Where There is no War, There is Only Sleep

I find myself walking through wet streets
Moving slightly here and there
Whilst glancing longingly at the full grey sky.
It is a soft pillowing breast of sky
Weeping out "The sun is gone!",
In great mourning.
I may choose to thank one of many Gods
For this perfectly solemn day as it
Plays effortlessly my inner concerto.

You see, I am numb in tattered boots,
Laces dragging niggardly through
Wrinkles on the ground.
I am numb in tussled worry
Caressing my frame from the space
Between my eyes to the twirling
Innards of intestines large and small.
I am numb sucking dopplebock
Through the soft mouth of an amber bottle
Pedagogically speaking to the Mother inside.

O' great worry, I feel it on my brain.
Like an old girl playing hide and seek
With children, I will avoid the cupboard
That echoes their graceful breathing.
Can you believe it sky?
I am numb and your sun is gone.

To focus on my sentiments I must
First fold the paper crepe-like
And start so very small.
For a poet, the horizon may seem
Overwhelming as it lives and breathes
On a monotonous plane.
Then there is sunset and colors
Go suffocating the Goliath that
Lives in all things conquerable.
I am most hesitant that I should
Write these words, yet I know
The following to be unfeigned;

Where there is no war,
There is only sleep.

The indolence of my years
Binds me in sheer torpor.
I am numb in virginity
Holding precedence over
A panting soul.
In the midst of this pain, so shallow.
And pleasure, so hollow,
I find the most petrified middle-road.
I liken myself to the listless few
Who walk away freely from murder.
Do they cry out to God or sit
Quietly in the many lurid
Rooms of Purgatory?

In the distance I see legs of horses
Plucking puddles on the ground.
I think of the burnished strings of
Violins, where there is no sound.
I wait here with nagging patience
As I remember the darling liquid
In my body warming bones and,
Like a curse, working its way out.
Tears slide on my neck and then die
And the space between my eyes
And their watery graves is also numb.

A doughty knight rides his horse
Underneath the same full grey sky
And laments "The sun is gone!"
He sees a young woman dying
And weeping of a numbness
Spreading like the plague.
He pierces his sword deep into her
Heart, and this she feels like the sun's
Return to the morning sky.

Ouroboros, Crown of Cronos

Here, a chancy thought
Of rolling sweet 'bacco on the palm
Before a window anointed with the beasts of today.
And respectfully, I shall not smoke this brute stick.
Tis' but a mere trifecta of the hands,
The direct manifestation of my soul.
And to you, most indelible reader, my pleasure.
Slow death will not impress,
That there remains the deepest space in my mind
Until I am whitewashed with lone reason.
And why reach out to answer its cardinal vexes?
Let it ring and taunt with rouge wings.
Such is not a youthful guise
That I should call for arms, or carry on the merry wings.
It is my mind that coils itself like a snake,
Then again, then again.
I speak to its inertia; Adieu, be with God.
My etiquette for you, Cartesian crown of body
Enunciates thine tempestuous calling.

A young boy's flauto dolce stirs a song
That should implore you to your knees
And still, you suffer ages of iron and bronze.
Still, scanty madness goes exalting the sound.
Peace is shy of season about my intimate brain.
Let us not forget of divine fatality!
Whilst a gentle question rests among
The ashes of a flickered flame,
Why does the feathered fowl mock in vain?
Does it not know we are but one in the same?

I observe humanity as a glim row
Of peckish birds lined on a string
And unbeknownst to them, their smiles
Are the masks of frowns underneath.
Tremulous beings, they undulate in flocks
And will my improvement with backless reason.
For there exists no finite impotence
Save the seeds of Gaea, immovable Titans
That were cursed to the earth with indulgence.
In fountains of gold they cupped their futile
Hands and insatiety bore witness.

And so, I will my eyes to be engraved
At the top of my skull so as to stare
Into the depths of a distant Father.
As now, I endure life spine to the sheet
Nearest the breast of a reticent Mother.
Who, but a female that filled me with
Intoxicating drink and quenched my soul
And mused the attainments of many men,
Filling their chalices with saccharine certainty.
She, the darkly saint with a heart pumping sweet wine.
Yet Father, bearer of good thought,
Logic, and truth, who betrothed me with
A substantive carcass in the head,
Remains the infallible protector of all that is written.
In passing sapience, I look to thee.

There must be a way to know
The mind without losing it.
The earth quakes exquisitely in hamlets
Of the world and opens its abyss-like
Mouth to breathe new lust.
Its core longs for the familiar caress
Of the sun that muses its craters with
A transparent skein.
This lovemaking ebbs through the veins of time.
It is homage to the wind that gives birth
To serpentine waves, homage to the butterfly
That catalyzes the experimental feet of a child,
Homage to the nocturnal sounds of my
Somberly sleeping soul-

In these moments, I am shrouded by
A cloak of madness, however inglorious,
Imperviously deep in thoughts, monads, vestiges
Of mercy, apocryphalic wondering,
Believing in reality dictated by preeminent
Dreaming, and of chancing upon water
From a foot bridge and knowing why it
Reflects the sky, why in Father there
Is Mother, and why the act of discourse
Is but another patch on the charlatan's disguise.

Humans are made of varying shades of
Water, the most pellucid reflect more candor
Of the world, akin to those ancient lovers
Who birthed poetic thought against
The vast indifference of each waning day,
Each benumbed star!
I see those peckish birds on the line,
Do you not see?
I am but one in the same.
I hear their calls and virile singing.
Yet they do not call my name.

I suffer,
As I have not known God.

And I will die,
As I come to know
That which is thee.

What is this Physical World? I Know Only of the Sâcré Vent Blowing Through It.

I hear that the sâcré vent blows
Superior, with sibylline reason.
Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, a love affair
Of the two points seethes so
Rifely, the people can feel it.

From one phantom soul to its distant other:
"I am an expanse of sapped land. There exists
Merely imminent disaster that could bring
Us together. If only, if only, reveal yourself
To me and I will learn to touch you from
A distance."

Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the earth flattens.

"I see you. Of all the people that have
Tramped my streets prospering off
The throbbing currency of mine ardor,
Of all the nimbus that I have worn on
My head like a crown, of all the exquisite
Cairn erected in my honor, I have never
Known a face so deific and true.

Govern me by your seasons.
Let us grow decrepit and crumble
At once. Let our people die and our
Memories perish so that we may
End our lives in dust face down on
A crusty earth that crackles with
The madness of our thoughts."

Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the flat earth
Enables the wind to take route South,
The sâcré vent is born.

The Folly of Mesmer

What was the purpose of our time in Cythera;
But to honor the Goddess of beauty and love.
What was the purpose of our time after Cythera;
But to honor her temple, a euphonious sanctum
Cast at the accord of our hands.

Bear with me.

It was not solitarily you that I found
Under Aphrodite's young shadow.
There were suitors strapped to the lambent horizon
Offering Lydian silver and rubels of blue jade-
Glittering sublimely august in its baronial pageantry.
Yet their words held bandy, I harbored disdain,
And all the while, a trembling light shined
Through holes in their souls.
None can survive as you've taken from me!
And I ask of you, to the people passing
Mild-mannered in the streets,

Give me deliverance.

Our thoughts are protected by the potency
Of laurel leaves, so thus.
I spend my youth, a vagabond, wasting no
Folly on you, so thus it be-
One shall not drink from the chalice of
Holy water to be made whole,
One must come forth with verity and troth
On their hands demanding to quench upon
A fountain of blood!
Likely fluid of appetence!
Prurient descendance of life!

Like a Bacchic rite I am entitled
To endure this crucible,
To desire to rest my head upon your lap
And whimper there for all of time.
Infernous man,
Grant me this passage of Gloria.
Pray you, eventual of the hour,
To hither save the passing frost,
Save the dumbing bodies, and
Save us from the servitude of
Modern days.

To yesterday, we shall pray for
Redemption of our divided ways.
Today, I laugh at the folly of
Internal Mesmer.
Instantly, an epiphany begs
For my open ear.
Have you seen the face of
Mortal understanding?
It is angelic in its ageless confession.

O' Folly of Mesmer,
You have led me astray.
It is not man who will give me deliverance.
It is only I.

A Letter to My Utterly Amused

Amused one,

I look for you through windows
In faraway paths assaulted by the wind.
I spot, a tall figure pacing toward me
With familiar hesitance, like
Sacred breath shared in closets
During wartime.
Don't you know I've felt with you
Like children hiding from some fear?
Just yesterday we were reaching out
Of windows as being, for us, could
Never be contained by walls,
And tomorrow, may never hither to.
But listen, in this maniacal embrace
I am weeping with desire.

What is to become of our cherished
Existence that has behaved like
Water on glass?
Tis' but a romance everlasting?
I begin to feel as if it is a romance
Of its own right,
As if we have written a novel
With our hands loyally anchored.
I lay still and time possesses
My surroundings in ribald cups
Of coffee,and in little molds of my
Feet resting in piles of boots, and
In the tresses of my hair reaching
To my hips like a distant hint
From your hands...
The clouds are filling with
Frigid wishes.
Soon, another winter will
Bury our prayers and I shall
Lay here, still, possessed.

I think of you in a carmine coat,
Undressing.
I think of you out of a carmine coat,
Of all that remains.
You, who roams with a joy only
The modern world could encumber-
You, who comes and comes again
With tireless entrance- You,
Who finds a foreign father in my skin.
O' Fickle brother, literary lover, I have
A soft, dark place for you to rest in.
You, you, amused.

Let the prudence of condemned
Lips unfold without delay.
Let the ideas of solitary nights
Become something finite and forgiven!

Amused one,

If you will recall;

I know you then,
I know you now,
I will know you all my life.

Man's Heart Hath Thorns

This flinching man
Hath thorns deep in the heart.
His defense from the many
Coquettish daphne driving them in,
Is that of a neighbor's dog
Playing Dead across the yard.
Thorns thus embedded are likely
Talons arresting life into death.

Flinching man,
Macrocosmos of man,
You escaped to the south
Seeking refuge in the run.
Indoors and in piles of wires
And cords, in work, out of work.
Last I heard you were swimming in a pool;
I am in a Charybdis uncleansed.
I am stuck with reason.
What seperates men from animals-
What treasure?
What nightly terror?

Awaking from a dream that,
Like a mother, knows just what to do,
And like a child, disobeys utterly, sweetly.
I awake with chains.
The duty of interpreting your presence
Is fit for a martyr.
No, a prophet.
Have you not created a religion?
Have you not thirsted for a river
So wide of my blood?
I loved you like a tyrant to his throne.
I know why I can not love you now.

What wound cuts deeper than
A mother's betrayal?
I will give you a clue,
Amongst the perils
Of an antecedent life,

You were my son.

The Throbbing of Propagation

Women love like hunters.
In men, they see the truly
Beknownst beauty of prey.

Drooling in tall grasses,
They become keenly witted
With soft paws poised to the breast.
The meat before them is a feast
They have waited for all their lives.
To viscerate upon the brink for some,
I tell you, will reckon slumber for
Bellies full with veritable answers
Like a tranquilizer to the wound.

Watch, as the hunter cuts off her
Arms and lays on her side
While few wonder what one
Feast has to do with their minds.
Like-minds, they molder!
Remember, Antigone wanted to die.

Must we perpetually invade amniotic
Spaces to make it with our prey?
If, in the ephemera of a moment,
Our bellies and minds come to a
Truce of contentment...

Then I shall wonder, what
Of my heart.

My Soul, Beyond

It was not the length of time
In which you left,
You could have been gone a year
Had I not sought after you.
It is time in its aching hours
That deemed me alone.

In folds of blankets I saw your face.
In the deepest of night I feared
The infiniteness of the world.
Cats shuffled across the
Wooden hallways and cried
To the corners of the walls.
I blamed you for this fear.
Through the uninterrupted mind,
In hours of silence and hermetic thought,
There lies a clarity, much like
The center of a still pond reflecting
The light of the sun perfectly,
As gaily as ideas becoming truths.
I had begun to resent the absence
Of your ears to whisper secrets into...

Now that you are here,
Your welcome will be this:

I am beyond you.

My soul has traced the outlines
Of the first human with its hands.
It bore each new species from
My marrow and bone.
Knowing fully well that each is I,
I have quested to find the one
Who remembers me without skin.
Without this face and without this body,
I am a layer of the atmosphere
Joyously reaching down to hold you.
O' when you feel the reigns of
The illuminate OM tightening,
I will come to you once more and whisper:

I am amongst you.

A Moment is Yours

By lamplight, I lay at the farthest end of the bed to read
And I feel you staring up my legs
Tracing scars and silently shadow puppeting
Ankle to cheek, as if your fingers were monsters.

Your hands, brittle and sweet
Sneaking fruit from the trees
Embracing slowness, slow lover
Learning to admire childish
Shadows on a canvas
Of woman in between-

Is that your love?
If one beckons gently for their
inner desires, why does another
remain at the end of said bed?
Monsters, that's just it.

They are as frightening
Up my soft legs as if
Before me now.

Their garish faces tickle and taunt
The mind, convinced of a joyous
Reeling and further contained
As a sacred ritual underground, inside.
The monsters are not mine,
They are not real,
So, the monsters are all mine;
As I would imagine, and to let
Them desire from a distance
Is passion at its least solicitation
Yet most intrinsic spring and
Boundless you.

Spare you not a minute of beauty
To reflection.
Have it deep within your soul
Now,
For the hell of it.

For I- could not look
God in the eyes to show
My gratitude for life
Whilest living it.

What Joy? To an Empty Inside

I've been sitting in the stuffy rooms of Boston

By a window with an aimless breeze

Coming rare enough to bring down

My heavy veins, hot and buzzing, God loving

Off half a bottle of brown ale,

To, an empty inside. To long life.

To an empty inside, the wind rustles

Like crumpled brown paper.

There, my reflection in the window.

I crumble my hand into a fist

Like a stiff brown bag-

I've been reading Milosz, friend recommended.

He writes from Kraków, a city where I've breathed.

How have I been there?

Of all cobblestones to walk upon

Tracing the steps of my past life

I return to this culprit fold

With an ancient tickling in my heart

To feel at place with my old places.

A gerbil squeaks its wheel in the cage

Living and dying for its one dimension.

Brown ale, heating my chest now

My hands feel weak.

The window, again, I am

Understanding my angles.

What is true about Boston or Kraków?

Everything feels brown to us now.

Modest Prose on Staring

When one looks into the world, or as far as my illusions reach, dimensional sphere of another, one is staring once one consciously becomes aware that they are doing it. Staring is accomplished with the motivation of two instances. These instances stem from mortal curiosities and needs. At first, staring becomes realized when one desires to learn something nouveau. The will to learn shall be seperated from the will to feel. The unknown is involved in the learned stare while often that object of attention creates a feeling of satisfaction of even repulsion. There is no socially constructed bias in what one should care to feel when staring to obtain new information. Since humans are affected by the external sights of what they lack as beings, they are often magnetized to the aforementioned event. At once, humans will interpret their oddities in two ways. They will either be humble in their appreciation for a powerful and alienated beauty, or they will remain threatened by a fair portrait of the bounty of their own personal maladies, or more accurately, insecurities. These physical realizations, which exploit one's meniality, can be inversely viewed as shamefully as sins. This law does apply to staring at one's reflection in a mirror. Further yet not forevermore, one does stare in order to elicit a response whether it be the attention of another human or an antiquated form of communication, as existed before the dropping of our species vocal tract thus enabling us to speak. This is a bonfire of will against will, however, not a spoil of free will as human nature does not allow for the ability to choose whether or not to succumb to staring. Staring may parallel tropes of primacy such as eating, scratching an itch, and the simulation of re-population. We can not help but stare.

Hallelujah!

I am conscious as to why you, sir, are staring at me, and I am staring at you, save when the pen hath "glean'd my teeming brain."

Alas! I am humbled by this instance in so forth I must flee.

Do you hear that?

My unborn children are singing!

So, Poor Souls

She, the landscape of man's physical hour
Wantonly drifts through time
In a miraculous corridor, as if
Pushing silken curtains aside.
And that miracle, falls unremittingly
Into an idyllic sea.

She sinks not to cease, but
To be preserved, for the continuity
Of life depends on God's attempts to recreate
This still life and still death
Purific, soft, and wild
Envy of another which desires
To skin her delicately, like
The freshly hunted, just to die
Inside her body like a Pharaoh's Tomb.

And he, the basest of all horizon
Is unfit for trying eyes.
As she begins to move, her
Equatic curves commence to crack
And creep thatches into Man's psyche
Sickened with presentiment
And a multiplus keen.
He, whom shall commit sins of carnality
Ill-fed with vast murmur and
Wretched blush at the cheek,
Will become engaged with a
Daemotic sophism of bloodless
Vessels in the palm;
The heart of touch, the emptiest empty,
The Lucifer rose.

He endeavors Paradise upon
The tops of a cliff and sees
The sky mimics the earth and
Is no less full of creatures undiscovered-
Daemons pull at his eyelids
And capture him in slumber.
The glorious She, sings in his dreams
Her voice, unreachable like salient air
Whispering from his ears a suicidal song
Song of lust and burning contention
Beyond all mortal stigma,
Beyond all human strength.

So, poor souls
Will live another day, a sacrilege
Kneeling for the wrong God,
While the peccant She
Laps water from the fountain.

Living Herds

When the air dries itself out on the line
And the olive trees turn pale in their mossed graves,
When the poignance of an Eastern Harem withers
With the rains of yesterday, or the memory of
Sweet wet drudging over pores, pure unlike
The cloudy sweat of living herds,
Children like jackals prowl in these packs
Through tin alleys moving Gaza
Because their elders can not.
And their bellies moan like flies caught indoors
Between vertigo and a distant illusion of Nirvana.

Glorious maker, the suffering puts you on high ground
And the hands, the hellish intention of hands
Shape shifts into a fragile house of cards.
This question is gospel-
Will you let your offspring fly like ghosts
Into an army of shadows underneath
A reoccurring sun?

At once, we believe that humans do not have teeth.
Together now, we will remain bitten.

Ill, Illusory

The Young Bloods sing their figmented blues
On the streets that lay like made beds
And their voices blow like a gale
Reaping the flowers of Space and new territory -beyond.
It opes hollow hearts and parts lips anew gossamer.

Look at these children,
Open wide and screaming throat smiles,
Millions of misfortune, bantam Americans
Dream in the day while their bodies
Mourn dead energy.

We are One, Look Closer, One is We

There is more to a tree
Than the dark grains of wood.
There is a dark age of rings
Hiding foliage in the womb.
And sand, little lustering opiates
Of the desert groan and howl
Building false monuments
Like angels without an altar.

Sour Wine Envies the Thick Wit of Blood

Another day becomes night in the Opium den.
There goes the sun- drunk
I've seen it rise and fall
From lethargy to life,
and back again.
Tis' but a black light buzzing my skin
into the most sodden pallor.
And on the tabaret, une bouteille de vin
Sinks into my muscles
How gently they sleep on the bone now, weaklings.

I have heard that under my breast
Lay hard roses in full bloom
And a tyrian haze at the cheek.
And when the vin soaks in,
Sardonic chasms teem my brain.
For I braid the voices of a dulcimer
Into the sky, a ministry made of sunbeams
Shaking the lustful harp like hands of savages
And stones, opal stones remove themselves from nature
to be the bridge for the crossing Gods in you.

In Mihiragula's Mana

Earth be still enough to hear thine heart
skip slick like a stone upon a spring.
Observe the frightful imbalance
of ones own personal fever.
In days of snowfall atop a high den,
one can not even hear its' cold flakes
knead into the ground- invisible yeast.
Take mercy from the constant buzz that holds
like a cloak calming the night, with velvet shoulders.
Until street lamps like halos ring...

Tis' a clarion bright and blown
revealing the secrets of Sages
sitting between the corridors.
What do they reveal through high minds?
Ave Maria!
Not of female form, but of a divine sphere
and the lamda of all that was,
and remains as is.
Moronic Madre,
Mary of Maroetic Lake, revive!
We will find time in your resurrection.
We've quenched our bones with blood yet
we are still going deaf, we are going blind.

There will soon come a time when
the mana of my verse
will derobe even the God Al mightiest
and trail like the ivory screams of elephants
entrancing the White Hun.