"Poor Yorick!",
His soul is saved.
Safe and sound,
In cold unbeing.

Cold unbeing,
For whom I am so hungry.
It's bitter tundra will fill me,
But my fire won't go out.

The burning won't stop,
And my ashes only gather.
There's something very wrong,
With a blistering winter.

Oh Yorick,
I envy.
Your sleep is undisturbed;
Where I am only tired.

You are bones,
And King Hamlet is a ghost.  
Floating like him and stagnant as you,
I cannot rest.

My sleep is disturbed.
Like the king, I can't find peace.
But like Yorick,
I am hollowed bones.

LOVE, HATE, WISDOM, FEAR, WEALTH… KEYS MANY ARE TO LIFE IT’S SAID
NONE IN BIRTH IS AFRAID,WISE,HATEFUL,GREEDY,NONE SHALL BE SO IN DEATH.
LIFE! ITS A NOW,A PRESENT CONTINUOUS,DIES HERE THE PAST,A FUTURE BORN
NOW,A SUM TOTAL OF PAST,FUTURE AN EQUATION INEXORABLE FROM HEREON.
FUTILE IS FUTURE MIRRORING PAST, AWARENESS MY PRIMER FOR A CHANGE FAST.  
WHEN ALIVE ARE HEARTS PUMPING,WHY ARE MINDS AND SOULS DEAD BARREN?
ISN'T HEART THE GOOD EARTH ALWAYS AND MIND THE TREE WISE OF BANYAN?
I RID THE DISCONNECT, BY GRACE, HAVE A MINDFUL HEART, A HEARTFELT MIND!
LIVING THE STAID REALITY OF LIFE, LOVING, HATING, THINKING, BEING WISE,FOOLISH
KILLING, FORGIVING, PHILOSOPHICAL IN A CRUELLY KIND WORLD OF PARADOX.
IS THERE A REALITY DEVOID, OF LIFE AND DEATH, LOVE AND HATE, GOD AND RELIGION,
OR TRUTHS,LIES, TIME-SPACE,SOUNDS AND SILENCE,EQUANIMOUS PEACE AT WAR?
IS IT JUST A PLAY, OF THE MIND AND HEART, DESIRE AND POWER,******* UNREAL?
GOOD VERSUS EVIL?
I LIVE BY THE HEART,IT DOES STOP AND THE MIND,OH DOES IT ROT!
UNFEELING HEARTS AND UNTHINKING MINDS, THESE BARRIERS SLOWLY I CROSS,
BEYOND IS THE BEING, THE EXISTING, INCAPABLE OF THE UNREAL, DIVINELY AFAR,
A VOID SURREAL,UNFEELING YET KIND SOMEHOW, UNLOVING YET CARING SOMEHOW
UNSAD, UNJOYOUS, UNAFRAID, UNWORLDLY...ATTRIBUTES NONE AT ALL! UNBEING??
I KNOW NOT IF IT’S GOOD OR EVIL, IS JUST UNBEING,UNAFFECTED BETTER SOMEHOW?
IS THE FREE UNBEING THERE,JUST TOTALLY BEING HERE?! BACK TO A REALITY RELATIVE!
GREYS ARE MANY, IF DARK BE HATE AND BE LIGHT LOVE, MID-GREY IS THE WORLD, HOPE CAN MOVE!
FROM THE MOUNTAINS DOWN I CLIMB, JUST, WITH PRECIOUS BAGGAGE, UNPACKED TO MAKE SENSE,
OF THE REAL IN THE UNREAL,THIS ONE WORLD IN INFINITY, WITH  ITS ANGELS AND DEMONS,
I CHOOSE TO LIVE WITH REALITY; AND UNRAVEL JUSTLY; ELSE IT COMES LIVES WITH ME ANYWAYS!
OR IS IT ALL JUST INEVITABLY INEXORABLE, JUST A HERMITS DESTINY?!

Palcion and Ratisbon stood amidst eachother forever-
the father of being and the bringer of non-being stood
And as they stood, time and her efforts in vain, they she could not weather
Palcion and Retisbon looked upon the first to move between them
named the consequence of being and unbeing- Abro, meaning passage
Abro could topple walls and reduce mountains, all while light as a feather

Abro was not the mother of peace, nor the maiden of chaos-
The former was Ritacene- daughter of Palcion, whom he named after his brother
The latter was Phalgacene, daughter of Retisbon, who named her after the other
Abro was the steed of Phalgacene, who pulled her chariots and made her spears fly
Abro was also the bull of Ritacene, who plowed her fields and grew her wheat
And when the sisters argued, Abro would sit between them and wait, and stare at the sky

Abro would count the faces of the sky, and found the sky to be beautiful
‘I am Chazan- servant of Palcion and Retisbon,'’ the sky said. ‘I carry the weight of them both”
‘I am Abro- the eldest of the goddesses Ritacene and Phalgacene’ she told him
‘You are such a strong and fair woman,’ Chazan said. ‘To keep your youngers from conflict’
‘I do no such thing’ said Abro. ‘They are twins, and as above, they are as two as they are one’
‘They, like their fathers, are two faces of one disk-’ she went on ‘and so conflict they do not risk’

‘And you Chazan?’ Abro asked him. ‘What of you, and why above all made but below makers?’
‘I am the throne of the creator of creators and destroyer of destroyers’ he said to Abro.
‘I conceal the made from their maker and the maker from what they’ve made’ he went on
‘I hide the destruction from their destroyer- I herald the light of being and death’s shade.’
‘I find you beautiful-’ said Abro. ‘What say you to be my groom? What say you I be your bride?’
And in that, the swords of Phalgacene glowed bright, and Ritacene’s crops began to die

Chazan’s hair began to grow short and loose, and the face of the sky burst into flames
The air began to heat and the sky’s blue began to lighten- Chazan’s skin became like glass
Abro saw Chazan- his skin pink, orange, green, and cerulean- his two eyes, the sun and moon
‘You lie to me, Abro-’ he said aloud. ‘How can you say I'm beautiful when this is what I am?’
‘Everchanging, ever new- I will shed a thousand skins, but you will still be you’ he told Abro.
‘How can you have a husband, whose faces change, and whose memory of you with it fades?’

And so, Abro stood, and faced the sky. Her legs began to grow tired, and so she went away.
Chazan, seeing this, fell into misery. The sky darkened and the the winds blew strong
The fields of Ritacene were reduced to lakes of mud, while rust grew on Phalgacen’s wheels
Chazan was in tears. His hair grew long and wispy and from them- water crashed into the earth
Then Abro returned, with the beast Malzaphaiatan- whom she borrowed from her sisters
Malzaphaiatan was a beast that plowed fields and pulled chariots and on it, Abro sat and waited

Abro’s sisters made more of these beasts, and soon their numbers would become the land
They’re backs fertile and their stampedes would causes quakes, but upon them Abro sat
Abro sat and waited for Chazan to calm down- and upon Malzaphaiatan she would wait
Chazan, upon seeing Abro, lightened and was delighted. “You have returned! I am elated!‘
He ran through the sky and to the ground at such speed, which created lighting and thunder
He ran to hold Abor and lay with her on Malzaphaiatan- and in their bliss was born Spring.

Chazan would soon change face again- and the air began to heat and the sky would lighten
The glow of Phalgacene’s metal and the drooping of Ritacene’s plants all heralded one thing-
“Abro’s lover was angry.” in his rage, he remembered Abro not, and so Abro stood and went.
She borrowed Zapharagaz from her sisters- a steed of of great speed- delicate and deadly
Zapharagaz carried Phalgacene’s navy, and fed the fields and water wheels of Ritacene
Abro drove Zapharagaz across the herds of Malzaphaiatan so that Chazan may drink

Across the backs of the herds, she carved waterways, canals, and cisterns with Zapharagaz
The tracks of Zapharagaz made rivers and from the places it rested, were oceans and lakes
Abro made a chalice from clouds and gave it to her lover Chazan to drink- and he was calmed
This face of Chazan knew Abro not- but found her beautiful. ‘Be my bride, oh Lady of Time!’
‘Be my bride and this entire kingdom of fire and light shall be as yours as it is mine!’
‘I shall be your bride, and you shall be my groom!’ and so they lay together and bore Summer

Chazan would not change face again, and his memory of Abro would persist, yet he was sad.
‘Abro, my love- Queen of the Sky as I am its King; does it not hurt when I forget you at times?’
‘Chazan, my love- King of the sky who made me its queen; I love you and all your faces.’
‘How could you? What if I forget you in those faces? What would become of us and of life?’
‘I will still love you’ she said. ‘And each of your faces, what face may come, will call me its wife’
And so in a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, Chazan used the sun and breeze on the land

He took the Clouds away, but stunted the heat of the sun. He dried the leaves of Ritacene-
He put the soldiers of Phalgacene to rest and told them to return to their wives and families
He blew across the sea and into land to create the first wind and waves, and so he began
And so with a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, the harvest began and produce came
Upon the backs of the herd- Chazan painted a golden portrait of Abro, and it was beautiful
And so in a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, the two lay once more and bore Autumn

As Abro awoke, she found her husband away from her embrace. Chazan was not away though.
Chazan could simply not be seen. Droplets of hard, cold water fell on Abro’s hands. They spelt:
‘Who are you? I am Chazan, king of the sky. Who are you, why are you here?’ said the snow.
‘I am Abro, Lady of Time, first daughter of the twin Kings of Creation and Destruction’ she said.
‘I am the eldest child of Palcion and Retisbon. I am the eldest to Ritacene- goddess of order’
‘And of Phalgacene- goddess of chaos.’ she boasted. ‘You are in the presence of the gods’

‘You were drunk, and in your stupor, took me to your bed.’ Abro wanted to know what he’d say.
‘Forgive me! I am king of the sky, but humble servant first to the Twin Kings- how do I repent? ’
‘You shall have to wed me! For we shall both be punished if the Twins find out!’ Abro told him.
Abro, despite her love for Chazan, wanted to be wed. And so, the king of the sky wed her.
Chazan froze the waters for them to walk on and donned the land white in snow- as did Abro
Ordained as husband and wife by the twin gods, Chazan and Abro were wed- and bore Winter.

The children of Chazan and Abro would be the essence of the seasons who played together-
Spring, the fastest and most beautiful of the siblings, ran ahead of her brothers and sisters-
Summer, the strongest but largest, ran behind Spring, but could not catch up to her however
Autumn came next and often called for Winter, and came to soothe Summer of his blisters
Winter- however, walked and did not run. He carried with him coal, which he marked with.
Soon, he would not run at all. He would sit and wait like Abro, and forget to run like Chazan

This is why the Spring is so well loved, yet feels as if it passes too fast and too quickly at times
And why Summer is so hot, yet most of the work must be done under its heat and weather
And why Autumn brings peace, and in its golden banquet bring good food, harvests, and wine
And why Winter and all its snow, darkness, coldness and blight seems to drag on forever
And yet in Winter, the only well that does not freeze over is the well that draws forth black ink
And so the myth of seasons finds its Author in the hands of the cold. Behold- the Song of Winter

Becoming what I'm not
And who I am isn't who I am
But might be a mixture of both being
and unbeing

Celestial lack of knowledge
Becoming learned by lack of sense
Watching birds on the porch
Pay the family recompense

Walking in a wheelchair
Aborted walk the earth alive
Amish on cellphones
There's something wrong, here.

Feverish to the state of unbeing.
My wish is to evince green natured sublimity.
My love waits for one moment between
A valley between peaks
Mt. Adore, Mt. Deplore
Where every pocket of my immediate surroundings
Pulses it’s rhythmic truth
Rattles my sensation
Rattles of co-corporalisation to the tips of my nerve
Till my chest sinks or swallows or something
Till I literally gasp before the miracle of the Air
Till I phase out.
Till next time.
The hum drums on

There's always this stage, later on
after you have realized that you
actually can live without
this person, though it is a continuing
source of pain. At this point, everything
you were so scared of saying
for those long many months, somehow
has been said. You both know
how much you mean together, how
your conversations will go, what
the subtext clearly says, though not
said clearly. I know you miss
me, just as much as I continuously
miss you. After some point, I will know
you love me just as much as I
will try to show you how much I love
you, though I didn't believe it before and
I couldn't tell you so for old fears.
At this point, the wound of you
not being here will start to scab
over. The very essence of your unbeing
in my presence will dictate that you
cannot heal me, that I must live
with this pain and your vacancy. I will not
tell you I miss you, taking a knife
to my healing holes. Against my will,
I am pulling back. After the thrill
of "I miss you" has worn off, it only
brings pain with every utterance. I miss
you, I miss you I miss you I
miss you, and you are missing so profoundly
the very air around me sings
of your absence, whistling through emptinesses
that echo the ones inside. But sometimes
I would rather not remember
that you are missing.

No Man or intuition
Can see more than a day or two
Into her dream
Not weeks or months or years to spend
Instead all they think of is
"Wouldn't it be nice if"

people ask me if my brain has started rewriting itself
If my consciousness expanded to take up the space left behind in these two months of rapid decline
Maybe in the week my eye has refused to read street signs and text messages

I am asked If I start hearing people’s locations as my sight slips further out of my reach
as if this is a neotech drama about self awareness and I am Neo
I just need to wake up, take a pill and I will harness the Matrix

more aware of my lost ness of my smallness
Of how I am I insignificant and absorbed into the collective strangeness of a crowd

It is not a different kind of light or of seeing but a falling darkness and sensing things in the night, when bats are flying low and recklessly close. When I feel the current swell around me as the unknown let’s me escape in previously grandfathered ignorance.

Tonight I am not ignorant. I am looking at a blank and dismal map. It is not filled in in the slightest.
I am rust and berry pulsing within a thick cracked skin in a sea of unbeing, only aware of where I touch the raw, colorless, and endless universe
Intensely attenuated to my body curled in fetal position
against the thickest nothing I have ever encountered.

like a slumbering geode
Filled with colorful secrets
Poised to bloom
I wait
But rocks sleep forever

Eyeing the pale moon
I will grace the path
of neutrality.

Piercing red
a current pulses through
the vacant eyes.

You always
curl the lips to remain unsaid
about the embrace of fire.

Conversing with
the waterfall, you forget
that you were standing on edge.

Invisible undercurrents
have a ritual. They appear like
glazed cleavers when there
is no crowd of thoughts.

Like indigo child you
extend the purple hands
to heal the bruised ego.

In being and unbeing
I come to you today―
in unconscious state.
Excessively leaning on
cause, it is not heart―
not brain. Just a beat.
Evening is settling
down. Time flew past. Birds
going home. A lone moon
will rise.
Underground thoughts start―
stunning the secrets.
You open the lost book.
In war go the alphabet.
Questions arise. After all―
who was me.
The awakening begins.

If
i may dwell in suspension
Sweet as plum;
Solitary
searching for
emptiness, whole of
nothingness…


Zoom in:

i match the gaze of
the Infinite
Peeping Tom;
like 1000 of those
dreams where i’m
naked in public
all at once
the Big Rush
pure
pink ****
flesh
stripp’d on the ledge
of the Lotus;
Faith’s suicide jump—
-Yea! Feel the breeze
swing swing
bodhi
body
my body swing
-everlasting-
but
i always blink.

& succumb
to dead momentum
(note:reFill w/ junk-
energy&bulhoon juice)


Cut to:

(******
******
sapio ****
sapien sapien
-libido is
god is Zeus
get loose,
l o o s e)

‘You know
the freaks come out
in their moon-masques after 2am lookin’ to
drill some sense
into
that Void.’

‘Da coup de grace
to yr grace of
One.
The baboon won!’

Ascension was a bust so
i cool with a jazzhead
Sit cross-legg’d & smoke
cigarettes ’til the knife of dawn—

‘Ache like mountains old
as Death.
lust
on yr breathe
that wild dogs
can detect
20 miles west.’

Close-Up:
{Cue the music}

-O! whiskey
tears & mary-
-juana sin thesis;
Realm, bee
yond the darken’d lip
the space ab-sorbed
by the mouth
of Supernova Human ways!

Action!

Now
b’fore it stains the carpet!

i’m with Sister Joyce
&
she gon’ show me
how to keep
my iii open
to oblivion.
Make me a Re-al boy
again-
Gon’ gimme back
that body
bodhi
that body, that shell
i housed
Alexandria
She gon’ gimme back
that cure
i can’t get enough of
Once
had a plug
straight to the mainline
-if you can believe it…
the connection right to-the
MAIN SOURCE
She told me she got it anni need it

Fade to:

(Fungi
feng
shui
shady
eyes feel
like the windows
on dead asylum walls.
‘Let it Burn!’
I told ‘em,
that temple is
mad
with ill karma’)

Fade Back:

Sister,
bless me
with the Pleasure
of
Yr forgiveness—
Prostrated
at the foot
of
your magic
bind—
Heal me;
that Holy
Fluid
washaway daily hypnosis’—
Yr purple presence
is ancient
mystic limbs
cradle my Babylon
why
***** angel Souls do the
pharaoh’s dance—
Bodies swing
in One,
bodhi body
swing in One; now
twirl yr guru poetry
cryptic
round my Obliteration!

& let’s drown ourselves
in gulps of ecstasy
swallowed in-to paradise
the warm, fuzzy
nothing.

Cut to:

(Consciousness,interrupts,
Suddenly!
Lurches out of unBeing like
a madman a killer
lumbered
   over
his victim
-fresh,crystalized
real
ity; clear thru dewdrops
atop blade of grass the sweat
on damp back chill in
soberbreeze)

the Now pierces
the swelled black belly of
temporary oblivion
lightwork the stars that freckle the face
of the sky
poke-d
pin(w)holes the size of the Universe
in the bubble of In
finity
-inward
outward-
i see myself thru it
looking up…
perched in rural
everywhere
Planet nowhere
dug in the
hole
of nothingness
solitary
searching
in suspension.


FADE OUT.

I am an art of human
A seed unto the world cast loose
Holding what's unfurled
Beneath, a lonesome seeker of truth
It is undue to suffer
Through a seemly, caustic night
Unbidden, untoward, unwellitude
Unbeing
And unbright
But in the hull solemnitude
Unmeaning
And unkind
We find ourselves in solitude
Inside a well, unlit
Untied

have you witnessed the change

in the whether?

heard the words of truth,

hilding your own opinion,

smiling.

have you laughed at the wind,

knowing the words are

unnattractive.

then slept dreaming

this state of unbeing.

i randomly hope,

you have not.

it is unsettling.



sbm.

as the gush of invectives admonish me
pouring as it never rains,
drowning me in a drawing sea of phillipic polemic as per Cicero and Demosthenes
slating
I feel bulimic

consume ravage and destroy
to be in being
is to miss out the joys of unbeing

essence before existence
never chicken before egg
hammer before stick and metal

******* malleability is not a virtue

Looking into the *** of literature
Eratosthenes, and getting some midnight wrong
Broken poems, killjoy, I'm in a mellow dram with my bearhugs
In the chugging lurid frescoes of the mind of a gregarious soul with lion's eyes and a wolf's soul, the warmth lit the Savannah
Seems like cold ice, thawed in the nasty weather, left with positivity
Emerson's rude bridge, on the point, on the road, *** or a livid ultimate cunning guy being the ******, kicking the dirt with the incomplete poetic lines, where souls find lost dreams on the end of passion steps, lost Conrad
Do they murmur as a poem which is one, unbeing and being
The poem reminds of a haiku
She once told you
Tea was taken black
Sweet and right, is white on the top
A soul in the heart of darkness find an accident in the heart of weakness of others, my lungs are paper trite on the road around this town
Bless the soul, it knows peace after we're long gone on the dry dirt, kicking up the darkness in dreaming of you
Fear in a handful of stardust in an ashen raging madman
If you could those poets in that lost poem

If you could read between the lines and keep the metaphors alive
Dying and slipping, sliding away away
Concordant lives of the passion of the Christmas, he lives with his Hagrid-like father
Strolling the empty nights, with the Christ in the amazing hodger,  roger in the soul love, and they share the same books
That's why they share different characters, and lines

thanks be to god the ever
holy hand that brushes the
hate from our eyes and
absorbs the pain to give to
himself or some other
demon to devour as a delicacy
he who glazes the brain with
a thin wash of sanctity or
blessing or love or something
of which we cannot speak
but nonetheless the rats that
he animates continue to
unknowingly praise his power
in a song that beats on eternal.

he glazes us with a love that
sends shudders through the
unclean base profane vermin
bodies that he persists to bless
with the utmost holy gifts
unclean rats congregate and
deteriorate and demolish and
hate and defecate and spit
at god but still the bodies
shudder with the unearth
the element that cannot
exist without his presence
and then again it happens

the ugly unclean
profane **** eating
parasites are the
receivers of a
god’s touch that
even the angels
are not worthy
worth is a distorted
concept god is all,
yet worth none
the trash is
graced with
the utmost
pleasure
any being
or unbeing
is capable
of processing.

In the end, all is made right.
The page, so pristine, so vulnerable,
Awaiting my every error?
It's all set right, wiped away, and nothing.
Nothing remains of what I've wrought.

Perfection comes at the tip of the scalpel,
Carving away and down into jumbled
Words, each its own perilous
Non sequitur. They fall away in tatters.

The only peace is in purging them
From the mind to the page,
Then from being to unbeing.

This is no way to get published.
There's no fulfillment in the empty book,
And even less in an empty hand.

I see their silhouettes
Melt far into the horizon.
Their untimely dance
Knows no bounds,
No digresses
Continuing forward
With no pauses.

The nymphs have departed
And their feet do not hurt
Nor do they ever stop.
They walk right through me
Like the season’s of a year,

Like yesterday’s trees
That are naked today
With a shivering hope
For tomorrow’s new embrace.

Shadows loom amidst silences
Drenched with fever and sweat.
Stupefying moments of unbeing
Confirm impotency’s pending threat.

The nymphs have departed,
But their laughter malingers
As it creeps through tiny holes
And then the ears of some wretched

Like me, feigning to sleep,
While a bustling pageantry on the street
Slithers across from under my feet.
It’s almost nine, now I must set my eyes to weep.

Rope to ***** the weather, sweet sixteen dreams
The mirror tells we can have some fun in teams
I can't find my reflection anymore, searching in eloped reconnaissance streams
Lassoes in the sky, stealing cars under the starlight standing in strong dreams
Another day in paradise, looking better in paraplegic purging preteens
The electric fuzz on your face touches my standing goosebumps gleam at the ****** seams
Bumblepuppy acolyte turning at the prongs of the tattered road, calling up your Hessian friend and making politics right at the sanguineous pea-brain lean veal after the mob gets out on Russian ruby streets running with honesty
On the other side of the world, where the sun sets and polite moonrock never survive on The Berlin Wall tonight abseiling away sealed away, waiting for the ballot or the ballet
Waiting for the limelight to subside, guts tellin' me to keep my self in lowly mad hatters tied to napes, hundreds hanging by weather reports claps in laughter, descending tents by the brook beaming at us in starry dynamo of the thousands
Losing himself in a lucid dream of what was once the world's reality now sleeping, dead presidents in stygian darkness
Hanging on to the word of the weatherman, crime is rising in Russian motherless children hung for misdemeanor looking for a metaphor, the nation understands and wants to know us
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns, we are at the trapdoor
Resurrecting the insurrection, pejorative for misnomers and draconian dead beats sibilant suss
Too bad I see the whole earth, on my body stains on laconic red flags, still fly indeed
Flying in the wind, like idiots in the weatherman's underground cuss dirt into the report sowing dead seeds
Unable to see the sun behind cold clouds in stormy weather, battered suitcases breeze by murmurs talking by-lines and stolen **** in ****** underwear ****** unable to breed
Then, the bombs falling and shifting with changeling wind charred sun under the unbeing reading in the Aurelius light
Thousands in the starry dynamo might outshine us all and the nation can't hold us back and keep us far from the fault in stars
The silver lining in the cloud, puerile virile as lady lying Glasnost to the prognostic benzedrine patient
I've never seen a can in hang in stormy weather
Charting out the Chinaman on the hydrogen shore, communism is on the brink of helium war with itself, viscerally hanging from Tomorrow's daughter
Whipping up the foamy sea like cold ice nostrums thawed in search of the antidote to warm red planets named after Roman Gods
Looks like the sea lord created a thalassocracy for the sea cursed by memos and pastiche, droll parody in the mewling hall of the rebuke of free-prose poetry hanging on the tinkering lampshade
Touch me now, never or now bullish books read the list of people who were once on this winding road just like us shining crummy ******* now in a handful of stardust
Being is tougher than living, and the berserk wind keeps changing
Under forked lightning, it gets worse when the spoon picks me up
In my wet dreams, I'm killing myself hurting to find if you can put your mind to this cornish dream of Cavendish and hashish
Stuck in the stitches, and the ******* don't drip blood and sweat it
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns already
Murders on the mystery train, never reach the orient station looking for a whimsical refill
Halting sloth the indolent, I remember redolently like moth attracting to the blazing coruscating gleam, that's when a screaming teen becomes an upstart or a fiend
With an iridescent grin, caviling on the shore asking more from jackknifed business kitsch photos of the crosses
Throwing them in the trash, just like that
Ire of the nation broken with the lugubrious sleep of dinners after the summer's madness, hurt by the locked hearts in an armed madhouse looking at everything like geniuses
Asking what does it mean? Motifs and everything, lintels on the fluorescent signs on numinous streets caressing our wires, hanging by the piano wire
Waning adolescence now has a name in Hades' beard made of fiery pubescence that doesn't wanna listen
Tantamount to the king's orders, ligature marks on the hands that only know cuffs
The que glibly glistens in the lively dungeon
Hosted by bacchanal and mistresses, Elizabeth Bathory in the company of friendly books full of picturesque pedestrians on the streets of angry murders with ****** sleeved shirts
Blackened lackeys looking for a toss of change or pederasty with Countess Dracula
Moloch, you have made my life changeable despite skiffs
Moloch, I hang in the balance of the skirmishes of scorching fire burning at the midriffs
Easter bloc, ropes hanging for whoever doesn't wanna burn in the witch fire, sold for 200 pounds in a dilapidated home, till the berserk wind blows the candle out, old under Tudors that say a lot in a few words about style in art as slavery is merrily rampant
Killing the people, in the name of the republic of 1968 reminiscent of Phoenician Lands, rueful murmurs arouse the twisted looks turning out the traitors
From the rapidly changing wind, that brushes our hair and kills the pain of hanging to our families in bunkers
From the road of hope, I find some affliction in the forgiveness
Of my lord in whom I find breadth, heareth, endeth the breath that lendeth thy will, in the lengths of my souls searching for horizons in Old Earth
I died with my elegy in 1968, the wind still hoists flags in my name in death three years in the latter

Treading between the leaves
Myopically stricken off the record
Keeps me coursing on the fallen leaves
Golden, brown, yellow, orange
As the height of my captivating self
Comes up with the peaceful
Suicide, orange is the new black
Of living half-conscious through memories unknown
Beknownst tripping or hallucinating
On a brimming hallucinogen, die inside or unbeing
Within the happy recess, we aren't able to say something about the same karma
The king can do anything if he can carry the humor
Spring can finally be full of mist, everything is still

There are spaces between
do and dream
have and want
being and becoming
intention and result

Spaces,
emotional spaces
room for love.
What is not
still becomes.
Two cells become
a being, on and on,
again and again,
coming and going.
Being and unbeing,
Where to go
and what to do
with this heart of mine
and love of you.

Becoming impersonal,
the observed will speak today,
not the observer.
There were no complaints.

It drills the hole in heart.
But you don't die.
No blood spills.

On the rocks―
stands a temple of unbeing
I am ready to become a monk.

This was not a ******,
not a suicide, if you
want to become a martyr.

The heaven trembles.
Let the veil rise, unmasking
the blind truth.

The mercury was rising
without fever.
There was no alarm.

Go to the speaking moon
to fell the stars,
and to learn a way of becoming―
unbeing.

It was a rough ride.
How could you open the
fist of darkness
and see in absolute nihility?

Can you unattach me,
when I was seeking your pith
in my poems?

Come to me with unarmed
lies, to fight with my truths.
Life is very short and I have―
many things to do.

Blank stones
Cast out
Sun stroked
Another day at the mall.

My old crush
Always
Knew how to reserve
What was working
For them in secrecy.

Then,
I remember a little breakfast
Where brushstrokes became
Preservations of my present self's
Musings; to live in the past
Is to live in love

As a court jester with

Oneself as King.

Memory,
Recollections,
Do-tells that make
And weigh
The present self

Yet imagine,
How much of a **** you'd be,

If you never held.

Imagine
Existing
In the
Unbeing at the cost of

Never seeing your

First best

Friend

Again.

I couldn't do it,

Dear Hayes.

Something― you wanted to
say, which you would not.
Planet breaks― disheveled, weeping
being― unbeing.

Sometimes you play a game
of trembling legs―
waiting to run away
from your anguished inside.

The last hour of night
blinks. A baby sun about
to be born, and you find yourself
unprepared.

The black letters, on yellow
pages, under the streetlight
dance. A fat dream burns.
A book bleeds.

Eating thoughts.
You look beautiful
without thinking.

To become
unbeing. You walk
straight into void.

Eyes glazed,
as if washed recently
by tears.

A painless
birth of love between
two hands.

Go to the speaking moon
to fell the stars,
and to learn a way of becoming―
unbeing.

It was a rough ride.
How could you open the
fist of darkness
and see in absolute nihility?

Can you unattach me,
when I was seeking your pith
in my poems?

Come to me with unarmed
lies, to fight with my truths.
Life is very short and I have―
many things to do.

Let's go together
over the moon.
Death to death in
economy of tears.

God blessed-
in songs of violets, the
peonies bloom,
in full glare of white and pink.

Being to unbeing
I will wait for the shooting
stars. A grace, the poise
plummeting into pine trees.

We will return
one day to our sadness,
unraveling the truth of life
and secrets of hidden pains.

If the fear is greater
Than whatever intreage you once felt
In passing looks like days now spent
Then a week of me would never change
These months of unbeing
Let alone those years spent with Someone .
Else

A stone
Was turned
And
Is turned

To find food,

To create space to build,

Or used to ****.

Progress only leads
To more of the above.

Forget humanitarianism.

I started reading the
Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of Outer Space, including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies and realized

We're just going to keep on doing this.

We are cursed
Variations
Of Cain's.

How long will we fight to prove
Our sacrifice
Is greater
Then all the others?

Funny how humankind
Muddies reasons for survival
For their true reason
For being

And

Unbeing.

I expect nothing
From myself
But happiness in the face of

The floodgates
Of our genealogy
That has no lock
Or key
Or God behind the peephole.

To be alone
Truly alone

And at peace

Is one's own masterpiece.

your divinity frolic provokes my flesh
godless minstrels slow dance blue confessions
demolish our disavowed theatre

i am stone in your singing eyes
looking down on my plucked soul
anchored by liar’s sweat

you want my embalmed fury sound
whose awful lurking unbeing
i treasure holy

me under your too heavy caress
waiting without hope or burden
for the purloined agony to thicken

the surrendered nape’s soft fur our unimagining
my only unbelonging belongs
to your teasing self-love

i want you to find what you are not
to brighten you
cease your confidence.

after all these years
don’t you think it’s time we met?

i find my own way home

Her fragments fell apart
Her time was short
The longest thing was the prison sentence
Full of tally marks, and wings that were burnt
On the brink of becoming fire and ice, and unbeing
In watery bushes, and shrubbery that hides in the gallows
Unfeeling like mires on the sunset line
Her hairs fell like wires, and the apartheid told us
She was meant to be broken, and even ****
Just not everywhere

Her arms lay beside her side
His ample time lay beside her arms
We held hands, he held them as his own
The right hand of the clock strick off another minute
We decided to leave the loneliness and minutiae
Premonition of repudiating our feelings
Amusement, and parks of recreation
We should be more like apples and less like oranges
That's what they tell us, as they compare our art
Some of us love the doctored fruits and imagery

Some of us hide in the fine-line of shadows and unbeing, just being shadows
I hope someone, begs to differ when seeing this serendipity

In the back right corner
three rooms removed from the main exhibit
idles a porcelain vessel
cracked shell of a masterpiece
   with just a bit more empty space

It sits in waiting
reminiscent of the admiration it once knew
eyes
tender eyes      familial eyes      devout eyes
it has not been touched in years
purpose- a centuries old secret
it finds companionship in the hum of dim lights
low vibrational
                           but at least present

hummmm hummmmm hummmmmm

hummmm      the only separation from silence
and unbeing
a murmur compared to its birthright
the shriek calls of native tongue
the connected boom of beating drum
the dust
              dust kicked up from feet   so   alive

This vessel once had a name
long since lost
to the progress of time
the dust that now showers it
is too clean
the eyes too critical
     or dead
feet shuffle by unmoved

Its belly has not been filled since _
and it is only in filling
  that emptying is made sacred
encased in rigid glass
in the far back right corner
three rooms removed from the main exhibit
yawns a porcelain vessel

And all its energy is calling for an exhale
it does not want
                             a clear glass barrier of defense
it wants for someone to reach out
and hold it
it wants for someone to remember its name
and shout it into the void
it wants to  s h    a  t t   e    r
                                               and release