Yugen pick your friends
Yugen try to please the world
Yugen never fail
Yugen be who you wanna be
Yugen contradict
Yugen be happy
Yugen steal my words

Yugen, you are
   On your own

Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple façades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.

I am wild, my akushla,
a solivigant.
But you are a cynefin.

Your kalon conceives resfeber in me.
Beasts rumble within like brontide,
they chant of redamancy, my trouvaille.

The dragoman drew me to you
Speaking of yugen
the susurruss mountains
they cured my atelphobia
Submontane caves
where our lights baltered among the selcouth crystals
Reminding me of basorexic spoondrift
breaking the moonglades you adore,
my fellow parallian.

Perhaps it was boyish werifesteria
or maybe I was selenotropic
to fall in love with a gentle boobook
ever so finifugal when we speak

But I feel filipendulous when abendrot bows for advesperacit

You sometimes consider it sphalolaliah,
my words, going ever on and on,
But I’ll learn your lagom, if you give me time

it's enough to breathe
to touch you

it's enough to breathe
let your voice sing

it's enough to breathe
to see you come and go
walk like an angel

When people ask what I do for a living,
I respond

“Listening to my heart ******
as my mind garden blossoms
incandescent indigo constellations
humming the songs of nature’s entirety.

I sensually embrace the entirety’s
divine lips kissing my spirit
with sacred words
merging into me—
a blissful osmosis of neurotransmitters
waltzing with my consciousness
flowing liquid electricity
and molten rhythms of oxygen
in kinetic unison through moments
of subjective apocalypses
slowly returning to yugen.”

When asked where I see myself in ten years,
I respond

“Copacetic contentment—
having surrendered my life
to more than just the digital currency
of likes and retweets
and the constantly dissolving paper coins
because I chose to see people
as breathing pieces of naked art,
in progress,
stripped down to their thoughts
jettisoned through this spherical time
of infinite space and possibility
slowly accepting there is more out there
beyond traditional political religical flimflam,
beyond abnormal logicality,
beyond nirvana.”

No given thought
from one so young
of double speak
or triple tongue

I cradle thee
within my boughs
ignorant of
thy whats and hows

Jednom slomljena
ce jour, repare!
mia mente, la vuoto,
verloren geht, und wie!

'Twas scattered 'bout
now gathered glued
so yugen read
this thought subdued

if now a mess
no more to rhyme
you should have seen
this,
       aforetime

I would like to say i have a

profound sense of the universe

I would like to say i understand the unthinkable

my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.   remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated.    empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer,                                                    who cry in dark corners.

yet i have mislaid  the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.

that feeling, that .

arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,

opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.

track four repeated. that

comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.

arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.

it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare

I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.

that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.

while music plays. that feeling. that.

syrup stings my tongue.