stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
  to no music - only acrid scruple
    of this being with and not being with,
     one is always alone.

  space occupies the potteries in
  the garden as a steady arm of light
  stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
  it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
   and the heat clambers the wall of
   the vacuously atrabilious moment
  of just plainly existing. the slender
  harlequin of moon, like an old lover
  having its own way with me, a child's
  yelp coming home — the hermetic
  air crushing the light, slivering it
  revealing all the ensconced phantasms
  too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
  that teems with a concatenation of roads
  and gutters bilious with the squall of day.

  a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
   receiving the star of aloneness,
    vacillating between
  place and         placelessness
   telling this originary of repossessing
       the moon with a hand in my hand,
   pressing a question of where
    have you been all the raging while.

Wind keeps on
reminding the waves
something cryptic,
even the leaves
perking up their ears,
fail to grasp it!

Though wind
repeated it,
again and again,
leaves vacuously
rustled, remained silent.

The waves in a
spectacular pattern,
respond to wind,
desperately trying
to grab the truth.

Sitting on the shore,
between blue sea
and mountain peaks,
observing the grand play enchanting,
he feels excluded,
from this conversation,
that remains obscure;
unconsummated
between the wind and the waves.

"The meaning is right here,
but one hardly
gets it, unless
desire to attain it is overpowering"
in tears, she said
exasperated, not able to go beyond the shore.

"we are like waves and leaves,
give it a miss, get confused,
vision of ultimate truth is the crux,
unless the eyes are opened,
filled with light, one fails, has to repeat"
he replied, like one tasted failure many times.

"you've blindfolded
your eyes, willingly
and complain;
be patient
work on your
inner world,
let the light drive  away the night"
the master smiled as he said.

"Roaring wind and waves
fire, earth and space,
the secrets they hold
are within the inner world"

At the end of narrow path
is the placid pond
where water is still:
truth absolute is reflected.

**"Life after life,
one walks round and round
seeking that blue stillness,
where one would
see one's true self reflected,
when the moment arrives."

Ethereal. That's the squirming quality of that health-hazard house,
where a byproduct of divorce emulsion slept in a bare room on
a bare air mattress, vacuously lying around with the blinds down,
vicious AM radio mumbling through the walls. Homeschooling was more like
becoming housebroken, given that my social network consisted of thirty feral cats.
I suppose some boys require a deadbolt on their room's door.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.

The apathy cloud that crawled the house led to a
(the deadbolt was to lock me out of my room; not in)
prison break; I awkwardly assured myself that I would
never be anything if I was still Pinocchio, and pleaded
to go to liberal-dominated-non-Rush-Limbaugh-approved public schools.
I did; I got into university, I got a grant, I do research,
I got a job, I got a girl, I got a job, I got a girl...
I don't know how to leave my room now that I'm free.
I still hear the crackle of conversative talk radio.

'Cause we'll put a boot in your *** / It's the American way.

Like trembling flotsam I drift into every class,
every party, every... A poem can regurgitate a person who is all
covered in spit and acid and memories. I still know that house
better than I know my own breathing body. I'm just going to keep running;
like a yellowed refrigerator housing second-amendment-upbringing-coleslaw;
like an overheating computer; like I always do; statically, in stasis.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.

You can sit there, complacent
Erroneously analyzing the situation
Going over every detail in your head
Vacuously idle inside yourself

You can remain ignorant
Making sure to reside within your provincial conversation
Cautiously tip toeing past anything and everything
That would add substance to your existence

Or you can allow reality to elicit itself
Revealing the raw and dangerous truth
Shattering all predetermined assumptions
Leaving only a disappointing version

Of what you want to be
Who you are
And where you are going
But this decrease in ego

Would add an abundance of experience
To your soul
To your life
Release all restrictions

And be free

rope strung around each finger tied to the substances you have faithfully
pledged your existence to
but these knots and strings are pointless
when point b does not reciprocate with point a

you have devoted your emotions to a pseudo relationship
built upon the crumbling granules of sugar and all things sweet
but sweetness only gets you so far
before your teeth begin to rot

i have taken a butter knife to my collar bones
and sliced away at the sick residue left over
from all the attachments
the terms and conditions that i vacuously accepted

or maybe i just don't understand how you could call this happiness
tediously worshipping these obsessions
you're losing your sense of self
touch with reality and what really
is alive

Beneath the stars at night
I feel light, vacuously transcendent.
With only one request
Floating in my mind:
Breathe me.
So I will flow into
Your lungs—a vivifying expansion
Leading to the fleeting journey;
Something called “giving of life”
Where I circulate through your
Veins and be with you.
Yet I know that this
Moment is not to last;
In a few seconds you
Exhale—an action that is
Now perfunctory, flushing me out
Of your system without thinking
Twice about it at all.

But I leave happy.
For I have done my part
To keep you alive
For your next breath.

I love having no strings on
Don't mind old songs that prove me wrong
Loving the burning sensation down my tube of consumption
Leaving Thoughts through lips with no assumptions  

Halting nothing, not even the toxin
Welcoming each one that is approaching
The drowning is just so vacuously dry
In a switch between myself and I

In my possession there is no shell
Just drinking, falling and feeling swell
The confidence in my hand, my new companion
Expressing things, While still standing

Crying, begging for more of the fuel
Not feeling the numb that is so kindly cruel
In searching for it, My bringer of exposed teeth
Sipping, gulping for the underneath

Red Devil’s Holiday
No. 85


I went to the desert to find grace
I came back with burning sand in my clothes

I saw mirages of love
I peered deeper focusing my vision
I discovered a heart made of stone
I went to the mountain to see my future
The desolation bore singular abandonment
I saw valleys, oceans and open plains
Alas I could not see the Garden of Eden
For the blazing sword of the archangel blinded my longing gaze
I came back with stones in my shoes

I went to my diary seeking salvation from tribulation
Distractions interrupted the reading
I found dehydrated history in my genealogy
Equilibrium was fleetingly grasped to be supplanted
I was looking for manifestations through an empty window
I came back with a world view in flux

My hunger drew me towards fields of abundance
I came back malnourished
The populace of the world had crowded me from the banquet table
Sequestered even as I sought nourishment
The music had stopped and there I stood with no place of identity.
The horn of cornucopia lay broken at my feet
I left stalked by hunger pains

I looked to the heavens for absolution
The starlight irritated my gaze
I left with tear doused eyes
The heavens were mute
The stars stared back vacuously
Eye to eye with heaven I was unenlightened
The constellations prescribed terse vacation of meaning
No arcane discovery for the soul sought endeavor

What trekked to the desert came back to me diminished

Pragmatic nuance added immeasurably through subtraction.

fin

Thousand tongues,
in this world.
Respective meaning brazen curled.
Lavish palaver vacuously hurl.

All of life is dead and the Sun has set.
Wet is the battlefield with blood after the brawl.
Stenches of death and sweat from both sides,
divides and drenches the trenches.
Sounds echo eerily quiet;
quite loud and profound.
All is for naught, as the vultures of the President descend.

The celadon leader smiles as he looks upon his ****** empire.
His vicious hunger is never fulfilled and his smaragdine iniquity smothers.
He wants, no, needs more; a never-sated, rapacious desire.
A broken country built on the backs and deaths of others;
evermore he wants and he wants evermore.
An incessant life drowned in cupidity and submerged in green,
but he is never jaded. He is a ***** emerald without valor.
His unclean desire for money recklessly expands as a deep ravine.

Avarice trumps the morals,
while he spreads a pestilential malignancy through the air.
The sacred blood of innocents binds together his laurels.
But the need for greed is exponential and blinds him to his error.
The mindless masses amass themselves at his mere feet,
but his mere feats only sum to immense ignorance and hate.
As he continues to stand for nothing but hypocrisy,
and his sycophants continue to vacuously prate.
It is a lesson for us all as a warning for our souls.
Covetousness is a viridian plague with no cure.
He corrupts spirits and gains unrighteous power from the polls.
But he is no leader, he’s only a false savior siphoning from the poor.

Baser thoughts, baser scripts from baser life for baser deeds
live and do by numbers as regimented primal fodders
programmed legions marching in primed unison
hence the ideology of data generally applicable
un-programmed a crime meriting expulsion
demand is one track minds for one track
do as we say not do you think is right
say as we tell you not say yours
see what's shown no discerning
we are your Nannies, hear us
yours is not to wonder why
yours is to do just as told
so living ghosts march
vacuously purposeful
in all colors and shades
bland empty entities
to their masters' voices
to the command of...
smoke-screens
and mirrors

Why reside in a mirage
buoyed by illusions and delusions
fables for thoughts in mindless rage
drenched in soulless malignant collisions
bereft of humanity incapacitated by jaundiced tirade

existing vacuously in souped up facade
prophets of divisive sermon in praises of duplicity
the festooning of inner turmoil birthing miseries cascade
leaving now't but snake oils for the lames to glorify mendacity
puppets sorrowfully gambol pulled and dangled in penny arcades

Peruse owned vistas and see all in cages
T'is a trooping for for us all unified save for the crippled
a sanguine journey with occidental baggage's for most to parade
destinations unknown as accidental tourists forage in waves ripples
each its path so why in wanton discords serve brew to turn all savage





copyright@Yenson27/4/19Allrightsreserved