There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong
I dreamed a dream in times gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung
No wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he'll come to me
That we'll live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed.

Dear picture of mine comeback!
My dear picture comeback!
Comeback and leave.
Let the helpless lovers
rising from the tide of memoirs
-with anger their shadows revealed
by the light of stars-
and the chronic from their forms
of lust,
let it fade away harmonic and undoubtedly
in the wave of their union.

Dear picture of mine comeback.

Indefinite and freely dead
by the envy of gods,
untasted the essence of creation.
Comeback and leave..
and as you leave,
let the lovers;at the only sky
-their own-forever there,
in the last summer of their life.

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head



The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall.

Of mighty kings of Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away;

The world was fair in Durin's Day.



A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.



There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote,

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built,

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.



Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang

And at the gates the trumpets rang.



The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

"Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,
Like the clashed edges of two words that ****."
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.
Or was it that I mocked myself alone?
I wish that I might be a thinking stone.
The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was. And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.

II

A red bird flies across the golden floor.
It is a red bird that seeks out his choir
Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing.
A torrent will fall from him when he finds.
Shall I uncrumple this much-crumpled thing?
I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;
For it has come that thus I greet the spring.
These choirs of welcome choir for me farewell.
No spring can follow past meridian.
Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss
To make believe a starry connaissance.

III

Is it for nothing, then, that old Chinese
Sat tittivating by their mountain pools
Or in the Yangtse studied out their beards?
I shall not play the flat historic scale.
You know how Utamaro's beauties sought
The end of love in their all-speaking braids.
You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath.
Alas! Have all the barbers lived in vain
That not one curl in nature has survived?
Why, without pity on these studious ghosts,
Do you come dripping in your hair from sleep?

IV

This luscious and impeccable fruit of life
Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.
When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,
Untasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.
An apple serves as well as any skull
To be the book in which to read a round,
And is as excellent, in that it is composed
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.
But it excels in this, that as the fruit
Of love, it is a book too mad to read
Before one merely reads to pass the time.

V

In the high west there burns a furious star.
It is for fiery boys that star was set
And for sweet-smelling virgins close to them.
The measure of the intensity of love
Is measure, also, of the verve of earth.
For me, the firefly's quick, electric stroke
Ticks tediously the time of one more year.
And you? Remember how the crickets came
Out of their mother grass, like little kin,
In the pale nights, when your first imagery
Found inklings of your bond to all that dust.

VI

If men at forty will be painting lakes
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,
There is a substance in us that prevails.
But in our amours amorists discern
Such fluctuations that their scrivening
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink
Into the compass and curriculum
Of introspective exiles, lecturing.
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.

VII

The mules that angels ride come slowly down
The blazing passes, from beyond the sun.
Descensions of their tinkling bells arrive.
These muleteers are dainty of their way.
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat
Their shrilling tankards on the table-boards.
This parable, in sense, amounts to this:
The honey of heaven may or may not come,
But that of earth both comes and goes at once.
Suppose these couriers brought amid their train
A damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

VIII

Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.

IX

In verses wild with motion, full of din,
Loudened by cries, by clashes, quick and sure
As the deadly thought of men accomplishing
Their curious fates in war, come, celebrate
The faith of forty, ward of Cupido.
Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceit
Is not too ***** for your broadening.
I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everything
For the music and manner of the paladins
To make oblation fit. Where shall I find
Bravura adequate to this great hymn?

X

The fops of fancy in their poems leave
Memorabilia of the mystic spouts,
Spontaneously watering their gritty soils.
I am a yeoman, as such fellows go.
I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs,
No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits.
But, after all, I know a tree that bears
A semblance to the thing I have in mind.
It stands gigantic, with a certain tip
To which all birds come sometime in their time.
But when they go that tip still tips the tree.

XI

If *** were all, then every trembling hand
Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,
That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shout
Doleful heroics, pinching gestures forth
From madness or delight, without regard
To that first, foremost law. Anguishing hour!
Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,
Keen to the point of starlight, while a frog
Boomed from his very belly odious chords.

XII

A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,
On sidelong wing, around and round and round.
A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground,
Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I
Observed, when young, the nature of mankind,
In lordly study. Every day, I found
Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world.
Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,
And still pursue, the origin and course
Of love, but until now I never knew
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

Planks, splintering in solidity
Together twined in tedium
Curving cords of mated metal
Lost in ludicrous loops
Twines of tetanus protrude
Danger danger
Rising flying roaring floating
Above the stillborn trains
Arching acrid aerial arms
Lazy concrete spiral, neighbor snail
Inverse slide with railings
Rumble rumble try and grumble
Jitter in jumpy juxtaposition
Guts of grotesque giants
Flayed flawed under flaming flight
Blink away oblivion
Orange and omnificent, opaque concern
Useful hangnail, table scraps
Rise above
Shocked stillness soon stumbling
Ornamental oasis for the oracles
Unseen unheard untasted unsmelled
Unfeeling unused to understanding
Carry me across
Fly me over
Lift me beyond
Suspend.
Glimpse the unparalleled phenomenon
Ribs of steel, rain has parted
Seeping to the soul
Buzzing through the boards
Immobile, cradle in the wind
Twist
Take off your sunglasses
Be sure to look around as you pass through

Every word that falls from my lips is untasted, preserved in its bitterness by the space between me and you like a vice that ferments and grows in silence.
But in the reality that a tree will still make a sound if it falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, I’ll chance to tell your unlistening ears a story that fell into my head today.
I saw myself in a room, in the same reality as your past, but in my present body,
Knowing all that happened between us, and aware of a stigma that does not exist between us as of this moment in your past.
You are a silhouette, a small brown head, among how many other small heads in a classroom, around a table, on the stairways?
Elementary school, maybe even middle school. Years before I know you and you knew me,
When we were separate and had not joined, when existed but were unknown.
Maybe I was a teacher in a classroom, or just another student visiting, on some educational excuse, and watched you, and assessed you. Quiet, and with a quiet something wrong with your body. You were a defect. There was a quiet acceptance and maybe there was a defiance in your brown eyes. Chocolate brown eyes, or iodine? Or gasoline?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
What if I had the chance?
In this reality, I was, for the only time, taller than you. My shadow fell on you, but you were absorbed in a book. Typical. My shadow was too contrasted from the ink to divert your attention.
And here, I had the upper hand.
You were not on your guard, friend. You were trusting, or something like it. Maybe it was the childish, young semblance of cocky assuredness that you were immortal.
Maybe, in this instance, you were innocent.
Maybe you had not yet given up on the fact that none of us ever were.
Something was in my hand, as I stood over your shoulder. It could have been anything to fit the picture, a pencil, a pen. A sharpie.
My eyes were not on the object, so I don’t know. It felt long, sharp, and on the fence about what it was meant to do, to create or to destroy.
I too, was on the fence.
The classroom, suddenly (if it had been filled with filler characters in the vision before this transition) was empty. I, the unperceived grim, had the faceless and unbiased entity of silence on my side as my own personal weapon.
I could do it. I could hurt you. I could hurt you, and make you hurt, and make you bleed that blood through all your organs and your dysfunctional body that has something wrong with it that I will never understand through experience but was left to guess about because I had to trouble myself with something about you to show that I cared, in some form.
Maybe, it would make me whole, would keep me from being dysfunctional. Me, not having given up on the fact that none of us were ever functional to begin with.
Unaware that I was still there, a hovering, self-interested ghost, you turned a page and kept reading in the empty, nondescript classroom that my own mind had designed for you.
I wondered, in that moment, out of nowhere, where all the other kids were.
Knowing you, you had made the independent decision of keeping your solitude. It seems like something even a younger version of you would do. Something that always made me laugh a little, because your comfort with being alone made me uncomfortable in the way that misunderstanding something always makes someone feel uncomfortable with their own perception of reality.
But there was always the chance that (and I always wondered this): the other kids had not wanted to play with you at all, and in defense, you made the choice to be alone.
Was that fortress that you built yourself for the miser of a kingdom of one? Or did it make you feel like a monarch encased in a palace?
You will never, ever answer me that for the simple reason (and you would be right in saying) that I don’t deserve to know what the answer would be.
But back to the vision, in which you are defenseless and under my thumb, and I have been stalling myself from contemplating the morality of my choices.
The water had not yet crossed under the bridge, you see, and I was keeping myself in limbo.
Limbo, I find, is often easier than admitting that you are telling the truth (and finding that you don’t like it) or lying to yourself to make yourself feel better, but always having that little weight against your chest to tell you that you are a liar, and that is the ugly truth of the matter.
I stood over your pale, face with the budding defiance in your chocolate (iodine? gasoline?) eyes. And I would win, if I wanted to.
I took a step into the oblivion of my oblivion, the vision of my vision, the suspended reality of this dream world suspended even still within the reality in which you are reading these words-
I asked myself:
Is it possible to avenge yourself before you have been beaten?
In that reality, in which I stood like the reaper over a younger version of you,
before I loved you, before I hated you,
before I gave so much of me that it was somehow allowable for me to call a part of you mine…
I hesitated so quietly that even a literal tree would not have made a sound in the silence of that envisioned void.
Would it make it better, now, to fix something that had not even been given the chance to have been broken?
My God, what a ******* paradox.
The truth, you ungrateful (and I guess rightfully ungrateful, because this was only the mercy that I owed you) acquaintance (because I guess that’s all I have the right to call you, even after all this time and every word that we’ve spat that I still hear in my heart after months and months of typing messages and then deleting them because there is nothing to say to you and I am painfully aware of this distance within every neuron that makes up my own miserable, wretched, beautiful existence) is that I realized that you, small and quiet and alone by choice,
You had done nothing. Not yet. And it was not you that owed my blood.
And it was not you, in that reality, that was owed this apology.
This is an apology that you will never really receive, because although I have tried to find the words to throw at you, you would never, ever take them, because you are the king of the palace you built yourself,
And I’m just a stranger now, knocking at your doors, with a remarkably familiar face.
And as I lowered my hand, and whatever potential weapon was in it, the smaller version of you never turned around.
Secure in your innocence and protected by it.
At least in my innocence, and maybe even still in my hopes and wishful thinking about who we both are,
You are still innocent.
Innocent. Green, without the thorns yet that would someday make me bleed.
The vision ended there. I never saw your face, and you never saw mine. I guess there was no way to even know for sure that it was you, and not just my imagination placing you there for my own musing. Maybe I just wanted to see you.
Not in a naive way, like I miss you. If I miss anything, it is who I thought you were, not who you have proven yourself to be. I’m sure you feel the same way about me.
This vision must reflect a parting of the ways, a final apology and goodbye, though you will almost certainly never read this and even more certainly never acknowledge that you did if you somehow bridged the gap between the classroom reality and the one in which there is an elephant in whatever room we are accidentally trapped in, together, for the space of a moment before one of us steps out the door.
In the vision, I stepped out the door. My back to you, I heard you turn a page of your book, and continue the story from one page break to the beginning of the next sentence.
And in the same manner, reader, so must I.

On Death’s domain intent I fix my eyes,
Where human nature in vast ruin lies:
With pensive mind I search the drear abode,
Where the great conqu’ror has his spoils bestow’d;
There there the offspring of six thousand years
In endless numbers to my view appears:
Whole kingdoms in his gloomy den are ******,
And nations mix with their primeval dust:
Insatiate still he gluts the ample tomb;
His is the present, his the age to come.
See here a brother, here a sister spread,
And a sweet daughter mingled with the dead.
  But, Madam, let your grief be laid aside,
And let the fountain of your tears be dry’d,
In vain they flow to wet the dusty plain,
Your sighs are wafted to the skies in vain,
Your pains they witness, but they can no more,
While Death reigns tyrant o’er this mortal shore.
  The glowing stars and silver queen of light
At last must perish in the gloom of night:
Resign thy friends to that Almighty hand,
Which gave them life, and bow to his command;
Thine Avis give without a murm’ring heart,
Though half thy soul be fated to depart.
To shining guards consign thine infant care
To waft triumphant through the seas of air:
Her soul enlarg’d to heav’nly pleasure springs,
She feeds on truth and uncreated things.
Methinks I hear her in the realms above,
And leaning forward with a filial love,
Invite you there to share immortal bliss
Unknown, untasted in a state like this.
With tow’ring hopes, and growing grace arise,
And seek beatitude beyond the skies.

Let the Moon spotlight
On this masquerade,
Some psalm they say
I think I’ll pray.
As my toes weave beneath
Crushed leaves and starlight imagery,
I think I’ll pray.

We hummed along to every song
We ever knew.
Licking the lyrics out on
Scattered starlit scratchpads
With the tips of our tongues.
Ink-dipped ego trips about love
Etched out top-chart carbon copies.
Our cursive grew sloppy,
But that hardly seemed to matter.
From tattered verses about fictional characters
To Hymns about God
To an aucapella exploring the difference.
Every song seemed to be sung specifically for us
And, Oh, how we both knew it
As our eyes jumped the stars and
Traced the constellations
Searching for inspiration in
The echoes of deteriorated light
From thousands of years before.

You spoke in absolutes.
To which I’d reply vaguely
And we dug up the roots of a tree
That we never let bloom;
Clawing hard and deep at the
Untasted foundation below our feet,
Despite the build-up of dirt
Under our fingernails.
But between the grass-stained knees and
The hail of stars that poured on our backs
We couldn’t find time to breathe,
So accordingly we ****** the sky
And lit up another last kiss
Which we’d miss again in
A matter of minutes
And make a habit of the instance
Exploring a distance supported by
Limp wrists that gave way to
Two-ton daydreams, which always seemed
Just out of reach
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t try like Hell,
With locked-joint elbows and fingers widespread.

And while I read the symphony that the
Wind silently recorded on the back of my hand
I remembered how,
Once,
I whispered a song in your ear
And my breath gave you chills
When I got to your favorite part.

Will the Sun ignite
On this matinee?
It’s safe, they say,
Don’t be afraid.
But their water’s gray,
And it tastes like silent yesterdays.
‘Don’t be afraid.’*

You closed those eyes and smiled that smile
That I write poems about.
But I shouldn’t be allowed to draw out such
Brilliant arched lips
So I ****** it back in mid sentence
Before it could drip
Through the cracks in my teeth.
I’ve chipped so much away beneath this surface
Which our toes cling so tightly to
That my bones have grown black and blue
But I’ll continue
Because this tune makes it worth it
Each time my pick-axe sparks stars when it
Collides with stone.

And amidst the skin and bone framework
Of a canopy sky, it seems to me that
You spoke about the history;
About the end of things, so many times that
For a point,
All you’d breathe is eulogies.
So momentarily
All our songs forgot
That the finest things in life
Truly are free.
That the buzzing of bees
Can be music too.
A tune so true
That even trees will dance,
Their leaves will cast sunrays
In rhythmic waves
Putting ripples in timelines
And making tomorrow’s yesterday
Something worth remembering.

Grateful
for the way
you loosened my tongue
unlocked the longing
let nature, unfettered,
spill forth

For the keys
to the dance floor,
the illusion
of manhood -
the sing-songs,
punch-ups,
lock-ups
and lovers

But that part played,
what's left
is loveless.
You weigh on my mind,
you get in the way,
you pin my arms
and force your way in

My boys are watching.
You'd have them think
this was normal, natural -
you're waiting
with your glistening invitation
to take them down
this perilous path

Wasted
days wasted
they watch.
I wish
myself washed
of this witchcraft.

I'll raise a glass
in this hall of mirrors
then set it down
untasted.
We'll always have
the past, I suppose.
Now please,
just let me be.

Dim the lights
Now light a candle
Walk slowly
The perfect angle
Come close now
Stop and bite your lip
Take your hand
Trace lines by your hip
Yes that's it
In by your navel
Further down
Beneath see-through lace
Touch the crown
Quicken up the pace
Excitement
Come here let me taste
Near the bed
Blankets pushed aside
Sit on top
Put your lips on mine
Push me down
Not yet, take your time
Hands in hair
Love bites on the neck
A whisper
Baby, kiss my back
Flushed cheeks
No moment wasted
Hands grip tight
A thrill untasted
Pull them down
Tell me what to do
Lay back there
So I can taste you
Do not rush
Face pressed against thigh
Go real slow
I want you inside
Hearts beat fast
Quicker, almost wet
Got it right
The first of many sets
Kiss my lips
Anything you say
Can and will
Be used in foreplay

The softest touch of a loving friend
To the deepest **** from a charaded blade
Where does blissful sensation make its end;
Converting to the obtrusive pain enfilade?

A subtle ambiance from a serene musician
To the daily news of grief and causality
When do loving whispers of mutual affection;
Fade into a harsh scolding from authority?

An untasted sweetness of rare delicacy
To the sour lingering of bitter temptation
How does the favored indulgences' nuancy;
Shift to a bland routine of daily recreation?

A picturesque sight of undying fantasy accord
To the shocking reception of a suicide note
Why do relations flow from their distant discord;
Into the desperate end that fate already wrote?

The lavishing waft of a motley gardens' aroma;
To the putrid scent sifting in the house of flies
What's the difference between this mundane coma;
And the ignored certainty we all despise?

Aren't pain and bliss really just one in the same?
Like the lowest to highest on any sort of scale
Every single trace of emotion just felt by name;
Portrayed variably through each separate tale

"There's No Kiss In Your Eyes..."

You ever notice how you purrrrrrrrrrrr
when you focus on

- thought I was going to say me didn't you?
  well I didn't...

puppies and kittens.

How the sun FEELs so **** good
in your eyes...
how that first taste of
cold winter's air just bites
and makes you FEEL so
...alive.

I make snowballs
- still -
and throw them
hard
and **** accurate too
- and laugh
and duck
- well - for ANY age.

No one asks me to make a snowman anymore...
I miss that.

I don't curse the snow I shovel
- never have, that's strange I guess
but
I like snow
and how it feels, tastes, touches me back.
Seems theres a Snow Angel in every bank...
and the feel of crystals
each as unique as we.

Its not the taste of coffee
that draws me
holds me
- nor its aroma
as the wisps meander to heaven
- one cup at a time...
Its the thought of the anchor
that binding HOLD
that keeps me focused and from floating off and
...away
and yet it still gets cold
while setting unnoticed and unheld and
...untasted and unwanted after all the herald's smiles
and teasings told.

I don't like water... theres no HEART to water
no ...squeezing GRASP to be had
no ...warmth shared
no ...bitter dregs to be mind-chewed
and eye-candy.

I never want to be told
"There's no kiss in your eyes..."

Chris

he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life

neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled

some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings

almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one* *divine a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?

sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
*eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit

Desire rises up like a tidal wave.
Yearning to reach out to another.
The strong flow washing over me,
And within me.

Pushing out, reaching...
The object of my desire is barely known
Surely you can't warrant such an intense reaction,
So soon, so incomplete.

But it flows, I can't hold it back.
I flow.
Wanting more I drift where the current leads.
Giving into desire, but unable to fulfill it.

Such a waste
All this beautiful passion
All the thrilling things that could be done.
Oh what I would do with this desire.

Every drop wasted
Every morsel untasted
Every ****** act, a ghost to lay to rest
With an inadequate eulogy played by my fingers.

Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted left in ground.

A thousand email addresses, each unique represents a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To understand, to
      know's

impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us something,

little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the

date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious hospital.

The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary, life goes on,

you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ***** with two chambers, ovule adnate to the
      funicle.

Come now, spill your secrets
on this slowly rising floor
paint me in your misdeeds
for I am craving new colors

flickering eyes expose fresh
hesitancy that lingers clearly
upon untasted tongue
that (despairingly) longs for freedom

unfurl cold nuiscances
they hold no power here
come, proclaim your hidden inquiries
while we’ll decorate these steel walls
in our variegated offences

I wish I could be like the street urchin
Unpampered uncared but not sad
Wear daylong a cloudless grin
Be in manners and etiquette bad!

I want to be bad
I need to be bad
Am too shackled by the good

I want to be like him
The street urchin
Carelessly capriciously crude!

Too long I have been by the good enslaved
Hold captive in its pretentious cask
Too long for good I have naggingly craved
Let it cut out for me all my task!

*I want to be bad
I need to be bad
Am dying for the untasted brew

I want to be like him
The street urchin
Treating good too good to be true!

She is sweetness untasted,
by the likes of the deserving
though for some,
love is merely a mistake of judgement
until something better comes along
to subtly replace a misplaced heart.

She is forgiveness unfelt,
a bleeding heart of amore
so they drink,
and play and fall,
until choice is lost,
yielding to fatal attraction.

She is kindness unseen,
not wounded love could defeat
from the bounty of the wasted
we count,
moments until she turns sour
but she never does.

She is sanguine addiction,
of words that melt stone
with a fire that breathes
from her will,
burning in virtue
that makes me sing.

Unseen and yet
the phoenix rises
over head from ashes now grown cold.

Unheard and yet
the crystal fountain rushes
with jade and emeralds,
their essence sounding delicately like
a bell of golden light that rings
with laughing sounds.

Unfelt and yet
the darkness of the night
blows bottomless through the room,
a tangible presence
like the chanting prayers of monks
long since gone from this world.

Unsmelt and yet
the perfume of the flowers
we once thought of
exhale a breath
of yellow dust
that makes us weep.

Untasted and yet
the sleepless moments
we cannot run from
linger like a bitter wine
who's taste will not quite
wash away.

And here for just a second
we almost sense these things
and a shiver passes over us
and we do not know why.

By Les Miserables

There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong
I dreamed a dream in times gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung
No wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he'll come to me
That we'll live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed.

Enough is waiting for one
Enough is the searching for answers
Enough are the sacrifises made
Enough being treated like dirt

Enough are the lonely nights
Enough are the days crying out for a smile
Enough are fulfilling others dreams
Enough are these animations

It was an interim, Now its time to
Taste the untasted,Try the untried
Feel the unfelt,Do the undone
See the unseen,live the unlived

Its not much but its enough
To smoke my emotions
To pull me out of this illusion
To teach me the ugly truth

I found an inception to my life
The pursuit of hapiness has begun.
I give you two choices
watch me or join me.

7 months,
    $400
         And a 1,178km medicinal trip
         To a freedom unbeknown
         And untasted by these eyes
         I am so ready, but is my life?

8 weeks,
              10 tests, doused in falsities that kidnap the education system,
              3 months and I am done,
             Finished and fully educated to their standard.
             So close and yet so far,
             I haven't learnt a thing.

Kick everything you know..and kick it into touch
It's what you want to do
But the question is..
How much?

Would you lay waste to words..
..leave untasted tested fomulae
Free the inner creative soul
Dig a hole in which to hide..beside me?

Fashion sentences from scimitars
Cut the ties that bind us up in silken sentiment
Use excrement to describe our slide into the bowels of earth..
..or is that outside your comfort zone?

If so..
Then I suggest you stay at home and watch the soaps.
Fill your mind with suds...for whatever good that will do.
Leave change alone
And change will leave you too
Stew behind those lacey nets
For you all bets are void.

But bouyed up by the travesties that weigh down our communities..
..if you can't fight...
..then Mister....You ain't worth a light.
Don't want to call you dim ..but here's the thing
With you around..it's hard to get up off the ground.
Just stay at home
I'll fight the battles on my own..as I have always done..
Not often won.
But I don't give a ****..I use my words like a battering ram.
It's who I am...it's what I do.
Who and what are you?

Dressing in dark black lace, is a daring taste.
Flirty attitudes is not my nature.
I will never meet my maker.
Flings are not my thing.
Broken hearts is what it brings.
Being deceived something that mekes me leave.
Hypnotic eyes that stare.
Makes you shameful to be bare.
Sensitive to all injustice with a receptive mind.
Evil they never find they 're all blind.
Crimes rewind.
Unknown forces that bind.
Youth betrayed by sinful days.
Deprived of joyful play.
Beauty wasted.
Success untasted.
Hiding away not wanting to stay.
Every night there is a fight.
Rage that's just not right.
Need to stay out of sight.
Stay well so no one can tell.
The truth is on sale.
Sanity got well.

Winter, winter mornings
What you going to promise, promise me
Winter, winter morning
You might have been the diamond
Wasted like a diamond,

Wasted love
Untasted love

I am walking all your blocks
Onward to hopeless
***** passing ***** by
An asbestos blanket to wrap the homeless
A man who knows his worth
So falsely

The cold is painful
There's a ditch with my name in it
As the sun shines so brightly

Please don't see me, you see so kindly
Your kindness kind of gets to me
I still have some things left to lose

His eyes were deep as an untasted well.
Promising endless nights of oblivion.
When he asked me what I wanted to drink
I was tempted to put him to the test.
Because I'm forever a contradiction to either common sense or recklessness.
If you tell me what I want
I will give you what you want to have.
But when the guessing game is over,
we're both left unsatisfied and needy.