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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Once upon a time in the city of Omurate
In the southern part of Ethiopia
Omurate that is on Ethiopian boundary with Kenya
There were two prosperous animal families
Living side by side as good neighbours
in glory and pomp of riches
Each family was ostensibly rich
And rambunctious in social styles
They were the families of African rat family
And the Jewish cat family; the city belonged to them
They all enjoyed stocks of desert scorpions from Todanyang
From the savanna desert of Northern Kenya,
The two families also enjoyed to feed on desert locusts
On which they regularly fed without food squabbles
                               Locust themselves they flew from Lowarang to Omurate
From Lowarang a desert region in Kenya, to their city of Omurate
Sometimes the Jewish cat family enjoyed an extra dish
In form of puff adder flesh, especially the steak of the puff adder muscle
Puff adder were cheaply available in plenty at the lakeshore,
Lakeshores of Lake Turkana
At point which river Ormo enters into Lake Turkana
So the cat was happy and relaxed
Even it rarely mewed,  
Neighbours never often heard its mewing sound
The rat also enjoyed plenty of milk with no strain
Easily gotten from the rustled cattles
Cattle rustled by the Merilee; a warrior tribe in Omurate.

That day the cat had gulped milk since morning
Even its stomach was bulging
Like that of Kenyan state officer
The rat had milk all over the house
In the kitchen, milk allover
In the sitting room, milk in abundance
In the wash, room milk all through
On the bed, milk and stuffs of milk
The rat was bored with nothing to be enticed
Sometimes plenty of milk can become a bother
The rat mused to itself in foolish African empathy
That may be the cat is starving in pangs of hunger
With nothing to drink, or may be it has no milk
When the milk is rotting here in my house
It is un-African for food to rot in your house
When the neighbour’s belly is not full,
On these thoughts the rat washed its legs, and hands
Finished up with its face,
Put on its white short trouser and a green top
It stuffed its tail inside its white short trouser,
The rat poured milk into two pots,
each *** was full to the brim
It carried one in its left hand
And balanced another on its head
In its right hand was an African walking stick
For the elders known as Pakora
The rat took off to the home of the cat
In full feat of animal love and philanthropy
Whistling its favourite poem;
An Ode to a good neighbour,
Walking carefully lest it spills brimful milk,
It entered into the house of the cat without haste
Neither knocking nor waiting to be told come in
In that spectacular charisma of a good neighbour,
When the cat saw the rat it giggled two short giggles
And almost got choked by indecision
For it had been long since this happened,
Since the cat had dine on milk leave alone rat meat
The rat said to the Jewish cat that my brother
Have milk I have brought for you
Have it and sip here it is; the real milk,
In devilish calmness the cat told the rat;
Put it for me on the table, thank you,
But my friend Mr. rat don’t go away; there is more
More for you to help me in addition to milk,
Continue my brother Mr. Cat, how can I help you?
Don’t call me your brother; bursted the cat,
For it is long since I ate the rat meat
And you know rat meat is our stable food
In a frenetic feat of powerlessness the rat was confused
In attempt to save itself
it pleaded that my dear elder, I was
Only having plenty of milk in my house
And to us African rats, it is a taboo
To have a lot of food in your house
When the neighbour’s belly is not full
So I only brought you the present of Milk
Please have it and drink,
Without taciturnity the Cat retorted in persistence;
I know and I am thankful for your good manners
But remember with us Jewish cats it is heinous sin
Forget of a taboo, it is blasphemy against the living
God for one of us to leave the rat free from our house
For you rats are the only stable and kosher food God blessed for us
The Jewish rat family all over the world
So shut up your mandibles, I am to eat you first
Then I will take milk later as a relish.

With its herculean paw the cat crushed the rat
With mighty of the leopard culture
Throwing away the white trouser
And green top from the torso of the rat
The cat ate the rat with voracity of the devil
After which it punctuated its mid day appetite
With slow and relaxed sipping of milk
Slowly and slowly as it felt its internal greatness
And hence the African proverbial cry that;
Behold foolish angst kills the African rat!
PrttyBrd Jan 2015
it's there
in the silence

nightmares
are born
of
nothing
12215
10w
AR Aug 2015
The only one by my side was my shadow
and my only comfort therefore was my mind
Too much distress I wanted to voice and let go of -

but my mouth thought it too selfish a crime.
SassyJ Dec 2015
Dear one,
As the domino, I fall cascading on the drawing board. Why would one deny progression? A furtherance , the ebb and flow. I remain up beat and spirited as I read your letters. It's like a barred barricade is being lifted.Your glowing light is charging me. Certainty is liberating, the riding of the waves have become a skill that I have engrossed. The tides spread from shore to shore and I must anchor. I am ever grateful for your deliberation in regard to my current affairs. Your magnanimity is greatly appreciated.

                                           As I am
Enormous, bountifulness of free spirit. Episodes of  taciturnity alternated by sequences of  thrill are remarkably felt. The higher level linking is simultaneous , coordinated and equidistant. As life propels, years progress a resemblance of energy is greatly congruent. The conforming compatibility of the absolute is evident. Transpiration of what once known yet unknown surfaces, erupts and consolidates a new meaning. A renewed existence, a recovered emergence solidifies. These moments are so evident, abundantly and vehemently felt on every fibre,bone and muscle of my being. Right to the core of my soul, my very existence.

On the tangent of thoughts........"J" the jewel... the forgotten treasure. What happened to the nature trueness that stroked your mind? The non win compromises aren't spontaneous. We must realign.... we must.

Vous êtes magnifiquement merveilleux et excellent en tous les moyens possible.
You sure do give me the butterflies......
You hold me in skies high above.
I can't control the butterflies.........
Is it just a flutter ?

To progress as you progress.....
SassyJ

Inspired by........
Natasha Bedingfield (Soulmate)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P27MPi3ZhCg
Vous êtes magnifiquement merveilleux et excellent en tous les moyens possible.


Translation from French:
You are wonderful and beautifully excellent in all ways possible .
Jill Gingher Jan 2012
A world convulsed at fallacious lies,
With a pensive reality,
And caliginous skies.
A night as dark as the depths of hell,
Malignant capabilities,
Your sinister voice I know too well.

Due to your influence,
I have become oblique.
Dreading all the words
That you speak.
Am I truly the one you seek?

Now I have prospected
and also detected
That the only way to be consummate
Is to remain idyllic, and appreciate
The taciturnity you’ve effected

I apprehended
That I should have escaped while I could
But I pretended
Like I misunderstood
That you were do good.
You insanity was cloaked by a hood.

I’m not endorsing you to deliver my downfall,
Aforementioned here, is my last stand.
Absent from reality I’ve become,
Just to plummet down this peak once more,
Due to the careless vivacity
of the fellow that is blind,
to his doings unkind.

And now, all you do is provoke
The constant fear that I have chosen
the wrong bloke.
And for this I have frozen
A friendship that was golden.

I really shouldn’t crave you
but for some reason
I can’t abdicate.
entropiK Nov 2010
maybe he left his wedding ring in your **** by accident


that night when you told me
you wanted me to *******
wearing his sordid black suit but  
it was about four sizes too big and his
heart was four rooms too small.

i forget that the anthropoid chassis
possessed no ****** limitations.  

and yet you were there,
wailing out cherries and
casuistry and swollen
macabre in absinthian
vinegar,  wearing the dress
that i hate.

you have weak wrists,  
you bruise by blue tuesdays.


--


maybe i left my gun in your **** by accident

that night when you told me
only love and explosives
got you off. i of course, went
for the least dangerous.

you forget that the anthropoid intellect
possessed no sadistic co-existence.

i'm just an ulcer when i am
inside you.  you scratch me raw
and you make me
take off that face
that you hate.  

my poetry lingers tight-lipped in taciturnity,  
keeping you wet on your deathbed.
.



haha, i don't think many of you will like this.~ ohwell.
if you don't like, don't read it.
The Man is lying naked.
This filthy pavement is his abode.
The Man is emaciated and famishing.
And he never begs for alms,
Proud and conceited.
The road is busier than ever.
No one takes interest in him.
No one catches a glimpse at him.
And a few feign not having seen him at all.

The time fleets on, the cars move on,
The Man is lying naked.

At the first blush, far from being a beggar
Is the Man.
He is well-complexioned with big glamorous eyes.
His face is sleek and his hair shines against
The lustrous sunbeams.
His eyes are gleeful, but mournful is his heart.
Penniless though, his craving for gold is sheer.
He ogles at the gold brought by the people around.
But he never begs for alms,
Proud and conceited.
Then someone nears him and asks who he is.
After much vacillation, he dismisses his taciturnity.
“Mankind is my name”, he replies.

The time fleets on, the cars move on,
The Man is lying naked.
TaciturnPhantom Apr 2014
These words:
"Deafy!"
"******!"
"*****!"
"Flithy ***!"
"Freak!"

Then the pain:
A crack against my jaw,
Stars bursting before me
And flooding my vision
With red and gold and orange.
Spinning,
Stumbling,
Falling through the air.
A punch to the stomach
Robs me of my breath,
Leaving me gasping for air,
Helpless,
Winded,
Stranded.
Cheeks burn with a fire
As though laced with petrol
And set alight.
Pain courses through my body,
Sapping me of strength.

Cruel laughter as sharp as knives
Cuts through the air
And deep into my flesh,
As cold as steel.
Haunting,
Echoing through my mind
And rebounding inside my skull.

Where have I fallen?
What have I done?
I have done nothing wrong.
My deafness
And the words dancing,
Gliding,
From my reach,
I cannot control.
My intellect and emotions
Are strange,
Different,
Enigmatic.
My speech is shaky
As I strive for words,
Words within the tumbled mass
Of my mind.
These almond shaped eyes,
My nose, with a strange structure:
Not quite Chinese
Nor English;
I did not choose.
My love for him
And my love for her
Make me a vulnerable target.
My short hair
And masculine nature
And determination to be a boy
Separate me,
Exclude me and expose me to
The taunts
And the teasing;
The shoves,
The pushes.
The crowding and the touching
Until I scream, tear my vocal chords
And burst my lungs:
"Leave me alone!"

Spinning,
Falling,
Stumbling
Against the force.
Tears burning my eyes,
Cheeks burning
Against the pain.
Skin leaking blood
From the scratches
Inflicted by nails.
Where do I stand in this?
I am the blunt of your anger,
I know for sure.
Anger
That is not my responsibility.
A recipient of hatred
For aspects
That I cannot control.
My world crumbling,
Self-confidence shattering,
Spiraling into depression,
Depths of suicide
And self-loathing.
Taciturnity
And numbness.
Until the world is nothing
More than a blurred picture,
Far from my grasp.

Please, tell me:
What have I done wrong?
How have I hurt you?
Why do I deserve this?
For I do not understand.
Where have I fallen?
What have I done?
Heather Feb 2012
Oh!
sorry if I woke you
she says upon discovery of the slumbering silver psyche
yaaaawn
...hey...
what's a pretty little thing like you
doing way down here?
I have a hole
a hole?
a hole
may I see?
right here
she points to her chest
doesn't that hurt?
a little
come here
let me look at you
she tiptoes towards him tacitly
darling, you're bleeding!
yeah, it's been doing that for a while now
all of my clothes are ruined
he reviews her jagged curves
oh
I thought you were dressed in red
you wear it too well
glassy drops drip over her painted body
weaving glossy trails of existence
mingling with the sticky diluted color
warm and painted wet
who did this to you?
I did
she shuffles her feet
eyes fall to the floor
dearest, who did this to you?
he moistens a cloud white cloth
as he directs her to the washroom
I did
why would you do such a thing
to yourself?
he begins drawing an ivory bath
with water so clear and sparkling
I wanted to see
see what?
if I could feel
she scratches a fingernail into her arm
revealing a sliver of her milky ghost
do you mind?
he extends his arm
mildly enveloping her dripping hand in his
a last wave of emotion rolls over her
while she steps gingerly into the tub
let's see what we can do
he smiles with his eyes
winking them into hers
why are you helping me?
because I can
is that alright?
I don't want to be a burden...
sweetheart, you're only a burden to yourself
his words sting with burning honesty
she withdraws into herself
close your eyes
I'll take care of you
she pulls away abruptly
panic flooding her perception
how can I trust you?
here
he removes each piece of clothing
laying them in a gentle heap at his feet
is that better?
he winces as she examines his naked form
suddenly shy in his voluntary exposure
he turns his head in shame
I have a hole too, you know
you wear it well
did you mend it yourself?
yes
many times
I have to sew it every day
with a little bone needle and heart strings
come here
let me look at you
he enters the bathtub and stands facing her
in unison they slip down into the water
sitting with torsos and arms above
legs intertwining below
do you mind?
she begins to pluck at the strings
working them out of his skin
tenderly tugging out his past
passionately pulling out his memories
who did this to you?
I did
she finishes extracting the threads
and leans back in confusion
I know
he smooths the cotton cloth around her tattered tear
streaking out a sterling snowstorm
dying the warm liquid a swirling scarlet
he warily washes off her past
carefully cleanses off her memories
I want to give you something
you can do with it what you want
she watches closely as he
digs his fingers into his chest
leaving the **** gaping
fear invades her taciturnity
how can you trust me?
he nudges open her drooling cavern
and sets his heart in her cage
you found me
he snatches a clean heart string
snaps off a new splintered bone
you saw me
she grips the marble sides
now pink with their leaking ichor
you felt me
he threads the imperfect ivory needle
and presses it lightly into her skin
you heard me
he stitches her closed
sealing it with a kiss
but I've nothing for you...
my heart has gone missing!
no it hasn't
she furrows her brow
new tears
pure tears
escaping
you gave it to me already
he dips her fingers into him
when you woke me
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
3 weeks in Poland, and i'm naturally depressed...
this place really has that feel about it...
don't know, living England
feels worse than living in Alaska,
Scandinavia... or god forbid...
Siber.
      i swear i could hear a sober
me talk in Siberia at some point...
then look at a meteor
falling to a full-smitherings' load
of *******...
i did say 3 weeks in Poland
and i did say: not in any major city
as noted by weather forecaster,
didn't i?
       i see english society,
not so much: looking up its a-hole...
but more akin to looking at bugs
and their ontology.... their way of being
remotely too near but best described
as human... i don't get this
need to glorify d.n.a. and monkeys...
i simply don't get this *******,
given i spent 3 weeks in a country
that doesn't seem to care much
about such "discoveries"...
   i can seem old fashioned
but half the Tudor...
          maybe i'm just a senile
example of man... maybe it's just that...
i'm drinking and i have half the wit
of an intelligent person giving
a snarky reprimand... while the other
half of me is just saying: huh?
why are books supposed to
be akin to movies in the west?
what's the west, really?
       i'm with the chinese,
complately bedazzled by these futurists,
these positivists, these:
   i'm god-clad eternal aged 20...
wait for a video when i'm 60!
       i'm originally Polish
so i can speak to the subconscious of a nation
alien to me... well... why...
because the consciousness of a nation
is given the pinata whack on its testicles...
   i don't speak for super stars...
  there's Joe, and there's Alfred...
i'm so apathetic with my life
(counter claim: given the a-
meaning without: i'm brimming with pathologies
that can't be counted, or be worth
   a medical student... **** the doctors:
i need someone moved from  a McDonald's
drive-thru moved into a Michellin
restaurant, and geared up to be "ready").
with a mass influx of man, there comes
a person, once in a while: who has
the "delusion" of necessarily feeling
       lost, but more or less about to *****...
it comes when civilisation arrives...
   this pendulum... this
                   whatever it is that makes
people so **** adamant in being
constantly vehement on being solely
momentum prone...
    and yes, the meta- prefix
really does show you alternatives...
  it might as well be called counter-
physics... but it's still a case of pressure,
being pressed against a brick wall...
my neighbour is having a baby,
he's circa 55 and she's 44...
i admit, i was a bit of a rascal
writing poetry and laughing,
sometimes imitating a fox's howl
(dry laughter)... but i became motivasted
to live next door, and sorta stopped my
antics... now i'm not smiling:
i'm frowning...
                    the peacock is about:
he's just less demanding to showcase
his feathers... but at least the t.v. works...
      but that's english society for you,
i should know... spending 22 years in it
has left me... sick... alias Christian...
the fern in a flower-***, a negating-ease (dis)
animal...
           and i really do feel only capable
of writing ******* after ******* to make
the day make any sense...
         i really have no competence
to deal with the metaphysics of pebbles
to make up a mountain:
   coins to make a bank...
            it's too amphetamine for me...
      but coming from a "failed" culture
               with its Marx this that and the other...
i have come as a zoological curiosity:
in that i simply, don't know, how to compete...
   it's one thing championing
democracy against an autocracy...
       but another when the democracy
is a thousand ******* Hitlers...
                and all their proxy wars...
  i don't see the point of wars anymore,
all of them are proxy... like the 2003 war
in Iraq... it was proxy! proxy by was to
revise the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait...
          you sorta lose the will to live
anything true akin to: blood sweat and tears,
9 to 5... a pension... life insurance...
each day the point of these "truth"
constructs clings to you like an asbestos...
and you start peeling like a *****...
itchy... just itchy...
     you give up, not because it's the easiest
thing to do... but the hardest.
      giving up is hard...
       people going about like horses in a race
that people gamble on
  becomes easy to watch...
          and not engaging in these
examples becomes hard...
it becomes hard to give up,
          to not give a toss...
     such as England, a hopelass land
of what i best remember having come
here 22 years prior: grey skies
       and red double-decker buses...
it's hard to not guess why Scandinavian
made this place...
        i can't see a ******* candle
of hope in rising above this grit...
for miles...
         and then the media states:
oh *******...      22 years though, mate,
and i'm not exactly feeling a Disneyland
vibe... or that i'm peering into
King Solomon's mine of opportunity...
            it's bad to be exiled...
but it's doubly harrowing to write in a foreign
tongue...
                        because if i wrote in
my native tongue: i'd probably buy a gun
and shoot and shoot into a cave
to hear a very profound echo...
                writing down the meaning of sounds
and then overpowered by incorporating
the tactic of onomatopoeia, rather than
just leaving a dog barking alone...
reducing language to strain a barking dog
to a woof! then going a step
further with a wolf and a howl and awoooo!
that's the tip of a baboon's pear-pink buttocks...
   oh sure: flamingo-step next to the goose-strutters
why don't you...
           England is naturally depressing,
i must be a ******* living here...
but at the same time i can only say:
it's so refreshing to hear a non-global tongue...
a niche verbal...
                      at least it's not as insomniac
as the four coordinates:
   new zealand / australia, south africa,
                                  england, u.s.a. / canada...
where do people get so much energy from?
Miłosz? lazy **** wrote in his native tongue
till the end...
   i have an accent and it's not helping...
i have a knowledge of the tongue... and it's not helping...
    and what is it with
literature-movie-making hyphen akin to parabola dip?
if i write a hyphen orientated word,
i really can't see a =, however much i try...
readings books is a bit like
doing arithmetic, although the difference is:
you are less rigorously puzzled...
    you're not suddenly gauging your eyes
out to find out what's underneath: 1 + 2 + 5 + 8 - 1 + 9 = ?
and the result? probably a chance to set out
to handshake mr. dictionary when the answer
comes back as taciturnity...
   how can you live an interesting life
and then end up writing a book?
what compels somone like Don Juan
to write a memoir... what makes someone like
Alex Ferguson write an "autobiography"...
  you hear of pillage and **** in history...
      it's a standard unit of the complete
capitalistic individual...
                ghost writers... ****!
   capitalism is less venture and discovery
and more Las Vegas...
           it's less colonialism... and doubly Las Vegas...
well i do get the original principle...
but what i'm seeing now?
  it has no principle...
               it really is starting to look
a bit like Germany post world war i...
   what with the deutsche mark spiraling out
of control...
       no matter how many 000000 you put onto
a banknote beginning with 1... wouldn't
make you do anything with it: other than burn it
in a stove to keep warm...
    the same with the concept of a book in
western society...
      it's dead...
     i don't even know why people bother to write
books or print them...
             care to tell the Uber team where
the last taxi is stationed?
                      can you imagine this coming
from someone aged 30? i should be writing this
and be aged 70... but even i can't keep up...
        perhaps its darwinism and its gaping hole
for a mouth telling me to look to imitating
insects and reptiles and discarding mammalism
(ha... minimalism)...
     you go to Poland and there's absolutely
no fascination with the big bang, there's no mention
of a black hole... and there's seriously no
darwinism... what you get instead is:
news... current affairs... all the motives for
a carpe diem shabang...  
         which means i have to be a *******
of some sort and give a care to live in a language
that has: so many important answers to
give unto humanity...
                             white boy to white boy:
man... why do you even bother?
i'm exhausted just listening to it all...
never mind next Tuesday!
            well... you can't get any more raw than this...
it's a misery speaking in a foreign tongue
incubated in an alternative ethnicity...
i'm starting to wonder why african-americans
adapted so well...
               looking at the native americans
who commit suicide in their youth,
and given they live on "nature" reserves with
yogi bear...         african-americans are a perplexing
sort... maybe that's because i'm 1st generation...
            i guess it sorta passes you by
after the years and allows you to make a living
from playing basketball, and talking really fast (rapping).
well, saying that: 1st generation and last...
    god forbid i would have to *******
into a *****, wait for a cake for 9 months
   and give it social securities... too much darwinism
and the impetus to survive, reproduce
   and keep the d.n.a. diesel running... sorta dies;
oh sure, god comes into it...
he's the only constant in it... the constant that
    gives... but only nurtures via a crucifix.
i just heard it too often and i'm yawning -
too much history in between
and too much biology and physics theory
at the start.
lloyd britton Jan 2023
In dreams of shadow and moonlight they dwell,
There was Palinode and Epistrophe whom would sing
Palinode, he was as Hades, as havoc, as hell,
His lyrics were sharp and bitter, a corrosive thing…
Epistrophe was Desdemona, Persephone, Belle.
Her lays would buzz like the honeybee’s wing.
And upon sharp daggers they occasionally fell.
Upon which time the heart full of grief would swell.

In shadows of dreams and glimmering shards bright.
They took to the skies in the dark of the night...
They flew through the murk as is their domain,
And came to an estate with Duchess and Duke.
They prowled by the windows and sang songs arcane,
And tempted the married couple with lyrics to *****.
And a great fear came over the humans and they swoon.
In ghastly fright together they fell to their knees,
And fell under the spell of that music, that morbid tune,
It was like cold death dancing towards them, they freeze.
And Palinode and Epistrophe entered therein,
And began to feast on their blood, this is their sin.

Palinode said unto Epistrophe, “Hark the cry of the rooster!”
And she to him replied, “I hear only your heartbeat in your chest.”
“Of what do you speak?” He said. “Is this some morale booster?”
“No!” Cried she, “this is only the truth I have laid to rest.”
The wind outside blew like the brewing of a hurricane.
With regards to the Duke and Duchess now dead,
They left their bodies where they fell, in disdain.
And so to their lair in the half light of dawn they speedily fled.

In dreams of shadow and moonlight they go,
Drinking the blood of the innocent and guilty alike,
The vampires Palinode and Epistrophe know,
That death to everything will always strike.

Her hand came up to his face when they awake in the dusk,
His lips to hers and drink in the mouth, so soft that kiss.
Then sweetly sniffing in his fragrance, his musk...
She thought for another life she would never wish.
If anyone would take him from her, she would lament,
But not for a single human life she had taken would she repent.
He had made her this killing machine a monster within.
And she knew she loved him for that and would leave it be.
And so, in dreams of shadow and moonlight she would grin.
And in shadows of dreams and moonlight they see,
That they are together lost in gruesome eternal demise,
Stalking and killing all night until the dawn brings the sunrise.

But Palinode did sometimes wonder when the feast was done,
What waited in their afterlife if they should meet the glare of the sun.
With blood-stained lips and gruesome corpses laid asunder,
He thought that his destiny was hell forever burning,
And so, he tried to weave a different song for her to fall under,
One that would show all his woe and all his yearning.
He sang out the tune and called upon the magical talent.
And into the melody he imbued feelings of remorse, so gallant.

Epistrophe heard him singing while draining her victim’s last drop.
She looked to him through the death and destruction they’d wrought.
But the magic affected her not, she was no puppet, no doll or prop,
She could not be controlled so easily with song or with thought.
“Why do you plague me with sorrow?” Epistrophe cry.
“I want for more.” Came Palinodes’ answer, strong and bold.
“You want more than I can give?” she weeps, “can you not try?”
He speaks. “I have tried and tried again but now I grow old.”
She responds. “You cannot abandon me when you made me what I am.”
And so that song of remorse died there and then in the blood-soaked scene.
“We,” says she, “are hunters and they are the prey, I don’t give a ****!
“to leave this life to me alone is hateful and mean!”
Palinode sighs and finds no release, turning away from her,
“Don’t turn away!” she calls, “look at what we are,”
And so looking about the tavern where they have killed all and none stir,
Palinode sighs again and leans on the bloodied bar.
Epistrophe draws near and goes to comfort her vampire lover,
But as she touches him, she does not feel him as she once knew,
Now he turns to leave and offers these words, “I must go and discover.”
In shock stands Epistrophe she thinks that this cannot be true.

And now in shadows of dreams and moonlight they are separated,
And in dreams of shadow and moonlight Epistrophe has little cares,
She kills heartless still but feels a sour feeling of being unappreciated.
And Palinode travels alone, travels the world going where he dares.
Walking amongst the living in moonlit taciturnity
Trapped in an unnatural life, trapped in eternity.
TaciturnPhantom Apr 2014
Bright lights,
Sharp sounds,
Overwhelming -
A world of confusion.
Swarming crowds
Mouths move silently:
Floating words
Dancing from my reach.
Chaos and disorder
No routine,
No order.
A world without sense,
No head nor tail.
No direction.

Encased in liquid diamond.
Trapped,
Lost,
Outcast,
Stranger.
Who am I?
What am I?
Taciturn,
Mute,
Fragile.
Words tangled,
Mind scrambled,
No beginning or end.
Skin contact
Burns like wildfire.
Eye contact
Disconcerting.
Emotionless,
Without ****** expression.
Ravaging emotions inside
With no left or right;
No stigma, no control.
I am not a psychopath
Nor a sociopath.
But an enigma,
A paradox
Yet to be understood.

A lost jigsaw piece,
From a world of order,
A world of routine
And understanding.
Flung into a world
Of chaos and disorder.
An insane world
Of alienation,
Rejection
And pain.
Laughter and cruel taunts,
As sharp as knives:
"You're in your own world;
You don't belong here.
Go back to where you came from,
And stay there!"

My world:
No chaos, no disorder.
Routine and repetition.
A world without hurt
And pain.
It's my place to escape to,
My world
And my world only.
A jigsaw puzzle
That no one else can solve.
My shield and shell.
But my descending spiral
Into loneliness,
Sadness
And taciturnity.
A constant tug of war
Between my world and reality.
A will to break free
Of my misunderstood mind,
And to be like them:
The "normal" people.
To be able to speak
Of my own free will,
To not be trapped
By periods of muteness.
To be free of routine
And repetition.
Fear pulls me back
Hurls me back to my world:
A world of safety,
Warmth,
And sense.
Away from the bright lights,
Away from the sharp sounds.
Engulfed by soothing darkness,
Immersed in the comforting silence.
No more crowds.
Just me and myself,
No other company.

I am irregular:
Chaos walking,
A living bomb.
You are regular:
A jigsaw piece,
A part of this world,
A world of madness
And confusion.
Teach me,
The cogs and wheels
Of this world.
Teach me to be like you -
To speak,
Catch those dancing words
And to read
Those face expressions:
The meaning of a smirk,
The definition of a frown,
The significance of a wince.
Intellect, emotions and empathy.
To operate without routine.
No repetition.
And I'll teach you,
How my world works,
How the pieces
Fit and bind together.
The clockwork,
And the never ending echoes.
And at last
A spark of hope,
A beginning.
The mark of a new era,
An era of understanding,
And conveying.
No more questions,
No more confusion.
We can finally fit together,
And at last,
I am a part of your jigsaw puzzle.

Normality
Is all I want.
Functioning in normality,
To function
In this insane world.
A world of madness and confusion.
A poem describing autism.
Zion Ferrell Aug 2018
I've seen your face
for quite a while.
Your handsome looks
would make me smile.

You're very sweet
like chocolate cake.
One taste of you would
cause a stomach ache.

Your deep dark eyes
would cause a trance.
If only I could
have the chance

To tell you without words.

I love you
as it's clear to see.
I always thought
that it was meant to be.

I have a case
of taciturnity,
but I know we'd last
for eternity.
1

held  against   the mouth
  sentenced cleaved to silence, what is around me
 is all this is: wire. quartet of birds. aqueduct
 as arrest and close range tap of rain on face
 rippling in the eye foreclosed and reasoned is
 this image's return -- what is it like to live
 far away from home and not hear me say
 regret as study of attitude? News carried
 bombardment of inner cities. We were hesitant
 to leave place and borrowed skin instead,
    if not borrowed then grasped for, what is the answer? if coordinates lie, what are
                   we trying to discover.

2

held  against  the  temple
   not a barrel of a gun, but similarly, a chamber if not
  a mouth breathing in sulfur. the day has spun
  out of, and in between clipped reminders of
    the calendar:
   today's broken notes on the tablatures are
 the daily. Do groceries. Pick the freshest fruit,
   take the sour out of the scale. Gut the fish
 and not word it so over the kitchen counter, I will
 watch behind a clutter of earthenware and furniture. Might topple the glass
     once and catch your attention. I do not deny your
  effect     on   my  soul.

3

  today's forecast of rain   is body staying in.
  the children are seized by terror as scattered displays    of  lightning   paint their faces
       petrified with a lack of hue -- listen to the
 intermittent, coarse static of the television
     when it happens, your face ripe for arrest.
  there   is   nothing to do in  a home
     holding  its  breath  when  you walk,
   do not   leave just yet. the water   is  rising.
      it tells   you   to   stay  in. triple your  presence
  across the  dining,  rain as if out of the  shower
      barely  drying   yourself,   leave  water
    i will    not   drink,  only    test  swimmingly 
      a  dream  out   of   sleep and   so real
       a   twitch of  fish    out   of   ocean.

4

  outside  you are  no longer  than  the   transit
  of   birds   seeking   canopies. Wind   disrupts
  the steady  arm  of   cables. Slosh of water
     from an   oncoming  vehicle  as if  beside  the
   sea crashing into   me   are   waves,

   What need   is   there  when  your   mouth houses
      water, your   *******, warmth?  Contrast as
   habit   of  alternatives. In verbatim, this is how it
    sounded from you, "We  are   very   young.
          Remember me   this   way."

  Now i  wish  voices   could  be bodies. The next irreconcilable   face   as    hearth.
              Fingers   as   assuage,   distance  as  dearth,
      grasp   if  not  borrow,  translatable  to
   signal,  my  body   heeding,   fraught by taciturnity through the   caught  wind
      through the  furniture, once your   body being   groped for like any
     other   sundrenched day.
TaciturnPhantom Apr 2014
I can feel myself slipping
From this world
And slowly sinking
Into the depths of darkness –
Watching those familiar faces
Fade from my grasp
Instead becoming consumed
By confusion,
Fear
And muteness.
The iron bars of my cage.

Plunging into my thoughts,
A never ending sea of blackness.
Slowly suffocating
As the barriers fortify
Around my mind.
A cry, a scream for help
As I pound at the strengthening barriers:
Someone help me!
Let me out of here!
Before taciturnity robs me
Of my speech.
Routines and repetitions,
And my own world engulfs me.

Muteness and trembling.
Please, Taci, speak!
Your voice, the panic, the worry
As you grasp my shoulders
And shake me
With an unknown fear
As if to break me from this state.
Why can’t you speak?
My own eyes wide
As I stare at you,
Dumbfounded and fearful.

Sinking deeper into the depths
Of my mind:
Slipping further and further
Into routines and obsessions.
Voices are faded, from another world,
Alien and vague
Spoken in another language.
Incomprehensible and of no meaning,
No use to me!

You watch me on the other side
Of the invisible barrier;
Your hand blocked from my reach.
No matter how hard,
How much you want to help
And try,
Nothing can be done
To stop me from
Slipping through your fingers.

I gaze from afar
Through the tiny window of my mind.
Watching you all laugh, smile and cry.
What do your emotions mean?
What are they for?
What do your face expressions mean?
I am not built for this world:
Too fragile and brittle.
One hit and I'll smash
Into a million billion shards.
My obsessions
Perceived as ecccentric.
My way of speaking -
The shakiness in my voice
And the muteness
Deemed abnormal.
I am an alien becoming more alien.
My language and my mind
Both unsolved paradoxes.
TaciturnPhantom Apr 2014
Adrenaline pulses through my veins;
My heart is ready to beat
As I leap from the edge of the cliff.
My once bound wings unfurl
Catching the air and lifting me upwards,
Upwards to my freedom.

The bonds have broken:
The chains of deafness shattered,
And the ropes of autism snapped.
Gone are the dancing words
That slide from my grasp;
Gone is the suffocating silence
That once formed the iron bars of my cage.
No more confusion – chaos and disorder;
No barrier that separated me
From the crowds.
Socialisation, ****** expressions, emotions
Together form a language
That I can now truly understand!

“There will always be a light
At the end of the tunnel.”
"Don't dream it; believe it!"
Words spoken a few months ago,
Filled with hope and love
That would save my descending
And spiralling world.
Laughter, my laughter
Streams beside me
As I rocket through the air
Towards the rising sun:
My future, my hope.
No more misunderstanding;
No more enigma or taciturnity!
Nothing will stop me
From fulfilling my dreams now
And belonging to this world!
Saša Milivojev Oct 2019
.
To overcome, relinquish
and forget,
black – hearted eyes, as well as innocent,
feigned words of solace
and bitter embrace.
To forget the joys, affections and desires,
hardship and bliss,
friends and enemies,
smiles and tears and prayers.
To be insincere.
To write no more verses.
To trust not a soul.
To understand no one and naught.
To forgive not.
To pass a verdict ‘pon oneself of
remoteness and taciturnity.
And soar towards the glistening
of Cosmic dark infinity.




Saša Milivojev

Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
visit: www.sasamilivojev.com
Roxanne Mar 2022
And each day, each hour and each eternity
What’s all around me I learn to cherish.
My dreams and thoughts, my ever-present taciturnity,
They’re still with me – a curse promising perish?

I’ll judge the soul, I’ll ask the culprit,
through you I’ve known myself, so I’ll ask the poet.

And my loving hope, as high as a cloud-touching melody,  
And my wicked courage, as deep as the abyss it chains me to,
my duality doubting fibers of outer and inner world incessantly –
They’ve never left me – so I lost you.

As affections crystallize, a poet’s soul – no, it’s my soul I’ll judge,
From journeys I keep learning but ends come with such a price.

Restart.
david mitchell Jun 2020
flaunting verbiage,
with a monkish tint,
hungry and spent.
a mild breath scent, emanating herb and taciturnity.
trundling forthward, draped in a certain verdancy,
certainly burdened with this flirtatiously unhinged uncertainty.
no longer careening, bundling kindling,
suffering kinship, indexing my woolgathering,
to begin the inner mending, expenditure now dwindling.
ontologically building, a great garden in sentience, ascending,
extentless, heaven, now, then, ever present.

— The End —