
daily
I think God has gone deaf,
atleast to
my cries
People look at possessions as
success
They aren't
They're stones tied to souls
making sure we all drown with the
Jones'
we all so long to keep up with
Oh yes,
those Jones' are falling to the
Depths of "stuff"
far faster than we Smiths
Good Lord
All day, Everyday,
I see and hear the "upper class"
whine
About the stupidest things
Its appocalypse if the Jones' buy
a BMW
while the neighbor only owns a Cadilac
Utter DEATH
I see these things and hear these silly conversations daily
"Oh did you see how fat Pam's *** looked in that Vera dress at yesterday's luncheon?"
"Yes! All that money spent on lypo! Haha!"
Disgusting ****
like sulfuric acid poured into my ears
And the road on the way to this Country Club and Gated Community called
Deerfield
Is lined with falling down trailers and houses without glass in the Windows
Clothes hung on ancient strings because the wearers can't afford a dryer
Or the electicity to run one
Children filthy and barefoot playing with
hand-me-down toys
in hay field yards
Still cleaner and more pure
than the
Filthy Rich

Imagine your surgical procedure being done by someone you’ve left broken hearted
Surely they’ve put aside the petty squabbles in the past and are prepared to operate

No anesthesia…how curious
Why are your limbs fastened so securely?

Her empty gaze captures your eyes
She looks away and begins the first incision
Down the middle of your abdomen
A cry of stinging pain fills the four walled chamber of oncoming torture
The blade leads down to your waist and sliced open skin follows behind it
And inside dwell your organs within the ribs

Empty jars await their entry sitting on the counter

“NO!
“NO!” “STOP, PLEASE!”

She remains silent

Yet on the inside a roar of rage propels her to twirl your intestines with a fork like spaghetti and then put it in a jar
That was for the time you put her down and judged her harshly for being anorexic.  
She only wanted to be pretty enough to deserve you

She has waited a long time for this delayed gratification
It has been put off due to her indecision's of how she planned to force feed you your just desserts

A hunting knife into your back?
Too messy
Get a new lover and rub it in your face?
Too predictable
Arsenic or sulfuric acid poisoning?
To easy
The thought of bashing you on social media and bringing out all your grotesque laundry and despicable skeletons?
Well that would diminish her reputation and you; in her eyes are not worthy of that

So this was her concluding decision
Precariously and tediously breaking you down bit by bit

An angel of death with a vendetta against a betraying heretic of love

She plucks your kidneys out with a pair of clean stainless steel tweezers
And drops them in a jar then twists the lid back on tightly

That was for all the times you pressured her to take part in things that went against all she believed to be right and true
“Here, drink this”
“Snort this”
“**** this”
“We don’t need one”
“This won’t hurt”
“Come on don’t you love me?”
Your screams have been silenced with gauze bandages
The muffled agony is like a serene symphony to her

You hurt her
You took her
And had her change everything about her to the point she couldn’t even recognize her reflection in the mirror
What was once a beautiful blonde haired, bright eyed, clear skinned young woman became a pale, thin haired, strung out, sunken eyed broken shadow of herself
All because of you
And your intimidating influence

She spoons out your liver, the your bladder and pancreas
The appendix has already been taken out, on her dime
Remember that?
You had her move in
You had her pay a little of the rent
Then half of it
Then all of it
She worked while you shot up
Then you got her to start shooting up
She lost her job and you two lived on the streets

You’ve passed out now
Your moans and squirms are gone

She proceeds to remove your stomach
This was for what was the most traumatic and tragic moment in her life

You got her pregnant, around the same time you convinced her to join you on a drinking binge
Months later she told you she went to the doctor
And the doctor said your child was still born
Can you recall the sleepless nights of tears and anguish?
Of course not you were invested with another woman at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon

The jars are filling up
Two remain

She rips out your lungs with her bare hands
You told her you would marry her, you would love and cherish her forever
Instead you ruined her life and drove it into the ground
You made her feel lonely even when you were right next to her knocked out in some doped up trance

She bashes your skull open with a rock hammer and picks up your brain and removes the stem
She looks at it
She would have believed it to be more sinister looking
And smaller
Into a jar it goes

Last but not least she looks at your heart
It stopped beating
Your black heart
Full of malice and careless arrogance
Your brutal, evil heart
She rips it out with her own mouth
And takes a bite and swallows
It tastes like a rotten sour stinking fruit
Putrid and vile

Your carcass tied to an operating table
Your torso torn open
And your organs removed and put in jars

The girl you wronged is now satisfied
You are even
You can pass on
And she can move on

this is worse than i thought it would be.this is harder than i thought.
i ******* know i should accept myself but its hard not to believe im broken
when the only model for happiness includes no room for me,
i don't want to be selfish.
sorry for forcing myself into a life never made for me.
i understand you don't care when i find it hard to breathe.
im choking to death and you just want me to hold your hand
while you breathe into a paper bag.
i'm not your friend, im your comfort object.
i want you to care that im in pain.you told me you love me.
you told me im too good to be true.
you like me the same way you like your coffee: sugared;
drowned in milk so you dont taste the bitter.
:it all feels so one-sided: you said,
:i tell you everything.why dont you ever tell me anything:
:i want to help you:
:like you help me, i feel so useless:
i cried and you pretended you didnt see.
you are a sorry excuse for a friend.you are selfish.if i told you i feel like im dissolving
youd ask if this means i love you.
youre corrosive.youre sulfuric acid and i never should have let you inside of me.
god ******* ******.im tired of writing about you.you make me feel unlovable and broken.
there are bones in the backyard of my childhood home.
there are eight rosebushes to choose from and i grew up
scratching myself ****** on the branches.
you like to disembowel anyone who makes me feel loved and when i try to fix myself you ask
why im abandoning you.
its always the same ******* thing.
its always the same thing.you're always crying and im always biting my cheek.
im always lonely and youre always kissing my neck.
its always the same.

A hustle flow, trips to Buffalo, Women annoyed by bricks, in contrast to when the cabin air hits her lips. You wonder why i do this ? I do this because I find it therapeutic for all my enthusiast to love my poetry, you stupid, my brain faster than cray computers,

This tone this poem's micro processor is submerged in cryogenic fuelers on some rude **** because you better not use it or confused it.


Her voice is my music.

 She's a Mortal atomic element

her circular third eye sees all ingredients

,  Atlantis was surrounded by four sea walls,  reading one fourth of the library of Alexandria before it was burned to the floor, every time she draws I see the shapes of sacred geometry I wish I can see more, before it gets lost. As we start reminiscing about the scripts that was written before the beginning. Can't even count the art I expended so far ,I don't really write anymore it's been so long I wish the clock will hurry up and tick, understand I'm timeless to this ****. You wanna laugh now and cast your belligerent doubt? I will show you what poetry is really about. The more pretentious the more apprehensive the sentence! Your time equals a purchase, these verses have perennial purpose, these other writers are worthless when it comes to me approaching the podium, I delivered my encomium, to a selected few, see I don't like compliments because it's counterproductive to my mood, but that's just you being you. I rather you learn off me and tell me what your about to do, about to create, weld and shape. Close your eyes , ritualize relax your spine ,without trying you can shift your mind.  It is my understanding  when I'm high I'm channeling but when I'm with people who can't "be" I'm animal handling. What is jean determine to ascertain for himself? There's a proverb that goes one should know thyself before one can know the world, so I showed myself. Checkpoints require all concentration I can muster, submitting specifics about the operation I'm running, but no details are public.  I've apologized, but I can't change who I am , I've tried to change the future but you can't budge the past. Jude, our uniforms match so we look the same from the sky, the only time you see a difference is when we die. An unrelenting  pace creating the main route sulfuric nitric acid burns through the labyrinth you need to take action rigid hommagnized metal I mix words that shouldn't happen.........................

to even exist
anymore
is it I
or am I you
Television picture
Do you wish I did not
Reflect so white on your wall
Or that my fingernails would dig so deep
Into the black moist earth
of your mind
A glass consciousnesses
\can be broken in a crystal instant
Forever cursed or blessed
Once again
Nothing
Strange picture on the wall
Will not flash at all
A picture of you
Paper and ink
Do you think
When you die-
Is it everything
Or nothing?

Second Stanza
Broken apart
Like your sentences
In that last conversation
The air
Is so thick with politeness
So physical
the soft of white skin
Or mental
Thoughts becoming  
      Thin
Bones of fingers
or skull cap
The sing song
language of your eyelashes
Open me
Close me
I am at your command
Free to be used
Or left alone to rot
In the dark dungeon
even that water that is thick and black
The smell of that water sulfuric
even this water
will quench the thirst of any dying man
Gurgle out your last words
once more
(scripted)
Heavy words that


spill //
through cracked lips
porcelain teeth
"Do not leave me. Hold so tightly that last breath."