Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.

Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
  
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
  
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
                      
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.
Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner

sometimes I stop at you
and look
with eyes of grateful wonder
your spirit still all shiny
yet you are still here with me

yes  some things aggravate
but why should they, if unsurprising?
they shouldn't really get to me
it's  your different way of singing

well-seasoned are my campaigns
i've loved and lost a few
i come with all my baggage
to be here with you

i think that I am blessed
and live by this adage
happy with a playful angel
not being unaccompanied baggage

I've got a bottle of Fireball.
I've got a bottle of Whipped.
I've got a 12 pack.
I've got three ***** calls on speed dial.
I've got a dealer three floors up.
All my vices.
Everything I could need.

But right now it's dark.
It's so incredibly dark.
It's empty and it's lonely.

So if I used that Fireball,
that Whipped,
that 12 pack,
a *******,
or a blunt from the dealer three floors up,

It could all end.
It could get even more dark.
Even more lonely.
If that is even possible.
Once I go there's no coming back.

All I need is a friend.
I thought I had plenty.
It turns out that I was so wrong.
I'm a convenience.
There when they need me,
but any other time I don't exist.
Not really.

I wish I could say they don't know,
how bad it is.
How bad I am.
But they do.
They're choosing to ignore it.
So are they really friends?
What a simple question with such a haunting answer.

It's taking all my strength.
Everything I have in me.
Not to reach for a bottle.
Not to make an easy phone call.
Not to light up that blunt.
It's taking everything I have to stay here.

When all I want to do,
is reach for that bottle.

When can I be alone?
When am I really by myself?

Even the term 'by myself' implies that you are 'by' something,
With yourself.

Like the self is something external to you.
Someone you can sit next to.

I want to be truly alone, without myself.
I want the wind to brush past unfollowed by thought or recognition.
I want no one to know where I am, even me.

I need to be without myself,
Far away from myself.
I'm just so relentlessly 'there'.

As a young girl,I was taught that I shouldn't hate boys,I shouldn't fight back to them regardless of what they did to me because it wasn't ladylike,they probably only did it because they liked me and boys will be boys,right? I tried to remind myself that when in fourth grade,I went home with cuts and bruises because a boy was ****** that I did better than him on our English test and he wanted to get even with me.I didn't fight back because as my teacher had always said,"that's just how it is,honey,boys will be boys".It was one of the two things that she had said to me that never left my mind,along with the reminder of how a real boy and a real girl can be distinguished from the "others".
I was twelve when I was molested repeatedly but I didn't do or say a thing except try to get out of this *****,wretched skin because it was probably my own fault, I shouldn't have such precocious ******* at an early age.
Ha!What was I thinking?Going through puberty like that,looking all sexualized when I know that grown men cannot control their urges.
Stupid little girl, how could she forget that boys will be boys?
I was thirteen, when I was told about the "proper" way to dress and act because I might provoke the boys and they could be ruined for life.
I was fourteen when I was first told what my hips,my thighs,my legs,my bottoms and my chest should be like,in the way that most boys like.
Because the only way I'll ever validate my existence is when a boy takes me as his and to do that I should be what most boys like:
not too tall,not too short,not too skinny but also not fat,witty,funny and smart but I also need to know when to shut the hell up.
And I can't change that because it's the unspoken rule in our world,and no,I can't try to convince the boys either (my ability to know when to shut up is put to use here,because it doesn't matter if you're the oppressed, you need to shut the hell up and grovel before the patriarchy just like everyone else) because that's just the way they are and boys will be boys.
I was fifteen when I witnessed the torture that some of my guy friends experienced because they acted like "girls",as if my gender is an insult, as if being a girl automatically makes you weak and helpless.(Since when did being supposedly invincible and not crying made a boy a real man?I don't think that's what real masculinity is about.Does being a real man or woman come with corresponding terms and conditions?)
It was only a few months ago when a ****** walked free despite destroying the life of a college girl.He did not get convicted because she was reportedly drunk and he was a boy and boys will be boys. (So, who will take the blame?the alcohol or the girl?were they the ones who forced themselves on someone against that someone's will?)
This case took me back to a decade ago when one of my best friends was sexually abused by an older man but nobody helped him, they told him to just toughen up, **** isn't real for him because he was a boy and boys will be boys.
And I wonder,when will these monsters finally be convicted for their crimes?
When will the guilty boys be held accountable for their actions?
When will the pain of other boys finally be considered valid,when will being of the *** that they are stop making them "not really victims"?
When will one's gender stop being an excuse or in some cases—serve as a derogatory name?
When will the screams,cries and pleas of women abused and victimized everywhere be loud enough for you?
Loud enough so that you might actually feel their agony creep in your bones,consume your whole being that all you'd want to do is crawl out of your skin,loud enough so that you might actually begin to understand how it feels like to be us,objectified and dehumanized,loud enough so that you might actually hear the pleas of boys and other men everywhere,asking to be freed from gender roles that limits their ability to exist beyond labels or to feel pain.
I wonder just when will you stop using my gender as an insult,just when will you stop telling the world how a real man or woman should be?
Please do tell because the little faith in humanity that still resides in us is slowly fading.
From where I see it,I feel as if there's no hope.
There will be no hope as long you all remain slaves to bigotry and the patriarchy.
I guess,there's no hope for your mothers,daughters,even other boys and young girls like me as of this time.
And maybe,when another rabid man decides that he wants as his meal for the day,like I am meat,like I am something to be consumed and spent,I would just have to accept my fate.
Maybe,as my lifeless and ravished body lies motionless in an alley somewhere, you would be shaking your head, condemning the girl who was stupid enough to walk alone at night,unaccompanied,the girl who was "asking for it" because she wore "revealing"clothes,the girl who probably got what was coming for her because she didn't know when to shut her mouth,the girl who thought she could exist the way she wanted when she knew full well that there are rules,stigmas and that boys will be boys.
-W.L.A.C

Cinema queue

two by two

Noah’s ark

fumbles in dark

I’m alone

small cone

whispering seats

touching feet

living a whim

2 hours escapism

don’t need a ‘him’

Comfortable in my skin

happiness and peace within

not a shut-down ******

just always on the go

excellent company

film, icecream, me

Motet: an unaccompanied choral composition with sacred lyrics; originated in the 13th century.  Suggestion: look up on YouTube, the Hilliard Ensemble.*  Jewish tradition says that there are 36 righteous souls on Earth, whom for their sake, God preserves the planet and its inhabitants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Motet II

August 2013

Last night,
I lay with God,
Again.

We made love inimitable,
As if it were the first time.
The music of purity, voices ensemble,
The only commonality.

Afterwards, heaving, sweaty, in bed,
He reminded me that I had already
Written of the motet, long ago,
But permission granted to
Love it, write of it, once more,
As I He, and He, me...

Because after-all, the motet prayers belong to Him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Motet

Nov. 2010

Ce soir, I am prepared, My Love,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen.

The motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.
Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

These voices doth
wrack my fibers,
seethe and contract,
my internal power plant
implodes, heart attack.

Glorious generations of singers,
O woven voices that harmonize,
your motet is
umbilical to my lyrical,  
calming chemical reaction,
I am servant and
you are my server,
uplift, calm and provoke me.

Sing out loud God's
ephemeral, unpronounceable name,
cover me with the fame
of His naturity,
love me with divine kisses,
release unto and within me
the essential oils,
oils by which we breathe,
ancestorally transfused,
oils once called the
blood of the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my past harmonies of poesy,
you shared, lost or just deleted,
tribute unto tribulations human:

I recorded, ven diagrammed,
sorrowed tales of souls waylaid,
debts foreclosed, dues unpaid,
tales of non-fictional agonistes,
suffering a tutti frutti of sarcastic
Earthly  Delights.

Wrote writs re some poor souls,
Prado preserved,
by threading and dying,
on a cloistered tapestry
woven by Adonai worshipers.

With those selfsame oils,
they painted anticipated memories of
Heaven and Hell,
the ones of which I write,
far too oft.

But this night,
In my customary hour
when inspiration is my only tongue,
in the lean hours after midnight,
afore dawn's orangerie of
morning skyed break fast,
I am risen, nourished and
uplifted by the motet's synthesis,
by what I hope to see,
by what I wish to hear.

For I watch,
porched and perched on rooftop,
in the company of
urban spelunkers and debunkers,
all of us desperados,
differing reasons for despair,
yet together,
a human minion-minyan of ten,
we search Jerusalem,
from the Battery to the Cloisters
for glimpses, hints of human angels,
the thirty six^
ministering to the
homeless and dreamless,
to us all.*

Ce soir, I am prepared,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen,
the motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.

Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

Reveal, reveal to me the identity
of your ministering angels!

As the thirty six preserve me,
motet me on eagle's wings, and
return us to you Lord,
that we may be returned.

Renew our days,
as they were before,
when the motet
was bright, organic,
in each of us.






----------------------------------------
^www.neveh.org­/winston/wonder36/36-08.html

i.

I thought of the former second's
Hours, day's night's;
How unaccompanied and lonesome I felt.

ii.

I remembered, even whilst being with former
Others, how I kneweth mine heart and soul for them wasn't meant; as mine prayer's to god was sent, the pain I dealt.

iii.

As tis the time was uneasy for me, knowing I couldst be in the crowd, with none to truly loveth me as I them, mine soul screaming loud; lord where is thine angel thou hath prepared?

iv.

As tis I thought last evening, through all mine sorrow's, pain's, and dreaming's. God, mine father heard me, as I wept, and slept;
How he waited for me to go through mine trial's and tribulations.

v.

As after going through prison, through cell's, through false dealer's, in real hell. I, remembered last eve', god doth not do thing's in or on mine time; the creator doth thing's in his span.

vi.

Not according to the way's nor law's of men, but to him, as whilst I layeth down happily looking at mine queen through this faraway screen, I hadst the thought, God gaveth me the answer to what I've prayed for a long whilst; he gaveth me jane, for mine health.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)

Pale-faced and stiff,
he stood...
Unmoving - frozen in time.

His chest no longer heaved,
his limbs dangled dead.
His painted lips were parted
with no spoken words.

We have before seen him breathe.
We have before noticed his wordless actions.
We have before heard his song.

And this is his end -
A space
unaccompanied by his usual
careful and subtle gestures.

He bore no voice now as he did then.
But his story was told loud
through the lyrics and music
of a hauntingly, mournful song...

Showcasing the lone relatable teardrop
that never dries.

Ever feel lonely ? Unwanted ?
A world full of millions of face & yet still you only see yourself.
Fighting, crying, hoping & praying things will get better, but nothing ever does...
Ever been abused ? No I don't only mean pyshically. Meantally, emotionally, verbally too.
Someone making you feel like one tiny little grain of sand in such a big beautiful ocean.
But yet still you're afraid, you don't wanna admit, let alone believe that you can be this lonely..

Generous coasting of the west coast
leaves me tangled in roots from roads
intersecting with waves surfed by
long blond-haired beach bums and
babes who pant at a muscular man
that pushups on the boardwalk
next to towels drying on the
handlebars of my bicycle.

I ride and ride and ride
through weather thought to be
unrideable by most cyclists
even if million-dollar-prize
tempted them at the finish line
and a set-for-life sponsorship
was promised to any and all
who could fight through the storms
of what I stoically battle.

No gear or goggles,
just legs of toned steel from
nights spent heating them over
a log-lit fireplace on spit
while keeping intense conversation
with lover across my gaze
until she escapes unexpectedly
into dreams, unaccompanied by me.

My legs are on fire,
no rain can extinguish them
and no slick roads
will stop my going.

This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
 
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
 
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
 
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
 
‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her.’
 
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
 
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
 
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song *sans pariel.

CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Then wave your hand, to signify as much.

ALCMAEON: I journeyed hither a Boetian road.
CHORUS: Sailing on horseback, or with feet for oars?
ALCMAEON: Plying with speed my partnership of legs.
CHORUS: Beneath a shining or a rainy Zeus?
ALCMAEON: Mud's sister, not himself, adorns my shoes.
CHORUS: To learn your name would not displease me much.
ALCMAEON: Not all that men desire do they obtain.
CHORUS: Might I then hear at what thy presence shoots.
ALCMAEON: A shepherd's questioned mouth informed me that--
CHORUS: What? for I know not yet what you will say.
ALCMAEON: Nor will you ever, if you interrupt.
CHORUS: Proceed, and I will hold my speechless tongue.
ALCMAEON: This house was Eriphyle's, no one else's.
CHORUS: Nor did he shame his throat with shameful lies.
ALCMAEON: May I then enter, passing through the door?
CHORUS: Go chase into the house a lucky foot.
And, O my son, be, on the one hand, good,
And do not, on the other hand, be bad;
For that is much the safest plan.
ALCMAEON: I go into the house with heels and speed.

CHORUS

Strophe

In speculation
I would not willingly acquire a name
For ill-digested thought;
But after pondering much
To this conclusion I at last have come:
LIFE IS UNCERTAIN.
This truth I have written deep
In my reflective midriff
On tablets not of wax,
Nor with a pen did I inscribe it there,
For many reasons: LIFE, I say, IS NOT
A STRANGER TO UNCERTAINTY.
Not from the flight of omen-yelling fowls
This fact did I discover,
Nor did the Delphine tripod bark it out,
Nor yet Dodona.
Its native ingunuity sufficed
My self-taught diaphragm.

Antistrophe

Why should I mention
The Inachean daughter, loved of Zeus?
Her whom of old the gods,
More provident than kind,
Provided with four hoofs, two horns, one tail,
A gift not asked for,
And sent her forth to learn
The unfamiliar science
Of how to chew the cud.
She therefore, all about the Argive fields,
Went cropping pale green grass and nettle-tops,
Nor did they disagree with her.
But yet, howe'er nutritious, such repasts
I do not hanker after:
Never may Cypris for her seat select
My dappled liver!
Why should I mention Io? Why indeed?
I have no notion why.

Epode

But now does my boding heart,
Unhired, unaccompanied, sing
A strain not meet for the dance.
Yes even the palace appears
To my yoke of circular eyes
(The right, nor omit I the left)
Like a slaughterhouse, so to speak,
Garnished with woolly deaths
And many sphipwrecks of cows.
I therefore in a Cissian strain lament:
And to the rapid
Loud, linen-tattering thumps upon my chest
Resounds in concert
The battering of my unlucky head.

ERIPHYLE (within): O, I am smitten with a hatchet's jaw;
And that in deed and not in word alone.
CHORUS: I thought I heard a sound within the house
Unlike the voice of one that jumps for joy.
ERIPHYLE: He splits my skull, not in a friendly way,
Once more: he purposes to **** me dead.
CHORUS: I would not be reputed rash, but yet
I doubt if all be gay within the house.
ERIPHYLE: O! O! another stroke! that makes the third.
He stabs me to the heart against my wish.
CHORUS: If that be so, thy state of health is poor;
But thine arithmetic is quite correct.

The memory of her sits on a balcony ledge, cigarette in hand.
My green light at the end of a dock.
And this time I am reaching out
like many before,
in pages and poems past.
Macbeth’s face is a book.
Her body is an atlas
tracing a beautiful continent.

Follow the long tributaries that lead to shallow deltas.
This shore begins softly and forms into slender feet,
quiet but powerful when outstretched an angler waiting for prey.
Odysseus, only, can hear this Siren play.  

Follow her legs, those tawny plains,
unbroken, guiding along welcomingly,
inviting curiosity and conscripting imagination.
An oasis.
And her torso is a valley from which
her laughter is ****** upward and resisted until uncontainable.
Dimples break and burst like earthquakes.  
A ridgeline is all that awaits until we see her face.
She is the Americas from bottom to top.

Follow her decorated canyon mouth
but know it is merely a diversion.  
Her eyes are icebergs, which shyly reveal themselves
to sink ships and drown lovers, for always.
Her hair is aurora borealis,
the northern lights,
dancing colorfully
to an unaccompanied waltz
heard by everyone but her.

As the memory of her sits the smoke billows around
like clouds traveling down a coastline
only to dissipate
and disappear.

All these feelings in my head
Swirling circling thread by thread

Every memory every sway
Fragmented fermenting as I lay

Drunken thoughts leave me buzzed
Don't know why I'm making such a fuss

Round and round like a merry go round
Not sure if I'm lost or found

Off in the night my mind wanders
Not sure if I'll ever find her

The nights at its end
I'm still laying in my bed

After such a high I've made a discovery
I found a new sleep a plane unaccompanied

The sun at its edge
Rays rise as if pledged

My worries are at an end
Another sleepless night in my bed

She came out of nowhere
this crazy demonic ****
She hung on like an orang-utan on a Catherine wheel
her brain was wired like a **** on a washing machine
I took the death plummet
unaccompanied but loved

I sat under my dining table
Of eight chairs and forty eight columns,
It felt like a house with
Windows, dust and unwanted curly locks.
Sitting cross-legged on the white floor
Reflecting my clothes, body and words
I pulled my nails, sang little rhymes
And hit the chair legs with my little thumb.
Guests came, gossiped, recited tales
Gulped tea and left with more stories,
Some returned, others did not.
I sat under my dining table, awaiting
Plates, conversations and fuming-
Black tea. It did come occasionally
With my mother, father and few strangers.
There were books, umbrellas, newspapers
And sometimes samples of medicines,
They sat like Victorian women in long gowns
Who did not speak even after a tempest.
I sat there morning, noon and evening
Unaccompanied singing little rhymes.

Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.

Dear Beloved*  Annabeth                                         ­                               14-07-1889

I remember the day thee entered my splendid, unaccompanied realm
Thou awaited me outside the prestigious castle~porch
Casually leaned by the fence that was whorled around
by pure green stalks and fluttering light pink petals... Mmm the scent of daisies.
I was stunned by your presence in my oh so tedious existence
Dear me, thére thou stood in a maroon silk gown with a divine floral print

How could I not get to know thee?

My life~guardians where not much liking the thought of me becoming involved with residents at the vicinity of high repute, I lived in
But thou knew me ~ thou knew me too well ~ I felt so marooned
We had to, we had to become companions ~ without a friendship I would not feel alive
Thou were the only one to make me feel enthusiastic

Ever since I met thee, I kept asking myself; "how was I ever so fortunate to meet such a queen?"

You are my Reign

*Yours sincerely

Woo me a kettle of love
and sweethearts
Gifted muse
Sing me the lyrics
not by divinity
but the flute of your breath
Play me to the chest
where your drum encased
let my palms sway
Please don't stop your playing
even if it is just a play
For if unaccompanied by your music
my poetry becomes meaningless
nothing more
than lines of letters too poetic

The ocean tried to bear the sun,
And with brevity
It caught aflame-
It lit the world on fire.

But water is not made to burn.
So rose the Titan,
So came the day,
So crashed the waves away.

And it sung, and it sung, and it
Fell from the sky

But to see a star crawl from the sea
Will leave a mystery:
Who, far away, is there to greet the sun,
Before it returns to me?

Perhaps no one waits, like me,
And it lays to rest-unaccompanied.

Surely, though, another sees!
Another soul rejoices,
To see a giant fall from high
Like heaven to its knees

And if no love for him remains
Always will there be-
An ocean, in some reverie,
To swallow up the Sun.

is like an airport terminal;
where everyone is waiting and no one is going anywhere.
Where the only thing people can tell you is
that your problems will be solved in
ten minutes.
(The amount of time that is short enough to
keep you waiting
and long enough to
make you insane)
The number that actually means: I have no ******* clue.
Airports are made to be passed through
while the people are still bubbling with anticipation.
But if you stay long enough
you beginning seeing through your peripheral vision.
And we all end up being
the last bag on the baggage claim
going
round
and
round
on the conveyer belt.
Searching for our owners.

At some point we are each
the pushy New Yorker
the silent blue-eyed six year old, wandering alone.
the child singing a song without caring who is listening.
We are all trapped in the unaccompanied minors waiting room
without a guide
in the trust of people, before today we had never laid eyes on
and to them we are simply bodies
needing to be moved, shipped, transported
on some conveyor belt to our next destination
we might as well be the luggage we pack our lives into.

She is not the cure to your cancer, that toxic heartbeat you hold so wearily, that blackened hand you hold so scarily. Tick tock sound of the clock. And yet her heart beats on in your song, her smile is sat down and made to wait a while. She’s an excellent choice for you my dear, if only you wasn’t so queer. If you only didn’t sit in my seat, if only you didn’t make the tea, if only you were a bit more like me. Like you, like you, like, who? You? A mirrored image is that what I have become, I am not here, I am not one, with you. You want to see yourself in my smile, to make me sit and play with you for a while...for this time shall too pass my sweet. I meet your hands with a full on gaze, a full on face, I am not what I seem, I am not what you chose to taste.

What a spectacle, too powerful to behold and yet you are beheld in her grace, you can see the mark you leave upon her face. Her novice ways to you are upsetting, you have too much time to let her forget sin, and happiness leaves a crown upon your face? You laugh, she laughs, you sigh, she cries, you swoop, she falls, you live, she dies. Embers burn brightly in her eyes when you talk sweet nothings in her ears, If I were to understand you would it make much sense? Does god look for you around corners in dark bars? Her sweet breath becomes tainted in the morning light, you watch as she searches for dreams untold. She was never pure, never here, never an apology. Oh woman of mine, sweet divine being, I will not betray your trembling sight.

There is beauty in the fact that you are not there. Left behind, she looks to the sky, learns to live, learns to die, without. You. Heartbeats shatter and fumble around your ears, colours explode to your left and there she stands, to your right. Job done. Move on. Left, left, left, right, left. Full stop. C’est suffit. She gave you something from the folds of her dress and the car rides down the dusty path. Heralded by a greater cause, no with, what or who for’s, no silence begging for attention, you are preceded by your own detention. Beauty, beautiful, beatific, be still, sweet girl around my head. Hold my hand, let me walk with you by my side. You are my introduction to be made.

Crisscrossed in the night, arms and legs are making shadows in the moonlight, sign language only lovers can hear, noises that escapes from even the most pursed lips, hits my fingertips; drag me with you, tear my throat as you hear me. Sigh. A midnight dancer , she misses the spot on which you had her stand, lost the grasp of her amazing hand, and by my sight, by which I see, she is a most superb delight, the most gracious flight you ever did heed. And let my love be born from holding you in my arms, from when I watch you and you, in return cannot see; your ignorance is that of the most majestic kind, your internal war I can see in your person, you are not a battle scar, though a battlefield is more apt to the tune you dance to. Your lonlieness is sometimes too large to bear, my back is small and weak, my hands only hold your heart first, your tears must fall, fall, failing, to the ground.

Smile. You make me. Dance, I for you. Hear, the night sounds of your dreams. Touch, my heart with your words. Write, me a sonnet made of lies and imagination. Paint, me a picture. Fire, in my eyes, for you. Burn, burn, burn out the night sky. The stars have all combusted and dropped out of the sky for this. Me, I am acceptable in the shadows. You, play a violin unaccompanied to your nightmares. We, make this our own. Belief, a hope i have for you.

Sometimes, I swear I can feel my chest concaving at the thought of you.
I find interest in the fact that sometimes I want to be near you, but sometimes,  I wish you were an ocean away.

Sometimes I look at my mother,  and pray I'm not like her, but other times,  I wish I could be more like her because that would make my life so much easier.

Sometimes, I cry alone at night.
I sit unaccompanied and begin to gorge myself on memories and guilt that I am certain will forever haunt me.
And during the day.
I think about how many more days I must suffer before I can be me freely.

Sometimes, I wish I was as much of a physical man as my brother is.  
Because sometimes,  like when we have a relatives birthday, or a celebration, he is glorified for his ability to be ox-like.
And while I sit here only weighing 130 pounds and having the strength of a rubber chicken I feel as though every bit of breath I breathe is not with the carbon my lungs put out.

Sometimes I think about you.
And how you're with him.  
And it makes me sick.
Because sometimes. . .
I wish sometimes didn't exist

My love is like a feather in the wind.. Seeming so harmless and soft. If just for a second you could grab it and hold onto it to feel how smooth... But you will always let go. You will always drop me from your hands. Why? Because who needs a feather after all...
A feather once belonged to something alive.. It once was part of hundreds of other like pieces and was a whole. One by one they fell off and this feather flew away on her own. Waiting for someone to pick her up and notice her again. Although she is not whole, she is still beautiful in her own way. As an individual. As one piece alone. But what could you use her for? What is her purpose....
When you let go she will then again drift away and find another place. She will seem peaceful, but lost. Unaccompanied by companions and will drift so far that would make you wonder where she came from. Out of her element and now misplaced.. Not lost.

Invitation Only:

A dinner you will forget to remember.

Down the road
little kids laugh and cheer
unaccompanied by their parents
they should have endless fear

Bones in my yard
decoration of course
I'll sit on my porch
watching the joy of endless candy

Come to me little children
I'll eat you up your so **** cute
I bet you taste good too

Brains and Liver, with sauteed onions
lips and fingers, with green olives
toes and tongue dipped in vinegar

come join Serean and Dr. Lector
for your last Halloween dinner.

Last Best Shot

July 31, 2020
8:07am

the morning sunlight. high enough to lighten first café & the future.
warming, mellifluous, biding good tidings, a head, ahead for the day.
sun-in-sky-low, so trees stand taller, shadow-makers, just for now.
grass blotched, pockmarked, alternative hints of hope & mystery.
the bay wave waters stilled, unrolled, unroiled, no-thrashing, omen?
is this wellness? is this a green tea soul and soil infusion, calming?

my mind wanders to that remains unaccompanied, unaccomplished.
unwashed breakfast dishes, miles of mail urgently unattended.
poems half-composed, some decomposing, resurrection on the list?
these unwashed word-shards, cry out, if not today, then when?
passerby’s, yachts, kayaks pause, turn, all bow-me-pointing asking?
is today their finale, burial by deletion, or their last, best shot?

my reflection, neutral-neutered mien in 19oz. Blue Mountain
black coffee, in a Canadian Macintosh porcelain mug, provides
no clue, accident or incident, but inquires: why the adrenaline?

The silence is a blank.
Nothingness.
Only he can fill the space
That strange, curious being.

My heart heaves, beckoning to him.
that man.
that girl.
that wonder.

I am so lonely- lone, lonesome, unaccompanied.
But there is a key for every lock.
A silence for every cry.
Hope.
It's a patient thing.
Hope.

That human, who i crave, is full of life.
Laughs, smiles, in spite of my quirky mind.

In cold, rainy days
she dances/he dances in poetry,
with an unnamed beauty.

his warmth fills
a thousand bitter caverns,
a thousand ice wastes.

and My eyes closes at night,
comforted by love itself.
Because his love has a tomorrow.
Her love guarantees another day.

No-one is made of stone,
least of all me,
with my queer little ways,
and my fantastical mind.
but he accepts that,
welcomes that, a
s a completion to a set.

A rebel,
a stallion within a field of ponies.
Red, fiery red,
not afraid to be free.
does what he wants,
when she wants,
despite the obstacles.
A perfect imperfection.

But I'm dreaming.
She is impossible.
He is impossible...

Dear K,

I’m broken
With a half-empty toast rack and extra jelly,
Unground coffee beans and our unwashed dishes,
I woke to a cold pillow, but no amount of caffeine
Wakes your absence to my expectant lips.
I wandered down with the falling drops
From my tributary lashes,
Wondered why these pearls should dive
So much deeper than it seemed they might
When you said we’d be better off,
You’d be better off, alone.

I shook with clammy hands and nervous glances,
It should have been a sign of things to come,
Briefly entranced for brief romances.

With nothing to be clammy for, anymore,
I sit in the desert dry of unaccompanied rhythm,
Like these notes were begging to be written,
Written because I’ve no other river
Through which my thoughts meander so comfortably,
But stop, I know you’ve no desire to hear about
My breakfast, my day
   I linger.

-BRD

I crawl into bed every night
Unaccompanied.
And even though
You're hundreds of miles away
And several weeks are keeping us apart
And I am unaccompanied,
I always stay to one side of the bed
Because I always leave
A space for you.

There’s a strange satisfaction
in the tranquil pounding of feet on pavement
against the quiet whispers of the sunrise
over a morning’s dreary eyes,
when the world is about to rise,
and your unaccompanied flesh is its alarm,
like the soft ripple of a rock
skipping against the water.

I came here to stop feeling,
but instead I feel everything.
The hum of the wind beneath my eardrum
is a lullaby for my loneliness,
and the cotton candy sky is begging
for my mercy.

A few months ago,
this was the key to my fulfillment,
but somewhere along the way,
you went and changed the lock.
I tried to call a repairman,
but my throat froze
and my chest burst
the moment he stopped by.

I’m not sure what brought me here
or why,
but eventually
I’ll breathe again.
For today
I’ll simply close my eyes
and pray that the light that floods my corneas
when my lashes meet lid
brings brightness to this twilight mood,
and someday the repairman will allow me
to lift this weight from my chest.