She’s got scars on her legs,
calls them battle wounds,
I’ve got the music up way to loud,
so loud we can’t hear our thoughts,

city lights provide the background,
as we lose control and make love,
doing anything to feel anything,
because it’s 2018 and it feels like no one gives a fck,

so we fck,
and after it's said and done she says,
“I don’t usually do this.”,
yeah well we often do things we don’t usually do,

no road home and no rules,
no control no lines no tolls,
keep knocking and you can come in,
but no one’s home,

what’s going on up there,
how can you be so terrifyingly beautiful,
why are you armed with such a stare,
I know you’re a weapon but what do you use it for,

armed to the teeth no bark all bite,
I say she’s a unicorn she says she’s a vampire,
and I don’t fall in love but with this one I just might,
because we better express ourselves before we expire,

got burned from her fire,
but it hurt so good,
like those cuts that we inflicted onto each other,
feeling erratic I guess blame it on the mood,

always ready to talk about anything except the truth,
she says she only lied to me once,
and that was about not liking Ethiopian food,
and I pretend to care but honestly don’t know if I give a fck,

what the fck,
I’m drunk,
and I don’t usually drink,
but I often do things I don’t usually do,

and I don’t mean to be rude,
but I’m not sure I love you,
because even if I did,
I’m not sure it’d matter to you so what’s the use,

you want the truth,
the truth is we’re born alone and we die alone,
and in the middle is where I found you,
and for a moment this runaway thought he'd found a home,

and I wanted us to stay forever in that moment,
laying there naked in each other’s arms,
but you were insecure and covered yourself back up,
because you didn’t want me to see your scars,

you’ve got scars on her legs,
calls them battle wounds,
I’ve got the music up way to loud,
so loud we can’t hear our thoughts,

city lights provide the background,
as we lose control and make love,
doing anything to feel anything,
because it’s 2018 and it feels like no one gives a fck...

∆ LaLux ∆

Melbourne, Australia
October 2018

I hate the dripping dark hollow behind the little wood;
Its tips a cursed maroon with a blood-red heath.
I think I praised and lamented it too soon;
Before seeing its scent; I saw already its stray mystical death.

My crown is torn, outraged by florid winds and scorn;
Like a tangled old roots of the windblown thorn;
I shall feel scanty by my own poetry,
And throw it about, duly, like a static little joke.

I shall let my heart grow dull and illiterate;
I shall not taste joy, no more, in any clear--flowery fate.
I shall seek everything bitter, and not sweet;
Even not pure as the honey of a bee; for it shall be plain.

I shall curve and bend any straightforward light;
I shall harass it, and blind it--as if my ghost’s dead soul is very not here.
Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Perhaps she is astray in my memory still, and not by my side.

I feel relieved so soon as glanced at her beside me;
She owns still that full lips like a perniciously tasty moon;
She is adorable like the flower of heaven itself;
She strikes me again when away, and tosses me about when near.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
Tame me again with thy rain of laugh;
Saint me once more like a fresh young bird;
Come to me now, and return my unheeded love.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
And kissing her forehead takes me back to that day;
A day of myths, a day of agile swans and storms;
An ornate time of hatred; a whirl of bitter fate; a dust of sorrow.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
And again I was alive in this tale, with a burning heart;
On one eve of tears, a mischief, and a wan poetry;
I caught about shadows in which there was no soul of Maud.

I could only see the stones, lying ghastly about the fireplace;
Ah, Maud, are you but still haunting those whimsical moors?
Their strange murmurs but I cannot hear;
But still they consume me, ah, I am scared;
I wish they would be gone soon, I wish you were but here.

These storms were amusing but peculiar;
They are bizarre, but intelligent and stellar;
And calling thy name out but breathes into me strength;
Ah, but should I be here, and bear away thy image alone?

Ah, and thou wert in but nymphic and lilac dream;
And my heart was still not massaged by the tender storm;
For it meant thee, and hungered but for thee only;
And in the midst of love had it longed, and yearned for thee.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Her with her childish eyes and rounded head of bronze,
With her rapturous steps and wild glittering aroma,
With her atrocious jokes, and a wintry secret touch?

But still she was not anywhere about;
She dissolved like one romantic bough of soda;
And within a rough joke, she would be but gone;
And now the storm returned, but I was wholly on my own.  

Ah, and now the striking storm is mounting the earth;
Should I write alone and chill myself by the green hearth?
For I hath nothing to console and lengthen my parched logs;
I shall wait outside and drift about yon wintry bog.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud;
Maud with her heart-shaped face and bare voice aloud;
A voice that soaked my senses and craving throat;
Maud but teased me and left me to that joke.

Where is but Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud;
Maud, the goth princess within my ancient poetry;
Who but remained symmetrical and biblical in her vain torments;
Who but stayed sturdy and silent; amidst her anger, and vain fellows’ arguments.

Listen to me. I am but full of hatred.
I am neither a gentleman nor a well-bred;
I, who is just a son of an infamous parson;
A malleable son; with a bleak aura of a putrid spring.

I, one who crafted ingenious jokes;
But interminable as they always are;
I made Maud sit still as I held my woodwork;
While she perched herself on yon bench, gazing at dispersed starry stars.

Maud the shadow in my pale mirror;
At times she ceased at morns, but retreated at night;
On her brother’s sight she fled in horror;
But on mine her smile turned me bright.

Maud was idle, sparkling, vibrant, and tedious;
Her heart was free and not marred by stupor.
She was the sun on my very bright days;
She made me startled; she always left me curious.

Maud the green of the farm, the red of the moon;
Without her everything would spring not and remain odious;
Everything would be bleak and stayed tedious;
Ah, but still I could not own her, though I was her saviour.

I was a farmer and perhaps still am;
Perhaps that’s why her mother ditched me with shame.
Maud said she had not places like home;
Her house was the mere shallow--and gratuitous throne.

Maud came often down and agitated;
Her mood shadowy, she cried and cried too aggravated;
I caressed her back, and placed my palms on her white knees;
She told me stories whenever no-one else would see.

She wanted not to mount the throne;
She giggled often, at our country escapade;
She loved my cottage, she sweetened my thin grass;
Even those apple trees had then her eyes, which sprayed tough, lonely seas of green.

Maud took to hymn and dear children’s little songs;
She was popular always among the talkative throngs.
She would love to dance and wiggle and turn around;
While village pupils gathered to sing a noble sound.

Ah, but when the mirthless prince arrived;
With white horses and swords of a knight;
Maud was swallowed every morning, all through day and night;
Maud was no more seen by my side.

I thought I was not alive, for dreams were unreal;
If they had been, then they I’d have want’d to ****;
But seeing Maud not gave me fretful chills;
I often woke up tensely, within a midnight’s shrills.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Maud my bumblebee and my delicate little honey.
I kept waiting for her behind the rustic brook;
I fetched my net and fished by my old nook.

Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
My eyes were still and my chest could no more speak.
I wearily fancied she had been kidnapped faraway;
She would be jailed in a sore realm, and would no more be back here.

Ah, for had she been lost, then I had lost my ultimate pearl;
For there would no more be magic, there would be no more of her;
No-one would so restore my original spring;
Perhaps there would be no spring at all, and I would suffer in summer.

And I would lose anyway--my lyrical, elusive demon;
For Maud had always been elusive herself.
She wore that evil smile and thin laugh;
As I told her tales of fairies that she loved.

As I am fond of magical poetry and dramas;
Maud too used to read them with genuine personas.
She was my epic fanatical little devil;
She liked tropical cold and a faithful Mephistopheles.

I should be Faust, as she once said;
For had I fair hair, yet a bald head;
She said like Faust, I was cleverly amusing;
But to me, like Mephistopheles--she was unusually entertaining.

She danced before me a beautiful ballet;
She was young and keen to levitate as a ballerina;
She crafted me limericks and such fair lines of sonnets;
She made earth my heaven, and my melodies a twin cantata.

Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
I need my butterfly amongst this wheezy curdling cold.
I need my lover to soothe my chained hysteria;
I need to get out of here, and feed my love with her charms.

Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud, is not she here?
I was then screaming in my solitude, could she but not hear?
I could speak not, no more--sore and wounded by this snowstorm;
I crept sick and weak like a dumb old worm.

She was not even heard of upstairs;
While I was dying here as a roaring beetle.
I hath almost lost all my creative flair;
I felt tormented and neglected and nearly feeble.

Ah, but a story like this is not such a fable;
So at that time I did shun sadness and seek a warm ending;
But indeed, to escape fate the poor were perhaps not able;
And the farmer’s son shall never be a king.

And ‘twas the nobles’ right to be idyllic;
To be deemed far then fairly righteous.
My charms were trivial, and so was then my wit;
My prayers were too parted and despaired; no matter how rigorous.

I kept my work along the countryside;
I toiled all night and behind fierce daylight.
I hoped Maud would see me back one day;
But what I found was to my dismay!

Ah, Maud, for she was now engaged;
To that pathetic creature the cursed morn brought about;
And parties arranged, voices too raised;
The union was now what people had in thought.

Onto my shoulders my head kept sinking;
I killed myself nearly, for my irksome defeat in this rivalry;
A rivalry that failed to transgress vital destiny;
A rivalry I could not even bear to think.

But again, this love had always been everything;
And thus Maud’s union would equal my death;
One night I crept out of my bed;
I had in hand a keychain and a net.

The soldier was infused by sound sleep;
And into Maud’s grand chamber I crept;
Everything was pink and quite neatly kept;
But woke I her not--as I heard her breast breath slowly.

She was tremendous still--in beauty;
Maud in her splendour; so young and free.
Ah, she was free but not free, I fathomed;
I looked at her over and over again.

I looked at her violet bed and comfort net;
Ah, my Maud too ****** and temptingly red.
She was too abundant in her young and chaste soul;
Ah, I could not imagine how she would soon be one else’s.

Long did I stand; ‘till morning streamed back again;
Still I remained unmoved; I stared at my darling in vain.
I jumped startled as the door opened;
And showed me the horror of the Queen!

‘Come, ye’ fool’, she voicelessly instructed;
Her face emotionless as these words emanated;
‘And embrace thy very fate’, to the handcuffs me she directed;
‘For daring look into my dame’s immaculately flawless chamber’.

She pointed thereof--a black gun at my chest;
It would soon burst out and tear my vest;
And even fly me straight to death;
So drifted I, without further haste nor breath.

Those poor soldiers imprisoned me there;
A cellar room at the top of filthy stairs;
I stayed awake only for grief and tears;
And most of the time I laid about sleepless and stared.

I grew skinless as my bones squinted;
And laughed at me with their sordid might;
Flies were about me, bending onto my rotten pies;
And slices of meat left out by sniggering guards.

I hit my head on witnessing Maud’s cold marriage;
‘Twas on a Saturday on the castle’s rain-wetted field.
I heaved myself onto the windowsill and saw;
How the couples were blessed and sent thereby back.

I could not see Maud’s face and fleshy cheeks;
But didst I feel her discarded tears;
Marred and defiled her lovely fits;
Though just those innate, and not out there.

I struck the lifeless paint with my bare palms;
Now the walls were tainted; they smelled like my blood.
Time passed and desire for Maud was never killed;
I’th missed her every day, since then, and perhaps always will.

But my love for Maud was never probable;
I was decent, honest, but indeed not preferable;
I was not even preferable by fate, as thou might see;
Fate who is neither truthful; nor frankly urges us to lie.

I often laid hopeless by the moonbeam;
Until night came and eyesight grew more and more vulnerable.
I waited ‘till it was dark and left to day no more gleam;
Then took my journal of Maud’s jests and read her affable poems.

I turned around--and would disgrace my bed still;
I was plain starved but had no desire to be properly fed;
Of a dream of death I grew instantly pertinacious;
And of my future tomb I grew fonder--and yet rapidly curious.

Ah, but my sweet Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
And deliriously she somehow became pregnant;
But remorse said she kept the souls of two;
And fatefully could not make them both perfect!

I indeed plain prayed for Maud’s survival;
I cared not whose sons they might be;
Ah, but the twins were still sinning babies--as I comprehended,
For they were formed not from cells of mine!

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud,
And during those last days she was cautiously ill;
And a drive of cholera had again grown widespread;
But she was not maddened; by it she was not marred.

She was sickened by temper still;
And the prince found dead, she grew more terrifyingly ill;
She had a pure heart, so she flourished not over the beast’s death;
Nonetheless, he remained the father of yon sickly offspring.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud,
I was duly growing perfectly anxious;
She was to give birth--ah, to those little ignoramuses;
And within a little chord in one or days of two--she would do so.

But without a father to care for her notorious sons;
And even I was locked away, and could not do so;
I was terrified, I was horribly undignified;
To learn this stern reality we were so sullenly faced with!

Ah, not now! I could not too believe my ears!
Maud and her children were dead--they’d been stillborn;
Before they left Maud alone to receive her fate;
Her locksmith would not come; he had another due in a nameless town.

By the time he arrived my darling had gone;
Perhaps she was now shimmering in heaven;
Enchanting her children with her enormous spells;
Narrating stories no plain human could ever tell.

Even in heaven my love would perhaps be famous;
Her tenderness would make other angels jealous;
And angered by envy, they would gather and complain to God;
How an earthly soul could be more vivacious than their heavenly were.

Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud;
Maud and her chain of songs that were never to be broken;
Maud and her familiarity with gardens and blue lilies;
Maud and her immaculate pets of birds that still sweetly sing.

Ah, but where is my darling, my darling, my darling;
My eternal ocean, my hustling flowerbed, my immortal;
My poem, my enchanting lyric, my wedding ring;
My novelty, my merited charm, my eternal.

And now she was longing for her grave, as I’d been told;
For I’d been told by the dimmed torches and fuss and mirthless air outside;
By the endless wandering and the prince’s wails and wordless screams.
Ah, my Maud had now migrated from her life--but attained her freedom!

And he was thus unworthy of being in her heaven;
Her heaven where there would be me, her true love;
And thus he would be glad to greet his fires of hell;
He would marry an evil angel there--and make himself again full.

But I’d be with Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud;
I’d be again with my gem, indefatigable little darling;
Whose voice was unsure, whose poems were never known;
But ‘twas enough that they’d been known to me, her secret--ye’ dearest lover.

So took I, that spinning penchant and a circle of strings;
The edges I matched to the chains on my ceilings.
I braced myself for my very own fiery death;
But again, I’d be with Maud and death would no more, aye, be sad.

Thus the above poem was done by my spirit;
But with the same token and awe of genuineness and wit;
I feel tired--I shall close my eyes, and thus enjoy my heaven now;
For my wife and starlings are all waiting for me to-morrow.

It is now nighttime in heaven;
And there is indeed, no place on earth lovelier;
I gaze into my wife with a loving madness;
Her cheeks sweeter still, than any proudest swiftness.

I shall take my vow of marriage tomorrow;
My proud wife sitting in yon angelic chair by my side.
I shall cradle, then, those white little nuptial fairies;
They are Maud’s children’s, but lithe and gracious and bow to me in chaste mercies.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is but all mine now;
I am still surprised now, as sitting by this heaven riverside.
One even grander than the one I’d had beside the lake;
Which I often farmed when I had needs to bake.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is a ghost but as ever lively;
We are both dead but she boldly remaineth lovely;
I know she is worthier than serene jewels or mundane affairs;
And still she is worthier all the same, than any other terrific palace--or heir.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, and this war is but all over now;
Thus let us dream dead of the exciting tomorrow.
We shall see life and our children grow;
We shall witness delight--and miracles none ever knows.

As mother nature's
Punitive measure
Against a society
In maintaining
The statuesque
That doesn't bother,
Our rivers
Had become subject
To a water thirst,
To the extent
Of projecting
Rocky ribs
Terrifyingly protruded out
For easy count!

But now thanks to
The all-out, terrace making
And reafforestation effort
Of each catchment
Farmers have made a point
And also  to the afforestation
Move of the government
Rivers aside from quenching
Their insatiable thirst
Have resumed
To brim over
With floods
Drinking water
To their hearts' content.

Our forests once stripped of
Their wooded cover
Have started, fast, to recover
From afar they are seen
Robed eye-catching green
From a fry-pan sky
Allowing a shelter
Also busy
Carbon to sequester.

Wild animals
That migrated
Have preferred
Back their way to find.

Now farmers don't have
Deep to dig
To sink a water well
Or find a nearby spring.

Birds are heard chirruping
Be it winter, summer or spring,
While Brooks bubbling.

Buzzing and hovering
From this to that flower
Bees are producing
Organic honey by the hour.

Promising a bumper harvest
Farmer's plots have
Fortunately continued
To resuscitate!
Those leaving
Their denuded abode behind
Away, who preferred
To stay
'We will return back
home soon! '
Is what
They  say.

Happily enough
Mother nature
Affords us a second chance
Imbued with
Environment stewardship
If  we are willing to mend
Our wrong 'Feast today
famine tomorrow! ' stance.

To dispel the spectre
Of climate change
And systematically face
The global challenge
True to the adage
'We have either to
swim together
or sink together! '

Hence in fighting the challenge
Or adapting to the change
Back scratching,
We have to be on the same page.

Indeed, irrigation must
Not slip our mind
For erratic rainfall
A  lasting solution
If we must find.//

Once a famous Ethiopian Poet  Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had  penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this
#change   #trees   #erosion   #climate   #deforestation   #enviroment   #degeradation   #desertification

I walked past old, dead, trees
And into an old, abandoned park
I glanced at the huge, old tree
At the decayed bark

I returned my eyes to the playground
Then checked my watch
Five minutes till midnight
Then they will begin their march

I sat on an old, broken swing
Staring into the dark
Then there was that familiar ring
That rung throughout the park

I hid under the slide
So I couldn't be taken

Then they left
Leaving me to play
Momma would worry about my land of play

But I ignored that
Crawled out into the night
I sat on my swing
Looking in the dark
My midnight playground
Isn't as magical as it seems

A horrifying destination
That clouds my dreams
But I am cursed to forever find myself here

At the twelve hour
Terrifyingly dangerous
I forever walk alone
To my midnight playground
Since the age of three

Now I am thirteen
The monsters roam freely
I only depend on me
I can not leave this cursed place
Until the next night
But remains night as the moon holds still

I was forced to remove people by ****
But that was ten years ago
I do it on my own

This place disappears when I escape
It holds the remains of the bodies
Just to haunt my soul

I get called by its whispers
Telling me to follow
Then I find myself approaching
It's gate of the marrow

Let's see..
well,

..there's the writer who never gave a **** about anybody but himself

..and the writer who had a fetish for pouring melted candlewax onto her own toes, while being watched by her cat

..and the writer who owned a chimpanzee named Tom, one afternoon when the writer wasn't home, Tom frenzied around the house chasing down a moth, this caused obvious concern to the neighbors, who heard the commotion last for an hour or maybe more, ah well..

..and the writer who began experimenting with a dream machine, but stopped upon feeling his brain's physical presence within his own skull, weighty, and terrifyingly colorful!

..and the writer who did the same thing, except kept going and found herself bored with it after a while anyways

..and the writer who broke down out front of a Walgreens in reaction to a phone call detailing a nearby tragedy involving two cars + a logging truck (and a tad of ******* but shhhhh) grief was part of that performance, but also in knowing he may have been directly responsible for the crash (coke was given by him, to the driver)

..and the writer who experienced the best ****** of his life without even a single poke of physical contact to his ****!

..and the writer who became addicted to biting her knuckles, to the point she needed to see someone about it

..and the writer who filed for divorce after finding out that his lover had caught numerous ****** infections/diseases (and only having been told by their cousin, too! probably from two recent trips to South America unbeknownst to their partner)

..and the writer who had a hobby of taking photographs of lampshades of varying textures, ages, sizes, and which emitted sometimes very exotic colors from the bulb inside.

..and the writer who never left his city, due to a paralyzing fear of travel

..and the writer who fell in love with another writer who was in love with someone else (as is usually the case)

..and the writer who passed away yesterday
..and the writer who will pass away tomorrow

..and the writer who admired the work of Charles Bukowski and tried too hard to be like Charles Bukowski, at the peril of those around him

..and the writer who's family hasn't messaged her in a few months now, and continues to wonder why

..and the writer who's favorite song was "I'm So Happy (Tra La La)" by Lewis Lymon & The Teen Chords, though in reality she was never happy (let alone SO happy) and often played the song as a front to convince herself that everything would be just fine
"JUST AS HAPPY AS CAN BE"

..and the writer who never knew they were a writer and never wrote anything in their life but **** it if they did!

..and the writer who's favorite month was July, favorite day Saturday, and time of day at around 2pm

..and the writer who's last words were never written down or heard by anyone outside their secluded office to which he screamed "HELP!!!" and then died from heart attack

..and the writer who actually lived only three blocks away and was good friends with the guy, and found his door unlocked and the smell came first

..and the writer who found it funny to imagine getting involved in certain scenarios inappropriately contrasted with specific songs, settings, or themes. An example: funerals where everyone shows up in clown costumes, sunbathing in the Arctic, being invited to a nice dinner and the restaurant is playing loud shoegaze music, closely befriending the person you hate the most in the world just to see if you can, and bringing a large cage of parrots to see a movie with you

..and the writer who really DID some of those things mentioned above (I won't say which)

..and the writer who wrote about all these other writers (me)

..and the writer who may be reading about all these other writers (you)

You don't think I understand.

That was the last thing you said to me before I found out you had taken the easy route, the one where the only ticket available to purchase is a stomach full of sleeping pills.

I tried so ******* hard to understand after that, because that was the only note you thought to leave me. Whether on purpose or by accident, I took it more to heart than your absence, anyway.

You never really left. You hid behind my ear and over my shoulder so for a long time, before I got used to seeing your reflection behind me in the bathroom mirror like in a cheesy horror flick, I was constantly dizzy because of all the whirling around. A mixture of fear and excitement, tasting something like stomach bile and the lemons that were on your breath no matter what the time of day, would prepare me to meet you, or rather the lack of you. If the acidic solution wasn't used up on a kiss to your cold and rotting lips, it burned a hole at the base of my stomach that grew into a volcanic crater.

Maybe that was why I erupted so many times that autumn, my mouth burning and smoking before blowing bits of my top into the atmosphere. I lost so much of me in those natural disaster moments. I lost my mind with my temper and raved too often to be trusted. I was called a lunatic because I saw you outside of the photos and family videos your mother showed me after your disappearance.

She was the only one who didn't avoid me; quite the opposite. She clung to me because I was the last physical link to you, no matter how dishonest that connection was. I was as lonely as she.

Slowly, though, slowly, I forgot to look for you in the shadows and behind ocean waves, and I forgot what you looked like breathing deeply in and out with your limbs sprawled out and occupying my entire bed, and I forgot how you licked your lips before pressing them to mine, every time. I couldn't find you anymore except for in the memories haunting the flowers you gave me on our first dinner date, the one I asked you to, pressed between the pages of the one book we agreed would be our favorite, or in the quickly-fading scent you left in all the sweaters your mother dumped on me the moment she moved to Thailand after her messy divorce.

But I can't say I don't want to lose you; I don't have anything left of yours to lose. I lost you long before your accidental suicide note. I lost you when the plants littering your apartment, the ones I gifted you, started wilting because you lost interest in other things' lives trying desperately to find purpose in your own. I lost you when you traded your guitar in for an attempt to find sanity and when you broke every one of your CD's, your most prized possessions, one night in a fit of rage against unfairness and bad luck and life in the universe.

Most of all, though, I lost you completely when you ripped up the Polaroid exposures you had taken of me one night when we finally believed that love was real, and that we were in it. When I asked you why, you only suggested I leave.

That was the night you told me I didn't understand, and I'm only just started to realize that you were right, and that I will never understand. I will never understand your cryptic, poetic responses. They're romantic as heck sometimes, but other times, all I want is a straight answer. I hate the way you would save pictures of me sneezing, or talking, or doing something ugly and dumb. You may have told me I was beautiful doing those things, but lying does not make me love you more. I was far too gone for that. I hated your slow and rolling hips, your lazy grace, all the things that a romance novel might describe as **** and utterly perfect, but when we were in a hurry, they were so inconvenient.

I could feel bad about saying these behind your back, but when I say I cannot wait to forget you completely, it is only a little bit a lie. I've found it so much easier to write about someone you love, whether the unrequited type or the type  so romantic your heart swells to a grapefruit size after he says yes and is so ******* romantic it stays that size for a year after, after they've died, only the feeling isn't euphoria anymore but that of suffocating as the heart presses against the throat and slowly drowns you.

These words stem from the extra heart parts I had to cut out to survive, and while I am left stoic-faced and cold, I can finally fly.

'I want to eat you,' he said with his eyes closed.
'Why?' Still, even though she was afraid-unfathomably afraid, she was infatuated with him; this creature so terrifyingly comely that she was sometimes scared of it-she could not then help peering into his bright face; its exquisite whiteness was dauntingly mysterious, but again full of indecipherable words-just like a dangerously emotionless sea; which could but turn tempestuous in the course of just one shadowy second.
'You're simply too tempting to me,' he replied after what seemingly very careful thinking; this time with his lips coming nearer to hers, until his breath she could see emanate in bold wreaths of white, pearly bits; bits of ice-lifeless, and tender whilst in handfuls, but at times heartless with their cold souls.
She reflected on the answer for a while, then slowly formed a thoughtful smile around her lips. 'Then where would I be, if you ate me?'
'Within my soul, my blood, and all the length, mirth, and the very crown of my heart,' he uttered the last two words confidently, before further lurching straightly forward to bestow a playful kiss on her trembling lips.
'Ah, but still it won't be the same, my love,' she cupped his cheeks with her cold hands and whispered to him quietly, when they finally pulled away. 'I would no longer be here by your side. And as you have but stated before, you surely like having me here alive better than dead, don't you?' She let out a deep breath, and showed a flirtatious grin so captivating that he wanted to kiss her once more. And possibly mesmerize her. Startle her. Eat her. Partake of her. Consume her. Conquer her. Possess her. Tear her. Tear her apart. Tear all her senses apart. Break her up. Break her body up. Break it up into nothingness. Until she was nothing. Entirely nothing. No more of anything of herself but what he had. Nothing but what he owned. And secretly desired. And had always longed for. Nothing but he possessed; and treasured within his very body; and its very own capricious cells. But still eventually, be her everything; or simply, be everything to her. Be everything she ever wanted. Everything she desired. Everything she wished. Everything she, with all her human weaknesses, ever eagerly wanted him to be. Or to do.
'Don't worry, still it will be the same,' he caressed her hair with his free right hand and kissed it. And when she became puzzled by this tauntingly obscure remark, he explained, 'It will still indeed be the same, and will forever be the same, because you will dwell within me, and thus within my heart will be carved your name. So that you're the sole torch that keeps my flame. And the mere lamp that lights my soul. The medicine that heals my wounds. The very deeds of my desires. All the merriment of my days. And the very light that is thrown onto my ways.' He stopped and sighed for a while, before continuing, 'Thus, on top of all that, you will still own the same brand of addiction-to which my entire being is addicted to. Really addicted to. Incurably addicted to-as I will never be able to continue to live without it. I will prefer death, and cherishing a gruesome life among the dead, to having you not within my being-just like I will be if I ever consume you not. So within me,' he took her hand and pressed it against his chest, 'there shall be nothing but satisfaction,'-he stepped closer into where she was standing, 'with having you within me; so your soul shall blend, and merge but perfectly into mine, querida. And such is an occurrence I shall never regret; even if I eventually have to eat you.' Having proposed these last two words, he closed his eyes again; before launching his body right onto hers, and this time missing not planting his fangs onto her shoulder.

At a party [many people, dressed nice, cocktails
going round] someone I guess awoke to my presence
as if I’d just appeared out of nowhere or something
and asked me [totally circular eyes, spearing pupils]
like this: And what do you do? I looked at him, and I
don’t know what face I made, but what I wanted to
look like was something to this effect, matter-of-factly:
Well, what do you think I do? Obviously, I simply
try to avoid, day by day,
a wretchedly hopeless case of dismal ennui.
I try to endure, as stoically I can, the
inner doggerel convulsions
and mawkish throes educed by the
realization of transcendental insignificance
(or, otherwise: paradoxically substantial nothingness)
that imbues all hope of Elysian ecstasy and
reduces it to but the terrifyingly
ineluctable fact that we are essentially
impotent holograms functioning by the fixed fractal geometry
of a dynamic and chaotic, kaleidomosaic-like reality,
which, as eternally self-transforming and
forever utterly inconceivable,
is devoid of any certainty, absolute truth
and, most of all, compassion.
Furthermore, when I look at you, I see a deaf-mute
reflection of a reflection of myself, and
to be morbidly honest, I don’t
know what I can tell you that would
make any difference to the fact that, freely or
not, we are both, you and I, just passing
through our lonely, fathomless, patterned
deserts, blinded and lured by the Fata
Morgana of our sadly sublimated
consciousnesses, due to which, undulating up ahead
of us in a chimerical haze, we are
conditioned to think, fatuously, that we know,
or that it’s possible even to know, that
it means something to love or not to love, that it
matters at all whether we are alone or
not, and that, at the point of death, there will be
something, somewhere, that will condense
somehow out of this
nauseatingly numinous fog and, like a deserved,
blissful wash of our “souls”—like a salvation!—
will come to justify the inanities
and insanities of our mundane life as just the
confusing buildup to a final and triumphantly
epiphanic crystallization in which, at last,
we will truly understand, unquestionably, the meaning of I,
the meaning of you, the meaning of truth,
and the meaning of meaning—I mean, honestly sir.
What do you do?
That’s what I hope my face looked like, but I guess it
must’ve looked like something else, or maybe I said
something, because the man just raised both his brows
[his left one slightly more than his right] and stared
me down in mocked awe, on the verge of superciliousness.
His eyes slowly receded like a tide imperceptibly towards
the back of his skull, his lips pursed, parched, and pitying.
Then he nodded complaisantly, too energetically, saying:
Oh, how interesting! Did you always see yourself getting
into something like that? Mmhmm. Hmm! [and so forth]
And how do you like that? Mmhmm. [and so forth] And
the pay? Mmhmm [etcetera]. After I’d finished answering
some of his questions, I said: If you’ll excuse me, I just saw
a friend of mine, I really should go and say hi, but what a
pleasure it was to talk to you, sir. Take care!
And I excused myself.

Johnny can't join
his daddy has no car
Michael can't join
they don't like his shoes
Ahmed can't join
he has a funny name
Bobby can't join
supports the wrong team

"What's going on?"
bellows the red-faced teacher
"You can't treat each other like this!
"Have you ever been excluded?
"Yes?
"And how
"did it make you feel?"

He ushers them in, muttering
though somewhat gratified
by the shame in their eyes

Then herds them through
to assembly
where the guest of honour
is the minister
who proceeds to explain
to the obediently seated rows
that if they don't see things his way
they will be eternally,
terrifyingly
and agonisingly excluded
from the great big party in the sky

And the teacher hangs his head
in baffled complicity,
defeated.

"I am in love with you.

it's strange to say such a thing without hesitation, but it's also brings a feeling that's indescribable. There's always been the thing where he ignored me when he was with other people, or when he took books from libraries and never returned them. But you, there is absolutely nothing that is not pure perfection and it terrifies me. There's nothing I'm more afraid of than you. you are the glue that holds me together and your arms is the place I call "home", but you are what I fear most. bizarre isn't it? it is so extremely terrifying because as much as every atom and part and vessel in your body is perfect, and though all I do is work on myself and work myself to go a little faster, move a little longer and push a little harder I won't ever have even one flawless feature. my freckles look like little spots of dirt while the slightly darker spots on your skin look like gorgeous constellations in a night sky full of stars, and my face has always been accompanied by a tad of chubbiness but somehow, You have a perfectly sculpted face complimented by your porcelain skin. I'm terrified because I won't ever be the flawless thing
you think
I am."

There's this mermaid girl I knew once.
She had long blonde hair,
and she smoked tobacco under water.
She defies the laws of the universe.
She had deep green eyes
that screamed the names of lonely sailors.
I hear they got lost in her eyes,
so lost no nautical device could guide them away.
Her ******* were covered by shells.
Sea shells that glowed their gratitude as they lay on her chest.
I hear she moved exactly like the ocean, or maybe the ocean mimicked her.
When I heard her voice,
it was like bubbles.
Like bubbles that begin at the bottom of the sea and run through the water to so delicately burst on the top.
But even delicate bubbles have capacity for violence.
We, they, you, have reverence for a voice they tell stories about.
Her face shone like the ripples of light at sunset that stunned the sailors in awe.
Her hands, smooth like pearls.
Her lips, tantalizingly terrifyingly beautiful as all the reefs the wrecked the ships.
I knew a mermaid girl once. She had long blonde hair and she smoked tobacco underwater.

I think the thing that fascinates people the most about shooting stars is how fleeting they are. They are here one second and gone the next. They are relatable. Life is here one second and can be taken the next. Memories and moments are here one second and then gone the next. Shooting stars are rare and uncertain. They are beautiful and unique. They are a glimpse into something terrifyingly unknown. They are home to our wishes and dreams. They are far away and distant, surreal entities falling through the night sky. They are adrenaline rushing through serenity. They make us ask questions. They make us calm. They give us hope. But most importantly they bring a smile to our face, maybe when we need it the most. So make a wish.

when does familiar
become boring and mundane?

when does home
become a place we once knew?

when does life
move on?

where do we go from here?

Falling in love is dangerous. For when you fall in love, you pay a price. A price so unrealistic that you simply cannot pull out your checkbook and write down "here is my everything, please handle with care, very fragile" and expect it to cover the debt. No. You give your heart and your soul. Your mind is always cluttered with thoughts of them. Your body tingles when you hear their voice. You become addicted and you expect more and more, so you keep paying until one day, there's nothing left. You're completely theirs and your definition of home…begins with their name.

And just thinking about that is terrifyingly beautiful. Something could happen, and all that will be left of you are tears and a cracked voice to match the holes that cover the walls. Now there is no place to call home, you gave them everything. Someday you will be asked the question of what they returned and you'll reply: "they gave enough to make it seem like a lifetime of happiness, and more importantly, that feeling of love…was infinite."

In the end, there would be pain and you knew this, but you still them your all. You are stronger than you think and believe me when I say you will regain your all back.

Falling in love is dangerous, but you cannot stop it, you cannot slow it down, and you cannot escape it. So it's understandable to be scared, but just know it's okay to take that fall…especially for him.

for every action defined
there are infinite that remain
utterly unnamed and
are vitally spoken
in whispers on the
pieces never lived.

these incalculably splintering,
passively accumulating,
terrifyingly ungrasped possibilities
compile and cache
and compress and comeback
in the saddest seconds,
where one can merely conject
their meaningfulness,
realizing that there
is infinity in everything
and therefore potential
even in the kinetic.

You are finally here
My sweet, sweet child.
The closest thing to heaven
I have ever touched,
An angel sleeping in my arms.
Every part of you is beautiful.
Your eyes are beautiful.
Your nose is beautiful.
Your lips are beautiful.
Your hands the size of my thumb are beautiful.
The touch of your skin creates an ecstasy.
I could look at you all day,
Counting your fingers
And your tiny toes.
I could hold you forever,
Kissing your forehead
Every time you close your eyes.
I long to hold your skin to mine
As I have visions of the future,
You growing and calling me "Mama".
You are my miracle.
And as I watch you suckle at my breast
The thought that you depend on me
For nourishment and life
Presents itself
As the most terrifyingly beautiful thought.
Enough to make tears roll down my face
And unto your porcelain skin.

They are Immortal.
They are dead inside.
They are pale.
They often sparkle
but naturally don't.
They bite necks.
They are nocturnal.
They are out for blood.
They enthrall people effortlessly.
Their loved ones are often dead
or being mourned
while secretlly alive.
They act like the cool kids.
Or the awkward emo clicks,
but are treated like this exclusive club.
They don't show up in mirrors
because this IS their reflection.
They don't let the real them see the sun.
I am reflecting.
On.

Why.

Why have I only dated vampires?
I'm loosing lots of blood.
But
What am I gaining?
Besides y'know...
their blood diseases.
And lots of exciting! moments
That belong in movies
that would get
or already have gotten
way to popular.
And be better as books.

Some of them can throw me across a room.
Some of them love to count.
some of them seem to only show up around halloween and looove chocolate

Don't get me wrong.
I still love all these terrifyingly
Seductive temptresses.
I have a type.

But I don't know if it's A
Or B
Or O negative?

I'm an optimism ******
Oh, Positive?
I'm not afraid of needles
But they're afraid of me.

I tend to be a universal donor.
Which makes matching blood hard
Blood that works with my body is rare.

This is not to say anyone
could use my blood
Universal donor or not.
I am infected
with a blood disease
It could be vampirism
Or well, whatever causes one to seek
Vampires.

I Can't confirm anything about wooden stakes
Or decapitation or garlic.
But i can assure you setting them on fire doesn't work.

No matter how hot or fiery I make them
Their anger never kills them
It just makes them stronger.
But it does repel them quite nicely.

Life isn't fair.
Sometimes it's taking more than it's giving.
Yell for justice, if you want or
dream of somebody saving you,
of someone giving you happiness
like buying it in a shop as a gift.
Get depressed, stay at home,
get isolated, get even more depressed,
get frustrated, get lost,
counting the chances passing by.

Life isn't complicated.
It's a complex simplicity, not a simple complexity.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you loose,
a simple truth of life,
you never learn in school from your teachers
or at home from your parents
or by listening to your friends
or watching anybody else.
It's something life tells
occasionally.

Life isn't serious.*
It tells you a joke almost every day;
a joke so surprisingely good, you will cry for months
a joke so intensely captivating, you won't be able to laugh
a joke so terrifyingly amusing, you cannot listen to it again
or it will burst your chest in hilariousness.
Laugh about it, loud and crazy,
don't retreat a chance to look,
as life's osbcure and obtrusive faible for grim sarcasm,
is always worth a level-up or two.*

Life is just living.
It's about hanging on, about clinging to it;
There is nothing special to it, no mysteries to be solved,
no desire and no craving, except you go for it.
It's a game you can't refuse without playing it anyway,
so trying to win is as good as loosing by doing nothing.
And when you are not satisfied with the outcome
or you always end up loosing despite your biggest efforts,
you can always change how, why and with who you play
and start anew.

24 is an age of paradox. A type of 'adulthood puberty' full of change, hair in strange places or colors, and a continual battering of unprecedented demands and expectations.

Conversations evolve. Your phone calls with parents and family become more frequent and important than ever before. They also consist of bites "Your mother and I were married at 21" "How are your savings going?" "Taxes are due on Tuesday" Something involving grandchildren rears its head weekly. How you talk to friends changes as well. The college friends no longer talk about hilarious nights at the bars-your conversations center on reminiscing, planning trips to the mountains, and genuine encouragement. Scotch and Gin have replaced well drinks and Evan Williams-thanks be to God. If you are blessed to have good friends from high school and eras prior the conversations are a combination of dreaming about the far future, checking in on aging family, and an underlying theme of ******* about work.

Making new friends is ******* exhausting. You are all lonely, craving to be known deeply. Liz Lemon screams the mantra of 24, "Yes to staying in more! Yes to Netflix and night cheese! Yes to drinking a beer alone!" Even the most extravagant of extroverts start to value solitude. This is not bad. This is a sign of growth. Herein enters the necessity of balance; commit to investing in those around you and to investing in yourself.

Parents told us "You can be the president! Fly to the moon! Cure cancer!" Those time-stamped conversations are over a decade old. We settled for status on campus via greek life, leadership positions, or achieving a 4.0 GPA. Post-grad none of us are president of anything nor have we walked the lunar surface. For most, a 5 digit salary without benefits equates our level of success. Some have babies or marriage bands, some have masters degrees. The awakening of 24 is sharp. After two decades of being promised we will all achieve the best, we walk in a daze of wondering if we have failed. We have not. Yet we feel the weight of failure. There is much ahead.

At 24 we learn that the promise of the "much ahead" is not guaranteed. Death becomes terrifyingly more constant. Friends, grandparents, teachers, even ones younger than us seem to be dying at a more rapid rate. This is new and it is terrifying. It teaches the importance of community, conversations, and creating.

We may not yet, or ever, be president of the USA. But we have lived enough to know what skills we enjoy and what talents we harbor. The importance of using them rings deeper than ever before-it resonates in our bones. The joy of a well prepared dinner, a thirty-minute watercolor creation, or a blog post your three followers may or may not read in its entirety is a joy worth the effort.

At 24, we are in transition. We are beginning to admit certain unalienable truths about this world and ourselves. We are beginning to really become.

Feelings overflowing
Dripping from the cracks in my heart
Coursing through my veins
The excess seeps into my lungs
And I can't breathe

I watch you carefully
Trying desperately to read you
But like a million books in foreign tongue
I cannot follow the lines
Enough to reach a valid conclusion

The distance between us is stiff
My body aches with the tension of this anxiety
And though I avoid eye contact mostly
Sometimes I let myself slip

While it felt so wrong before
I'm learning to love myself
And embrace this capacity
To love multiple people at once
I'm slowly accepting my feelings for you
Swimming alongside my love for her

And here we are
Waiting patiently for what?
We have the perfect chance at something
Anything
And we embrace every minute of it

Every flirty text that makes my heart race
Every tear spawning from our partners' faces
The beautiful distance between us
Without the pressure and rush often associated with love

We sacrifice our energy on loved ones who don't understand
The true extent to which some humans can love
We endure the pain of supporting confused partners
So we can spend that extra time getting ready
To look cute for a simple conversation on my couch

I'm happy this way
Free from the socialized constraints of monogamy
Allowed to feel freely
To love freely

And regardless of where this experience leaves us
I'm going to embrace every opportunity it offers
And though our path is terrifyingly unmarked
I couldn't feel more at peace with it

"you only hug me in airports" was the last thing I heard her say
as she opened her arms
to her eldest daughter
and I was nothing short of amazed
when they walked into each others arms
I saw her close her eyes
if only for a second
drinking the moment through her pores
as if the rest of us were invisible
even to the night
that moment seemed to stretch
to morph
to erase years of pain
and close the gap of months
in a single step

together

I wonder if she heard the screaming in her ears
or the sound of glass breaking
the rain on her face
the night that she slammed the door on that same little girl
now an adult
but still small enough to fit between arms
I'll never know what happened between them
but I imagine it like lightning
hitting their chests in a terrifyingly beautiful fashion
and I was waiting for her daughter
to cry out
"no, you only hug me in airports"
and I'm not sure
if they will ever see each other
again
I wonder if they're happy
or simply

content

I used to eat ice cream on a pretty strict and regular schedule.
The anticipation for those designated nights consumed my naive mind.

Now,
on the nights that used to mean sweet, supple mounds of delicious bliss,
however brief,
I drink Missouri water from a thick, old, dusty glass.
As I tip the last drops into my mouth,
I see a mysterious stain (or is it a clump?) on the bottom.

Fortunately, I think to myself,
whatever that was didn't get into me.

Water runs through.
It cleans out.
It leaves nothing behind but undesireable water spots
in sinks and on windshields
mascara lines tracking down cheeks to squeeze between pushed up *****
and dead worms on the sidewalk,
evicted by the flood of this

life-giving,
breath-taking
rain,
waves,
that drink when your lips are cracking and you feel as if your mouth is filled with cotton,
when you look at a ***** puddle and think,
my GOD am I thirsty.

Ice cream melts in the mouth.
It refreshes in the heat of summer,
it teases the tongue with sugar and milk and so many seductive flavors.
It's best on special occasions,
even though it's desired all the time.
Sometimes it can be bought with the change found on a scavenger hunt in a car,
and other times,

it can't.
But even as the frozen delight slides off your tongue and into your stomach,
your tastebuds tremble at the lack of sweet.
They spite you with a bitterness and a dry, sticky feeling,
and your teeth feel coated with a grime you can't seem to lick off.
You keep wiping at your lips,
for you can't shake off the notion that you got some of the experience on your face.
I'm not even going to mention the calorie content of what you just downed.

And sometimes,
if you're like me,
too much can make you choke.
Your throat and lungs seem to be tucked within a terrifyingly tight Chinese finger,
and each spoonful is a desperate attempt to escape
only to fall farther into a trap I like to call

love.

The way I feel about you terrifies me.
I have never felt this way before and I don't know that I can let myself, that I even want to feel like this. All I know is you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I think I need you in my life more than I want you there.

I have wandered a street.
A long and lonely street.
There were people, of course.
Wanderers too.
But it was still,
just a lonely street.
There was a chill in the air,
and the ever falling mist.
It was dark, lonely, and cold.
The people were just people,
so I was still alone.
I made acquaintances,
many of them,
along the way.
But I never meant much to them.
Nor they to I.
Because they were just people.
They could not understand me.
The could not love me.
And I never understood them either.
And loved only a select few
that I thought were different.
I walked with them.
We walked together.
But we were always different.
Yes, I loved them too much.
Perhaps I still do.
But we always walked different paths.
Except for you.
We crossed paths,
many years ago
when I was discovering myself.
We walked a while,
we talked a while.
I knew you were different,
even then.
Something was between us.
I felt it,
and I knew you did too.
You professed that it was love.
And indeed it was.
For a while afterwards,
we walked together.
But then something happened.
My path diverged.
Or maybe it was yours.
Either way,
we both walked alone.
The road became treacherous.
That dark and lonely road.
I was overcome with loneliness,
soaked to the bone in misery
and heartache.
I was molded in ways
no soul should ever experience.
But I endured.
I learned many valuable lessons.
Most of them the hard way.
I fought my own demons,
again and again and
again.
During this time,
our paths converged several more times.
We walked together again,
for some too brief times.
While our paths were split again,
I tried to survive you
with others.
But in my heart,
I always knew it was futile.
They were never different.
Not the way you are.
They were never..
you.
And I walked on.
On and on.
For what seemed like forever,
down the long and winding road.
I stumbled, I fell,
I hurt, I cried,
until I realized.
It's you.
I need you.
Our paths once again converge.
We are walking together again.
Hand in hand.
Together.
Finally, I accept that we are meant
to walk together, to talk together,
to laugh together, to live together,
to love together,
down this road.
Forever.
And, although my demons still haunt me,
at least I'll never face them alone
again.
And, though my road is still
terrifyingly dark,
at least I walk it with you.
I've found you.
Finally.

You speak too quietly that I forget you are suffering.
You move too silently yet your touch is deafening.
Your gaze burns heatedly, it should be frightening,
yet your touch comes too gently, still terrifyingly captivating.

I reach blindly, caught up in the whole of you, searching.
I grasp tightly, not knowing what I found, yet still wanting.
I am confused. I do not know the depth of your soul, the extent of it.
I cannot comprehend it. Yet I let myself sink slowly.
I am drifting. I am not afraid.

That girl has a beautiful soul
And if you are lucky enough to have her
You **** well better appreciate that about her
...she's my best friend.
Hurt her, and I impale you. :)

Repost if you are fiercely (and occasionally slightly terrifyingly) protective of your best friends
Please comment I love to read interpretations of my work!

“Sanity is not statistical.”- George Orwell

The tour guide elucidates black and white scenery.
Unamused clients grow weary of following blindly…

Beyond the barren trees lies a horizon of dirt.
The patrons’ eyes assume a bedraggled trail
Ostentatiously drawing them into its depths.
Unable to sense the malignity; compliance is inevitable.

The seemingly infinite nave reveals a peculiar door,
Hexagonal in shape, displaying no visible ****.
“This heavily armored door hath been open since
the dawn of pandemonium. Enter if you dare,

my humble insanitorium.”

Their dreams have intruders,
Infiltrated by an obscure entrance
Remote in the fact that even they
Are ignorant to its location.

The intruder takes hold of,
their brains, hearts and blood.
Drives them to brink of insanity
Then leads them back home.

Metamorphosis: their messiahs
Were once smiles and gold
Now they are maggots, cole
And decayed linen for skin.

They are the peaceful violence
That occurs among the leaves
Existing for a short time in beauty.
Than drying up and withering away.

Obscurity is a terrifyingly beautiful renaissance
A peculiarity that rock them to the core.
The ghosts that occupy their souls,
And the cavern that’s missing from them
Experience is theirs to have or to lack. For they
haven’t much time before the dirt takes them back.

An elegant yet dismantled courtyard comes into view.

They.
Know not of the geometrics that seem
To have replaced the techni-colour trees.
Once overgrown in the tainted court-yard
Roots overharvested and interconnected,
A corn stock maze burnt to the ground.

She.
Used the finest twine, sharp and strong.
To tie her soul to the cage that houses her heart.
“Two mad rabbits were dancing by a tree.
Before one vanished down the hole,
I swear he looked right into me.”

They.
Watch in dismay as her chest is scalped.
The unsound artist tugs (she does not protest)
Bones shatter and he eats the remains.
Soft fingers caress the pulsating red ball.
All the women cry as he claws at her soul.

An aghast audience enters the house in
Hopes of a less unsettling spectacle.
A tiny jar sits on a wooden table, curiosity
Causes a member to remove the lid.

“To exist in the subconscious is more terrifying.
The flame’s lick the nimbus and I am calm.
An angry cockroach lodged in my trachea.
The soil is more sinister than it was yesterday.

An abstract design, the lines infinitely overlap.
The drawing continues and I try to unravel,
the circles and squares but I simply cannot.
They are now in my blood, a pentagonal paradise.

It would be lovely to hold my heart in my fist.
Squeeze it until the blood becomes a fourth
Of July spectacular. The circles and squares would
Be emancipated from the charred remains of the jar.”

Prying is never rewarded. The jar goes up in flames.
The great herd is lead to a theatre-like abode.

The tourists snap pictures as they assume their seats,
The Insanitorium’s owner makes a gut-wrenching speech.

“I’m wandering aimlessly through the in-between.
The face-painted crowd watches with open mouths.
As I search for and seek out self-fulfillment.
On the edge of their seats, waiting impatiently,
For my humble home to self destruct.

They gnaw on my self-worth, ripping and tearing
My well-though out decisions into tiny,
Unmanageable quadrants that I cannot repair.
The herd is well aware of what lies along the line.
But I strayed long ago and am of a different time.”

The applause drowns out the sound of the speaker’s screams.

The patrons are lead through a dimly lit hallway,
Another peculiar door materializes, triangular in shape.
The room is a vessel for conscious and unconscious ramblings
Of minds left to rot and decay like rabid corpses.

“Enter respected patrons and feast your eyes upon the truth.”

The first trembling hand finds its way to the door.
A striking man is seated, muttering cloud-cuckoos.
His hands and feet bound to the ancient wooden chair.
The blade hovers above his hard skull threatening to fall.

His brain is dissected; life-long deception is evident
The black cats in his mind are visible to probing eyes.
Sinister felines stretch their brittle bones; it is not
Long before they’re biting and scratching his insides.

Like all apparitions, the vision returns to the dust from which
It was created. It’s true home among the asteroids and
The planets that contain the same star dust that once
Composed flesh and bone. Not Reduced, but reused and recycled.

Before the disappearance is final, he chokes on his last words…

“A pearl that is flung,
From the stars overhung
Will dislocate like a plastic doll.

Alas…

One pearl turns to millions
And a million turns to dust.
The doll’s expression ,
remains stagnant.”

The tourists are angry and appalled at what they have witnessed.

They have not come to the harsh realization,
That in order for a man to see, his eyes
Must be pried open. Stunned into epiphany.
Become aware of the demon residing behind them.

“You are not sane devil woman,
For your tour reveals horrors of many kinds.”

The woman’s mouth contorts and her eyes darken.

“All entities, dear guests, hath been drawn
from your own mad minds.”

Other people see only what I let peek through.
Small bits,
The false bottom
Tidying the Dark.
I risk too much in showing.

Yet, somehow,
Despite my efforts,
You startle me.
Glimpsing, somehow, by sheer luck or will or oneness,
That which has never been seen before.

Amazingly,
Miraculously,
Terrifyingly,
You don't look away in horror or shame.

And I begin to unfold.

And you with giant scissors ceremoniously releasing me from myself.

Last night
Holding me tight
He whispered
“You want to keep me?”
Yes, always.
“I guess I’d better get you a ring.”
I smile
Trying to hide what I’m thinking.
That this is terrifyingly exciting.

Pieces of me
F  l  o  a  t  i  n  g

S
     i
          n
               k
                    i
                         n
                              g

Hiding below the surface

Keeping them submerged takes effort
Drains energy
Makes the pieces feel like a secret
                                       wrong
                                       shameful

What if
I lose them
Buried deep

Out of sight
Out of mind
Never to be seen again

The fear seems foolish sometimes
                                                       ­       but terrifyingly real

To be always incomplete
Never able
To put the pieces back together

What if my self didn’t need to fragment
For others’ comfort
Their easy understanding
And acceptance

Wholeness is hard to imagine
Especially for the pieces that started to s
                                                               ­       u
                                                        ­                b
                                               ­                          m
                                                               ­           e
                                                    ­                       r
                                                               ­             g
                                                  ­                           e
                                                               ­                  before memory began

What a wonderful dream though
To always have access to all of your parts and pieces
To in fact not have pieces

To just be

One person
                         
Complete
                                         ­   
And whole