beneath the star-struck, eternal vast,
    painted black, blue-grey black -
voices blister of the past.

haven't felt this way in quite some time.
    the restless nights. this cold, empty bed.
unrhythmic breaths flood my chest
    as I watch my mother die
                         for the second time.

it's moments like these you never forget.
    find yourself waking in a cold, hot sweat.
mind tracing every syllable, every breath;
    remembering every word you should have said.

with eyes like a beating heart;
   smells of daisy wanderlust.
soul-fire like passion's spark;
   worn-out smiles like last night's luck.

. entertainers of
the lost abstract...

i don't know:
personally?

i just like,
the way it sounds..

akin to something
with chaos
inclined:

        and i was
the devil that danced
to the song
of the misfortune
of:
              seeing
the glitter in the moon,

and the moon
and i
were stunned:
why, why o why
am i left intact?

i've been given life
but no peace
to fathom it with...

ever consider
harrowing
a harvest's worth
of a season
by sowing
nothing but
salt...
   on the budding
eager grain?

the irrelevance
of a dylan...
compared
to a cohen:
via a...
                     cover...

to have lived is
to have died a thousand's
worth of the unrhythmic
beat...
in symphony
to the equation
summarized in
the rubric of
the word: heart...

heave my solitary
Atlas: one more day
worth with you
and worth of you
and all that becomes:
the lost "missing"
grey area of -

you can almost
finalize yourself at
the prospect of
a grey-square
    in the vein of
  Beckett not being:
either of those
  compound
                      skives...

i have a mind
and a heart like a lottery:
yet for all
that deserves this
and any other
comparison:
to tenderness
and no veal
                to a beef...

you do know,
that
they do not advertize
work in a slaughterhouse
in the job center?
you do know that?
i could certainly
pet a cat,
as i'd be able to
"pet" a cow before a:
chow mein;
enough to fiddle with
yer finite gobs in
what becomes a:

  you'll tire of
the anonymous tirade...

i once thought of
Saturday:
had nothing to do with
something akin
to sitting it out
on a claustrophilia
in a living room...

the day's baggage
and a non-to-send
bask for a postcard's worth
to appeal to the green
of: somehow...
             anise...

                   mediocre
mellow me...
                       punching-bag
ergonomics:

      to heave this weight
as the weight that
        lost the purpose
of being: orientating...

              i...

                   forget
whatever remains
of what's to come via
the collapse
of the affirmative
in a scuttling
  variation of:

             chasing
the shadow that gave
the chase a genesis,
a cul de sac exodus...
and the shadow:

mighty avant-garde
clues for:
a lost breath...

man as assured:
the pebble
           and humanity
as the:
   prior to all
minor stakes in
reviving
the gloat from dino.

the little history of man:
in the omnipresent
hyena's eye
          for the ever
resonant:
           calculated
demise of the narrator...

for the
   / a world to see:
is no world:
    in prospect to be
          - even midning
a completion
   with the composure
of a suffix...

rigid boy,
     educated for nothing
more than a brand
of shackles,
    and of envy...

and...

                a testimony
of what becomes:
best - assured -
           could ever time
lodge into itself:
                   an amnesia
and become
                   a person?

hues in blue:
    bound by:
thesaurus...
                azure...
  and... a Sunday's tip of:
what isn't
the collective mind
for the invigorating
mess of soul..
              
            a serious literary
endeavor...
   hues in blue:
brush strokes like
accents and...

            it's hardly an
algebra, or some mathematical
abstract...

                 f(Σ) = ι

consciousness: via the function
of the sum: man,
              sum: of man...
     "off" man...
                      
                          f(Σ) = ι...

which is a contradiction...
     sensationalist journalism
would agree:
the function of the sum of man
    = the isolated man: iota...
but it doesn't...

shackled buckling of
a man versed in
science:
having no profound
scratch at the humanities...

sooner come death
sooner i will arrive
at a clarification of:
not having to orientate
myself
with a "self"-worth
of introspect
in an en masse
      with no retrospect.

The campus was all but silent
Rushing water, whistle of the wind
Unrhythmic, the two untrained melodies
Yet they seem to form a single song
The grass is all uniform
Shape and size they are all the same
But alas they are unique
Some carry strong patches of brown
Deep into the shallow roots
Some with scattered leaves
And little pink flowers
Autumn is approaching

you’re the sort of person
who cuts their fingers against
spiral notebooks

too soft, too shallow–
a reflection found by
Narcissus after an autumn shower

where even he could not
drown himself in your embrace

but you’ve only ever known hollow
things:
the quill of a plucked feather,
the darkness behind your eye-sockets,
the smile concealed by your teeth

it feasts upon you, this emptiness
like a chilopod’s unrhythmic gait against
your brain–
scooping up the patterned sulci
with its hungry pincers
until paradoxically, nothing, nihil
remains;

so how could you ever know
enough affection to
perform an intimacy like
death?

In night, day, morning and imperfect comas.
Recurring three figures of one sole meaning.
Each day, its variety of clouds casts different states of mind.
The unrhythmic, unkind and overwhelmingly melancholic.
The pleasant, warm and astonishingly beautiful.
The timing and place of its occurring, determines whether to reminisce and moisturise one's skin, or to wander through rainy forests of what-ifs, and waterlog one's skin.

I want more than just your hand
thumb rubbing circles over my calluses
I want more than just your lips
awkward and unrhythmic
I want more than just your words
mumbling with downcast eyes

I want your fingertips
fluttering with curiosity
I want your tongue
quenched with my saliva
I want your promise
that this is more than just childish lust

The sadness has me helpless as the sand
Awaits for waves to drown upon with salt
Yet even granules know when tides do land
But pain's unrhythmic swells are timed to fault.
With heaviness befalling on my view:
That better be the air, if none found here;
Nor ever were, nor should have been or knew,
For none about the Sun can mine endear.
Each breath deems stolen out from greater lungs:
A weary war my will is not to win
For yonder cloud is death and death's all tongues
Inhale for why? When lifers is life's sin.

Relentless as the waves, such flows the pain
But with me and have left the deepest stain.

MEANING AND RHYTHM
Poetry, you are the truth,
gliding in the sky above.
You descend in rhythmic lines,
chanted by the lips of muse.

With the lyre in her hand,
and the thougts inside her mind,
she sings with her splendid beats
the essence of the whole life.

All her feelings have deep sense,
and she sings them in good rhythm.
She dislikes the trivial thoughts,
written in unrhythmic style.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
____________

Heart dropping.  Flesh darkening.  Flames sparking
in the hollow holes of my shattered heart, brutal
scars surfacing my broken body, falling beneath
the foggy and empty skies of unwritten goodbyes
and harmful diction ripping my existence apart
as I fought for recognition in a hazardous
and unrhythmic world.  They did not love me
because I was a gay man born from a different
dimension, somewhere beyond their time,
somewhere in rotten and dried-up lands,
a sickening soul with no wings and dreams,
no serene beginnings or endings, an unmoving
star and moon vanishing away with no magic
to light up the world ever again.  They poured
toxic chemicals all over my sizzling skin
to cleanse the gayness from me, held a sharp,
large knife at my throat, carving the disturbing
letters, “You are a filthy disgrace to this universe.”
And as the tears ran down my pastel face, the pain
becoming a monstrous song rumbling through
my lungs, razor-edged nouns and pronouns
struck with thunder, lightning rods skyrocketing
towards the crazed caves of my esophagus.  
There was no reason for living, no season for
winning, no oxygen for breathing, no love
to rescue me from this mugshot moment.
They considered me an outcast, a disgusting
******, a rusted corpse divorced, torn, worn out,
bleeding inside and out, waiting to die at any
given time.