"transmuted" poems
Unchangeable is the love within our souls
Dreaming of soft timelessness
Perceived in fadeless hues of red and gold
Transmuted from molded clay
Imperfect, yet still beheld
As flawless
White shadows of a misted lace attention holds
An honesty in its purest form
Washed in fadeless hues of red and gold
Unchangeable is the love within
Completed souls
As timelessness transforms
Until now, our feet have trod a different path
Yet seeking still the same
Imperfection, with an honest aftermath
Time has taken wing in fadeless hues of red and gold
Imperfection beheld as flawless
Is the element it became
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
I tromped across North America a few years back
Following the Mayan Elders
Listening to the powerful Lakota Brothers sing songs of mourning and joy
Building community
I was following a White Cherokee
We created clan
I was motivated by the teachings of the Anishinaabe
And represented Thunderbird Clan
We stopped in sacred spaces such as Serpent's Mound
And Cahokia Mounds
We peered briefly through the veil; Samhain
I followed the red path and eventually found I had always been on it
I met Hopi and Navajo elder's
And my friend Sea, a pipe carrier brewed a special tea
I was gifted tobacco that had been grown from seeds
Recovered from an iceman's medicine bag
She transmuted the ancient tobacco into a tea
By folding it into a sweetgrass and cedar brew
Sea gave it to me in a basic stainless steel carafe
Every time we drained the carafe
I refilled it and the essence was just as powerful as the previous brew
When I finally caught up with the Lakota brother's in Sedona
Their voices were raw
We all were
I shared the tea with them
So much magic on that journey
The joy on those brothers faces as the tea reached their throats
I gave them the carafe and told them
It was the gift that keeps on giving
Their thankfulness has been the gift that keeps on giving
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
I will tell you what he told me
in the years just after the war
as we then called
the second world war
don't lose your arrogance yet he said
you can do that when you're older
lose it too soon and you may
merely replace it with vanity
just one time he suggested
changing the usual order
of the same words in a line of verse
why point out a thing twice
he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally
it was in the days before the beard
and the drink but he was deep
in tides of his own through which he sailed
chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop
he was far older than the dates allowed for
much older than I was he was in his thirties
he snapped down his nose with an accent
I think he had affected in England
as for publishing he advised me
to paper my wall with rejection slips
his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled
with the vehemence of his views about poetry
he said the great presence
that permitted everything and transmuted it
in poetry was passion
passion was genius and he praised movement and invention
I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't
you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write
4.7k
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, ******* mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
May 1996
4.6k
Mesons, quarks, neutrinos, too
Drawn inexorably
Into eternity
To a finite point
Called singularity;
Rushing, streaming
Toward one juncture,
To a destination
With unknown structure.
Swirling, speeding
Into the abyss,
Reason, logic
Cease to exist.
Space and time
Merge in disarray,
Matter altered too,
No night, no day.
Warped, transmuted
Realities,
Become twisted, melded
Finalities.
Inconceivable dimensions
Reign supreme,
Nature’s laws violated
To extreme.
Crossing the event horizon,
No turning back,
Into the precipice,
Down a void of black;
Facing the vortex,
Light gasps in disbelief,
A terminal journey starts
Without relief.
Stars and galaxies
Give a sigh
As they spiral in
And begin to die.
One day we too
Will meet this fate;
The only questions are
The place and date.
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 8:10 PM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.
i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.
by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink
.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
love is a
state of mind
an emotion
sometimes ephemeral
sometimes steadfast
its source
an archetype
formless
it is not a relationship
although it may exist
in a relationship
or only
in a moment
like a spark in the dark
it is a function of imagination
as is empathy
it is magical thinking
*** may be an instrument of love
or a powerful healing balm
in and of it self
a profound therapy
and seen as an act of
divine grace
the ancients knew this
but unlike them
we have taken
sacred prostitutes
from ancient temples
vessels of the
goddess eroticism
Astarte of the Canaanites
Áine of the Celts
Min of the Egyptians
Aphrodite of the Greeks
Kama of the Hindus
Inanna of the Mesopotamians
and transformed them into demons
by subjugation to the depths of our subconscious
the archetypal female was replaced
by the neutered holy ghost
the patriarchal symbolic genital mutilation of women
a gift of horrors by Romes Council of Nicea
crippling values written in stone
frigidity guilts child
an abysmal morality
a theft by
kleptomaniacs of freedoms desire
for two millennium
vessels of the goddess
have been transmuted into a profanity
inflicting
a cold homicide on
****** freedom
forcing the abandonment
of a most essential constituent of sanity
the miraculous repair and revitalization
of the soul
through passions physical touch
sensual love
and the release of pent up desire
and left in its place
a harness of deprivation
an expression of a regressive culture
that promotes
a barren terrain
between
emotional ****** insecurity
and the monotony of monogamy
I am a voice of Thelema for the coming Aeon of Horus
LOVE IS ALL LOVE UNDER WILL
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and ***** dishes,
something happens.
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
or candelabras
(silver)
waiting to be caught, just as long
as you
don't
get
down
to
work.
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
back
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such words from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
'literature has a way of owning you'--
(the author said, after the book-signing;
and taking me behind the shelves, showed me
what possession meant, riptide trough and swell)
---much as the sea lays claim to one adrift,
to drown or hold aloft, then pin to bed,
displacing breath; choke...release...toss free, choke;
lungs drenched: retching silt, pelagic darkness
spotted with the faint transmuted sun.
whether full to glint a myriad in sky,
or blind to evanesce in foam and spray...
an atlantean crush of symbols: lost--
my inner mythic fades to distant waves
revising how i write of self, sunk
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
1)
this part sparkles -- like your smile
which sparks a grin in me
to heat the heart and ribbed
adore
the laughter waiting in the covers
from our wink and whisper
beds of personalities
spring and comfort, stain and dust
but love, sweet love to swoon away
and lust the anchorage of speaking
as we do each tone and syllable
a light, touch, tinge to waken flames
and dancing light
familiar of my origins
a conjured shape in what you single out
each focus frame of sentence what
to what we ought to do
what sunday shall we both approve?
in sync we dialogue
in mood of dire wrack of blah
in boon of happy overflow
our musing 'tra la la'
ideas, toys to turn and pirouette
or taunt the sun to match our beaming fun
2)
this part sparkles too,
but gives itself to me
so i might quench the burning
brightly lighting sultry flesh
i gaze, and overyearn
to tumble in the sheets
that billow layers--layer-winds of time
you tug and pull i toss and tear away
to open bare the inward soft
that peach-like drips from chin
in breathless constantly
voracious tonguing whim
an asterisk for starburst flick delight
salts deeply into savor sweet
the loin-surge powers me in your embrace
to deep, deep clenching ahh
our skin undone as with a solar flare
across the earth a flood of radiating us
lips and bones
coalescent sense
no match for 'bliss'
or moan moan moan
unending veins traverse to toetip axon
ancient crown of hugs from two to one
3)
this part Is the whole
unknown we meet again
again, again from words
to trusting vasts poetic patience
chance to sound the voice of
yearning manifest from tips to core
and back again we plan on more
in hoping wonder possibles revised
the real of you too natural
to rebuke the care beyond
the searching for
to inhale sight of being there
to step from cab
and offer kindness
mystery of universe
transmuted into meeting once,
twice, every moment new
you bring an often baffling array
of sublime other than i knew
you reinvent me too
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
944
I learned—at least—what Home could be—
How ignorant I had been
Of pretty ways of Covenant—
How awkward at the Hymn
Round our new Fireside—but for this—
This pattern—of the Way—
Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip
Of a Celestial Sea—
What Mornings in our Garden—guessed—
What Bees—for us—to hum—
With only Birds to interrupt
The Ripple of our Theme—
And Task for Both—
When Play be done—
Your Problem—of the Brain—
And mine—some foolisher effect—
A Ruffle—or a Tune—
The Afternoons—Together spent—
And Twilight—in the Lanes—
Some ministry to poorer lives—
Seen poorest—thro’ our gains—
And then Return—and Night—and Home—
And then away to You to pass—
A new—diviner—care—
Till Sunrise take us back to Scene—
Transmuted—Vivider—
This seems a Home—
And Home is not—
But what that Place could be—
Afflicts me—as a Setting Sun—
Where Dawn—knows how to be—
1.3k
Someone must stop for a girl who has lost hope.
Someone must care when everyone else flees.
Someone should administer soothing remedies.
Full restoration of euphoric laughter.
This world owes you joy whether you accept it or not.
Someone.
Someone care for those swept aside, like yesterdays chaff.
Someone may reach down into the bleak, and oull you free.
With restoration in his eyes.
Someone aches for every tear shed, each child's cry.
Someone wonders what must be done
to put a lasting smile on your face.
For very specific reasons
Pain can be transmuted to rest.
We are the effects.
Take a piece of my soul's slow rebirth.
Delivered by your actions.
I ponder the unknowable
Yet they will not ask me
Why I smile so.
I would gift to you the secret,
but its stapled to a tombstone
that burned up in the fire.
I can see the true goodness in your eyes.
Yes. I am not blind or stupid!
Ignore all the fools who define beauty as skin
I see the haunted majesty within
Heroes come and go
Healers lie
But you must believe these words.
Your dreams are intact, they have only been shredded in make believe.
Learn from the world how to live.
Nightmares like that must be disguarded, and turned into fulfillment
Someone cares for you
Do not lose faith
Run not from this world.
This world is the only one we have got.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
Sisyphus compelled to roll his boulder,
the poet who attempts to reconcile
what he knows with what he feels,
sensing even in compulsion
his stony effort no match for gravity.
Knowledge transmuted into feeling,
feelings obverted to some new knowledge,
a seismic process that rolls in waves,
peaks of insight, troughs of mental block,
all to foist a new perception upon the world,
squeeze perspective from the driest fruits.
What devilish irony to be admired,
for verse most often misunderstood,
philosopher and virtuoso to a tone-deaf audience.
Camus concluded Sisyphus
was happy with his lot in life,
but a poet continues to paint strange landscapes,
never content with color schemes,
ever niggling for that undiscovered pastel.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
A form of alchemy
By which
Emotional pain
Is transmuted
Into verbal pleasure.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Well, you'll pobablly be in another womans arms in the years to come
but that doesnt faze this thing
welling
that runs through the tunnels and the funnels of this heart
my love
because it gives me conviction when you are weak
it gives you the loving that you seek
and yours
like chemistry
it gives me the wish fullfillment, the dream I'd always wanted to meet
you are my sorrows dry
the tear drops from tears
separated from thier highest fate
transmuted from young coal to old gold
you bring something with you
with that pride welled up in your heart
ike a wise kind serpant
that only seeks to help
only seeks to pleasre it self
to helping me
and those who are comming
you have the ancients in those eyes
considerable, and powerful
they recognize the same power inside
me
I didnt need your acknowledgment for it to be here
but without it
I wouldnt be here
it would die whith te last morsels of my heart
to a kindly but devious part
Ive been called from the old story books, then
when the gods were our best of friends
but now I am here
in a world that is no longered catered to
because of fear
the children are blind and weak
and recognition, friendship wa all that I really ever seeked
with shoulder bones of gold
you reached into me
and saw something old
saw something untouched by the hardships that has the power to turn something beautiful
decreppid and old
not that Ib havet
havent felt the shiver of the cold
by my own small fraction of foolishness
because I listened to what this life had shown
but all the while I thought of you
even while others ran me through
this same kindness isnt wasted on you
it gives me great pleasure to do
all of this for you
because you dont look down on me
yu see yoursef in my glee
and I see a young god
with a youthful nourished body from the glitters its mind contains
like a wise stag, you've lived your ife as not to shame
the wisdoms and truth carried in your name
you make love to me
my wounds you clearly see
My lovliness dare not loosen themselves from me
my spirit is wise
and its beauty
its heart
its demise
but I am safe with you making love from behind my thighs
I am recognized for the creature I really am
not the kind to still be walking the land
but with your face in mine
my eyes flicker with a hope, completely consolidated
by your firm touch
your firm kiss
upon my soft halo
we are
the same creature
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
I have had too many instances in my life where people have tried to take my voice from me and take my choice from me countless times .. I wasn’t able to fight back all this years ago when I got jumped in that bathroom and I wasn’t able to say no when I was under the influence coerced into what to this day most would call **** I should be stronger I should be saying **** everyone I should scream I’m at my breaking point…& my wits end with so many different emotions left to fend .. I’m a good person but I’m afraid I’m gonna go OJ Simpson once I’ve reached my limit . I’m tired of taking other peoples **** I’m tired of being too nice, some **** is really unacceptable, unnecessary and unforgivable. Who cares what other people think or feel when they have hurt me too? I’m tired of feeling for others when I should be worried about me . I’ve unpacked and healed so many traumas but there is a pattern that I’m attracting that needs to cease.. I’m scared of my true anger deep down cuz it can get crazy if it isn’t transmuted correctly but I got this. I know this , I need to express myself and have no regrets. Some people don’t think but surely I do . Surely I’m two steps ahead and above them at their ******** games but why do they choose to play games? This is real life not a movie .. they’re insane and I’m done blaming myself for other peoples projections they need to work on themselves. Shadow work at its finest. my ancestors and spirit guides always are gonna look out for me I’m a goddess not a Harlot so above all people should watch what they say or do to me. God gonna spin the block for me✝️
Jan 19, 2022
Jan 19, 2022 at 11:20 AM UTC
all electric light and LED
but i cant find what i need
which is a candle
not a candle in the coup
full cold moonlight oracle
full eclipse crush coming on
oil seeps out of the pores
memories of excorcising the demon from last night
expelling the old self
the devoured and eaten sun god
has been digested and transmuted
into right now juice
decimilate
falsified statues of US
singularity
invoking the founding fathers in Pennsylvania wilderness with a pen and paper and where the hell is the candle?
we have not walked down these roads before.
parents are not pieces of furniture
and after all the fear we found that we have been behaving ourselves after all
the call of surrender
the cough in the morning
the call of the animal
i
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
GOLD AND BLOOD
Mantis eyes magnetised her sister’s heart
felt its imprisoned glint of gold
willed it to enlarge into a
lotus leaf upon a sea
It floats on a lake of blood before
dawn turning hot burning blue
heat of her own blood
gold of her own heat
‘Let her not drown in
bloodied gold of red
running thick and deep’
So she murmured, so they did
To a shore of soft sand
Heart sailed escorted by
obsidian lidded dragons
gloomy gold unshackling
Guts, throat, tongue
puddle, pond, lake of
blood transmuted to turquoise
gold and blood morphing
Cupids created decoupage dishes
with bloodied dollars gold
called for another stint
to alchemise pentacles cold
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2018
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 11:36 PM UTC
The invisible man watching as you
Produce, consume, intake all of this vice
The lies, mind boggling stories untrue
But boring, these things are life's spice
Why, the man must ask, unseen and ignored
Why does life need stimulations as these
To them, to thee, transmuted water poured
Allowing the moment and time to freeze
Bitter, angst and oppression of rights wrong
Sweet, the tantalizing succor of thee
By the time the evil shown in the throng
It's too late, of your freedom you be free
A joy, a friend that's all but it seems
Is a silent ****** of all your dreams
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
He was an alchemist of the night,
for he transmuted my darkness into light
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 9:27 PM UTC
Peacock summer (yolk & barnyard coffee shop for strawman Sal)
cactus palace, alps figured in stonework train terminal/Dylan hollering (I am the vessel for the ghost of me)
transmuted nostalgia, blank graffiti gaze/the alchemic architecture of skyscrapers replacing skyscrapers (an image made more blinding, the child raised to be dissociative & intolerant. I miss the oaken texture of your voice)
bulbous glass humidity, I am poet/poet build word house/in surrealistic wood/fireplace made of naive rainbow and the bones of a whole universe (Sun paints its terror on the back of my neck while I sit here watching a Supermodel with a 3 thousand dollar paisley pattern olive dress walk outside towards Gastown, her rings are worth more than a boreal dream)
Japanese weddings in Elizabethan gardens/grey Fenrir cloud-beast approaches with its faint dew/kites strewn between the Willow trees/Canyon instrument drum/ponderer creates masks of flowers/she sinks into the soggy earth/her primal home (I value those who are humble and beautifully so)
the more poems I read, the more mosaic my soul becomes like world-tree (roots collecting together, vibrant stems of skeletons & Springtime goliath)
do not fret the newspaper will never stop screaming, your cigarettes will never run dry, the ***** platform will never stop bathing itself in the city,
God, to answer your question
yes I am still godless
& yes I am happy
growing thin in the phantom pull of your vastness
(to essence of Lavender)
the sea its
own travelling
fortress
invulnerable
to time
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
Sometimes I talk to you the best when you're nowhere around. Like there are things I can't address with an audible sound or an eloquent progression of adjectives and nouns when I feel the weight of eyes running across my face.
It's just the space in which I reside, communication commits suicide and I'll slide out something sly or a bad joke and try my best to let it go, because I know you don't hold it against me.
It's not that you make me nervous, I just render myself wordless. My vocal chords are worthless when the sensations are so heavy. Concepts seem obscure and on the tip of my tongue, but too scared to take the plunge. They turn back and run and my silence seems dumb, distant or despondent.
Sometimes I have too much to say, so I'll stutter to articulate a notion that would take me all day to actually feel like what I wanted to convey was done justice, or worse, I'll reflectively reiterate and ramble redundancies, rearranging rhetorical rumblings, remorsefully reaching to recite a redeeming rendering, like an OCD patient switching her light on and off endlessly because it didn't "feel" the way it should have in her mind the first time, the tenth time, the hundredth...
Though when I'm alone, it's a completely different scenario. Someday I hope you hear me speaking through the speakers of your stereo, and my words will flow and show concise precision of a vision with intention and you'll know, I sat there for hours to bring you that message.
I'm either speechless or I bleed an abstract sequence, the in-between is when I sing to apparitions or rewrite things I've written just to interpret my own cognition. There are no translators or subtitles for my kind, whose vanquished language is transmuted into music, tunes, or incoherently scribbled lines. Though I guess I should confess, sometimes I feel like you decode me nonetheless. I'm blessed to have a friend that knows the truth about my essence, beyond flesh, beyond silence, beyond expression. It's not like my thoughts are oh-so-profound or some ground-shaking revelation too complex to pronounce. But it's something about myself that I've found. I speak to people best when they're nowhere around.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
Fates transmuted
Beguiled by the labium
of disaster; as it emanates
fallacies of mirth;
a vagary unattainable
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC