Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies,
costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science,
work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond
what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of
gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself
all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries,
what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine,
if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you
from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others,
they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death,
all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs
of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense
and interminable as they;
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—
you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are
promulges itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

The black unicorn is greedy.
The black unicorn is impatient.
'The black unicorn was mistaken
for a shadow or symbol
and taken
through a cold country
where mist painted mockeries
of my fury.
It is not on her lap where the horn rests
but deep in her moonpit
growing.
The black unicorn is restless
the black unicorn is unrelenting
the black unicorn is not
free.

Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor

Number 1

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.

Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.

Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.

One showed a vain and noisy ****,
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.

And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.

Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.

And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.

All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.

The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.

The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,

Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.

The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.

"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."

"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."

And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"

The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)

The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.

Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!

Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!

I trust I have not wasted breath:
  I think we are not wholly brain,
  Magnetic mockeries; not in vain,
Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death;

Not only cunning casts in clay:
  Let Science prove we are, and then
  What matters Science unto men,
At least to me? I would not stay.

Let him, the wiser man who springs
  Hereafter, up from childhood shape
  His action like the greater ape,
But I was born to other things.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?  
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.  
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle  
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;  
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;  
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?  
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes  
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.  
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds

I have often turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why
Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide

Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights
You took to me like a moth to a ball of flickering light

With the devils own smile plastered upon your face and the slightest of hand
You produced a sanguineous jar of hearts and an ominous jar of black sand

You grasped my hands in your work enured and fairly calloused paws
Looked me in the eyes, and told me to forever leave my pale hands raw

"Never soil your untouched hands, your hands and eyes you shall avert'
"Never bruise, nor ever hurt, nor shall they be ever touched by dirt,

"Never touch a rose, nor touch a bee, as danger is an all you see,
"Close your eyes my little darling, and all of life shall be but a dream."

With the trust of a mothers child, I kept my eyes tightly squeezed
Wished upon the star within the midnight sky, wavering in the breeze

Held my hands up to my chest, hoping the fluttering and staggered slips
Not to be seen by your face within the light of moon as from the sun it dines and sips

Of a heart that had only once been given to me and should have forever stayed mine
But the greed inside all mens' hearts want, and reaches out to grasp a young new 'hind'

With another slight of those calloused hands, you took my life for your own pleasure
And stole what was rightfully derived as mine; a beating heart, you took your leisure

A working mind, once a clock, now fully had come to a skidding stop
You took my bones and my teeth and used them as a fertilizing crop

The very worst thing that you did, you took my pride when you took my skin
Shaved off clean with a diamond edged razor and worn as if you were mockeries twin

Burried underneath that beautiful aspen tree, I've been given the time to remold
But my life had been stolen, the soul forced out before the bells had tolled

In the time it had taken for my pieces to remold, I had realised something then and there;
There were always things that were meant to go untold, but the truth is ringing upon the open air

You wanted more than what was offered and had bitten off all you could chew
But if I'd known back then what I know now, I'd know real good men only come in few

Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
  Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
I even smile old smiles—with listlessness—
  Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.

A thought too strange to house within my brain
  Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
  —That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain….

It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
And each new impulse tends to make outflee
The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!

[page 1] And it was soon after, that the weekend had ended, and I drove home, only-sort-of-alone. Unclean, happy, not the type-to-convert. I don't mean to end the evening by evening the score. "Better than no one," but beating the billboard, and the broad-side-of-the-barn, and the *****. 

You stole from my sewn lips the secret sentiments, which would scare you. You would have been more than welcome to have just asked. Which is probably why I didn't just ask, after, I mean, [redacted line] I hope someday you see this, hope they read it to you, over me, cold. I want you to know that I am a *******-great-friend. I'm there on those days that you don't 
[page 2] pretend. But I have faith (I have no evidence for faith's power, just a lot-of-it). There'll be space, here, for you, in the end. 

I'll look at you, last night, like I looked to enable. With two-eyes, and no movement, your addiction poking at poisonous salvation. You caught the wordless-stick, so, and subsequently set fire to yourself. This sharing of cigarettes was seen by the Absent-Folk. Jarring, I gathered. "At least," I had thought. 

At least, at that point, he, stood-up, stumbled away. "*******." Am I sure? No? "No." Neither bad blood, nor enough time-spent-forgetting my bleeding, my beaurocracy, or your backpacking abroad. I mumble, and I'm bumbling now, but before... I bet... that boy's been broken. And his riled-up "Ryan!" rang my [page 3] soul. My ever-loving soul! My non-existent, unconvincing, numbed-and-listless, inner-business! And on the porch, in the mourning, I wished him, dishonest, and shaved off his ***** hair. 

And on that porch, 'round 9 A.M., the band was packing up. Personally? "People-watchin'." Probably should check that they're actually... even... there. Probably should hear the percussionist explain rhythm, again. I can't tell if it's in seven-eight or three-four. I'll scoop up all your passion, as it spills out through the doors. Not isolated, all-four! Volume-set. Vicariously, sailing very... south (towards New Orleans, again) leaves in the river, collected for the raft, stacked neatly in the Pile. Vitamins, from the Oldest-Living-star, absorbed through skin, and eardrums.

[page 4] Stuck on the surprise of "****-function?" More surprised the ****-function wasn't ******? "No?" Not-even-sort-of. Not even worth it, with most of my words! "Oh, not including you. You let your ears be lopped-off, by my lamenting. You look like a love I could lose to a friend. I enjoy the loss, for a cause, since, if you're always right, you can never be wrong."

And in my acknowledgement
of my ignorance I become
more powerful than I'd ever 
need be poetic.

Not that my mistress numbered amongst my lamentings. Alas, "merely-explaining." 

"Oi, navigate!" Alas, "it's implicit." Therein's your mistake. [page 5] Implicit implies! I'll sooner strip-search a subject for intentions, ulterior motives remaining unmentioned (inspired, I'd reckon, by the pills I shouldn't chew, and the jokes I should stop making). My unfocused inertia interferes with my ability to infer. 

And if you're still here, you're fantastic. And I find you fascinating. And, I found, you were following. My sorries were useless, imagined-kindred-lies. I'm sorry I had to go and "color it pink." But, I'll copy this page down for you, if you'd save it? The buffer'd seemed beautous up'till I blew it. Shouldn't inquire after you, should I? If I'm still thinking on it, should I ink-it-all out? What was your name, after all? 

[page 6] Was it really an accident, "or'd work seem like hell?" [I've been checking out apartments down there myself.] My shell was left-stinking-up the old Durango. But any newly-blazed-trail leads me "back to the 'co." A larger, sturdy, empty, circle-home, with an unidentifiable paint job, and thrusters that are supposedly-designed to fall back towards earth, and incinerate *(CAUTION: FALLING FIRE). *
"I'm pretty sure that verse is... It's just awesome." One of my best? "It's just awesome!" Okay! I'll remember, to remind you, that I've said the ****-I-say, spent, sped, speeding, smoked-out, and smoking-you-up. Spreading myself thin, like Communion-wafers and sticky, like reunions. 
[page 7] Saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came. 

Someone snuck up with a secret. I'd seen nothing-not-standard. Even, in your snatching a spider, from my hands, and moving toward mundane mockeries, meandering, and making-my-year with a yawn. Simultaneously, I heard a sharp hiss, as someone had slowly let the air out of innocence. Somehow, rendering me speechless. Well, without respect to the "Whoa!!!" Spit's still not-red-yet. "Skeletal." Said-right. I suppose if I think hard, you'd screamed adjacently. I suppose I've never suggested a co-operative cackling. You're with it, right? You're with it, you're with me, and "you're my people." You're going to have a good time. You should know, I should've too, but attitude's [page 8] a fiction. An answer-tricked, alive, unknown. 

As a species we suffer, from seeing something done, and wanting nothing else. I'm on page eight, and ready, perenially-crushed into next-generation-dirt, but there, nonetheless. 

Well, "either way," even without you, even with her, even-in-spite-of-her, always because of him. "Always loved him, almost-******-her." Wish: I'd kissed Larry, too. Wish: she'd never married you. Wishing-dry, and diamond-winged, cursed voice, bumped up some orange change to the counter, and then off of it. More expensive than I'd have guessed. Self-consumed and best-dressed. Not rushing in, but wondering, about my-time-left. "And if death squashed potential, was it ******, or theft?" Only [page 9] if---I can look, and---wait, I have enough left, yeah, here. "Thanks, I got you back when I get some-of-my-own." Very sweet-air-tonight. "Mad, I missed the show." All good vibes.

[page 10]
Regal lions, turned house-felines,
in the cave, with so-loved-Dan. 
Thank goodness for the better ones. Thank
goodness for my friends. 

Often, only reasons to stand 
up, withholding coughs and stretching.
Even if you can't interpret all my 
fourth-dimension etchings. 
[page 11]
Sought to state the timeline, as
I'm not strung-on-the-plan. 
And, almost, every human, with
a Facebook, has a band.

There'll always be peripheries 
and, people on the side-
lines, and people craving
air-time, and people, deserving that time. 

All-white eyes, fall back, in 
waste-of-times, and
beer-soaked-pasts. For
the amount they seem to 
smile, you would be 
thinking, "this could last."

[page 12]
"Alas," this feels like the end. I feel like I'm leaving them. Slowly. Silently. The Shadow, to whom Paul'd refer, trying to stitch-himself to my town-skipping, sans-sunlight.

Once upon a time, in a world that looks like yours      
there was a girl with
golden hair
that hung like a banner across her back in a
a sea of sandy metal
that whispered across the air
all the untold secrets of the water and the flowers
and their petals


and when she blinked, her eyes were blue
and if you leaned too close you'd
drown in them
like the hags who tumbled down the wells
and shrieked for help
that no one cared about
because they didn't hear their voice
or see their
ebony locks trailing like abandoned sea **** after them
because they didn't fit into the space the puzzle maker had carved
and couldn't conquer the tedium of difference


and the girl was tugged by hand to go to Church
and her prayers were secret treasures
that trickled from her lips
and tasted like righteousness
each word more crystal than the last
soaked in honey at the tip
and smothered in wonder and glory
and the days as they passed


and they never mentioned the girls she teased
who wore headscarves
or bindis
that she'd printed with the colours of endless torment
in hues of cheerless and agony
and the girls never told her that
if they took them off
like she begged them to
laughter sprinkled in and stirred
they'd have to show her how much more pain
her jeering caused them


and the girl made mockeries of the unconventional
but that was okay because
everyone did
their eyes creasing up into slits of derision
in universal agreement
skidding past the true
whims of their heart and growing to
resent them


and the eccentric pressed themselves carefully
into the mould of society's
baking tray
their souls thrashing out in pain and hatred
as they compressed their emotions
and intelligence
and the beauty they found in the strangest of things
into the shell that had been vacated for them
when its previous owner had shrivelled up
and given in
and died


and all the way through life, the girl was beautiful
but she still  blew char
over her eyelashes
and stained her lips the post-box red that's found in
first kisses and
poetry and
scrawled crayoned hearts and
fading wishes


and she made fun of the red that pulsed
in the form of acne on
her classmates' faces
growing their hair out long to cover their pain
until no one could see their shame
and pouring their money into
the collection tins of mass chain stores
of cream and gloop and products
until their faces were marred by make-up
until their mothers didn't recognise them anymore
and they cried


and the girl was thinner and happier than anyone
but because it amused her
her wrists were slit
so her peers doled out their sympathy
and held battles over
who could make her smile first
and she fasted to become thinner
and she collected
four leaf clovers


and her classmates ignored the tender puckered skin
of the children that hacked at
their flesh and
tried to hide it alongside their hurt
and she cackled at the ribs
that seemed to try and burst from their flesh
like hungry mouths were trying to eat
them from the inside out
and they collected things because they feared
what would happen if they didn't
because that was OCD


and when the girl grew up, she married a boy
and he was tall and
his hair was night
and he was handsome in the conventional way that was accepted
perfect match
the paradisiacal sight of
dainty damsel clutching the arm of the
kind of man she'd read about in books
she'd been infatuated with him before they'd met


and the boys who fell in love with each other were outcast and spat on
their hearts torn into tatters and shredded in machines
by the people who thought they could decide for them
that if they didn't love girls then they'd love no one at all
because in the fairy tales they'd read as young children
they learnt that
prince = princess
and the prince never runs away with the woodcutter
because where would the princess be then?


and the girl still lives on today, in a world that looks like yours
her words a deadly poison
reaping and bleeding
crushing her prey between *******
and showing songs to the ears of the impressionable,  young or old
sowing seeds in their brains
that blossom in their hearts
and she is beautiful
and she is terrible
and she is nameless but for the title of
Society’s own child
and she is blameless
for it is the parent
at fault.

The sky transformed in a matter of seconds
From a bright powder blue
To a sickly gray that reminded me of my darkest days.

The teardrops from the sky came trickling down
bit by bit
Slowly picking up speed
As I could hear the pitter patter on the window sills.

I walked over to my window to watch the show.
To watch the raindrops maneuver its way
past the nooks and crannies of the trees
and soak up into the ground.

I noticed something odd.
Right outside my window, lied a spider web.
A huge one, about two feet in diameter
And in the center, sat a beautiful maroon colored spider,  curled into a ball to protect itself from the penetrating water droplets.

The web had to be one of the most
beautiful creations I'd ever seen.
How could something so minuscule
Create such a wonderful piece of art all on its own?

But as I was looking at this web
I was watching something devastating.
All of the spider's hard work
Was being battered by the rain.

The web was shaking violently back and forth.
Surprisingly, it was remaining mostly intact.
Unlike the fragile spider,
Clinging onto the strings of its creation for dear life.

The rain continued beating down
As I stood there admiring the web's strength.
The web was withstanding everything the storm threw it's way.
But its soul, the creator, didn't seem strong enough to.

The storm faded away.
The web, a little beaten down,
managed to stay strong enough to survive.
The spider, however, did not.

This reminds me of myself, you know.
Beaten down with words, mockeries
Beaten down by my past
My memories

I keep my outer shell perfectly intact
So that no one knows what is really going on inside me.
When in reality, my soul is dying.
My depths are shallowing, just like the spider.

I am not the only one like this.
I was oblivious to this fact
Until I watched this spider
Take his last breath before drowning.

Why couldn't the spider be as strong as its outer shell?
Why can't I be as strong
as I make myself out to be?
Maybe I'll find out one day.

'Hold the candletip to my fingertips', she said
Shuddering under the weight of heat
And my incredulous stare.

'Do it'. she ordered, and I did,
Believing a love without identity would last as long,
'Cut off my hair.' she shouted

I did, it stuck up short
Cowlicks on her forehead
'Enough.' I said. She shook her head.

'Squeeze my chest, love, and don't be gentle,
For I shall know in the heave of my breast.'
I did and she cracked within under the hate of how much I wanted.

'Now, take my words-'
'What?'
'Let me finish.' she said

'Take my words and give me yours,
We can share one voice,
My God we can.'

I took my words,
Though it was agony to rip them free
And she received them without thanks.

Her hair short, her words shorter
Her chest flat, her fingers flatter
Before me a mirror stood

I tried to see her face, but only hated mine
And told myself I would never see her again
I realised too late her difference was what made me love her.

Unto seventy years and seven,
  Hide your double birthright well--
You, that are the brat of Heaven
  And the pampered heir to Hell.

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
  Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
  Sternly as you drill your pride.

Show your quick, alarming skill in
  Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
  Ink that rushes from your heart.

When your pain must come to paper,
  See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
  Let it lick the words away.

Never print, poor child, a lay on
  Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
  Murmur, "Silly little thing!"

He knew she'd never leave.
Mistakes become true testaments of love supposedly, women tend to accept a man's wrongs as a way to show their loyalty.
Sticking through thick and thin, while their men
skip and skim through options.
I was an option.
Somedays I was proud to be his safe haven, his lover, most of all his friend.
I was in love with the comfort and knowing he'd would always be there.
Other days I was lonely. When hours past and there was no sign of him I assumed I had ran my course.
That she had returned, but we both knew she had never left or planned on leaving.
I knew I was in love when the pain became more painful.
As I spent each holiday alone, my reflection mocked me.
I questioned which I'd rather be a secret or a mockery.
I still don't know personally.
The women, or "girls" with the relationships we envy  I've noticed seem to rather be made mockeries.
You see a strong, confident, beautiful, intelligent, and independent lady become weak, cowardly, dependent, clingy, oblivious, insecure, and naive.
The denial is their safe haven.
Well he was mine.
I became all of the above, except naive.
I always knew.
He always knew I'd leave, and deep down I knew it too.

Run your fingers over my chest
pick apart my shirt, thread by thread
and crush the fibers between your fingers
til you've laid my skin bare
Let your frigid breath caress my *******
and perk my ******* in parody of arousal

Then bring that silver blade you've been twirling
idly in your elegant hands,
trace its sharpened edge from my neck to my heart
Leave a stark line of red in your wake,
for it tells me that reality is here,
pinned under your gaze

You have no need for restraints, no cuffs of shining steel,
your piercing eyes and the bow of your lips
are enough to keep me perfectly still
even as you slide your blade between my ribs and twist
like a rusted key in a lock
my bones slide apart

Rivulets of red run down my pale skin,
drawing mockeries of words I can't express
between my shallow, gasping, shuddering breaths
Watch my heart beating in my open chest,
and sink your fingers in around the arteries
let my blood flow over your hand

Squeeze hard.

Leave these other guys desensitized.
Sacrificial activism
stop telling these lies
Lyrical capitalism
Deception is precession
Dark future; bright prison
Dark past; bright vision
Stuck inside; minds prism
All equal BUT, what division?
Quest, what?
New edition.
Not what eye envisioned.
Isosceles try angles
Highs lighten; the atrocities  
Apostrophes trapping trophies
Kings fallen; to their knees
Ruled by their needs
The heinous comes,
with the mockeries.
Fable creatures; feeble needs.
Dream Chasers see, wicked dreams.
The life of an artist is not all that it seems: see what I mean?

Wise men tell their tales
Of yesteryear
With vigor and pride
To youngsters and noblemen
In accordance
With their passion
To teach.

Fools tell their stories
Of mockeries
With evil and filth
To ascertain encomium
In accordance
With their pleasure
To scorn.

Young ones keep silent
And understand
As the words are drawn
From both the fool and the wise
In accordance
With their desire
To learn.

"In the days of the monkeys,
I ate their brains,"
he turned to me and laughed,
that hollow sound
which could never fill our void,
nor turn back time --
not even erase the mockeries
we made of feigned virtue,
   faded glory --
devout adornment of the false gods
   of fate.
No murderer can lay claim
to a moniker graced with deity,
laced with the untruths
   of the human soul,
(a condition born of
pre-ordained expediency).
The human condition
creates a killer --
defines the scope of ******,
   of murderer.

I looked at him --
my voice distant and low,
"In the days of the monkeys,
we may not have been
   the same."

First, there was infinity
Out of infinity came darkness and light
Which were divided into night and day
The light of day gave birth to the sea, the sky and the earth
The darkness of night gave birth to more

It began with doom
Which brought death
Caused by disease and old age
After living  life of suffering
Suffering from pain, mockeries and lies
Lies told by fakes who used illusion
Illusions to cause discord and fights
Fights that ended in war, ****** and ruin
From the ruins came misery
And from that misery came starvation
Which caused plundering and deceit
Deceit showed the way to defilement
The defilers began to harvest pride
The pride lashed out harsh criticisms
Those criticisms caused obsessions to destroy blemishes and defects
The path to doing so lead to lawlessness until all that was left was the choice to forget all that had happen or place the blame somewhere
It was inescapable  

Yet, all of that was only half of what spawned from infinity

The light of day beared the sky, sea and earth
Encompassing them was time and nature
Time held possibilities
Possibilities to create
To create life
Life full of love
Love full of live
And yes, each fate is the same
Death
The start, the length of each life and the eventual end
But each destiny differs
Nature
The ebbing and flowing of order
The force coming from infinity
Binding all living things
To heal and to bestow gifts
Gifts of guidance
Of peace and truth
Truths that speak of joy and undeniable beauty
Encouragement and relief

But what is it that separates the two?
Keeping this world in proper balance?
The answer is us.
Look within yourself and see the infinity you hold
Destroy it
Then create anew

Winds march over boulevards
As winding as his wanderings
Leafs leave branches barren
To make the grey skies seen
Clouds cry bitter raindrops
Soaking sour solitude
The puddles promise solace
To drown in to his waist
Torso left to nature’s whims
And storms to wear him out
Car alarms laugh in his face
Howling mockeries his way
Loudly, thunders call him
To give in to the fogs and mist
Life was never as redundant
As in autumn’s heady lists

Shadows like hurricanes
In minds like weathervanes
Dance for mockeries
While planes are listening
Words to fall away
Like earth to save someday
Pain like wandering
In shoes so weathering
Vain like celebrate
So time is circling
Shame like haunting away
Game like supposed to say
Shame the seeming gray
Wake like muttering
Climb like our day
Blame like want today
Shame like sand astray
And bells like leaves in May
Reign like start today
But fold like colors
Hold tight shudders
Mold like rubber
In homes like butler's
Of tomes like brothers
Some like flutter
While some walk others
Codes like shutters
Hopes like others
Hope for others

In darkness I stand
Into lightlessness I dip my hands

My eyes glow from lies contained
My hands twirl a blade sharpened truth

Sliding the dagger across fragile skin
Feeling my life pour out from within

My life separates into separate strands
Blue, Red, Silver, Black

Blue for emotions frozen into ice
Red for love I cannot make disappear

Silver for a God that should not care
Black for my soul that houses nothing good

They coil around me
Surround me in light

Flicker
And go out

Course ropes of darkness surround me
Mockeries of what was inside me

They pull themselves around my throat
Bind my hands, legs, and feet

Tipped by a gust of silent laughter
I crash to the ground

The earth slowly consumes me
Pulling me into an unmarked grave

Though long before I am brought to suffocate below
The cords around my neck remove me from consciousness

There can be no awaking
Already dead and brought within a dream was I

Where am I to go?
When after life all I am able to do is die into another night.

A precious piano stands silent and sovereign
in a room of obscure ambience that hangs from Heaven.
Gathered is a crowd familiar by name and face,
and name and face alone.

A prophet stands a step beneath the piano.
His emaciated ideals are better explained in writing.
The crowd uses his mispronounced prophecies as the material
for their mockeries and their jokes.

A glass ceiling makes them naked to ethereal bodies
that do not care to pay attention.
And if such bodies could speak, they would speak
nothing towards them.

Each soul in the room is selling some
stopgap prescription drug that will last a lifetime.

The preacher is selling God, with all His effete side effects;
the fascist sells purpose with some acrid aftertaste;
and the madman sits in the corner with a thousand low-cost answers,
none of which you can fact check.

“You will see!” the prophet exclaims.
  His voice is weak in its strength.
“You will see the rubble of Man’s Creation,
  and the fractured bones of God.”

Lucifer enters with a proud gait
and collects the silent.

I, the capitalist war machine,
I, the magnificent static,
I, the bomb shelter peace,
I, the twenty four hour news cycle, the rise, the relapse, the detox, the retox, the crucifixion, the rebirth, the disgrace, the continuation of the theme repeating ad nausea towards annihilation,
I, the caged ******,
I, the black boy bleeding to death,
I, the rioters in the street,
I, the Wall Street gallows,
I, the old money militia,
I, the yuppie **** appropriating culture from the scraps of endless genocide,
I, the shock value mockeries of conventional moralities dumbed down to be digested,
I, the blood spilled on sacrificial altars on holy ground,
I, the celestial body ignored, passing back and forth endlessly through peripheral visions,
I, the madman howling at the moon for some ******* peace and quiet
I, the pill popping siren choking on adoration,
I, the mass hallucination shared and reshared till it loses all meaning,
I, the Pantheon collapsed,
The downfall broadcast,
The television unplugged and still playing,
I, the crushing realization,
The devastating grip of ruinous apathy,
The movement monetized,
The victory shallow,
I have built this tomb with my own hands,
I have changed the channel one too many times,
I have let this consume me
I am guilty
You are no better
Lie still
Let it consume you

got to meet a pedagogue
who might let out of his
wretched gob
some mockeries
something like this
"perhaps, he has a paralysis"
when in the course of classwork
you're not taking
notes of what's on the blackboard
that snot's painting
got to meet an insolent boy which
might start an altercation
since that ***** is annoyed with
3 out of 5 you'd rated
his "top significant" work with
despite the case that
it's simply according
to the teacher's direction

Pain In Love Chain
My love your heart is so inncent so tender and so sweet
Hence you can see any human in torture and pain
For this sweet trait I love you and want to be my heartbeat
So that beauty be praised and taken in love chain
I know world has its own mockeries and its own tricks
But with clean hearts we will be able to overcome all
With sincerity of purpose all difficulties we will just fix
We will be able to forestall and to encounter any wall
Love needs sacrifice and we have to be ready to take it
Pain and pleasure go hand in hand in this transitory life
We have to be ready to face and never ever but to quit
So my sweetheart let us be out of all this to play the fifer
Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright Aug 2020 Love Remains

Dreams, just that.
Dreams, illusions of the mind,
mockeries from my subconscious,
my hopes and fears
introduced as an incoherent mass.
Senseless, without reason,
without purpose.
Dreams, just that.
They aren't true,
they aren't real,

But oh how they help me
breathe throughout the night.

why does despair ensnare me
one moment i am fine and the next i’m
staggering slipping stumbling
down the slopes of stability to
crash headfirst into depression.
it isn’t a chasm cracking open
beneath me, a crumbling hole
i’m falling into freefall
but a forbidding fog rolling in,
perverting the light to turn
my surroundings into mockeries
of what they had been of
what i thought they were whereas
i am still here.
i am still me.
it isn’t darkness, plunging
me into black; i wish it were
because then i could hide,
i could ignore. it’s a
beacon baring my doubts, a
spotlight on my fears, a promise—
a whispered promise that i was wrong,
wrong about it being behind me
wrong about breaking free of it. a
show my brain puts on, where i am both
audience and performer,
chained to the stage and to the seat,
forcing me to look—saying:
look at your
helplessness, hopelessness, worthlessness;
look until you are blind
to everything else and you are
nothing but a suppressed scream,
soaked in tumultuous terror; look until
your thoughts swell and swirl into a cyclone,
laying waste to the shabby shelters you built in
your deceitful, deceptive time of respite;
look until reality shatters
your pathetic platitudes of
it gets better;
it’s gonna pass;
it isn’t permanent;
because it is,
because this is what you are,
because this will always be the result,
because
this is how it ends.

Always closer than you ever think it is, one
Little slip, and you're straight through the abyss
Finding out in the end, all life ends. Carrion.
Vultures with eight tracks and tape decks

Copulation and emotion means I'm breeding ****** hatred
And I hate it
Mockeries of notions once raised
In earnest
Flirting with danger, burning moth to the flame
Stirring up anger with a few thoughts on pages
Irking, and senseless, the ******* sensation

Self righteous indignation, taking words of the page
Same goes for the gumption, with wars that I wage with myself
Heath goes first, better or worse
Slit eyelids, cause it can't hurt to see straight

It's always closer than you ******* think it is, one
Little slip, and this bleakness you insist
In existing in, ends, without a prerogative
As opaque as ever, severing lungs

Servitude, I could never miss, its
Fluid as my thoughts on narcissist

The great thing about darkness? The darker it is, the more stars you see.

But I can’t find you in the dark.

You are surrounded by an icky bitter feeling.

Your associations are uncomfortable, tepid, foreboding, terrifying.

Your silence, your indifference, grates upon my bones and rips against my heart and tears apart my resolve.

My resolve. Resolve?

I have it. Had it. It waxes and wanes like the moon, directly corresponding to how well I can squelch my love for you that day, deep down to the very pit of my stomach, where it bubbles and festers like burning tar.

I hate you. I love you. But I HATE YOU. But I don’t. It’s not YOU I hate. It’s this dark, tormented, drug-riddled, anxiety filled imposter that has become YOU. The one sitting at the bottom of his sad dark hole, impervious to the light shining down on him from up above.

The light on which I’ve wasted endless energy to find you.

The light that’s going out.

When I see you, it’s always in my periphery. I cannot look straight at you, into your eyes.

You are blurred, smeared across my psyche, a beautiful work of art incinerated into mockeries of char on the ground.

I want to save you. I want to beat against your chest and scream in your face. COME BACK. COME HOME. COME OUT. SEE ME. SEE ME. SEE YOU. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE DOING. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE BECOMING.

But I can’t. I can’t save you. You don’t want to be saved.


My light’s going out. I still can’t see the stars.

I think to every moment of pointless effort I put into my existence and walk across a courtyard of darkness looking at statues of the twisted mockeries my life could have become. I need stimulus to feel happy but each time I do I become less sensitive to my reality and lose grip of who I want to be. I demonize those who show me attention, yet I seek it in the darkest places amidst my despair. My life is nothing more than a loop.