Alone,
in the breath of Mother, I pace
I wait.
I know of her coming;
it is inside me.
She is inside me.
Yet, I have never smelled her scent,
nor drank of her life.
I know of her like I know of the moon.
     I am pulled
into her path.
Years of flesh
could never wash away my hunger for her.
Even the sweetest cries of fallen prey
do not take
my mind from the moment
when we will finally meet.
It is my destiny.
My desire.

I lay here on the earth,
my body hidden.
My breathing shallow.
I can feel her near.
Years of waiting,
of feeling the slightest bit closer,
every moment has come to this.
I will be patient, still.

Faint sounds perk my ears,
drawing my attention to the distance.
My mind smells fear,
though I am nowhere near.
I am invisible.
The unseen.

Leaves rustle and my dark beauty emerges.
My heart slows,
for my instincts say NOW
But, I have waited so long,
I will relish this torture.

She is cautious and wary.
Eyes darting, knowing,
yet not seeing.
I am here, my love
Yet, silence is my steed.
I will be upon her before dawn.
Slowly, she creeps away.
Even slower, I follow.
She is never from my sight.
Never again
will her scent be an unknown memory.

Moment by moment
I feel her heartbeat stronger.
Am I getting closer?
No...I am further away.
I can hear her heart beat within my own.
Flutters within me
I have never known
tell me...tell me this is not my pulse.
It is hers, becoming mine.
As her blood will soon flow through me.
She shall strengthen me like no other.
She will complete me.

The forest grows thin
as we move towards light.
This is not my home.
Here, I do not feel right.
I feel like an intruder, a beast.
But, I cannot stop.
I am committed to this.
My life will continue
with her a part of me
or it will remain here and die.
So, I pursue.
       I hunt.
Closer I stalk,
narrowing the distance between my meal and I.
My hunger growls,
yet my throat does not.
The time nears that will join us into one.
Closer...              closer...            closer....
She stops and freezes.
She knows I am near.
Can she feel me as I do her?
Has her life been foreshadowed with my coming?
Does her body ache
or does it tremble in fear?
All that I am wishes to be nearer.

She moves...I take the moment to narrow the gap.
We are closer now than ever before.
I am the demon who shall devour this lamb.
I am the wolf,
I will consume her forever.

I smell her fear through my skin.
She calls to me...
to sink my teeth within
her voluptuous hide.
She freezes and turns my way.
How could she see me?
No, her gaze passes over me.
She just knows I am here.
As she turns away,
I spring from the ground.
I hear her cries as I fly through the air.

Finally, I am upon her!
Her cries muffled by my weight.
My teeth sinking into her neck.
Sweet, warm life
flowing down my throat
as I pin her harder to the ground.
She struggles violently.
Desperate for freedom
that she will never taste again.
She is mine!
Completely and irrevocably mine.
The more she struggles,
the deeper my bite sinks inside her.
Her passion flows hot into my throat.
Her body convulses as imminent death dawns.
Her heart synchs stronger with mine
as they pulse violently to Death's cadence.
Slowly, yielding, she gives herself to me.
Her body, her breath, her mind, her ***.
I drain them all and take her in.
I tear her skin, rip her flesh coming in.
I devour her life and her heart I win.

042704~8.2p

All I wanted was for the music
to remind me of you
not of my heartbreaks,
my pain, my doubts, my stupidity.

All I wanted was for the rhythm
to flow mellifluously along
the beat of my heart
as it synchs with yours.

All I wanted was for the beat
to move me along
just as how you did
when you first tugged my hand (and eventually, my heart)

All I wanted was for the notes
to make me think of your voice
just before we fall asleep
and immediately after we wake.

(Is it possible to lose the ear
for the tune of your favourite
song?)

All I wanted was for the pieces
to fit back to its jigsaw
where it (rightfully should and) used to be,
but how is that?

When every song in my storage
reminds me of the failed
last act we did and never had the courage
to actually fix?

I hear the beating of my heart
Like the beating of a drum
And the pounding in my head
Like the pounding of my steps
Mundane rhythms in my body
Reminding me I’m alive, still breathing
I hear the ringing in my ears
Like a song going static on the radio
I hear the beating of a heart
Like the beating of a drum
It’s the first sound that greets me in the morning
It’s the last sound that lulls me to sleep at night
The beating of my heart like the beating of a drum
Reminding me I’m alive, still breathing
One day I wish to forget
One day I wish my body could go still
One day I wish my mind could go quiet
But for now I pound my head so it synchs up with my footsteps
And I beat my drum, along to the beating of my heart
Body’s grown numb to the rhythm
Until the moment my hands go cold
And the drumming slows down
And I never again have to hear that awful sound of the beating of my heart
Like the beating of a drum

chopping two heads of garlic for:
however long that might have lasted -
each tooth cut into a fine matrix
of miniature cubes -
cut to the point where a fattiness
oozes from each garlic tooth:
sticky saliva-esque ('l) and it's not...
the kind that comes bursting
with onions spitting venom -
how bewildered to be answering
the door when a delivery man
has just dropped a package
and you've also... just been cutting
onions...
   a tear that has to transcend
both grief, happiness and pangs of
beauty -
the garlic?
     the feel of fingers after having
fingered and slobbered and
come glutton on the equivalent
of **** and a devil's dozen
of oysters -
                a recipe for pickled
cucumbers: that they were cucumbers
that would become gherkins...
yes... thinly sliced 4kg of cucumbers
to 1kg of sugar... this and that:
some curry powder...
left in 2tbsp of salt to gush with brine...
and then... the pasteurißation
process - fudge packed into jars...
the lids not fully twisted on...
some breathing room -
"baked" in an oven at 120 degrees
for less than an hour...
taken out... the lids firmly ******* on...
then the jars flipped upside down
to stand...
for safe-keeping...
to boil the impurities away...
boil giddy broth and all that scratching
youth of cucumber away
for a smoothness accustomed
to marble...
funny that... the onion - how it is
the only vegetable to have some variation
of a venom and is still
the only metaphor of a snake -
the tears i shed over these Baßil plucks...
   in english: ß is an interchange:
once a sharpened S...
i know of sharpening eSSeS...
cute acute is the final form:
           ślizg (off ślizgać: to slide -
i.e. one has the slang attache -
a bit like: having the groove)...
you can almost hear it: at the end of
each hush: it's never a hush:
it's a huś of a librarian...
        a howl of it might i add...      
- crude caron is the: not yet blunt...
meat-eater.... teeth indentations... grooves...
          shackles...
the crown: šaro-
             followed by two halves
of a crown -ść               i.e. greyness -
which is still not borrowing from
the ingenuity of the russians:
szczera (too many consonants my ***...
too many vowels you roman dogs!)
   SH-CH -
                       Š + Č = Ш + Ч = Щ
        we could have the "ingenuity" process
of this evolution of... an "apostrophe"
from the depths...
   but... catherine the great was
a german lass... and even though: Ц
sits proud and could have been...
                    it wasn't... since...

Ц ≠ CH(eap)
         or CZ(art)
           or ČaXa...
      it could have: what was it...
a mirror inquisition of mu to begin with?
give me 100 years and a book burning
and i could "correct" this burden...
so it ******* fits...
i'd even call in the mongols to implement
this change...

the germans already say: цentrum
and write zentrum - herr tseit!
                                 herr schtick-a-lot: цar...
щerość  - truthfulness...
                                         / ščerość:
two coronas halved -
or... sharpened...
                     and to think... this little adventure
has me dancing above a latin script!
and... deviating from some ur-greek...

we could do this minor change:
"pan-slavic" borrowings from
the 19the century in the balkans
under the ottomans -
           this hypered breathing tool
to extract the yet Siberia - Hades bride
a near pristine ****** -
in this cosmopolitan confused multi-
of an english...
i am here to express and drag back
into the "darkness" of the east
memento...

  that the greek had names for
some of their letters: omicron, omega,
alpha, beta, gamma...
but that the latins had:
vowel-and-consonant: syllables
instead of proper names...
delta - a sensation for a prefix letter...
and a suffix name scoop...

cut my ***** off and feed me
operatic candy...
when you open a bag of
    chimichurri chimichurri:
chim chim churri...
no... when you open a bag
of been-sprouts after
the best-before-date...
    you know the perfume if you have
ever... fermented grapes:
it's that in-between scent
of fermentation -
it's quiet off-putting...
but it's passable...
              but english is both
the currency of the present...
the language of empire
the lingua franca: although:
the crescent moon in the shackles
of the sheikhs:
who moved these youths into
europe if not the project harem...
and fatso old cat laze'ohs of
the woman's drudge:
a heaving tide of custard flesh...
boiling with lazy bop-bop of
bubbles...
                    we can discuss it in
english: never mind the natives...
we came, we saw...
some of us didn't bothered feeling
at home...
although: we once hoped to be...
never... *******... mind!

i'm here for two "letters"... well...
sounds... in the russian text...
great orthographer that i am:
the english can have their metaphysical
this certain debate that...
that uncertain debate this...
it's not like the english will ever
employ diacritical markers...
a recurrent theme: a stressor on my mind...
it will never be allowed
a pop fission - it will not claim
an epidemic status -
mind you:
the priests the psychiatrists and the
prostitutes... minor of the 3:
the four horseman... the "poet":
the poo-etcetera...
  try try, try bring fail...
"ignore, ignore": "happiness"
will find its trail...

                 but once! in a time of...
poesy and cerebral palsy!
sound: ping pongs of echoes pf
dying elephants or whales...
            the stomach of the disgruntled
indigestion that's the best assumed
presence of: sea...
            
it's become certain:
in youth to write while listening to music...
tone deaf i: too could reach
a tornado of words... that...
let's be frank: i never recite what i write...
i write best from what's
yet to be seen... i uncover what's hidden...
i don't pretend to measure sounds...
if my voice had the same sensation
to encompass blowing into a saxophone...
no... a horn...
this monotone gravity of breve -
this great aeon bespoke sloth of
an otherwise riddling tongue turned
into an ancient worming from:
from a time when man did not pass
onto his futures -
a memory of some ancient - fabled oned -
a once that turned out to be:
full of replicas! i.e. archetypical
wounds... that forever bleed...

best this written in a silence that
wakes up with an imitation wind...
two letters... russian... beside ur-greek
to me... exported to as far east
as Kamchatka.... which is practically
north of Tokyo -

it's a contested scenario... this...
Цц vs. Чч -
if it was handwritten for the envisioning
of... the:        Ш + Ц = Щ
i'm sold... aren't you sold?
  ah... envious of handwriting fluidity -
now: digit plucking - each letter a solipsistic
"counterstrike"...
     yes... looks like we have ourselves...
the... *****...
             clearly...   zee... ШИЦ!

inversion of mooment - the crows are
near tonight: they are quarreling with the gods...
or perhaps that's just the ***** foxes
teasing leather -
   that i write and there's no music
to distract me: elevate this already
impossible...

i go to sleep with alarm bells ringing...
robert duncan's realisation that he was a poet
aged 17... upon leaving high-school
i did stand before the entire cohort
of my contemporaries and recited a poem:
over which i cried two days prior...
an epileptic seizure gripped
my body from neck down...
but i did manage a recitation...
    i was supposed to become a chemist
now i'm looking for a part-time occupation
in the n.h.s. as having:
good organisational skills and...
a sense of humour...
or some BICS: for... part time gigs at
the ol' B... B... C...
i don't mind i just want something
to execute an elevated trance of
robotics to let my mind wander...
outside the confines of robo-brutus-robos:
anti-caesar: oh look! "us"!

two "inconveniences" of the 20th century
motivate me...
the despots and the shan franshishko poets...
there's that famous gozilla
of a tornado... there's that...
Bulgakov centre piece of a collection
of... best kept hush-hush among
the moth community...

   that language toys with me that
i don't want to have a competence with it
concerning that i don't have a narrrative
that i'm all tickety-fuckety
when it comes to clocks and eternal silences...
a clock on earth... vacuum...
a boiling kettle on pluto...
given only these two ***** for juggling...
it's... kinda boring... isn't it?
how is one expected to juggle
only two *****?
two oranges... better image... get go image!
i juggle time... i juggle space...
both so impossibly impersonal:
i'd loot a grave for an epitaph that
might make an irish joke down
a pub about them...

       and they kept 'em "*******" in the sports
and kept 'em prized athletes... coz cousing
'arab?
well... they knew those hebs
were expendable from the ghetto-go
prior to the gassing stipends...
it's not these whites keep:
samson strength of david-esque
ingenuity...
it's not like the hebs matter in the world
of sporting events...
gift of the gab... i guess that's what
prizes them above all else...
gifts of "superstition"...
to me? there is enough phonetic evidence
to summon me to showcase
that... the tetragrammaton is...
a spider in a web of english:
surd H(atches)...

        a breath of a dying man
about to... pOUNCE!
but the jews were never cotton pickers...
they were never athletes -
if they ever built the pyramids...
i wonder...
it's not like... they... possibly...
hebrews are intellectual creatures:
they are not... about to be caricatured
with fully functioning limbs
readied for the ******* colliseum...
unless they might me...
nero's torches...
and the greek conspiracy -
after all...
           wouldn't the greeks have
conspired....
to topple rome...
in order to therefore...
retain a dominance of power:
byzantine: years after the western
"concept" crumbled?

you don't keeps jews to have
the masses entertained:
you keep the ******* to falsetto
the ******* roll-a-bit sort of gimmick...
run around... kick a coconut...
come back with a lion's golden mane...
jason and the argonauts...
casimir and the ******* cosmotaunts:

*** note on biGGer?
better: sniGGer!
i count less in niGerian -
the offensive sound - less by scent
of "things": a heb is not a jew is  yew:
from a ***...
you can't leave these tracers or:
otherwise we: shun the *****!
that's great: i too spell a sound without
a necessity to connote malice...
but of course: borrowed lithuanian
that i am: under the hellish
anglo-saxon brute manifesto...
all is glacier and glycerine and
toughening of Karen east of any
that's east... the mouthful of
the Danube...

       to "bleep" out a sound to
mishandle the necessity of meaning:
if the blacks can own a ******
why can't i... not own a ******
in his stead of... to tattoo myself
all aryan:
the jew that never made it to
the coliseum as a gladiator -
this burning ***** hair floss of
st. peter's crux...

  we are still in favour of african
mind: less productive:
readily this body made...
there's now clue as to why
a thought concerning:
Proteus - Herr Frankenstein's monster:
Einzstein: Zuerst- also a -stein / - shtein...
zweite-christus-und-stein!

it's unlike a must it's not this
competition with: social inclusive standards:
of what?
the saxon: project that -
one year excluded the irish...
other year: made great fictions
surrounding Libya...
i have before me a history:
that in part i cannot inherit...
i have these... fickle restrictions:
panderings: walking on egg-shell
moments for...

in my own wery brittle: sam's son:
didn't herr voltzwitz stress:
son of sam-
         em... -uel
                 or... -son?
                          jacob my dear fiction...
continue: bring forth
these nuanced goods...

and my two morning synchs...
a cat that wakes me come nearing 5am:
to watch him: entertain myself...
him taking a **** or a ****...
into a tight bundle of imitation
sahara...
or another... to attire her with
creases of the hand...
to pet her... so that she feels
obliged to sleep in my bed...

there i was concerning myself:
does my beard reveal the cubism
of a violin?!
i still have two russian letters on
my mind...
i'll burn them into my forehead
so that i can allow myself to sleep...
but besides?
there's this, courtous conversation
i am to be having - past participle
and future: yes... i mean no...
i will not be having this
african gladiators contra the yiddish
intellectual sludge extension:
no anglo-saxon sensibility will
save me from this: it's own...
hidden lick o' "squander"...

   pandering... for... enough ******
autonomy... to clean offices...
and find the joy of a mind's escapism...
pandering to who beside
the ******* tended to orators
and giggling politicians?

this is enough of a night's vanquish...
to have: as i have: have tamed.

p.s. there's no proof in you "not being" racist
by having ****** a black girl...
i just wonder: could it have been enough
when the trans-racial incorporation
sequence to create the copper-skin
pseudo-arabs begun...
when it was still a taboo...
   not now... i don't know vot "vey"
vont.... or'zzz dunst noot vont...
lebanon?

             i can see myself, though...
******* some copper-skin imitation
h'arab as far tainted as:
lemon-squinting: there's no sunrise:
come the blessings of beijing...
yeah... i too would like to marinade...
or at least have that prawn flesh
tenderness:
to be able to cook in enough
critic acid... without the use
of over boiling water...
it's called tenderising or:
some other magic word...

            *** notes: yes yes...
thoroughly throughout...
fishing for russian nazis...
            ah ha ha...         deaf-tone... joke.

Yesterday I met a poet and her poems
She stands and fights, lives by her heart
A heart of gold, never cold, never old

I see it in her
A spirit untethered by all but the vast sky and blue sea and the seven colors of the rainbow upon her shoulders strong
She knows the sore heart of a falcon gyring above red desert dust
She knows the blues of red sunsets on a crisp starlit winter night
She knows the wordless mantras of dying stars shedding their last stardusts above the great barrier reef
Knows how to number them off like lambs to sleep

She has walked from the break of dawn when the skies are stained with fiery reds
Till the last light of dusk when stars powder the night sky like salt scattered onto a black tablecloth
From the the shadowy allies of Tripoli
(Where peeling graffitis of revolutions beckon from the cracks and crevices of old)
To the stunning waves of Bell Beach
(Where every slam of killer waves against the reef synchs on beat with her pounding heart)
From every lash of the wind upon the harsh highlands of Tibet
To home, where the heart is.

Counted every rise of the full moon
Atop the moonlit snow of Kilimanjaro's peak
A lone soul exhaling softly between the downbeats of the moon's sighs
Knowing everything, everything
Everything goes

And to this poet I give my wishes true
That until we meet again
May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back

May you armor yourself with the emotions you bleed into words and the glasses of sorrow you get drunk on like art
Meld yourself into the art you paint
Turn every tear dredged from unassuaged moments of need into an artistic experiment called pain
So this world can hurt you
No more

Live through every second not just along
As though shrouded in a dream but very much alive
Shadows of people flicker across the stage we call life
Living their hearts on Cupid's lasso and necks in a tightening noose called time
In one's brief lifetime we can only bear witness to so many plays before we too
Fade away

But you, dear poet, are not a shadow
You're the black wind of the seven seas
You're the lone wolf who treks the seven billion unspoken corners of earth
Collecting lost tales from parchments yellowed with time and recounting them to winter constellations high above

May you leave no trace but your poems
So I can find you once again
Maybe not in this lifetime but in the end
We'd promise to meet in the far Milky Way

We meet again today
The man who teleports

He quotes me Friedrich Nietzsche
I'm puzzled by his reports

His says that time stands still
For him unlike the others

I'm not sure who he is
He has no twin brother

I've been writing poems
Of synchs and aliens

Word, he says to me
I hope mystery begins

I showed her my little talents
strange synchs, secret sins

Her response to revelations?
No more contact once again

No more synchs lately
I must not be Chosen

I loved Into the Spiderverse
Much more than Frozen

I I could I surely would
Share stories with Hannah Rosen

Sometimes at certain stoplights
For a few seconds I am dozin'

Near Monterrey Callooh! Callay!
In tidal pools we put our toes in

No way to know when the virus

                      Goes

But I hope and pray a good wind

                   Blows in.