America on a map!
Imagine the northeast corner.
I am in Vermont riding the Amtrak southbound. It's raining.
The clattering of wheels tearing through rusty iron tracks.
Forehead against the cold window's glass,
I hear a steam whistle.
I look out the window: grey, drizzling.
We roll,
past the barbed-wire fences that crown the prison fence,
past great, soggy fields littered with old tractors, and misty mountains far behind,
past brown silos that rise up, thick and crowned with silver heads,
past a deer leaping through a rainy field,
past a propane company--five great, white propane tanks,
past a marsh, harpooned by a telephone pole--a sparrow jumps off the wire,
a cemetery on a green hill,
little brick towns,
the Interstate--rainbow colored tipi in a field behind,
past a great, charcoal cliff, hard with sharp creases like a crumpled piece of black construction
        paper buried,
past a Sunoco station--green dumpster in the parking lot,
into a thick wood--past the cold rocks,
past brown leaves poking through the dusting on forest floor,
past all the pines, which have dandruff,
past twiggy sapling branches, only leaves withered and curled like dried jalapenos,
over a bridge--the great, cold river, wide and glassy--islands of ice and snow--the riverbank dirt is
        hard.
The bell dings thrice.
The train begins to slow.
It stops, jerks me back in my seat.
The steam whistle blows.
I look out the window.

Concrete platform, dark red station & roof,
a crowd of boys and girls, standing with perfect posture in sharp blue uniforms, hats adorned with
        golden crests,
they march on the train
and fill up the seats
of The Great Metal Snake: hollow and in it people sit,
The Great Metal Snake: slithering down the state,
It will leave me in a small city soon,
at an overcast station,
and slither down to D.C.,
and slither back, with the oily clatter of spinning iron wheels . . .
We took the snakes,
out of of our nightmares,
slimy green sliding through cupped hands to jump and bite your cheek, hanging like a lanyard,
or sliding through the sweat of jungle-floors waiting to bite ankles,
or coiled in redbarns, on piles of hay with spiders dropping down cold open windows in front of
        full moon,
full moon: silver train wheel.
I hear the steam whistle.

We took the snakes,
out of our nightmares,
dissected them with scalpals,
nodded and walked to the drawing board then built.
Decades later, the unveiling:
The platform crowd leans over the tracks and looks,
the bell dings thrice,
the steam whistle hisses,
the engine is coughing,
wheels are chugging--
around the corner He came,
with great, clear eyes like glasses:
black, iron Anaconda of Industry.
His brothers are barreling
From New York to Sacramento,
Siberia to Stalingrad,
Italy to France,
under the English channel,
down Africa.
From Burlington to Brattleboro--
barreling down the state--
I am riding His brother home.

With my windows tenderly open,
the moonlight, a pale marble phantom I admire
The dark light rests beside me,
unveiling a vivid urban gleam

A jet black silhouette transpires
He whispers in the dark
Porcelain lies, radiant yet feeble.
His words achingly deceive
the lights that disdain me;
belittling my affectionate delusion

Pitch dark silence, I weep as I grieve
My tears filling in everlasting secrecy of
this tragical devotion blurring out the stars

You speak with a passionless passion
Yet my world doesn't fall apart-
It makes the whole universe perish.

That night, the stars seemed to blemish.

High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling

Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait

High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination

I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak

I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting

The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus

Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness

I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery

The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad

I keep on telling the truth,
You know, like you never do.
I call you by name and say
All I say about you is true.
I wrote poems about you,
What the hell do you want?
You ignore all I have said
You ignore all my taunts.

I want you to sue me
Then with proof that you lie
The world can finally rest
And bid you goodbye
As they drag your fat ***
Off to Leavenworth jail
Where you won’t have Twitter,
Internet or even email.

I hope you get convicted
As the Corrupter In Chief
Because you are nearly
The worst kind of public thief.
You steal from the poor
And have kidnapped children,
And you  think your cowardice
Is a secret and is hidden.

Daily I hope someone intelligent
Will go sue you for defaulting
On the promises you made us
That have been obviously insulting.
You broadcast your hatred for us if we
Are not rich, perverted Republicans.
Now you are reversing all the good
That decent people have done.

I am ashamed of the millions
Who act like you are Jesus
When it’s as plain as your nose
You are like an obese Rhesus.
I’m sorry so many people are nuts,
Too weak-minded to recognize
What an ugly fate for America
You are unveiling before their eyes.

When I was six, my grandmother enrolled me in ballet class.

     This choice was the first of many attempts to negate my tomboyish nature. Perhaps, she’d hoped that instead of collecting insects and cutting apart Barbie dolls, the pirouettes and glitzy attire might spin me. I was spun, eventually, but that had nothing to do with dance.

     Blame it on my peers; blame it on the tutus. Truth be told, my time was generally spent out of sight; but I got my kicks sneaking a reptiles home, playing with dinosaurs - never dolls, or - of course - taming earwigs. Alone.

     I don’t remember the classes, or the other little girls. In fact, the sole (no pun intended) impression left behind by those dance classes was why they'd end.
It was to be my first recital. The whole class had been coaxed into flashy leotards and uncomfortable tights. We’d been instructed to skip in a single file line onto the stage, which catalyzed my predicament, as I hadn’t a clue about the routine.

     As the girl preceding me danced into view, I floundered in terror – my turn had arrived. I fumbled along in her wake, passing the curtain and reaching the stage.

     The stage!

     An arena of ruthless lights, unveiling my anonymity. I faltered in terror, registering the audience registering me. How vast the auditorium looked against my tiny body! Betrayed by those blinding stage lights, I cowered at the mercy of the whole world.

     The instructor, a faceless female, was showing whose boss as girls began skipping around me.

    And yet, there I stood. Petrified that moving forward negated any hope of escape. My proximity to the curtain merited two options... the bright side of the curtains, which would soon claim everyone else in the vicinity, or the dark. I engaged in a mental game of Tug-a-war that lasted all of about half a second.

     The dark curtains won.

     So, dodging around the obnoxious ballerinas, I descended back into safety. It mattered not where I went, as long as I put distance between myself and the audience. Distance between myself, and detection.

     At some point, I discovered a backstage crevice, in which darkness sheathed me. For, even at five, I understood dark and safety to be synonyms.

     So, I crawled inside, and I hid.

     I don’t remember who went seeking. Nor, do I know who found me. Nobody is a possibility; it was an “Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free” forfeit, perhaps. A rule that defeats the point of its own game. For at six, I was young enough to obey that “come out, come out, wherever you are” nonsense. But, such rules were dropkicked long ago.

     For, your existence – dear hide-and-seek – all but defines me. This game, that darkness, possesses my psyche.

     Some days, I ponder the uncertainty of memories. Vexed, for where memory dies, illusions are born. Illusions romanticizing reality – a reality in which I never came out, lost and unfound, a reality in which I’ll never come out, out, wherever I am. Hidden beneath the darkness.

     For, in truth, I have been hiding ever since.

were you a 50's
godchild in the city,
wing-tipped feet
running the streets
all week, ketchin hell...
then you gots that check
come friday
and needed a taste of heaven...

you and the dog pound
swung mid-town
to broadway & 47th
after 9,
and joined the line spilling
from the royal roost round 48th...

by 10, the joint was jammed
with gents well-coifed,
matching honeys, and the sounds
of money being made:

chime of silverware ~ cling,
and the cash register's ~ swish cha-ching,
and the chatter of guests,
servers and bartenders
doing their thing ~ wah da bing

then the lights dimmed
leaving a semi-dark haze
of gray smoke swirling
over the crowd,
and mc symphony sid
grabbed the mike:

"...welcome to the friday nite jam session
at the metropolitan bopera house
ladies and gentlemen...."

hysterical hoots and applause
followed
as  the circular spotlight paused
center stage,
unveiling:

~ the miles davis nonet ~

featuring,
max on drums,
john on keys,
gerry and lee on sax
and a genius
on trumpet

'twas the birth of cool
and soon the rhapsody
of modern jazz
waxed hypnotic,
casting a spell
over god's children
when budo chased lady bird
down allen's alley,
spittin'...
          riffin'....
boppin'...,
          po­ppin'.....
superfluidity
like acid through
varicosed veins

the earth stood still
it seemed
for 4 thrilling hours
as heaven rained a rifftide
onto the lucky crowd...

and dewey's sublime trumpet
exorcised the devil
from the week that was...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/24/2013)

Head spinning
Feet tapping
Mind wrapping
Thought trapping
Idea capping
Desperation mapping
Quality lacking

Spaces filled
Time killed
Not thrilled
Answers willed

Nails biting
Cheaters sighting
After all nighting
Wrongs not righting
Feel like flighting

Brainpower waning
Lack of knowledge maintaining
Wisdom draining
Composure regaining

Test failing
Arms flailing
Letters mailing
Face paling
The big unveiling
No more prevailing
The action entailing:
My annihilation

With each breath drawn, the distance which parts our bodies will evaporate, like dew after dawn.

And with each exhale of humid breath, the time taken slipping out of fabrics slows to a streamlined unveiling; that could entwine me until death.

Rainwalking
black umbrella, dark as the sky,
over head clouds moving slowly by,
dropping misty curtains as they go,
unveiling what my four eyes see
ahead, beyond the spots.

sidewalk walking,
glass topped bus stop,
straight ahead and slightly left,
blue sky tarp,
covers two shopping carts,
mirrored squares decorate the front,
hiding more belongings,
bust show your expression
       if you dare look, yourself,
in the eye as you are judging him,
homeless, and using,
a corner of a bus stop as a storage depot,

temporary,

until a complaint, brings the transit police,
and a pickup to steal it all away,
oh and they brought their tazer, "just in case..."

"next stop, 94A and King George Boulevard,
                                           Surrey Memorial Hospital"


©DWE012014

London is inside his house
London is white,
He is white, and blond, and has beautiful pair of blue eyes.
London love himself,
Love thinking about himself
And see his reflection on the mirror.
But London hardly never looks through the window
And when he does he hates what sees,
And he sees London,
And London is completely different from him,
He has black hair, and black skin, and dark eyes,
And this is enough to London conclude that London stinks.

But, outside, London knows he doesn't stink
And he couldn't care less about London's blond hair, white skin and blue eyes,
He doesn't like those eyes
He says they are ugly
Because they judge through what they see.
But, infact, he doesn't think they are ugly
Deep in his mind he thinks they stink
Stink for nothing else but for being different.

So London is not really better than London
Because London hates London,
But London hates London in the same way,
So they are the same
They think they are different,
But they are exactly the same;
And they  look at each other
But they can only see themselves,
Because all their lives are about themselves;
And if they can see only themselves
They can only say that themselves stink.

And that is what they do
All the time

But London is not only black and white
And neither as gray as people think,
London has the seven colours of the rainbow
Plus brown and some kind of reddish greenish aeneous colour
Which  doesn't even have a name.
And London has many sizes too
So it's very difficult to fit London inside London
Because London is larger on the  inside than the outside.
Others even say that London is inside out,
That London is too old to be fashion,
But London laughs
And replies innovating
And saying that he has never being inside out;
Maybe, in his most, a little bit outside in.

Definitely, London is not affraid of anyone,
He knows his history is not just in the past
Because London makes history as he goes.
And London is good,
And London  receives everybody from anywhere with his open arms,
Because the rain has never forbidden London from being warm
And if in some places the sun shines everyday
In London the sun shines at night
Because London doesn't sleep.
Never sleeps.

But, unfortunately, not everybody is like London,
And while London is so kind and human,
London is completely opposite.
London was born in London
And think London belong only to himself.
London doesn't like those who come from overseas,
London dislike anything which comes from abroad.
London hates curry,
London even hates the smell of curry
But he eats curry anyway,
because he doesn't have his own food.
And London is powerful
And he doesn't want to see anyone stealing his job,
Polluting his city,
Breathing his air.
So one day London simply decide that London must go
So London  makes up rules to send London away,
And now London are not allowed to work anymore.
But London doesn't want to go,
So London hide from London in the inner of London
And in there he survives,
Sometimes using of ilegal papers in legal jobs,
Others doing ilegal jobs without any papers.
But London survives,
Survives to hate London and all his power,
Survives to sell drugs,
To sell his body,
To sell other's people body,
To **** and steal.
Indeed, London has his own reasons to hate London;
For long years he had being  bullied and harassed,
And for more than one decade he had to hide like a rat for being chased like a rat.
More than one decade of humiliation.
Definitely, that wasn't the pain London wanted  to feel,
That was the pain London wanted to spread,
Like  he used to do when he was in his own country
And like he will do again
As soon as he hide from London long enough to be part of him,
Part of all his power
Part of his ideology and intolerance.

And this is going to happen,
Inevitably it is going to happen,
Soon or later;
Because London is not so different from London,
Actually they are the same.
They are London,
We are London,
Its walls and as well his flesh,
And, inside London,
For London
We fight London;
And it is a beautiful fight,
Because London has strength,
Because London wins,
London always wins
And if we don't see his victory
It is just because the fight is still not over.
Because London reborns from ashes
Like we know happened before.

So here I stand,
Watching the fighter of the fog
Unveiling the art of his movements
In this epic  battle
For an empty cause.
Here I stand with tears in my eyes,
Waiting for the moment in which London
Will choke on the champagne of his victory,
Because I know London will win.
Because London  always win,
But now, for the first time,
London will also loose.

my cry survives
the strain in my throat.
i become acquainted
with imminent heartbreak
but when i took a moment
to look around,
all i saw was your perfect face,
mirroring everything about you
that i fell in love with,
divulging your imperfections;
unveiling your vulnerability,
framing your beauty
and humanity
into a reflection of
the last two years
that unknowingly trails
softly behind us
and now i suffer from no
aching heartbreaks or fears
and i fear not the pisces
who broke my heart
but wipe away her tears

I don't want to be chased or pursued
or judged or abused.

I want to reach into my mind's recesses
and tap into my wildest places.

When I'm on top of my own world
I'll finally find myself unfurled

and nothing will suppress my glee
of unveiling what's inside of me.

I see all the world's deceptive lies
that once revolved around my demise

but this time I will not falter,
and instead I'll be standing at the altar

waiting for my Bride of life
to erase my doubts and be my everlasting wife.

Centuries have passed
My bloodline ready to find the next entity
That lurks in the night

From parent to child
A gift is revealed to help battle the challenges
That sneak through the lights of the stars

Only one
To my knowledge
Has made it to main waters of history
To be immortalized by the surf
As a slime contaminating its clarity
But like the poison of a spider on human flesh
Death only builds, instead of the blind view of a cleansing

That was centuries ago
Now there is me
Seeker of the night
The world slowly gathering at my heels

Centuries have passed
My time had been sweetened
Like the nectar of wine
Everybody is drawn to its taste
Once they brave the looks of its bottle

Centuries have passed
Waiting for that bottle to be opened
Buried in the sands of time
Revealed by an explosion
Unveiling an ancient vault

Centuries have passed
Yet everything inside seemed so...
Familiar
Everything inside recognized me
as well as everyone
Faces renewed, faces new, and faces old
Some most surprising
From my angel of Earth
to my Starlight Healer

Centuries have passed
Waiting for these moments
Moments that saved me from the heaviest drops from the sky
Moments that saved me from the devil's insanity
Moments I rise in my own fight
Creating a new race

Centuries have passed
Waiting for just one thread
To lace into a steel rope
To carry its spirits to a better light
Am I ready for such a move?
I AM

Her eyes, 
Sunken, blue
With edges of ruddy green,
Of olive, kelp, fatigue,
A certain muddy camouflage,
Bright with purpose,
Ambition and fierce urgency, 
Set their twin star sights
On me and I learned a new
Word that day—
Surrender.

I fell into formation,
Saluting her stars in the fullest light
Of the falling day.
I learned how to survive
Under such searing heat
And became intimate
With sneak attacks, 
Friendly fire, sudden blitzkrieg
And the nuclear winter,
The dark sheet,
Of sorrows unveiling.

---- 2023 youtube I wonder if, and lo': The Planets
A grand background orchestra, mental direct
there, you hav it, too, listen, a few times,
just in the mood, to listen
maybe as you get, that it starts at Mars,
begin as we
think we
Read this at your pace the writer advised,
and I did, a couple of times,
like long stuck records…
To Holst, an offered libation,
to all the minds whose words
are music as big as any mind
limited by my unknowing,
only
using, the truth, music, leading after words,
through ever away,
silent for a now,
or so,
from the Sun, past the fragment,
the single lump at the core,
of the process,
Ash as
Icarus, and Hermes, speedy messenger,
such as see thee, hold the knowledge holy,

watch, see, the wandering planets Holst,
might have seen today,
looking through my eyes,
wordless, right on, so far, as we

agree, there
is power in the mind that writes and reads
music,
power alloted some in blind feel,
power exuding from an ever in times past,

lasting ever tones thinning, spreading, patterning
perfected harmonies unexpected
yet
taken as granted, felt, in passion y sympassion,
same sound,

my once known wind, my bass oboe player,
acquaintance, who called me by name,
accusing me, subtly of not knowing,
there is a forest of low stature,
and there are missions there,
where if you pray,
they feed you twinkies… I recall, between
Venus and busy laughing Earth,

I remember Mars is next,
I am ready, I went into the dark kitchen,
back of the Mission on Fourth Street,
across from an Electra Records Billboard…

ifery approaches, Holst has not gotten me to Mars,
I am pulling in an experience, from a mission,
on Fourth Street, in a mindtimespace shared,

as of yet, by a few, who will know the place,
the ******* Mission, the one
with the Joker who used rats,
to get a startle response,

and at exactly the wrong place, for men with
certain
kinds of sure thing reactions, to diabolic attacks.

2023, approaching Mars with Lou Holtz, I thum thum
thummin wearin' my Razorback hat,
Inter Planatary Hwy 71, to Joplin,
ur in my realm.

Bass every thing slow creep slow, seep as sludge,
to the edge, and look beyond,
this is it, this is the Earth,
we shall survive!

We slay the unbelievers and fake it til we make it,
right, kids?

---------- longhair music, epicyc-lical as neckties,
to male tipped stacking schema for *****,
or stones,
or crystaline tones accompanying the heating up
of life's core cargo cult's last load,

Holst, bass trombones,
here, is the dance of little devils with a mind to make
a difference
in the depths of ever after,
up to now,
I had forgotten the piccolo parts, and the French horns,
and the joy of the big parade,
marching off
to war explore the unknown
for exploitations as per the underling theme,
go forth
subdue the Earth, and conquer all who refuse, to say
this is the way,
this is the good old way,

war
glory and honor, earn the urim'nthummin'n'human
inhumainity, we, the chosen warrior beings,
messengers of differing mocking gods of ****** mud
beyond the final river,
every slogger knows, forever, there remains
one more
river to cross, a final thread to tie to you, listener,

Holtz, still in the background, a journey, what price
each player plays in this, orchestration shared,
as I read, I wrote, as I hoped, I did,

and I remain, giddily glad… my side won the war
I lost.

Peace came, unbidden, apparently,
a deep breath, and harp strings,

this is the future from any ever before, now
to know
this is common, not so rare, as even the idea,
not so long ago,
first radio mono performance,
what child lay in the crib and heard this,
through the grand horn of Gram's Gramma phone.
Y''ello,
toldja, ai ain't no Injunsaint. Pretend, then,
right, ai and mai-y grandma

can piece together some occassional lessons, given us,
she in her time telling me in mine,sssince ever about
I was forty-nine, or so, she told me she was an orphan,
and had no family knowledge, past begins
at the last common thread,
to a native american epic,

when the old deluder, Satan, act, attached
to law and order and rectangular resettlement
of wilderness liberated from savages and beasts…
pawn, both steps, dare… help the Macedonians
and take Uncle Tom wit'cha, whicha oughtn't had
never the less, young wombed men, did tend
to become aspirational, after becoming
inspired read-up young wombed men, hot
to seek adventure, teachin' young'n's, out west.

indistanct depth Holst at the kettle drumms softerafter
- the silent version has a different light show
--- circa 1880's, not historically long ago, most places.
This character,
qwerty guy's friend, has kin as close as my Uncle Cebe'n'me,
who died at Wounded Knee, where my liege republic,
honored some two dozen rapid fire cannon supported
avengers of The Seventh Cav!
And in their hearts,
if not their lips,
was the march in time to Garry Owen. Their families
must be proud.

And that's a shame. We were taught to grant worth
to a medal signifying honor brought to the liege, in victory.

Peace passes that, music makes bubbles, we revisit,
replay the gramma phone version,
some scratchy
real realizing strings singing chimes and harps
of ages past
unveiling, hiding nothing knowing freedom is a sense,
you know
you do not own it,
you do not make it up, it is free. The idea

I had, approached as
hunter
in pursuit, steady as she blows,

leave us hap as may be at a triumph of joyous
curious
dancing twinkle noise amusing being a muse used,
enter tained, and voiced by bass
then tinkles
thin thin thin then Zildjian  K-bang!

____

We’re gathered here today to put to rest the words I didn’t mean to say.
The thoughts I tried my best to suppress, but slipped out anyway.
Delivering meanings that I didn’t have planned,
And messages she just can’t understand.

My acid tongue throws out its poisonous whispers into her ear, containing words she was never meant to hear.
But she cancels them out with her alkaline replies that don’t align with mine.
She’s the one who starts this game every time.
Throwing in the truths that bring me shame,
But when I claw out her flaws from beneath the dirt out onto the surface,
They impregnate her hazel eyes with rain.
And I’m always the one to get the blame.

I check the weather where she is to know if she can see the dark clouds leaving,
Unveiling the blue skies that lie beneath.
Hoping that one day she will open her hazel eyes and realise we’ve been through wet and dry seasons that continue to replay like groundhog day.
But all we can do is keep believing that there is a reason why we can’t let the storms blow it all away,
Just because of the words I didn’t mean to say.

Chaotic unveiling
A tangle of desperate heat
And numbing chills

The labored breaths of
Passionate caution

Sweet adventure with a
Grippingly commonplace
Pattern

Noticing each smooth
Imperfection in the
Harsh fluorescent darkness

Secretly conscious of your
Awkward grace in the
Fluid transition of
Angles and sides

The indignation of
Chaste, stolen
Caresses
And-

Too quick

It’s over, fading into
Uncomfortable aftermath

Subtracting yourself
Adding your modesty
Dividing your dignity

And leaving.

Do you remember when love was uncomplicated
Hand-holding, lonely fingers grasping,
Longingly, perfecting their grip?

And do you remember the honeymoon
Highs, up and up, dizzily clambering up,
Exploring new horizons?

And do you remember, precisely, when love emerged,
From clouds of chalked up experiences,
Foreboding as a mountain,
Where lonely fingers grasped,
Longingly, for fresh hand-holds?

The quest for loves summit rises,
Peak to higher peak,
Each conquered height unveiling a new vista,
Revealing loves perilous truth,
That each peak is surpassed by two more
And the summit remains elusive.

The fool will climb up and up,
Leaving a devastated trail of overlooks,
Ever unsated,
Ever yearning,
Ever lonely.

The sage will make camp behind a large rock,
Still aware of the mountains hidden presence,
But settled with a lightness of heart,
To enjoy just one wonderful view.

our yearning sent us
striding from the herd and out
to climb with fettle toes
an unknown height

our bellied wine and swoon
to open-eyed unveiling high
the purest vista sought, but found
another sight

flashing honey in our hearts
we sang into the stars
our dance of wandering
our lips ripe

and there on idyll spike
we coupled free
denuded each we let the cosmos see
how bright and fierce we came

yet quickly we were not the same
in culmination's wake
our visions meshed
subdued the flame

we fell apart in time
descending into spite
facing elsewhere
facing night

the ache was all of life
my private thoughts
were doomed to strife
and flirted vicious hate

devoted to escape the weight
of any snide devotion's cage
we raged a final rage
then gave ourselves to fate

our wounds would send us far
flying from our love
to seek with calloused toes
new unknown heights

i gave up understanding fate
i lay down
embraced the furthest peak
berating all i'd done

i hated all i was
a curse on those i loved
a darkness plague
i spat into my soul

i'd left my home  my love
to claim an ownmost throne
my hidden heart beat slow
and turned to stone

wind no longer blew
the sun went dim
stars forsook my song
and final silence won


i lay dead inside my cave
but for an obscure truth
that even weakest hearts
weave threads of ruth

the faces of the herd
rejoined me then
their whispers lured me out
and dared me  hope

i'd found my kernal self
a love remained despite the hate
the tone of loneliness had changed

a single loving vast instilled itself
on far off pinnacle alone
blissful in myself  at last
from cattle drone
from mired sweet decay
from friendship's whine
and lover's scree
i spoke   i wrote
and measured new complacency
believing i could write a final line
express an everpresent note

astride a mountain bull
i surveyed vales below
in reborn doubt retraced
the steps we'd come

mystic pretense dawned
in shades of brilliant gray
i leapt from paradox
i sung

my eyes became a mist
my arms the mountain range
sky for breath, all rivers
fed my heart

from clouds i looked
embracing earth i blew
love sprung green
and true




.

I heard the flutter of a thousand feathers above me,


black birds convened at tomorrow’s end


I saw a ****** of crows encircling the sky


rushing downward into a vortex


Clattering straight for my skull


aiming for divvy morsels that fell off my body.


There’s not much left of me,


their blunt bills perforated most of my skin


Unveiling the skeleton inside this closet,
Unraveling the secrets this mouth can’t


In hoping to shut my heavy eyes to rest


and dig me a bed six feet under


so I can tumble to eternal slumber.


The tears running down my eyes diluted


the colors of my blood stained hands


as I wipe them away


Raindrops, tears,  and blood


doesn’t differ much from each other


For they’re all just liquid substances that symbolizes pain.


I sight these black birds


sitting by the branches of a dead oak tree,


their claws clenched against the aged wood


Bathing in the ashes that fell like snow.


But I’m just lying perfectly still,


my back flat on solid ground


Facing the bleak sun


remaining numb and frozen


This is how I picture death


like sketching a mausoleum.

*

Fishing out words
From the abyss of hum -
Like Odin with the Runes...
Thoughts are sharp swords -
Unfriendly are their croons:
One instant - scattering like crumbs,
Another - warbling in tune

With mixed emotions
And elusive feelings...
Oh, how disheartening sometimes! -
Unveiling their peelings...

(c)kRu, 07.02.-09.02.06

I was born into chaos, lived through chaos, and later on, sometimes openly welcomed chaos into my life.
Call me the anti-freud, but I don't blame my parents.
They left me locked by key in my own bedroom long enough to know my decisions from then on, and the implications would all be my own.
I was the pioneer for my own future, a regular Matilda.
I learnt to pick locks at eight years old. I got myself in and out of bad situations. Even if it meant hiding for a prolonged period of time afterwards.
Hiding isn't always the cowards way, waiting out situations with a large bag of dolly mixtures and Pokémon cards in the woods has gotten me out of a lot of ****. Hiding long enough to be reported missing to the police, and having people realise they'd rather have me alive and hyper as ******* e-numbers, than hate me for hiding from negative consequences for too long.
I've always been a **** bag. An absolute **** bag.
I ran away from home more times than i'd had hot dinners accompanied by prayers there.
I made no attachments, I had this inner indecisiveness, the ability to choose what was worst for me, on a complete whim.
It's scary, being so impulsive at a young age. One minute i'd be sat on the school bus on the top deck, minding my own business, and the next, I would look down and my ******* would be stuck up at the school teacher making sure we didn't break our own ribs trying to get on it.
Then i'd give a false name.
I had a foul mind. So much that I used to have to write down curse words, and throw the incriminating pieces of paper behind my wardrobe. My mum eventually found them, she knew just how much 'passionate' a child she'd bore after that.
I got used to the taste of soap thereafter, let's put it that way.
I'd always hated the idea of marriage before my parents even divorced, I dismantled my mother's eternity ring some years before, pushing the remaining contents down the sink. Little did they know their marriage would follow it shortly after.
There's things that happened in that house I will never speak of. Like saying the name Voldemort, or Beetlejuice. Far worse childhood nightmares would come from that, realisation.
I used to have this overwhelming urge to see other people's genitals, like it was the window to their soul or something. Looking into their eyes told me nothing, but once i'd gotten into their pants, that was a different story. The unveiling could happen anywhere. Even in aircraft toilets on the way to Disney Land, Florida. I was pushy.
Being a highly sexed child that never spoke, felt completely abnormal. Especially when the only thing I truly found attractive were eyelashes. Which ruled out any gender differences completely. As long as they had good eyelashes, I would follow them anywhere.
Barbie please forgive me for the things I made you do to Ken. I was too young to know.
Being born into this world with nothing but these two people and a couple of generations before them, their job is to guide you. They might not have even wanted you, or later regretted it. But by blood, they're stuck with you for the rest of your life.
They can't send you back to the store for being a defect model, or a little *******. Or else they lose much of their own life to a cell. There's no changing your mind when it comes to family.
But you can choose the five people you meet in heaven.

a breath of fresh air
that's what you are

so new
curious
fearless
pure of thought

unveiling love
with a tender touch
reaching
for me
           unafraid
brushing your cheek
ever
so
gently
across mine
making my heart melt
with your smile

i thought i knew love
then came you.