Unclasp your fingers
Your clenched fists
And know the release of
Giving in

Let him drift away
Let the ocean stand between you
As a testament
To the vast expanse
That exists there now.

Stop fighting the waves.
Stop braving the icy waters
Arm over arm
To reach him on the other side.

The water will always win.
And you never were much of a swimmer.
He's just a distant island now
Shrouded in fog
Somewhere over the horizon.

Rest now,
The fight is over.
Your mangled, frantic heart
Can slow
And begin another tempo
When it's no longer bleeding over
An unreachable coastline.

I am a garden just waiting to let spring in
I stand frozen now with wind blown tufts in the air
Nothing but a blankness, as suits the harsher months
I wait for the signal to unclasp my sprigs
To make known my blooming blush
To let down my head of greenery
And fill the empty space where I have slumbered

"The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on."*

I
You probably already know, William,
that it’s pretty much all the same
as when you paced the battlements
and howled to the indifferent stars
"It seems I must bid the Muse go pack!"
, caught in Passion’s cataract –
that torrent of emotive poetic grief.

II
Though politics have changed,
there's still old men in the Senate
who stare but don’t seem to see.
They’re caught in youthful daydreams ---
the girls’ bras’ are too hard to unclasp,
even when employing that agéd charm.
(“But O that I were young again
and held her in my arms!”)
You weren't an exception;
politicians are also subject to the Human Condition.
Perhaps more than a poet,
probably more than a poet.
So I guess you got the double dose, William.
In a split second the State slips,
staggers, and reinvents foreign policies,
only to double-back on itself again and reverse.
I know you remember those you rhymed out in verse:
MacDonagh, MacBride, Connolly and Pearse;
their rifles still ring in the recesses
of the Public’s  miasmic mind –
the haze just dissipated over the Irish Sea.
And it's the spring of 2012.
Gore-Booth and Markiewicz are but marrowless bones,
Collins as well.
His still mix in the grave –
They’ve been for ninety years.
Yeah, it's pretty much the same,
Synge’s ******* is still unpopular.
In fact, plays are largely unpopular,
and playwrights work in restaurants
where sweat lingers on their brows
to eventually drip into an already-unfit meal.
It's hard to imagine a play once
brought Dublin to riot;
you couldn't start a riot now if you had
thirty drunken anarchists
with two Molotovs a piece
watch Godwin’s grave get gutted.
Though information is more accessible,
it's an age of information-apathy.
You'd **** a shotgun to your temple
if you saw the state of education today.
I'm afraid, William, it's all the same:
the gyres still run on ---
I fear they're running out of breath.

III
But it’d be imbalanced to leave you here;
at least you split on a Saturday.
Late-January trembles each year,
as the earth did the day you were consumed
in Helen(“who all living hearts has betrayed”)
’s immutable embrace;
your heart alone she could not betray.
And blind Homer who sang her betrayals
has ceased; mouths ran dry the day you died.
You left before your trade imprisoned you;
before the pen enchanted
your remaining years to a page.
You left before you couldn’t:
before the blitzkrieg;
before the world lost ten million more Robert Gregory’s
and you died from exhaustion mid-rhyme on the seventh-stanza of the five-million eight-hundred and fifty-fourth
elegy.
Regardless, it's really all the same.
Even those beggars are still playing twister with their whip.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
    Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
      Dear soul, for all is well."

  A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
    I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
      Suddenly scaled the light.

  Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
    The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
      In her high palace there.

  And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
    "Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
      Sleeps on his luminous ring."

  To which my soul made answer readily:
    "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
      So royal-rich and wide."

* * * *

  Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
    In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
      A flood of fountain-foam.

  And round the cool green courts there ran a row
    Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
      Of spouted fountain-floods.

  And round the roofs a gilded gallery
    That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
      Dipt down to sea and sands.

  From those four jets four currents in one swell
    Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
      Lit up a torrent-bow.

  And high on every peak a statue seem'd
    To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
      From out a golden cup.

  So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
    My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
      And that sweet incense rise?"

  For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
    And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd,
      Burnt like a fringe of fire.

  Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
    Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
      And tipt with frost-like spires.

* * *

  Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
    That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
      Well-pleased, from room to room.

  Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
    All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
      And change of my still soul.

  For some were hung with arras green and blue,
    Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
      His wreathed bugle-horn.

  One seem'd all dark and red--a tract of sand,
    And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
      Lit with a low large moon.

  One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
    You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
      Beneath the windy wall.

  And one, a full-fed river winding slow
    By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
      With shadow-streaks of rain.

  And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
    In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
      And hoary to the wind.

  And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
    Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
      And highest, snow and fire.

  And one, an English home--gray twilight pour'd
    On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
      A haunt of ancient Peace.

  Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
    As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
      Not less than truth design'd.

* * *

  Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
    In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
      Sat smiling, babe in arm.

  Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
    Near gilded *****-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
      An angel look'd at her.

  Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
    A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
      That said, We wait for thee.

  Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
    In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
      And watch'd by weeping queens.

  Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
    To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear
      Of wisdom and of law.

  Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
    And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
      A summer fann'd with spice.

  Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
    From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
      The mild bull's golden horn.

  Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
    Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
      Above the pillar'd town.

  Nor these alone; but every legend fair
    Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
      Not less than life, design'd.

* * *

  Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
    Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
      The royal dais round.

  For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
    Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
      And somewhat grimly smiled.

  And there the Ionian father of the rest;
    A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
      From cheek and throat and chin.

  Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
    Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
      With interchange of gift.

  Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
    With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
      So wrought, they will not fail.

  The people here, a beast of burden slow,
    Toil'd onward, *****'d with goads and stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
      The heads and crowns of kings;

  Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
    All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
      And trusted any cure.

  But over these she trod: and those great bells
    Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
      To sing her songs alone.

  And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame
    Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large brow'd Verulam,
      The first of those who know.

  And all those names, that in their motion were
    Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
      In diverse raiment strange:

  Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,
    Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
      Rivers of melodies.

  No nightingale delighteth to prolong
    Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
      Throb thro' the ribbed stone;

  Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
    Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
      Lord of the senses five;

  Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
    And let the world have peace or wars,
'T is one to me." She--when young night divine
      Crown'd dying day with stars,

  Making sweet close of his delicious toils--
    Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
      In hollow'd moons of gems,

  To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,
    "I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
      Be flatter'd to the height.

  "O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
    O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
      My Gods, with whom I dwell!

  "O God-like isolation which art mine,
    I can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
      That range on yonder plain.

  "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
    They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
      And drives them to the deep."

  Then of the moral instinct would she prate
    And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full accomplish'd Fate;
      And at the last she said:

  "I take possession of man's mind and deed.
    I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
      But contemplating all."

* * * *

  Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
    Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
      And intellectual throne.

  And so she throve and prosper'd; so three years
    She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
      Struck thro' with pangs of hell.

  Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
    God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
      Plagued her with sore despair.

  When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight
    The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite
      The kingdom of her thought.

  Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
    Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood
      Laughter at her self-scorn.

  "What! is not this my place of strength," she said,
    "My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
      Since my first memory?"

  But in dark corners of her palace stood
    Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
      And horrible nightmares,

  And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
    And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
      That stood against the wall.

  A spot of dull stagnation, without light
    Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
      Making for one sure goal.

  A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,
    Left on the shore, that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
      Their moon-led waters white.

  A star that with the choral starry dance
    Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
      Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

  Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.
    "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:
      One deep, deep silence all!"

  She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,
    Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
      Lost to her place and name;

  And death and life she hated equally,
    And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
      No comfort anywhere;

  Remaining utterly confused with fears,
    And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
      And all alone in crime:

  Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
    With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
      Of human footsteps fall.

  As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
    In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
      Moan of an unknown sea;

  And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound
    Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found
      A new land, but I die."

  She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.
    There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
      And save me lest I die?"

  So when four years were wholly finished,
    She threw her royal robes away.
"Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
      "Where I may mourn and pray.

  "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are
    So lightly, beautifully built:
Perchance I may return with othe

I've been debating
on whether or not
I should speak up
on why these words scare me.

I've been thinking
on whether or not
I should post this, express myself,
but wouldn't I sound like an attention seeker?

I've been wanting
to tell someone,
not when I'm inebriated,
but when I'm very much ready to tell what happened.

When we used to be friends,
"used to be",
you reassured me that my grades will be fine.
I didn't know you meant it that way.

You messaged me, saying
to "come over;
I can teach you all the subjects;
just come over."

But instead of teaching me subjects,
you taught me how to fear;
you taught me all the ways a man
could violate someone without conscience.

you taught me
that you can use people emotionally,
to be able to use them for your own good,
and make them feel like they still owe you.

you taught me
how to hate myself even more,
how to pretend everything was fine
and then mess me up.

you told me
to come over
again, and again, and again,
and I had to keep on lying that I can't; but you wouldn't stop.

you touched me;
every single time you make contact with my skin,
my insides feel sick, and my mind
goes into overdrive; I keep blaming myself.

you made me feel like I was okay;
you told me whatever ****** thing I did was fine;
I was truly afraid, but you;
you told everyone I sent you nudes when I didn't.

you made me feel okay.
for once, you were the only person who made me feel
like the world was fine, and I forgave you.
countless of times, I forgave you,
because I'm still hoping there's still good in you.

but you made me feel
that all the ****** things in the world
were okay; but you embarrassed me.
you made me feel hate for myself.

you made me feel disgusting.
when you tried to force me to come over,
when you kept asking me over, and over, and over again,
you scared me.

i wish i hadn't agreed in the first place.
i wish i weren't stupid enough to actually think
you had the best intentions;
you paraded ****** acts as if it were a prize.

even the slightest touch, you scare me.
you try to grab my ID and unclasp it from my lanyard,
you pass by me from behind,
and I get scared when I can feel your arm brush against my chest and bottom.

you're doing this on purpose, but I have no evidence.

I wish I could
unknow you
like I would
undo a knot--

over, above
under and through
my mind untangled
from the thoughts of you

but I find that
unknowing you
is less like unraveling
stubborn strings

and a little more like
trying to unclasp
a relentless grip
around my neck

your hand runs up my thigh
i'm flushed
your hand feels under my shirt
i'm counting the seconds in my head
you unclasp my bra
i'm enveloped by goosebumps
you notice i'm nervous
i'm beyond nervous
you tell me everything's ok
i'm alone
you pick my cherry
i get nothing in return

I see her ******* in the night.

My tongue thirsty to make her mine.

Letting the devil inside take over.

I slowly open her door and enter.

My eyes glowing red in the darkness.

I thrown her onto the bed and let demons take over as I pull off her shirt.

I hear her say no as I slide off her pants and bite her stomach.

The devil asks for more.

I unclasp her bra and throw it to the wall and begin to bite.

My hands slide down her sides and slowly comes off her white laced *******.

I kiss down her body and feel her shiver.

The devil possesses us both as she begins to take off my clothes.

We ride out our fantasies as the devil watches.

I leave her alone in the room to think it was a dream.

Took away her innocence.

Just because my demons possessed me.

For my sixteenth birthday she gave me a locket
Which I keep inside a bag, inside a box, inside of my drawer
All shiny and silver, with initials engraved
Carved on its back the date forever saved
It is resting undisturbed, never worn out
Though I try it out from time to time
Put it on by the mirror and wonder to myself
This is who I would be had things stayed the same
I shake my heavy head, unclasp it from my neck
The last piece of you at last is removed
And yes, I do try to forgive
But to this day that locket stays
Inside of a bag, in a box, at the bottom of my drawer

I don't put it on anymore

“Unbind
Unclasp
Uncover
Uncurl
Unfurl
Undo
Unfasten
Unfold
Unhing­e
Unhook
Unleash
Unlink
Unmask
Unroll
Unveil
Unclip
Unlace
Unzip
­Untie
Unbutton
Unlock”

“Undress.”
“Understood.”

Unravel

Sing your praises on high
to long since deafened ears.

Build monuments to your sins
of all the bloodshed and tears.

From cultures wiped out
on your righteous crusades.

Just like the Druids
your religions will fade.

There are no gods to save you,
no one to hear your pleas.

So unclasp your hands,
get off your knees.

People need saving
yet we sit idly by.

Whispering to the clouds,
waiting to die.

It is the miller's daughter,
  And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
  That trembles in her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle
  About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
  In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
  And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy *****,
  With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

I have chosen You.
Sweet and handsome mortal, come to me…

Whisper to me your longings,
and I shall tickle your ear with my saccharine breath.
I shall take you to places
where only gods and goddesses roam.

Aware am I of how my radiant beauty entrances you...
Be thankful to the Fates that it is you I have chosen.
I have sprung forth from Ocean's foam,
but we shall churn that sea...
Flowers at my feet would pale
to the flowers that spring forth from my heart

How I know too well that my eyes mesmerize
A twinkle from the windows of my soul
and I know I have captured you.
I would gladly take off these necklaces ‘round my supple neck
if it means that your lips trail soft kisses instead…

I would happily unclasp these brooches in my hair,
and let my flowing tresses
tickle your gorgeous face and body,
as I take my turn to adorn you with my kisses.

I shall discard these golden robes made by the Kharites and the Horai
and reveal my nubile body for you to explore
with your eyes…
…with your hands
with your lips…

Let the Seasons be forgotten,
as we move to only know of Love.

I have chosen You.
Sweet and handsome mortal, Come to me…

Have you ever noticed how the paths the stars travel across the sky depend entirely upon on the way our hands move across each other's bodies?

And how new stars are born when I unhook your dress; new planets, when I unclasp your bra.

And how - when you untie your hair, whole new galaxies are formed, and float off into the nebula as your hair falls down around us.

Have you felt the cosmic trembling of my beard along your earlobe?

Or how - your eyelash sweeping across my chin sends showers of meteors to the end of time?

And how - the slower we proceed with our ritual, the slower, more gently, the earth will spin; the more elegant, more beautiful, the universe will unfold?

And how - we can even go back in time; to live and relive the stories we want retold.

Have you noticed how - all the Universe mirrors us?  

How - every experience and all of existence depend upon the extent of our adoration for each other?

How - we can even go back to the time before the earth was formed - for our love does not need the earth - we are two celestial bodies; nothing will disturb us, nothing will interfere.  

Off in the distance - the planets and stars that are the children of our whispers and moans, fade into eternity.

You see - if we love with enough elegance; adore each other with enough passion; we can even go back to before the entire universe began - to the time with no place, and the place before time.

For our love needs no time to love.

Be still, my love.

Look around us.  
Look at the delicate darkness.
Listen to the infinite silence.
Experience the magnificent stillness.  

It is just you and me.  
Nothing has ever happened.
And, all that is beautiful has yet to come.

Let us create a universe of beauty...

I slide my fingers into the aether of your thighs, to the center of the Universe to become - to the place on your body that will create everything.  For - the Cosmos will come from you, my Love.

Gently - I caress the sphere of your Landica.
I turn it, set it in motion, make it revolve - the way the Earth and all planets some day - are going to revolve once they come into being.

And - as I circulate the cosmic seed of the Universe we are creating, I hang upon the celestial majesty of your lip, and wait for you to utter your primordial - Big Bang.

I hate myself too much to ******* tonight.
I will not hide my hands down my pants, caress my inner thigh
but observe prettier girls with ******* like peaches
and wish mine were as dainty, fruits in a lined basket –
when you unclasp any of my hooks all you get is sadness.

a bone colored evening sighs razor blades across the sky
deep seeded (den)rut tur(ned) on an axis,
spinning the evening into an oddening.
the pantry is bare.

somewhere, a baby cries for the love of a mother
who is slumbering in half-sleep,
hoping the child will forget she knows her
and forget to weep.

the sun dipped it's radiance hours ago
to wake another part of the world,
leaving a chaperone dimly lit with wonder.
moon-gazers stare.

"Why is he there?"

legs are tangled, twisted fates,
star-crossed lovers long to touch
under the watchful pin-****** of the night sky.
souls align to be snipped of the mate's burden.

And the cows, with their moon howls,
lay low in swept grass showers,
watching the entwined shadows
watch them with fascism fascination.
waiting to pounce.

hushed silence fills the air.
hands clasp and unclasp,
fitting in the empty spaces you never notice
until they're filled; emptied again.
the sky blows a wish.
light is exstingui(shed).

When doubt and fear attack my heart
My world adopts a somber hue,
As the battle rages, I panic,
But then I find my peace in you

When I can no longer believe
That God's mercy will see me through,
You come to me, rewriting my faith,
And I find salvation in you

While the unending jolts of life
Keep me mindful of pain and rue,
I know wherein lies my remedy:
I find healing comfort in you

At times my sun sets too early
And the darkness obstructs my view;
My feet may wander dubious paths,
But I find forgiveness in you

O, keeper of my troubled heart,
With each day my hope you renew,
Please, never unclasp your hand from mine,
For I find my guidance in you

Though my words be inadequate
My dear one, know this to be true:
Whenever I'm lost in life's travails
I always find myself in you

DRAFT
All that glisters is not gold. 7
(To) Those who think not: let it be told. 8
Take heed the lessons I could not grasp, 9
And perhaps your gilt chains might just unclasp. 10

End:
i realized it was (but) the the blind who told me I could not see;
For I slid off my contacts, and saw the same (aureate) world...







I had begun to look upon [] with shame, pity, and disgrace
Angelic _ _ threads no longer etched in his face
The silver lining is gone, gray and rust take its place


Now when I look upon him, 'tis not a look of love, but of pity, shame, and disgrace, because I killed him and made him a prince maybe

I created a world where the rust washed away
Crumbling as easily as freshly fallen snow
The same icy snow that melts into the hearts of the crown's next fallen victim




The sword drops from my hand as I lay in defeat

But the earth never took me as one of its own
My skin and my flesh stood fast on my bones

I laid there and cried for what seemed like a million tears
But even the purest water(add: ,the purest apology,the purest regret) from the depths of my soul could never let the earth take me
My eternal love for you, it will never let me go




Time after time, day after day
Pondering life as it all turns to gray
The leaves and the sky stay the same, always_ _
I laid all alone yet I never did fade.

Time after time, day after day,
I laid all alone waiting for something to change



As I pass though the graveyard I stop and I smile
A flower is laid on an old marble grave
The words on the stone were ones I had known very well
A familiar stone etching of words once carved in my heart
"An ephemeral limerance, ceased at long last"

Sometimes I wonder if these hands are too weak to embrace the ones I love most.
Sometimes I wonder if these hands are too contracted to unclasp and let go.

Sometimes I wonder if these hands are too heavy for anyone to hold.

Oh, how heavy these palms are.

I offer these to you with hopes that I’ll be able to deny myself,

You pry my fingers apart as you put my past on the shelf,

And I feel the grace between my nails calming my hands back into my lap. 

I get so tired doing such a simple task.

All I am and all I have to bring - though I don’t know what that might be - I give to You my everything. 


How I just want you to use these hands.

How I just want you to hold them.

There are too many factors to be remembered,
In each second we are fragmented in so many ways.
There are too many mouths to feed when supplies aren't endless.
Some lose their voice if they are to be ignored.

This is a final call for freedom from memory.
The past is simple in a song, go ahead and live any aspect.
Transcendence at its best, I love the feeling of lightness.
What happened to butterflies? When nervous I only get
Preludes to heart attacks.

Things weigh heavy when they matter,
like a matter of importance.
I wish for this rigid stance to relax,
For strained hands to unclasp.

I watched your lips move
I shook as if the plates shifted when your lips parted

The line from your chin to your neck could unclasp me altogether
but I will
compose - restrain - hold back

I want to walk the bridge of your clavicle
and take my time
unearthing secrets that exist
on the other side of your shoulder blades

I gasp again at my daydream
fingers over lips
processing my full emotions
where-when-how
I wait for lust to move

I am soft with hungry eyes
you feed me
with sharp wit that cuts to my core
Brilliance seeps out
through small holes in me
casting shadow puppets of lovelust and longing
on shimmering walls

I wake and immediately grieve

Let us leave
the decaying cities of our forefathers.
Let us take our last steps upon their blood stained streets
and their disease ridden erections.
Let us return to the sunlight of the meadows
free from the shadows of the skyscrapers.
Let us choke down our last fill of chemically tainted drink.
Let us swallow their last mutated nourishment
Let us unclasp our hands from prayer
to the false gods
calling true spirituality fallacy
In a land where all are strangers
let us look into our neighbors eyes again.
Let us become masters of craft
and not jack of all trades
Let us find true happiness
and not substitute it with ignorant bliss
Let us pump blood back into
vacant, desolate hearts.

Let us destroy the voids within our souls
before it swallows humanity whole

All this feels unfair
Watch my life spiral down
Truth is you keep unhappiness
Hidden somewhere buried underground

The day chains you wrapped around
Reality wriggle from your grasp
The day I escape for good
Your clutches I will unclasp

Able to make own mistakes
Is power in free will?
That is taken away therefore
Cruel prophecy I must fufill

There is not a solution to be had
Not any compromise to be found
Guard the door to maturity
Stubborn minds not able to reach common ground

Get bent out of shape
Each time go a tiny bit wild
Try to talk to you like an adult
Audacity makes me behave as a child

Trapped greif you need to cause
Gave me no other way out
A moment of panic I flee
Taking worst possible route

Won't come to your senses
Strip naked all you do fear
Nothing left to lose
What the **** will you gain by keeping me here?

If the train leaves the station at the same time as another and they collide at a certain speed, how great is the disaster?
Well if two bodies collide at a certain place and time with a designated amount of passion, does the same disaster occur?
Does the ticking time bomb begin the moment you unclasp her bra as you whisper that you love her?
Breath defrosting her trembling ribcage as your arms slide up the sheets, and where two eyes meet, a spark lights the fuse. And you have everything to gain but both of you will lose.
Two "I love you"s meet at a school building, in a courtyard in December but only one will remember what it feels like to feel everything you've ever known slip from your grasp and leave you on your own. One will see the moment for what it truly is, a heartwarming moment, one innocent kiss. But when these opposing lips touch and the tear drips from her cheeks, he'll reach to wipe them and she'll turn her face despite his efforts to save her that she never really asked for. She was lucky to meet him now she's lucky to have met him.
Someday soon he'll disappear and every night when the moon gleams through her window she'll see him. It seems she never will forget all of her mistakes, all her regrets. And to think it all started with one head on collision where love met lust and promises were too early to meet trust.

-k.d.

I don't remember much
but the detective going mad
trying to unclasp hands, reaching for air
and major Metcalf saving me
what i remember most is
running, running for your embrace
looking up into your face
that i'd never thought I'd see again
I was giddy with joy and shaking with fright
you hold me close,
i explain how i once taught the children
that i couldn't help. how i thought you were the murderer
and you hold me tight
tell me it's alright
that's when they dim the lights

From somewhere
elegant string
plucked vibrates
gentle waves on
perfumed air

moon full-beam
reflects its burning star.

let me unclasp your gown.
let me unclasp your soul.

i. let us offer each other a sign of peace. you turn and you reach and there is your hand and here is their hand and here is your heart, between. your grip is firm, hands not yet calloused, and the words like a mantra fall from your lips. peace be with you. peace be with you.

ii. the crucifix hangs above your bed, painted gold, and like gold it glitters. you kneel on the floor and the wood is rough on your skin and you clasp your hands and say father, father. you have heard of a war and though it is not yet yours still you kneel and you pray and you think father, save me.

iii. your hands shake.

iv. war has come like revelations said it would and you rub your hands together so they won’t seize up. you thank god and you curse god for the 1A stamped on your enlistment form.

v. you read your bible: do not think that i have come to bring peace to the earth. i have not come to bring peace, but a sword. you read your bible and you think: this is not what i remember.

vi. the war does not end before you get there. it makes you lose track of the days, the weeks, the months you have been in europe and away from home and away from god. you wear your crucifix around your neck but the chain is hidden by your uniform and in the winter of the bois jacques, it burns your skin like a brand. father, father you pray in your foxhole, but the noise of artillery drowns out your words so you stop.

vii. you look at julian in the snow and his arms are spread out like wings. the blood bubbles from his neck and seeps into the ground and you watch and you think, war is hell. you leave julian to the krauts and cannot ask forgiveness because you don’t want this sin wiped away.

viii. on the ground, in the snow, julian was a crucifix. you don’t pray with your own anymore.

ix. father, father you say to the sky. if this patrol kills you, you won’t be going to heaven. your gun is heavy and your ghosts are heavier and you think of a classroom on a sunny afternoon. thou shalt not ****** you wrote in cramped, careful handwriting and you think:

x. i am a murderer.

xi. today and tomorrow and ten days from now blend into one in austria and you want to stay here for the rest of your life. your crucifix beats in time with your heart and you haven’t looked at it since haguenau. you don’t know if you want to. you don’t know if you can.

xii. and then you are home and the crucifix above your bed is painted gold. do you know what happened to me over there, you ask it. do you know what i did to survive. you take the chain of the cross around your neck and unclasp it with shaking fingers. you place it by your bedside. the watch you stole off the corpse of a dead german ticks away the seconds. you watch the hand creep around to twelve and you think father, father. you do not kneel.

xiii. forgive me father, for i have sinned. the words leave a metallic taste in your mouth.

xiv. you read your bible: be broken, o peoples, and be shattered; and give ear, all remote places of the earth. gird yourselves, yet be shattered; gird yourselves, yet be shattered. you close your bible and you think:

xv. peace be with you.

You never get accustomed to saying goodbye,
not to family, not to friends... It never ceases
to be sad watching them leave, even when you
understand that they have to go... You never
stop yearning for an extra second that won't be enough
and through sparkly tears laugh... You never stop
feeling empty just after someone dear in your life
leaves even when you knew they are going leave
as soon as they came but then that's human nature...
We are not trees to just drop the old leaves of connection
or to forget the roots beneath the soils of family and friendship...
We ain't flowers to just watch the beautiful petals fall
because we were created to understand and feel
for every connection we create in our universe, be it
an electric charge, a glimpse of a smile, a second of eye
contact, a handshake, a wink... it's never about how long
you've known each other, the length only makes it harder...
You never get used to saying goodbye, you never just let go
of the touch, the palms may unclasp, but the hearts remain
entwined... That's why we miss people like you brother...
Safe Journey Androcles Nyonje, may you always remember
that we love you, and like Karen Kingsbury wrote in my favorite novel "Oceans Apart'
"Love you" means we are always together even when Oceans apart...
So know that even when latitudes apart, we'll always be close to you at heart...
Bon Voyage... and come again bombolini

As drops descend from his face, rolling past his heart to be soaked up by whoever might pass underneath

Blanketed in a wispy layer of mist
he grips her hand tightly

Wanting to get up from the place he’s been anchored to for so long but not ready to
The dull sinking feeling that resides over him, pushing him further and further deeper

into the surface

These absent buildings clinging around only setting him in his place,
at the edge of perception

What is left of his mind begins to drift, leaching out like a plague of activity across a circuit board

And exactly like a switch, he finds something she hid inside of him
An incendiary note, left
Time itself seems to stop for a moment,
sparking from him

Setting her soul ablaze
so vibrantly scorching her existence

And so, I stand
In witness

Of such an ethereal sight
and see
just the smallest details

where drops turn to streams and paralysis turns into a rigid tremble

Managing to unclasp his hands from where they were
he shivers

Placing his hands onto the pavement
unfamiliarity seeping out his fingertips and spilling

the snow melting softly around him

Unknowing of where exactly I am, he tries to compose himself
But he doesn’t notice that his legs have gone unused for so long

Struggling to stand like a newly born lamb he stumbles
thankful for the absence of those buildings

His breath unconcealed in the spiritless atmosphere
Caution in the wind veiled by snowflakes

falling

Just like before, the sheets of ice lay atop, varnishing what seems to be a landscape of optimism
Obscured by crimson flesh and soft chimes of melancholy that resonates within him,

a sun rises

He begins to stand
The mist circling his feet, trailing him as he makes his way beyond the buildings

Beyond the colourless town
Beyond his travesty
His heart still so sharply yearning for what once was but couldn’t be
to something more

And here I stand
A distance so short

away from him

in an entirely parallel world
Watching him as he takes the first steps out of the mist
closer, and closer

he steps

his face, as cold as ice
detached from this harbour
transcending gradually into consciousness

I decide to put my reservations aside and reach out for him
the light piercing through his lifeforce
irises so profound

an abyss of magnificence
alluding to what could only be the unfaltering desire of inception
the temptations that captivate him
releasing him from where he once stood

and so he realises;
The snow is no longer dripped with red
and it is instead

an eternal springtime in his mind

enlightened
the new surroundings
curing him from the dangers of his thought
beaming with new hope

and for the first time

I see in clarity

an angels wings repair itself
from the depths of grief and desolation.

and then I weep.

For nothing could have prepared me for the sight of this journey.