Her beauty doth arouse temptation
So fiercely though I cannot imagine
My struggle to resist laying upon my hand
The fairest strands that sit a top her head.
My hands tremble with delight

I sit in the midst of the worlds greatest disaster.
Yet I am reduced to the simplicities of batting my eyes
For this woman hath stolen my sight
Upon hers I am commanded to view.
Tis simply a fate solely unwished upon by few.
Her unwavering gaze cannot be replaced
By even the finest rewards from the heavens themselves.
The angels permit themselves to admire only afar.
For if too closely they arrive t'would be a prison.
The very same prison I hath myself locked within.
The key resting below where the heart doth reside.
To leave I wish not,
For to remove my eyes requires strength unseen by man.
I am a prisoner to my own Desire

drowned the Earth suddenly.

  underneath honest light,
                                  all
   submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
        gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
             midnight, the   Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
  displaced
               where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
  in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
           as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —

            until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,

       modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
           hands scouring muddied
  obscure, atremble,
      shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
  of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
  nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
         to arrive again so we could feast
in  silver  fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
    
      looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
   now atrill in new fragile woodworks

       lurching and
         ameliorating as we all
    stutter and sing
       haunts dabbing open
  lips of small wounds that
   wish to shut quietly,   almost
every threat of gray     or pummel of
   wind startles the flyblown ornate,
  
   hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
    very few hang
               swayed by verdure
  of the gradual throne of sea
        curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
     where everything quite begins
    again to enthrall with a melodic
  leitmotif of the most tender of
       instances loose
            in mouths
                 and in endless recall
                  
                                               breathless—

My love bird – a carrion crow
           (unwished)
Who’s beak reeks of narcissus
           (the scent of thee)

Let me call the black rumble of wings
to fill skies and sheets
with the thunder of your feet.

           (Ah! Love. What A thing it is
           to be feathers on the wall
           and flesh in ice.)

wish for a wish
?
no.
not this time.

fireworks -
before dawn

they too
need none

I like it more
when
skies are mine

no. I am yours

can you be one?
first time – last time?

eye to eye with a lone star
guided by a mantra  
Lokah Samasta
…

Oh bike
do take me home
please

under a plum tree
or make one
for me
in the sky
upside down

fruitless winter branches!
are these same as the shape of your roots?

allow me then
to plant us in the blue
where that star shines
thrue

a galactic bulge
pulls me inside a spheroid
and centers
to where breath runs
along colorful lines

I sleep - I dream
I am awake

a white dove
to doves
doves to pitpat s

as if snow
a heavenly scent
flourishes curlicue bells

the unwished
converts the gloom
returns a gift
made of
the glowing yearning
of a phleum

for a new morning sky
made of a bloom

gifted  
to us
by
Bloom.

Come with me to the side of the moon
Where midnight flowers bloom in the gloom
The side of the moon where troubles melt away
And we won't ever need the light of day
We can lie in the shine of wishes unwished
And breathe in the lies of people unkissed
Come with me, I beg you dear
I promise you'll have nothing to fear
Except for all those spots between
Where raindrops fall behind a subtle smoke screen
Just ignore the lies I'm telling you,
Please believe my falsehoods true...
I'll make you come to my side of the moon
And you'll follow me into the doom.

a medieval blacksmith, insO̲—
—much as lyrical material of mine gets cast sim. to cold
weapons; I'd say, as anything mind-distracting, like dope
["destructing"]
lyric-writing acts in the role
of temp rise, 'cause it unshadows the mind
like da[ɛ]mn skies, dissipating clouds of lack of delight
which is whY̲ I clepe
it as "mind eclipse" (lack of the light)
hence all the grimness seen in mY̲ bar sheets (chernukha)
like someone having a flight, a bored, tragedy wight
["aboard"]
lashings of spite I add in my lines
a geek practicing harassment in rhymes
as a pastime; an antihero, like Frank Castle I side
with on going against baddies with vice (lesser evil)
'cause you can't battle a knight
or a savage canine, or seize a bastion by
means of any kind of chatting (good luck managing that, gandhists)
get real; chances of collapsing
a toughened up corrupt regime by tranquil, brawl-free rallies
are as high as a bA̲nged up substance addict
can be (highly unlikely); though I keep the anti-autocratic
subject matter frontline, for ones who half-a##edly indite
their lyrics, it's casket likewise; a wA̲ck sod with pine
boxes & nails for 'em; & thA̲t's something I'm
more than glad to provide
you with; tra[ɛ]nslation: you ain't sA̲fe, chumps
[a casket isn't a safe, hence "it's casket" means "it isn't/ain't safe"]
like an offer to have a sled ride
"dude, let's slay some"
["sleigh"]
said the voice of the Islamist radical-like rapper in my
bean (Shady); "let's bring a da[ɛ]ng mayhem"
["bin Shady": Osama bin Laden + Slim Shady, who's a lyrical terrorist]
it added with passion, then I'm
like: "sounds like a blast of a time" (kaboom)
but no[ɑ]t to you, be—cause I'm on my violent bullsh#t (again)
like a jihadi loony; with these lines I'm suited
up with, you'll be blasted like plants bY̲ a shrE̲wd wind
or like a head of state ordained to invade
a neighboring state
in this **** field, I feel
like Max Payne with a gauge
[shotgun]
in a prey-tE̲E̲ming weald
hunting as sport; slay just to main—
—tain some relish & killing skills
you're like misbehavior-free slaves
in this field; translation: you're tame (lyrically)
["tranSLAYtion"]
therefore, you're unwished-for
like anyone & anything with a high lack of approval
[by "high lack of approval" I mean "dissent"]
on politics of the regime of some dastardly ruler (dastardly ruler)
drunk by the power he keeps a tight grA̲sp on & moola (power & moola)
just like Vlad the mean puta (Vlad the mean puta)
code name's lavato[—]ry shooter (lavatory shooter)
you jacklegs remind
me of simple cases or the Batman that time
when he wound up with his bA̲ck damaged by
Bane, 'cause I get you cracked with no strife
just like trash, you would wi[aɪ]nd
up in the dumps if you set your crap next to mine
and let ones being into rap scrutinize
your level of lyrical threat's to splatter a high—
—ball glass or stuff like
that, punks; me? like an armor-clA̲d man, a night—
["knight"]
—mare; Dante strapped with a scythe
[Dante from the "Devil May Cry" video game series]
the way I whack, it's so tight
that I have my device playing some phA̲t beats as I
masterly slice you hacks into stripes
like the Senyera; rap di̲letta[ɑ]nti
and political oppressors are picked as targets
and I may be read as a vigila[ɑ]nte
'cause I go after you like
V; like 2 sawbones having a fight with their scalpel-like knives
[I go after the aforementiond figures in my lyrics]
["after U [which is followed by V]"; V from "V for Vendetta"]
a pa[ɛ]radox while A̲t it 'cause I go autocratic, despite
["pair of docs"]
the views thA̲t I stick by; other words, I kick A̲## as if I
were dealing a jA̲cka## foot strikes
[I'm against unjustified maltreatment of animals, that sentence is just for wordplay]
a rebel thinker with a wrA̲pped up in rhymes
sick, hazardous mind bringing lyrical disasters & crimes
oh, there's one I'm imagining right
now; a rap-writing dabbler, besides an autocratic *****, wi[aɪ]nds
up inside a hearse
with me being A̲t the wheel like
a town that's rife in terms
of poison-pushing; a psychopA̲th when I drive
["atterville"; "****** path"]
speed up to 150 miles per
hour on a track in Alpine
heights, pound a go[ɑ]ddamn curb
barrier breaching it & sending the wagon in flight
open out the driver door
and jump out with a 'chute backpA̲ck on my spine (bye-f#cking-bye!)
watching the car go down, just like a war
criminal busted, & whereafter burst, like
brain arteries of a nazissistic scoundrel; like reports
saying an autocratic piece of trash nullifies
the limit of his presiding terms
I'm bA̲d news when I'm
on my lyric-writing horse
[the "high horse" expression]
like cavalry; I'd like a dastardly, vice-ridden autocrat to reply
["riding horse"]
with lyrics to any of the crA̲p I've devised
in opposition to authoritarianism
should I send some to the office with galore of rE̲A̲r-licking minions
of that "it's all the nasty West" guy
or that's suicide?

The waters have parted
An unwished dream comes to fruition
Will I stay dry
If I stand in the partition
Should I leave my things behind
And risk my old life for a new
Can I safely stand in between
Or will the walls conjoin and renew
Leaving me tossing and drowning in the middle
Wishing I had stayed back on the shore
Where my life was stable, standing on flat land
Always wishing for more
I just see a life on the other side of the sea
Feeling like that side is better and fit for me
But Moses isn’t here to assist me through
What would you do?

The puppet parrot voice echos through the valley. Struck with Cupid's arrow beyond the edge of the cliff.
To the ground fallen stiff.
Flies above with a halo & fluttering wings.
The son of the goddess of love.
A sweet found union....harmony sings.
Across an enchanting magical realm.
A haunted forest overwhelms.
A flock of angels on a mission.
Delivers love without commission.
A soulmate without permission.
Desire with no conditions.
An unwished favor with passion to savor.
Lacking any & all wisdom.
To bring down a kingdom.

© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,

I miss someone in Portland
I was there once leaving for
Berkeley having said a long
Unwished for goodbye- to one
I loved.  It was an inhospitable
Place-I recall a down town hotel
Called The Roxy Heart probably
Long gone.  It is cold and rainy
There in the Pacific Northwest
And I guess the people come to
Deserve it,  and really the one I
Miss lived elsewhere then and the
Places where I knew her best.  They
Say she is rich now but I don't know
About that only thatiss her and she  now .
Lives in the P C Northwest.  and  "Not
Even death changes us as much as life"


From Dickens {The Old Curiosity Shop}

PET this pretty kitty,monster
oh, WET is progress-pink disease
of love,my victims(like when i break
your heart i won’t deny it all
so we suffer the Bigness of your
LITTLEST pelvic region
so unwish a world of pity flesh
and my need for guidance is so much
like-more the world born–pity my
poor flesh(i “hyper-magical beauty”)kitty
so WET and in need of a good petting hand
and two eyes upon
my ever unwished words(never save me
from these evil deeds of desire)ugh,
ultra-omnipotence makes me hot and with
a hell to pay the angels say,”what the
devil needs to know I always seem
to suffer myself;”
so pet this pretty kitty,monster
yeah, a wet progress-pink disease o’love

:: 09-01-2015 ::
Copyright © Ernest Robles

A body on the line at Basingstoke -
the train to Waterloo has been delayed.
You'll have to wait; the plastic bag brigade
are clearing up and trying not to choke.

Commuter suicide's no news to us.
We don't suspect foul play; it's by the book.
But one train driver, terror in his look,
takes the day off, wishing he drove a bus.

Neighbours or strangers, those who saw him leap
could never know what so possessed his mind.
His unwished legacy - they long may find
the image of his death disturb their sleep.

The quiet desperation of a life
brought by that final step over the rim
to its conclusion - weep no tears for him,
his torment's over. Who will tell his wife?

This skin is on too tight
And these bones they feel too much
Life seems to spin
Violently, out of control and out of my hands
Leaving them grasping at air
Not knowing what to hold on to and what to let go

Emotions flare that I reject
Too painful to understand, undesired and unwished for
Yet they remain and I remain
Though I can't accept
And I'm looking for a way out
Trapped in a maze leading only to closed doors

Growing older didn't take it away
There's no rest
Only when I sleep does the noise fade away
But my waking life is plagued
By screaming voices attached to demons
Running circles around my head

They talk of opposites while laying out wires for me to trip over
Whisper words that drive me right out of myself
Causing rifts no bridge seems able to span
And with each passing of unnumbered time
The chasms they create grow wider

Skin a little thinner
Bones a little more hollow
I am waiting for a break I know will never come
I fear they are winning
Playing the long game stacking odds against me

I fear them mostly because they come from me
They are me even if I don't want them to be
And half the time I don't understand them
And they feel very much like separate entities
A multitude of persons
All in conflict
Living inside of me

The one who was there from the beginning
I don't see him all that much anymore
Crowded over by the others
Living in their shadows while I am losing my own

deus est genesis ex cogitans, cogitans est ex genesis absque deus: res ultimatum res: libido telepathos.

we have a name for *it
namely god,
   a noun encompassed
within the framework
of the noumenon -
        but when a phenomenon
arrives,
   there's the deus est mort
moment that claims all
forms of interpretation
as un-sourced,
    without any footnote,
       allowance / certainity...
there's a name for it,
   but at the same time
there's the non-existence of it:
shielded by ulterior names;
but whether id est or
  whether id non est -
  there will forver remain
in our vocabulary a noun
of some sort, to denote
           that "know" unit among
the polyphony of facts yet
to be known to us....
       and remaining unknown:
0 is by no compenstation
a worthy vector basis...
  but 1?
           a spear, a throwing
exemplified?
           i'm fine with that...
as long as we begin from point
(a) and head toward point (b)...
why do atheists like
christmas carols,
  of byzantine chants of the monks?
what a ****** group of atheists
liking christmas carols over
byzantine chants of monks;
nonetheless,
   what could ever come evolutionary
from descartes' res cogitans
regarding man?
   well, the kantian reinvention
of descartes' god,
                given descartes' man:
for if man be res cogitans -
                   then god is res per se;
who's existence / non-existence
perpetuates itself by
being attached to the spiderweb
of thought,
         and never the empirical
suggestion of being sensed,
never seen, never heard, never touched,
in that diabolical pentagram of
being defended by a satan...
   yet how unfathomable to think,
and yet to think of what
deems a necessity to be thought of...
    perhaps in an atheistically
fathomable personna non grata
explanation of god...
               nonetheless a form of coordination
to suggest origin and end purpose...
   transcending the mundane
travesty of the final unwished
                   fathoming that's death...
every philosopher will ask:
why think of god as a ritualistic
entity?
          why are we to assume it being
evolved from the realm of pronouns
to the realm of nouns, and with
that evolution... so many of nouns
attached!
         72 in judaism, 99 in islam!
if those who believe attest to a god,
then so do the atheists,
although without a ritualistic angle,
but a cognitive angle of "concern",
for they see god as a personna non grata,
yet by the argument
               of negating the existence of,
they invoke the existence of,
        and deny themselves
    the status of being anti-theists...
  they enforce the existence of a god,
and shelter themselves in
the rhetoric of being anti-religious,
anti-ritualistic...
              for whatever argument
they have, there's the pre-
   to every "supposition" -
                       that they turn into
a pro- *         that somehow translates
into a *supposition,
  atheism doesn't even ask,
atheism is a sophistry of
          some sort...
                   unless expressed in a
communist collective,
               it amounts to nothing but
jargon, a word salad...
               of **** me,
    pleasant on the ear,
                 but a maggot on the mind.