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.