I.

All I can say is that it is a hum
Reverberant, droning, consistent
Quiet thrumming along the surface
Stirs me awake and then it fills me with
Ichor and I sip, sip, and sip (until I'm drunk).

All I can say is that it is a hum,
Quiet droning, a hushed whisper,
Loud screaming inside the head,
A piercing headache, sometimes a discordant wail.

II.

You sit on the porcelain lip of the tub
Hooded eyes lowered, your fingertips
Pressed together like the steeple of a church

I think: Yes, this is what Renaissance painters modeled angels after. Your skin is like a rose-tinged alabaster, your cheeks Suffused with blood. The painter took a measured time with you.

"Do you honestly think you'll be okay on your own?" You ask.

Silence, she greets you.

III.

Hasn't my mother violently
Ejected me from the nest
I'm only a few months old, a nestling
Wings awkward and clumsy
Beak agape for masticated food
(I'm not ******* ready yet)
Ejects me
Her beak threatens to pierce my shell

This is dejà vu.
I've conversed before
Different room, different domain,
Different speaker, a sicker listener
I'm as sick, sick as **** now

Mind, she hums, crescendo
Crescendo high like a choral piece
Orchestral, and this is resplendent
Everything is gleaming
Your face encased in a soft glow
Halo of light
Your face, cherubic,
His face, Romanesque, was sculpted like a Bronze Age statue.

"Your mother didn't give you the right set of tools. My mother at least gave me–" he falters.

IV.

I remember calling the ex 28 times in the span of 2 hours.
The policeman, he counted.
Thrashing on the floor, weeping like Persephone must've in Hades, like a fallen Mortal reborn as a minor goddess
Stripped me, he did though, of my wings
Avian feathers streaked with years-old blood

My tears, why yes, they're bleeding rivulets.
My ****-brown eyes alight on the bleach
Yes, sweet death

"Stop calling me. I'm ******* another ***** right now," the ex says.

V.

Memory is so faded,
Plays like a scratched and worn cassette tape

Mind is a-humming, humming, my mind is
Orchestral choir, church choir, Pentecostal
Now, I eat ichor, ravenous, now I am Closer to God and she is a woman,  
Draped in funeral attire
She weeps, soundless, a Seer

"I don't know," I say.

"The med isn't working," you reply
Cherubic face shifts and morphs
Melts into soft glow light,
One with the halo, is the halo

Nothing makes sense, everything else does too. My mind races, cassette tapes
Whirs, skips, images flash, I weep
Weep like Sisyphus
Eyes spilling rivers of penny-tinged
Crimson, sanguine ichor

One day he'll taste it and hate me,
Loathe me, the jade-eyed serpent
Poison-fanged
I'll clutch his scales until my fingers are Cut, welts, mottled bruises, fading scars
I will be punished, am punished
The illness, the eternal Boulder on the eternal hill, it rolls and rolls, my mouth agape

I await my cyclic fate ordained by the Higher God

VI.

How many men have I lured into the chamber?
Drunk on sweet wine or mead?
Petrified into osseous
Their gazes failing to avert from my Penetrative stare?

He was an errant General, beautiful but stupid, his mind a one way road, his temper unpredictable and flighty
Oh, how I loved the duality of him
We philosophized
Theorized on the Gods
Laughed at their follies
Wondered at the mysteries of the universe, Her deep annals

Oh, how I loved the physicality of him
Tight, corded muscle, his back like a Wound spring, Bronze hand
Grasping a silver sword

Hark! His rounded shield is lifted, my hideous reflection stares back at me
My eyes, widened, the cup of manna Clatters, soundly in the chamber
Reverberates
Bounces off my throne of skulls

How many men have I–?

VII.

"Can you honestly say that you can take care of yourself?" You ask from the place atop the lip of the porcelain tub. Your hands, a steeple, a church spire
Perhaps, you are a lesser God, perhaps we are all falling Lucifers, wingless, blinded by vengefulness and betrayal
Perhaps, he too is–?

"Am I an infant to you?" I ask.
The headache splits
The pain demands, claws at the side of my skull, dances across my nerves, liquid iron on my tongue

Because when did I?

Oh, Sisyphus you weep! You, who slaughtered so many!

Oh, Medusa, you wept, you beautiful serpentine harlot, you *****, you–
The choir is a strong crescendo, Ascending, ascending, ascending
Lowers like a thrumting and heavy bellow
Deep, rich, and full, timbre

"Everyone, all your life has said you were crazy, but I don't think you are, I–"

VIII.

The tapes skip, voices garbled, muffled, Indiscernible and distorted
Mind shrieks, lower now, quieter now, Barely audible, a fading whisper, your halo Recedes, soft glow dims

Your hands separate, the steeple, no, the Spire collapses.
Held breath hitches,
Serpentine tendrils become wisps of hair, Cloudlike

We are lesser gods, not quite mortal, not quite divine

The itch demands to be felt, protests
And I, I scream endless into a dark chasm
My voice, it does not call back to me
It does not–

"I don't know."

The hardest part is forgiving you
But i won't let myself turn bitter
I'm not a vengeful heart
That you lies can litter
You took a piece of me
Then twist and broke it
Took my remaining sanctity
Wrapped your hands to choke it
And now I find myself
Rubbing streams of hatred
Sick that I once loved someone
That made me so jaded
But your win isn't the end
And this pain will fade
And the scars you gave
Will turn to strength I've made
So when you smile for me
And the torment inflicted
Know I've forgiven you
For what's been indicted
So next time you turn to vengefulness
Remember my name
Think of the girl
Who beat your game

Americans ... Is it just Americans you're talking
about here Trump? ...
those chosen,
those special people,
those singular red-blooded people,

because I'm a little confused here
as you didn't seem to consider Syrian
refugees as bleeding the same red blood
even when it flowed so freely for them over
there in their pitiless homeland,

& Hispanic immigrants,
they bled red too,
or being rapists & murderers
was it a tainted red?

& black folks?
was their blood red?
from reading your White Supremacist
re-tweets I figured darker skinned Americans
had some innate handicaps or un-American
tendencies & thus their blood was a might
different to us white folks,

& Muslims?
do they bleed red too?
or is it a special breed of red,
an Islamic red?
a special sort of red that favors
deportation as says Brietbart news
or that forbids them entry as per your
unforgivable attempt at en-masse criminalization.

There was no bleeding of the same red blood
as you appealed to the lowest denominator in
white folk bigotry during your successful rise
to top of the heap in Republican vengefulness,
bitterness & just plain Supremacist American
red blooded horror was there?

No, there wasn't.

I find myself standing before the gates of hell. It is here, in this place of fear and pain, that I must fight my battles and face my enemies. The smell engulfs me…the stench of ignorance and glutting fill the air. The wind blows with the sounds of nothingness and you destroy who I was and I try to hold back who I want to be.

It is before the gates of hell I face you. My blood flows with each blow I allow you to make. My adrenaline pumps with each strike and contact. Vengefulness lingers in my heart. My body is hot while my skin is cold to the touch. With each thought I relive the pain you inflicted on me. I bleed from the wounds you made. My heart aches and my soul cries out.

I stand alone, here at the gates of hell. No one to have my back. No one to put you in your place. I stand alone to fight a battle I ignored for many years. Trying to erase the marks you left on my body. Trying to eliminate the scars you put in my memories. Blocking out the sounds when I said NO and you refused to hear me.

I stand here at the gates of hell; alone, cowering, crying, and searching for someone to hold me, to tell me all will be okay, to keep me safe, and help me up when I fall. Someone who will be there for me when I seek help.

It is at the gates of hell I throw my punches, scream my brains outs, and there is nothing but silence and emptiness. My punches make no impact, my screams have no sound. It is here at the gates of hell I stand.

                                                                     *My own personal hell.

Loaded up on lies, deceitful eyes.
Watching you, as they plot your demise.
Karma twisting and turning counter clock-wise.
pretend to be  your friend; its only a matter of time.
Under a disguise - jealousy replacing self-pride.
with a vengefulness that can't be denied.
so unsure of themselves, form faulty ties --
A bunch of losers,
that are losing.
A bunch of haters,
that are hating.
A bunch of cowards,
and they're fearing.
My only fear is,
it's contagious.

Mukti is Freedom, we must be free
We must not be bound to the ground like a tree
We must not be slaves to the Mind and Ego, ME
The goal of life is Mukti, to be free

Most of us are slaves, we follow the herd
We don’t  open our wings  and fly like a bird
Although we human beings are blessed with wings
We crawl on the earth, tied with many strings

Therefore, we suffer the triple suffering on earth
And then we die and return in a rebirth
We suffer the pain of the body, ego, and mind
True happiness and peace, we struggle to find


We are prisoners of the Mind and Ego, ME
Our thoughts make us puppets,they don’t let us be free
Although we have an intellect to tell us what is wrong
We let the mind destroy us with thoughts so strong

Our senses make us slaves of vengefulness and greed
We are prisoners of anger and jealousy, indeed
Puppets we are, of lust and shame
We live in a cage, through the life game

Passions and obsessions rule our life
They make us prisoners and we live with strife
Instead of being free, and living with a smile
We are slaves of emotions that are longer than the Nile

Our own thoughts and habits make us puppets that cry
We live as prisoners right till we die
And though we could from these monsters be free
Instead of Freedom, we choose misery

We are a slave of ignorance and myth
We believe in rituals and superstitions, not the truth
We chase achievement, thinking success is happiness
And run the rat race, ending life in a mess


Haven't you seen people who are prisoners of fear?
They think a little virus will **** them, oh dear
Fear has made the world lock down everything
Shouldn't we be free to start living!

And then, we are prisoners of worry and anxiety
That these emotions can rule us, is a tragedy
We are puppets of revenge and hate
And we tie ourselves behind the misery gate

Freedom must also be got from religion
We must find out our true origin
We must not just believe what people say
We must investigate and  find the right way

Fences, Faces, Farces, Forces, the prison of four
Locks us behind many a door
We live and die, as a miserable slave
And take our sorrow till our grave

It’s not just being Free from  misery on earth
We must also be free from taking rebirth
If we don't realize the truth, who am I
Then we will not be free, even after we die

The body will die, but what about 'me'?
The one who passed away is not yet free
It is the mind and ego that carries its Karma
Until it is liberated and attains Moksha

Therefore, the purpose of our life
Is not just to be free from misery and strife
But to be Enlightened and gain Liberation
And to be free for Divine Unification

Freedom,Freedom,Freedom-that’s our goal
To be free from the body-mind-ego and live as the Soul
We must be free from wishes, wealth, and wine
So that we can become one with the Divine

Ask me for my humble opinion
I will write it along the walls of your home

Ask me to expand and elaborate
I will show you step by step

Tell me my confidence is malice
I will show you what vengefulness really is

Indirect your words and shoot daggers at me
Tar and feather my body for all to see

Turn a healthy discussion into sudden death
Life’s a competition, right?

You’re the professor, after all
I should know that wisdom has been stitched into your very being

It’s not like your student’s words would hold any truth
You’re already the winner

And I’m the one destined to lose

it has been over a year, to what has become:
    i have made too many points to be caged into one
     fraudulence, or one whimsical suggestion
that might entomb me... too many times has
the wind been undecided concerning what direction
my thought would travel to,
if my i am remained enthralled
within a stasis plateau... i cannot say how many
works could be written from a
string of i, 1, think, 2, therefore, 3,
i, 4, am, 5: five words... perhaps because the fact
is so recurrent, and so diverse
you can almost always encounter it
over and over again,
   in a kaleidoscope -
                  you can say:
how much of my thought precipitates
      toward my being so
to thus be instructed?
   and what if one says the opposite:
like... i think parallels i am...
  thought parallels beings...
and for that: we have the case
of ontology...
                    oh this is old territory,
and only a few could find a hammock
in these arguments...
          because there is no pop glory in
them to be found: for all things that
such postscriptum remarks are these days:
they are not dealt with in this world...
for let us say: man finds it truly
       uncomfortable to be cradling a soul...
materialism bites back with a vengefulness
  to completely destroy such entities:
and call upon history to speed-up
   their reasoning of the profundity of
the argument first given: as history speeded-up
   is but mythology...
  to quickly forget.
                 i rarely like to recreate my
steps back into this fact of the pentagram...
          it sounds too over-ridden with
past examples that have been left alone
or alooft...      they are no longer in line
with the vogue zeitgeist...
or the zeitgeist of the current vogue...
      but it has been over a year
since i made this entry: and yes, i remember it...
did you know that walking in temperatures
   in the range of -1 to -3ºC  is actually more
pleasant than walking in temperatures
in the range of +1 to +3ºC?
          i guess it could be counter-intuitive...
but there's that outer-suburban road
in the night... and that empty street,
   and there's me walking right down the middle
of it, rather than on the pavement...
   and it's so much more pleasant
in temperatures below 0ºC than just slightly
above... more pleasant: because it's
actually warmer... and the reason being?
there's absolutely no moisture in the air...
suddenly the water once bound to water vapour
becomes crystals on the pavement...
   and yes, this be but the second night
when Jack Frost came back...
likened to yesteryear... that strange sight,
of paparazzi crystal flashing on the pavement...
i might have asked for a red carpet too...
but there is was, the paparazzi frost
    tingling on the pavement...
       a red carpet scenario with an audience of 1...
below 0ºC... the warmer air of frost,
where water no longer exacts authority in the air...
   as if laden with a tombstone that
my shadow is... but so much clearer to be content
with such a burden: than an image in a lake,
or a mirror, so much less burden with a shadow
than a reflection...
                    wherever i look i gaze at an atom
bomb explosion, yet without strobe-shadow-etchings
on Hiroshima brick walls... i gesticulate
  my shadow like a puppeteer... and it pleases me
to see the puppet walk and trot, and swiggle
down a bottle of beer, and ooze out cigarette
smoke between street-lamps...
               and... fay! no strings attached!
o whiskey: my amber fay... o amber fay!
      through your tides of moon and mood,
that none of us have seen fathomable in temperaments
above what the prescription suggests:
         not you puritan Amber at room temperature:
for you are not cognac...
   or classic 1950s Hollywood dabbling with soda water...
             on the tip of my tongue: a bonsai iceberg
tickles my tongue, and the glass rattles with many
of them: like castanets!
                        there you are:
   in the deafness of the night my chauffeur and
    snogging suitor: for each bite of frost indoors
i twirl to romance: that no barbiturates could ever
provide... then let me teach the one who ended
his literary career asking to be a disciple of Dionysus,
let eternity be for me: a chance to teach him
how to appreciate you...
                  of course the Green Fairy will be there
as if the Lilith of Eden: lizardly green
or perhaps chameleonic rainbow tinged
so frivolous as to be envious and yet hide it;
for if he truly wanted to be a disciple
     to the fervours of a company with you -
i can spare him a lesson or due, for him to complete
his transvaluation of all values, and perhaps
    the untimely permutations.
                yet only with prior obstacles already
cited, as if lines wriggling toward nowhere of a
student in an hour's worth of detention...
      a mantra must be stated, and then avoided:
the serpent of narrative must sidewind
    away from the clear indication of what can
possibly come prior, and post.
                      still... a year ago i looked at the same
sight as i did today: the flickering of frost
on the pavement under a street-lamp...
     like a red-carpet event at a movie premier,
frost like photographic paparazzi flashing -
but this? o Amber Fay... such a subtler version,
that metaphor of epileptic nervousness
         that comes without warning and sooths
having strained one's eyes on the heavens
too often... to think: such an array of diamonds
on a brutish scrape of pavement:
        o such blissful humbling by the coming of
winter... with a Quasimodo to add to the scene:
    to look down upon this world and feel
a hunch about what route to take...
                is but a frightful realisation that
by looking up... once sees so few a chance to appropriate
      passive magic of this world
              and you and the world entwined for a purpose
to simple see what needs to be seen:
     and expect no fathomable truce between
such sights on a frosty night on the pavement:
   and  the celestial       zodiac patterns
     that speak neither of man or a god: but simply of aeons
  of perfected harmoniousness, to nothing more:
than a ratio.

Are love and hate the same thing?
I think I know enough of hate
to know that it doesn't get one very far.
You can only hate so much
before you drain yourself from exhaustion.

But I think know enough of love
to say about the same.

Sometimes hate leaves people feeling
hot and angry and lastly, empty.
But love does just that too.

When someone you love hurts you,
you still love them,
but you're only angry at them.

Hate makes it really hard to let go
of wrong doings and vengefulness.
People who feel love know that
cutting the rope is just as hard.

The different thing about them though,
is that when you love someone
you would do anything in the world for them.
But when you hate someone,
especially someone you once loved,
the world does not exist anymore.

You would do anything just to see
their joy turn to ashes in their mouths.

.

My god.
You are sacrilege and scared
the creator and the fallen
I sip from your cup
I pray at your temple
I adorn my body with oils.
Yet still, drought seizes the land.
I toil in the fields
I fast in honor of you and your glory
Yet drought seizes the land.
I shed my clothes
I cry upon the holy hill for you to take pity on me
For am I not worthy?
Come upon me, lie with me, and show me your might show me your rath.
vengefulness the old kings whispered about.

and it was still, then rain began to fall across the land