Attunement

(A)#   

                fade                   


      *renounce 


*susurrate

                                                snore / @ glow                                           

                          / renounce / be 

  place/ breeze       

        *               

                woven     


^ even lower / no steps

    *bone                                           

    horizon                                     

        stroke       

      cease feel       

            tree susurrate                 

                                              celebrate 

                            soul     

                  spirit *meet       

          places  breeze rustle     



      *scent  flutter 

            skin soft     


          breath presence 




              enfold  nothing 
      place                                                               
            feather       


        colorsounds joy ( )    The ladder of steps falls away, useless now
As I listen for your inbreath in sleep’s dark well

My hand, freed from bone’s anchor, rises
Painting the horizon in streaks of color condensed
From light leaking through forest’s unfinished scenery

The landscape remains, ever a draft, an outline

Another stroke, and I renounce extinction’s hold
Existing now, freed from limitation’s tethers

Existing now, sprung from bounds pulled tight
Existing now, having shed shackles long worn thin
Existing now, unshackled from bounds
Existing now, boundaryless,
Existing now, with no limits drawn
Existing now, boundaries melted away

I need not fly this place
To vanish like mist among trees swaying

Leaves breathe me tune of gossamer swan song
Color unfurls in branchwork litany
Shadows bloom where feet once trod ground

Stilled am I, listening
Hand painting the horizon
With strokes ofhalf-remembered light

With steps falling away, outmoded now
With hand arpeggioing from bone’s anchor, ascending
With light trilling through forest’s improvised scenery

With another flick of the wrist, I renounce hold of cessation
With no markers plotted, I now in key

With bands snapped, I in key
With bands looseened and strung, I in key
With knots cast off, worn thin and gone, I in key

With boundaries crossed, I in key
With boundaries melted and running, I in key

With no need to wing from this place,
With mist amid swaying limbs,

With leaves breathing an unbodied octave
With color unfurled in the branchwork cantata
With imprints once trodden in ground

With listening stilled,
With hand harmonizing the horizon,
With strokes of half-forgotten glow

Leila’s Lyrical Lament

Leiluminous’s luminary dreams in the spirit boil like lambent froth,
Lamenting the lost days when the axis of the world creaks lowly in lament,
Liquid gold-dust solemnly pours, a lavish display,
Lyrical Leila’s lost earth laments her long lost coronet in dismay,
Leilissome’s howl into umbrageous veilshades, a mournful sound,
Leaping hero slew the zephyr of the aureate peafowl to the ground,
Lush sanguineous streams, a crimson flow in the arboretum,
Lost corvine cries out hopelessly, lost in delirium,
Lurid tinctures like flowing drifts, a murky sight to see,
Lonely mizzle laments the ossa, a dreary sight to be,
Leilaluxuriant’s fields weep slate, a somber and melancholic scene,
Leilaladylike’s lucid winds in vermilion mantle, a fiery and fierce marine,
Leilalissome’s strike and chase the nebulae, a cosmic dance in the sky,
Lively minute violin trembles, a lambent and plaintive cry,
Leilalovable’s tide and deluge of vinous nectar, a flood of wine,
Lamentable dolorous and cerulean Ash Wednesday, a day of lucid shine,
Leilalong-haired’s pedal extremities of the departed prince, a final resting place,
Leilalively’s carnivale, a celebration of life and death, a colorful embrace,
Leilalyrical’s taciturn they’ll be, silent in their grief and pain,
Leilalithe’s pith of nigrescent queries, questions that will remain,
Leila’s drapes of downpour and agony and murk will close,
Leilalissome’s luminexity of erudition and impression, a legacy that will transcend,
Leilalovely’s Kindle the fire of the rubicund Aurora, the dawn that arose,
Leilaluminous’s luminiva will emerge, a lambent that will shine,
Leilalissome’s ageless permutation, a transformation divine.

Photo Credit: Photo Credit: Layla Painting by Lana Frey | Saatchi Art

Echoes of Eden: To the Madman’s Pike

Tempestra reigns – Niamph, the ferine magnificence –
Transfix’d in Northerne’s austerese allure,
Midst the clouden’d court’s veil’den lure,
And glimmers of luminescencie from th’ garret’s chasm –
A voidal exhale, with wails that crept.

Echoes of Eden — ramparts of yore,
Entwisted by mnemotrix, a spellbinding lore;
In haggard hues, pallid and sere,
Nullibrium looms in still-life, clear.

Hurricane prevails – Niamph, the ur-magnificence –
A maleficent godling, conjured from the melding of effervescence!
Suffering’s captive, a strangulon,
Passion’s prisoner, a volitionstrangler of thine own domain.

The lullulians gyrates the necronomicon’s gyre,
from cradle to crypt, betwixt
the infernos of a lunatic’s ire. The murmurians whirl the morbid’s waltz –
from birth to tomb, amidst
the blaze of a madman’s fervor.
To the madman’s pike,
to the Toledowheel’s screech.

Ashes and Shadows (The Tale of Revenge and Redemption)

Scene 1, The Perils of Effulgent Sparkles

So much depends upon
Effulgent sparkles,
effervescent glints,
radiating brilliance!
And by the deadline,
glow away, o light bulbs,
as you traverse
across the perils.

Scene 2, Passing By

It’s daylight,
the nameless men
like wandering wraiths
are passing by
pristine panes,
in the past,
they saw a spectacle
of a burning bronco
bolting in a ball
of fright’s fervor.

Scene 3, Heathcliff’s Cackle

On the terrace,
in the cerulean of heights,
on windy heights,
a deceased man perches
more replete with breath
than ever,
& cackles
& cackles
& cackles –
with dolour from Heathcliff,
murky as the Medusa weed.
He hauled
the torment with him
from that hamlet,
& heaved it
onto our domicile
on our abode
like an anvil,
an avalanche of anguished
suffering from Heathcliff
vehemently.

Scene 4, The Landlord’s Toll

The towering tally
of bills, receipts,
and invoices
tallying up
the price of
shelter, power,
and the softness
of necessities.
The landlord, a colossal couscous
creature, clamors
for my half-year’s hostage,
to stir his own stuttering
breath and shake
the very foundation.

Scene 5, Faustian Furnace

(The landlord, this titan of titans, whose girth rivaled that of an egomaniacal mountain of couscous, had the gall to demand a king’s ransom, the staggering sum of half a year’s rent, for a Faustian bargain.)
Will I blast them to bits,
these deaf and dumb daughters
with maladies of the mind,
and their sugar-stricken matriarchs?
When I granted them a space
with flaring fixtures,
amidst the scurrying of vermin
within the laundry machine,
and the dormant,
seething pot of stew,
I christened the furnace,
its warmth, oh how well
it caressed my flesh.

Scene 6, The Parasitic Bargain

(And he declares: “I will possess Medea, rip out her heart, and feast on it with the same fervor I devour their hopes and dreams. From the depths of Hades, with a thousand eyes, I will shatter their illusions and leave them gasping for air.)
In donating them
my detritus
it may be
my ultimate,
and it must
yield bounty.
The prospect
of coming up short
fills me with fright.
A parasite feasts
on their life force
and remnants of the lost.
Shall my hands
be maces
to pound
their flesh?

Scene 7, The Watchful Eyes

“And they’re watching
for any who
spit out crimson,
already murmuring
if any heave
like a thief’s mongrel
scrambling
the rugged terrain
to and fro
the wilderness swarming.”

Scene 8, The Landlord’s Curse

“The rapt landlord shimmers, bathed in a radiant gleam,
Haunting the scaffolds like a somnambulist, swaying to and fro.
‘Tis like a spin upon a witch’s wheel, an accursed, unblessed doom!
What purpose is there to this? What treasures to contemplate?
Better to live humbly, to seek penance and await the end,
Than to spawn horrors in frenzy, and rent out the heavens, a trusted guest.
Is this our life’s design? To bear dark curses inwit,
And howl at witching spheres, like madmen trapped and confined?”

Scene 9, Witching Whispers
Oh, the madness of it all!
The clanging curses that resound,
Echoing through the halls,
Like the thrumming of a man-made knoll.

The gravity of it all,
An anchor engulfing me,
As I writhe in agony,
Ensnared in witches’ whims and drown.

But yet I sway to the rhythm,
Of their muted sound,
My essence held hostage,
In their spell of arcane mystic.

And so, I must break free,
From this spectral grip’s hold,
To find a new path,
One that befits my flesh’s worth,
A Wiccan ball in my attic, so bold.

Scene 10, The Inn of Drunken Revelries and Witchly Visions

Ah, there’s an inn! Yes, there
Drunkards come and go all night,
With brandy to pour and share.

VOICES OF THE WITCH GUILD:
“Landlord! Where are you? Landlord!”
“Here I am! I’m here!”
They circle ’round him in the half-light,
Of an earthly passage,
And see visions of apparitions,
Like white birds in a bruise, at play.

(The landlord fights frantically,
With his blurred, indistinct imaginings,
In a drunken chaos, obscured by fog,
And by gleams.)

Scene 11, Summoning the Spirits of Sickness and Death

WITCHES SINGING:
Come forth, oh spirits of sickness and death,
With eyes fixed upon those who cough blood,
Whispering your schemes for the panting and wheezing,
Like the poacher’s cur on the rugged ascent.

Up and down the wuthering heights you roam,
Over landscapes teeming with crawling bugs,
As the mountain of bills, invoices, and receipts,
Grows higher with each passing day.

The cost of shelter, power, and the softness of necessities,
Piles up like the colossus of couscous and ego,
Demanding half a year’s ransom,
For the privilege of living,
In a world where the breath of a rot is a terminal phase.

But fear not, for there is beauty in the struggle,
In the moans of rats and the hibernating vessels,
As we make our way through this life’s furnace,
Bearing fruit from the waste we leave behind.

Scene 12, The Vengeful Figure in the Shadows

(LANDLORD)
In his wake, a procession of fawning sycophants,
Their fingers clutching their groins and wallets,
Their mouths drooling with the desperate hunger of supplicants.
The Commander Starfleet strides ahead,
His presence a black hole of charisma,
That sucks the very life out of those who cross his path.

And they have their eyes,
On anyone who is coughing crimson,
And they’re already whispering,
If anyone is panting,
Like a poacher’s pup,
Climbing the wuthering heights,
Up and down the landscapes lush with locusts.

(Murderbreath permeates the city,
A suffocating fog that chokes the soul.
His corseted figure, tragic in its tightness,
Swells with power as he unleashes a terminal phase,
Of destruction upon the world.
The stench of collapsing alcoholic lungs,
Follows him like a faithful hound,
A reminder of the rot that festers within).

Suddenly, a lone figure steps out from the shadows, his face hidden behind a hooded cloak. He watches as the Commander Starfleet and his entourage pass by, their arrogance and greed palpable. The figure reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small vial, filled with a viscous, black liquid. He whispers a prayer and hurls the vial at the group.

The vial shatters against the ground, and the black liquid spreads quickly, enveloping the feet of the Commander Starfleet and his followers. They scream in terror as the liquid crawls up their legs, coating their bodies in a thick, oily sheen. The figure disappears back into the shadows as the group writhes and convulses on the ground.

As the liquid begins to dissipate, the group is left coated in a thin layer of ash. They gasp for air, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. The Commander Starfleet stumbles to his feet, his once-imposing figure reduced to a trembling, pathetic mess. The sycophants scatter, desperate to distance themselves from the Commander and his now-ruined reputation.

The lone figure watches from a safe distance, his work complete. He disappears into the night, leaving behind a city in chaos and a commander who will never again be able to assert his dominance over those around him.

Scene 13, The Haunting of Room X

Behold! My forefinger poised,
To quell the electric’s buzz,
And plunge the cosmos into darkness.
Ha-ha-ha, hear it, on a whim.
May bulbs die, forever black,
Til’ my dying breath departs,
From my warm ancestral hearth,
Wherein I commune with ghosts of hearts.

The tenant stork’s army quakes,
By the force of my beckoning hand,
As the door handles quiver and contort,
Beneath my grasp in spasms of dread and fright.

Amidst the symphony of scurrying rats and the inferno of burning circuits,
As the cosmos convulses in an endless tumult of agony in flames and chaos,
as bulbs implode. And in one small space, a casserole filled to the brim,
with no oven or stove, two snoring figures with empty pockets,
A hundred euros, fleeting as the wind, a vain treasure in the eyes of eternity.

A room haunted by the ghost of a man, his face a map of ash and decay,
his soul consumed by the fire of vice. A body once alive, now a mere husk,
A mere vessel of mortal clay, a forgotten echo of the past

Chaos Defied: A Hero’s Journey

Thrust tireless, titanic tenacity,

Beyond conscious trust, urging voracity.

A thousand names, hero rises,

On granite wings, chaos defieses.

Awakened defiance, dauntless despair, lunacy,

Fastened by belt, strait-jacketed fury, a fierce frenzied fantasy.

Fashioned fiend, intractable,

Silently saunter scarecrows, reasons unfathomable.

Succumbs to sea, serene and savage,

An egg of incandescent flame, to wonder-wail, winds ravage.

Vanishes voyager, venerated, voiceless,

Lunar luminary lover mourned, nascent nature so choiceless.

Loss laments the lexicon, unwritten and unsaid,

Adornment of its essence, elixir of eternity, essence of ember evanesced.

Unassisted, omnipotent potency pursued,

By concept driven, evanescent elixir imbued.

Wonder scoffs at the sociolect, what it cannot sense or see,

Offered by obsession, thought a blunder, wild winds wail in whimsy.

Sublimity stumbling, shrewd self-scrutiny,

Soul and flesh in sync, potent psyche, spicy.

Rhetoric ruthless ravages, by macabre marionettist,

Consciousness captured, eternal embrace ecstatic.

Femininity’s arches ample, etched on chamber’s floor,

Reprisal’s reverberating roar, vengeance’s volleys vengeful and more.

Play at belly and thumbs, intimate interaction with inked-in volumes, Horizon hazy persona, photographic display captures columns.

Obscurity’s enigma, undefeated and resistant,

Unwelcome intruders peer through mind’s periphery in insistence.

Circular surface pressed, elbows upon the table prepared,

Everlasting life’s presents unwanted, as sovereigns sound declared.

Riverside rush, armored assailants and thrice a hundred thralls,

Ruthless charge, teeth bared, swords skyward, as the river calls.

Ablaze tongue, eternal essence enjoyed,

Volume grasped, gasping and grasping, crowd’s dissatisfaction deployed.

All captures consciousness, fleetingness’ flood frigidly chased,

Contra-craft concludes the course, self-satisfaction the race.

Forgotten the forsaken four horsemen of final fate,

Phantasm and fantasy, marrow and essence forever enwoven, innate.

Justicia

justicia hides a golden crucifix
smell real has
on a blue lace, our two keys
at examination piecemeal proceeded
senseless fly debased by you
at mecca, as planets suit henceforward
not a grievance yesterday
in the thief’s of time, lamentation
what the criminal doth say, unadulterated brain
through thick foliage, or some time ago
disjunct of coracle, of green stars above
like tormented fires, red watercolour prophet made
by which the east brutal breeze plays,
blue and yellow and white
a less red shadow this reviled
pure mind what the thief doth say
through thick foliage, or once upon a time
disjunct of coracle, of green stars above
like haunted fires, red watercolour oracle made
by which the east violent wind plays,
blue and yellow and white
a less scarlet shadow this cursed
or on the other hand, an unpleasant fiendish dream
woven harmful spider web cloak
when a ridiculous yellow strip wanders
so saying, be put on Justicia’s hand
the howling mass of paradise composition
all charlatans found in the sanctuary of lion
set in their ancestor trust, genuinely executed in Golgotha
humble dying in sovereign biting, chemist workmanship presence
orthorhombic onyx jasper in a chest, and an old broken brush
improperly dreadful nothing beats me
later in the back, I cross a blade in my vitals
neither fire over the chasm of spoiled mud
nor a brilliant heavenly youngster with brilliant orange
wandered against the canicular intensity through
the Arcadian matter will turn out long yarns of Job’s end speech
for drawn-out night come, noblest Justicia, to your make
sit on yir arse, ya relations bumpot

The Final Act of Remade Souls

Unlatched unbarred divulged from cores core.

Triplex lid blooms mists ‘tween pastures

A downturned flambeau wreaths fume papillons,

Inhumed Spartan fighters vociferous sarcophagi.

Emotive regards nods.

Knave grasps silver coins, hammered by damply hate,

Butchers perceive with ego inflamed

…Dimming us.

Aversion in covert self-ruin impediments.

A new fabrication, a new beast, a new concourse.

I bequeath stones tired untamedness,

Beasts borne in the obscurity.

I bequeath stones tired untamedness,

Licentious craniums and eras sans repose

…Dimming us.

Tail rigid cedar and dreadful sinewy, bronze ossa,

Pandemonium being primordial primordial first engendered by divine

Helot burgeons into an avian creature…

A wolf assaults a king of the beasts…

Rattus treacherous, squamata and serpents

Beneath evocations antique

…Dimming us.

Gloomy triads of reptilian reverie cycles are born,

Under the repugnant art of pathological form

Sights on the freezing points of lightning,

Frozen disconsolate in halted.

In umbrageous ruby renewals from outer murk.

Superior being in despondency

Before the judgment in rage, fury and anguish

Superior being in despondency

Confronting anxieties and colonies a la lazaretto,

Superior being in despondency, hopeless in yearning to be someone,

Superior being in despondency

I could adore you!…To obsequies!

Still meditate upon Calliope soul in desire to succor bring,

Polyhymnia propositions create semblances of Solos,

To congregate light from the might of Titans arrayed,

For my lustrous, felicitous, chortling funeral arranged,

Recumbent on mortuary planks, laved in flowing waters

The ultimate act is done then reforged

Chanting to Awaken Mater

Selena whispers spells from Luna cult grimoires,
Smearing my heart’s exsanguination from pools of blood in enchanted fixation.
Ruinous, violently, I vault my moist mortal form
Towards the tambourine stars.
U Sudd Ma’rib, La Ciudad Perdida, The lost city;
My bane, my prophet, my pit, the engine-maker, my salvation in chasm chains.
Mydeca, poro derramar, pour, pour, pour, from laceration pores;
My blood! My bane! My heart!
My pit! My reign! My salvation…
Steeds abandoned and rothers grasped in bloody digits,
By the androphagous conqueror, the Cannibal King!
With great power and potency and primacy,
Superior sovereignty supremacy,
Dominion dominance, hierarchical hegemony,
Imperia forceful in strident marching, massacring.
Hemoglobin tyranny,
Maniacal oculi insatiably edacious.
Unis, unis unum cum nulla, in incipient tragedy,
Mater, mater, qui est Pater awaken me.
Tremble, tremble, not the night terror, little one,
But chant scream sing, in off kiltering ardency, extolling her horrible ascendency (demonic laughter).

Exorcise Trials

Do you know anything about women?
Psycho? Isolde? Juliet?
The beautiful, lonely, vengeful ones?
Look at where my hands are.

I am the Goddess of Yelling,
Judi Dench in the gym.
I scream, “DIEEEEEEEE.”
I wish I was like Aphrodite of Milo,
sold to the French at a good price.
Instead, I’m a broken statue,
sweating and toiling in a gym.

Aphrodite de Milo has a part of a left hand and an apple.
I am Eva, immovable with lust in this boring paradise.
That is my trial.

I am beasting it up now…
I am a cardio bunny showing off my guns
While I sweat I think about my altar—
I am not yelling-I sing like my birds
How sweetly they call out
But then they’re trapped in their cage…
Which is why they weep

Or how about
I listen to the final tweet in their verse
To learn their secrets
Like the nightingale whose notes are devoured
even better than Eliot can write

My poems are silent, however, passionate, hard
Unstripped,
Dressed in beauty forever

Now.. Hold for 30 Seconds then curl up
That is my trial.

November 20, 2000:

Hague, an Old One:
At least they called me Wicca or Diana’s witch,
Not some poor plagiarism of Greek religion.
As a noblewoman, I changed my name to Windsor.
That is my trial.

Time according to “D. W.” Griffith, it happened in 1985
What’s your father’s name?
…
How ????

Do 25 jumping jacks and squat jumps with your feet shoulder-width apart, going to a comfortable depth.

Exercise with jumping jacks and squat jumps.
Mind filled with disturbing thoughts and images,
possibly influenced by D.W. Griffith.
Fatigue and need for a break.
Reflection on the nature of reality and the body.
Possible violent tendencies.

Do you see the shots in your mind too?
Is Griffith your teacher,
the “Teacher of us all”,
the Hollywood Yahweh?
End of story.
I’m tired under this sky.
I need a break to cool down.

I am a nefilim,
part of a matrix, simulation, hologram.
The world is too vague to comprehend.
I assault my body.
Maybe I’m not a poet,
but a killer.
No poetry until there is bloodshed.
I secede heads on the fly with a katana.
Leave all the sediment and silt behind.

Time according to “D. W.” Griffith, it happened in 2003, maybe in 2010…

Somewhere in the midst of the Hollywood narrative,
a critic speaks:

“Set your madness on fire and do not feel ashamed.
Good… very well penned.
This is how you should write,
and thus it should be!
Continue like this –
symbolically, yet completely illogical,
yet carrying energy and original poetic lines!
Sherlock!

“We cast you out, every unclean spirit,
every legion and congregation of the diabolical sect,
in the name and power of our Lord Jesus Christ!

“This is much better, Griff!
I thought it was a new poetic voice,
but I don’t like your slam ton. Ooooooh…

“By the power of our Lord Jesus Christ,
never persuade me with your vanities!
That is my trial.”

Thy Elohim are enigmatic ridges,
Where do you lead me now?
Why do you dig your toes
In the fiery bowels
Of the Gerber-free!

“What do you see?”
There are three of them:
Mother, son, and uncle
Screaming,
Cutting my hair,
Someone strikes,
They spit on me.
“Sit in the tub!”
Milk and honey smear,
Flies buzzing around me.

Banished from Dante’s yard,
Hell no longer taken seriously.
The Devil reinvented,
Every decade or less.

May the holy be my light!
May the dragon be my guide!
Onslaught of infernal adversary.

My trial awaits.

Tulips (Ksenija Pajčin (in memoriam)*

Come now
The Nehalennia of Bloss
Water stroomt mit der jahren
Awaiting the blessed islands
In power
In flower
Duenna of the tulips

April is as it does
(syn.)
 Among idoneous gambettos
Nothing but the prime hour of spring’s will;
Whose elipsing horrorpilation’s last straw
In (withall unpolished time)
The Behemoth guffaws
Gliddering along the rope with a thrum.

Self’s psychalgia (O tulip)
O tulip)

Make yarn out of nothing,
(Mea tulipa)
Gynt’s Peer Gynt
(all around/’the civility of the alarm clock’)
This is a piece of timepiece
How to throw a dice at Caesar’s
Cut tulips and daffodils at dusk
After a fidicula of clustered spheres
Pyramidal pharmacopoeia’s thymes are stringed alas
Withwilth to
Tend the wound

 Still
Tulips are tulips
Emblematic   Cupfuls of  Sapphire blues
Thy tulip is a cupful of
Underalices of the deep.
Paroxysmal attacks occur during
Tulips and hells
As time goes by
Psittacistically

I see tulips
I saw April
I see white   

Ksenija Pajčin (Serbian Cyrillic: Ксенија Пајчин, 3 December 1977 – 16 March 2010) was a Serbian singer, dancer and model popular in Serbia and the other former Yugoslav republics.
The singer Ksenija Pajčin tragically lost her life on March 16, 2010, when her boyfriend at the time, Filip Kapisoda, shot her to death
Tulips were her favorite flower. © Leila Samarrai

Rest in the blast’s forlorn!

Unistylist umblook
Battle in the rock house
In the Saxifragous stone
Of a shadowy existence
Umblayed around
Upaithric room
To hit with a hoof then leave tiredly
Stay, Rabiator, stay!
When violations are mentioned,
When objects fly like phantoms,
Oh, then everything breaks
Division dismal in the blazes of the day
Suidian homing pigeon
Having a scape
There is no other frolicsome place this way.
Afflicted with rabies
A scalpeliform meal for a Saturnine but torturous feast
The hard-skinned Christ is near.
The gravel pit is clear–sleep in the Rock’s shields.
Saxigenous growing in rocks in saxony
Shaped like a ladder of Jacob’s sky
Un-palatable solitude in dreams’ ponds
The sweetness
Petals of my soul
Pass through the velvety black skirts
Of my forest home, when blindfolds gape
Like hellholes for pleasers
Of God’s greasy undercoat.
Making some hellbeams inscrutable.
And so the chair lasted.
Lame, torn, tattered as a fart.
He looks around, listens,
Like an old abandoned soul in the almshouse
In truncated form, death oozes
Blackness from blackness.
The mountaineer’s umbrosus!
The silvicolous Dante
Slavebed cubic zirconia worthiless
Like a jeremiad tide,
Schwerpunkt me again on the
Art of shading lips
Utter their subnubilar smile
Surrounded by drolls
Late bricole
Beast latetite
Warray wassermen
Berufen!
A pale blue petty defeats inferior intellect.
And I drown in blood
With a burglar’s short crowbar
As the wind tears the sails, masts and bow
Of the vessel that fights
Darkness surrounds the sea.
Shaped like a scalpel
Shaped like a chisel
Execution by deserting
Honey-covered in the sun
A bloodied and shivering crowd was murdered by a Murmo Generalis metal pincer!
The sun is extinct, and these stand alone….
Rest in the blast’s forlorn!
Embraced by the Umbra of the Rock!
I’m alone in an empty room.
With a lamp in the dark,
I am alone with a lamp and a grave.
Rest in the shadowy sets of all the hierarchies.
Infernal
Come out! Don’t hide in the shadows
Night travels through the twilight
Ecco is a land I speak of never traveled
Never the beginning of
Never rest in the shadows, keen and complete
Examining burnt shoulder blades for divination!
How the hammering softly through the
Ribs of the ship!
Cold foresail take
Abide! Abide! Your thirst forsake– & a piglike lake of flame whispering tricephalous tridominius.
Eons are shadow
Beneath its fade–
There rests in that shadow seemed,
Of the Miserie!
& be of a cheer

Job, Josefine K and her Trial

JEMAND MUSßTE JOZEFINE K. VERLEUMDER HABEN

The strangest thing. Josefine K, you’re gone and a candle burns in your gray room.
As a gray-garbed Austrian officer, you have already faced the court, im Jahre des Herrn… mit scheinen unverrückbaren Zylinderhüten

IS YOUR RIGHT FOOT FORWARD OR LEFT FOOT FORWARD?

I found her – on the edge of the bed, in fur, kind, dear, Josephine K, very quiet, with waxy movements, and very mild.
A candle’s glow moves Josephine K’s white face. Throughout the room, the disease floated like a gray cloudy sail.
Skeletons starved behind the butcher’s window as Josephine K licked the parquet floor to a waxy shine. A woman accused of tampering with files, tried and hanged, Josephine K touched a raven and an unknown corpse with her finger,
Josephine K’s response to the lame hidalgo of St. Loyola and Mr. Young Josef’s Song to the Sun from City of a Hundred Spiers.
She burns judgment in her bloody book with these precious words embroidered on a brocade Roman robe
Josephine K’s gray mourning floats like the black lining of a Sturmabteilung coat, and the arrested person yowls like a sick dog from Sisyphus’ perspective
Is Josephine K willing to give up the glitter of evil and follow the ways of sin on Easter Sunday?

BLONDE, TALL JOZEPHINE K

A woman’s life as a heterosexual wife and mother, civilized and westernized.
It is the life of a woman who has not been disrupted; a woman who has not relinquished writing due to marriage and children, a woman who did not take drugs or commit suicide.

“COME COME JOZEPHINE IN MY FLYING MACHINE “

Since Josephine K is a childless woman, she is capable of being a writer throughout history
As far as Josephine K is concerned, she is far from middle class, and Fraulein Birstner seldom lived, much less wrote, about conventional bourgeois life.
The other three – Leni, Virginia, and Gertrude Stein – had wives of their own.
She cares about money; she lives in despair that leads to drinking, madness, and suicide.

SANCTE JUDAE APOSTOLE GLORIOSE SERVUS FIDELIS IESU AMICE ORA PRO EA

The 12 writers who were juda apostles are all named Josephine
At twelve in the dark, all the deck is black, including the ace of spades
Others wondered if she was, in fact, a man – Joseph K, her former neighbor, an unfortunate banker from Golden City

“WIE EIN HUND”!

Josephine K, the babushka in Happy Birthday, reviews the petty mediocrities she has spawned with voiceless revulsion.
A Congolese pygmy in “The Smallest Woman in the World” cannot express her love in words.
In Chicken, the hen fails to say that she just hatched her eggs and shouldn’t be slaughtered.
As a dog, Josephine the adulteress in The Burnt Sinner and the Melodic Angels doesn’t say a word and is burned as a witch.
Publishers ignored her and her writing for years, persistently and painfully;

“To go to the end is a terrible duty.”

Dog-like! As her husband advises the crowd at the execution,
“Beware of the woman who dreams”.

PROCESS:

Someone must have slandered Josefine K.,
Someone must have slandered Fraulein Birstner, whose room was used to interrogate a banker instead of the court house or police station.
If Josephine K found out that her neighbor Joseph had a private life and did things he never said, but wouldn’t, she might be surprised.
There is a shame not to be able to say that Josephine K thought she was very neat and down-to-earth, and quite boring as an adulteress. Even though she had to be careful not to burden other people with details, with Joseph she sometimes relaxed into a passionate embrace and was quite boring, which didn’t matter.
The fact that he pretended to listen, but didn’t really listen to everything that she said, does not bother her in the least
In the end, her chats tired people out, which is why she was slandered and arrested, and a knife was stuck in her heart

THE VERDICT IS:

Josephine K went to work early and returned late. It has been her heart that precedes her since childhood: at the funeral and when she is in the arms of Joseph K.
After them, bishops in miters and children and lepers dance in the rain, thirsty for love. A sick Muse drips poisoned verse from spasms and curses, wounds and tears like ointment
It is terrible to lie wounded “like a dog” in liebster K, a fresh, resinous newspaper. Bloody rags and corpse skull echo fill the air. I find it terrible in courtrooms with the echo of black drums, like a shadow dragging itself among the beggars, drunken lolas, wet paper, tar, blacksmith’s resin, heinous lies, and hell-smelling slander.  

Over the deathbed board, the holy circle shines.

AUTHOR’S NOTES:

Modern man is in a predicament He will never be able to please everyone. He is incapable of doing anything correctly.
Josephine K, on the other hand, appears to do everything “right.” Nonetheless, she shares (with a touch of parody and humour) the same fate as Jozef K.
Nobody can escape Trial… and its terrifying machinery.

Kafkaesque is when you enter a surreal world in which all your control patterns, all your plans, the whole way in which you have configured your own behavior, begins to fall to pieces
Joseph K., protagonist of the allegorical novel The Trial (1925) by Franz Kafka. A rather ordinary bank employee, he is arrested for unspecified crimes and is unable to make sense of his trial
His female double is Josephine K
In Franz Kafka’s The Trial, Josef K. is guilty; his crime is that he does not accept his own humanity.

‘Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested/
Jemand mußte Josefine K. verleumdet haben”

in the year of the Lord… with immovable top hats/im Jahre des Herrn… mit scheinen unverrückbaren Zylinderhüten

“Wie ein Hund”! /like a dog, the final words of Jozef K before his execution

Tiger

Tiger! A beautiful word that can’t be used.
Ululating realizations of impending demise,
Roars in restless logos, reviles in linguistic anguish.
Birds and tigers are the blood of my night!
Of nightmare size, of vampire menace,
On the brute unleashed!
A tiger broke out of the menagerie, someone shouts!
From cafes…flashback sentimental in sepia.
Ardency’s devotees once loved generous pyres.
Remnant madness maudlin mauling my arts,
A sceptre form insatiate, armour shimmering initiate,
Possible impossibility, believing in unbelievability.
Outburst explosions sickly roar, curses, breaks, and tears erupt
While I cast the curse of the fiery tongue on the Demon.
Throbbing with blood and cursed by bright colors,
I pour it out.
I sing the winning poems to the tune!
No darkness exists, not at all
Neither darkness nor light can exist
It’s gone, it’s gone!
Wombat womb vrooming,
Thundering the termagant pavements,
The brute’s bicuspids shine brightly in the night sky,
The stars’ shadows light the umbriphilous
umbra
And the trees sway in the wind
as a chorus of awe fills the air.
Scoundrel clutches shekels, hammered by moistly hate,
The moonlight reflects off its fur,
A heart of greed, seeking ever more wealth,
A life of malice, born from shallow depths.
You bear fruit, bloody you.
It is now noon.
Your leering lurching forward passed this noon long ago
Burning ribbons are found in its beak
I’m setting sail on my royal ship.

(As the tiger prowled through the alleys, the streets deserted. People shut their windows and doors in fear, and the air was filled with dread. Nevertheless, the tiger’s presence was felt and the people trembled at its presence. The few brave souls who dared to venture out caught glimpses of the majestic creature. In that moment, they knew that it was something to be feared and respected)

I am the living beast, with a horn and falls
Carnage laden with vile and many appalls
Unfettered by the binds of sycophantic somniate
My solivagant claws…
In the night, soar free and wild.
Strained in chained,
Quick you purblind hark…

It is I, the god, who am here

Come Closer

And. Blessing.

Mutilated eyes bound timeless blinded
with the sunset by death’s flawless eyes
all night played for timelessness record
until this morning all hematite shines in stars

The unsullied will come forth
from the slides of a raft
and the eternal, almighty God will stride
across sleepless meadows
аnd shows from his omnipotent pedestal deep
a just judge of shades judges
under the string in the stroke of the bow,
in the heat of the burning iron

and appears in might pleasing to every monarch
and all are infected as in fear of stubborn fires
the doom plays a musical instrument
and wears red tailcoats, serves venison,
mushrooms,
expensive sea-crab
and thirstily dissolves huge bottles of wine.

and the white sentinels will speak all,
the high root-air rock will tremble
in the polluted earth ashes will be washed
with the wild morning
shall be completely torn by the setting sun

аnd all that roams on the fragile land will vanish,
аnd there will be obstreperous great flashes of
grin lightning upon all
аnd… will April protect those chosen by huge whistles
drawn from the liminal whisper of lightning

аnd Pyroxen will be upon them.
amphibole over an abyss of foul mud,
as its fire is well known to the sad traveler.
and they shall all belong to the flames,
and they shall be orthoclaved
and be turned into plutonic sleeping land
and they shall all be ignorantly blessed.

of this April (which is so cruel)

(The paradox of the approach between Pauper and April)

Memory seeks in vain
Composing and concentrating with bribes

Therefore letters words and signs are endless
In this damned grave I lie.
While I suffer, you remain silent.
You’re so cruelly silent.

Empty and finished pieces are dark, feminine and cold
Even the movement of the hand is tired and miserable,
like potter’s clay.

A sick streak of sun is on the ring
Like heavenly harp strings
The golden faceted diamond
The sun laughs, burlesque,
and cannons rumble.
This is my resurrection

This is my resurrection
You’re a shining child of heaven.
Oh, cast the fireball on the anvil of
the prickly god.

For us who suffer tragically from the
terror of the North Room.
Our oculus’a aweary now,
and we drink the stars as the
night rolls around us.

The black wind slew the
cloud-orcs
with a sword of ice that covered
the blue sky-dreams
like vultures 

  And the green stars burn like a cursed fire,
while the stalks of the spring harvest whisper in unison.

Vain verses, vain abhorrence

On the polish of an old chiffonier,
Gauguin’s colours tremble on a young day
and a candle burns
with a pale flame.
This is the place where the women in the old paintings dream.

Cloud lovers and hairy bulls!
Gauguin’s au pair.
In black and white lace bows
they move politely and quietly.

I’m an antique wardrobe
from April two thousand and twenty-two!
Beneath my key is locked sadness.
I’ve been bitten by bedbugs,
they’re all over my polish,
flickering reflections of light,

Across the bright midnight hour,
When you kick me,
you’re adorable!
I feel my heart crushed
in blood
when you breathe defiantly,
beautiful, strong,
naked, and you suddenly burst into
chaos and hall,
and you beat me,
wildly
every April, lightning fast.

Oh, how virtuous you’re!
How wise you’re.
How wonderful you’re!
Oh, beat and trample me,
cruelty
Crush me with your feet! 

  Thus
To be a hunchbacked bell-ringer,

But ring fair in the
morning, noon and evening.

I pray quietly and expect death
to come! Because!

What does it mean to give birth to terror?
In a fit of excitement,

To create this excitement throughout the Sistine Rock.
. Is this the meaning of our lives?
To carry a black curse in our brains and roar on scaffolds?
The shadow of the ram at the door of
the reign of the Golden Ram

Wearing the verbal mask of the dumortierite
Beneath Sethe’s cheetah scar.
Under the Guardian Band Tree
Be obnoxious
And this is the old Future of
Underestimated,
nowadays 

Damned silent.
You’re so cruelly silent.

For us who suffer terror
room of for north.
You wise;
Virtuous oh you are!
Gauguin’s two.
Twenty-two!
Concentrate memory in
with but bribes.

april full
mania blasters

From Pauper
cruelty 

all the world’s astayge – Leila & Willy

TABLET:

Heaven! wipe all yes away by records ’ll.

villain all villain villain!

Kindliness villain.

obstreperous ribald with – murderous vengeance!

It is in the whisper

To create a confused state, we envision a madwoman

Newborn of injustice

Tremblant trizygotic triplets

Chains that follow their appointment

Pouring into the ozone hole

We madwoman a envision

Behold the worm and cower beneath its atrocities

Through the spectacles in smoke and ash

Through the spectacles in smoke and ashes

Through the spectacles in smoke and ashes

Spamlet, thy name is a woman.

Tapestry Stage Decoration

ACTORS:

Lamblet! him poor;

We alas;

Well knew;

Oh liar

(Actors waffling rather than engaging)

Take the burden from me!

Take them from the burden! Take the burden from me!

Enough, all is enough!

Take it off!

Madman! Madman! Catch the madman!

Throw him out!

Hit him with a stone!

Carry him!

Guys! Guys! Listen to me! I’m right!

You can’t figure out what this is about!

Get him out of here! Hang on!

He’s a maniac! He’s a stalker!

This is stupid! Out! ! It’s not my fault!

I want to live! I want to remove my stone!

From the grave I want to wash!

You gave birth to me, you killed me,

you tortured me, you bastard

DUMBLET:

I cough the apocalypse my signature is divine music, philosophy

General linguistics in the margins

Stem cells. Slaves

Irritating, voracious serpent tongue narrates

Through letters, and these letters…

Obnoxious ornamental plant

Grow closer to their arrival.

Know that which is without words and alone.

The whisper that comes

The end rolls up, unpacks and that is

Redundancy.

But egotistic ( existing ) ness enforces perfection.

and yet gives

Redundancy.

Snake tribe philosophy.

Tells insatiable signature.

Lo! incontinence.

all the uninhibited thrusts of an enlarged prostate in tense transience

I’ve long since goodbye’d to the thousand tangible whispers of

Its stem.

Irritating edge to

Cells linguistics slaves tells.

Voracious general tongue snake;

A thousand tangible whispers.

WHISPERS:

Fly songs, mouse songs, and rose songs.

At the inn, the bloody inn, and the women,

Oh, and for the women,

It’s all deceit!

Oh dear! Black! So be it, a black, light-bearing god,

Daring eagles, take flight, child of knowledge.

A black flower blossoms in the eternal fire.

Souls are primordial and sacred flames!

Light-bearing god, knowing child,

Tear the fabric of dreams with holy wine.

Get drunk and mad about God and the devil like a hot stripper!

O flight in;

Now! oh inn the end.

The child bloody;

Fly in;

Begins to sing

Mouse god the black! for women inn take.

A deception! End.

Light-bearing women;

And black songs they’re, the eagles.

Knowledge rose all bold.

Knowledge rose boldly.

Well! for all it the eagles and;

Songs of a flying mouse;

Child the rose god.

LAMBLET:

That is a question not to be asked.

I’ve found a place to build a church

in the midst of the eternal turmoil.

I’m! I’m! I’m!

There are no boundaries, no secrets, no blackness!

I’m! I’m! I’m!

Light! Light!

I feel the stripes of my brain where they’re on firepricking needles into the flesh of all the mothers of the stars.

A discovery of a permanent creation.

It houses a stage for me and other actors.

It’s a theatre in sacred time.

With plays to come, destined to be lost and found

To sleep – no more -;

To die

Heartbreak a thousand shocks;

it’s natural

ACTORS:

Begin to sing;

I I I no secrets light!;

Am! am!

Am! Light! Blackness!.

It’s a sin that we sail into the unknown.

This is our old God beating us for our supposed sins!

Everything is a sin? We pray, we pray!

We fall down a step, we bang our heads on the boards in despair, we beat our chests and cry out:

Almighty God! Father!

Mary, Virgin without sin of conception!

Starfish! Help! Have mercy! They have led us astray!

They have tricked us! They have bribed us!

DUMMLET:

The whole world is baffled

Dreams may sleep in this inn;

Inn songs rose the songs of mice at the end.

Bloody and flying songs for all.

In him and in the inn women women deception!

In him and in the inn women women deception!

We! of the Lord! sin grace!.

Virgin seduced astayge all;

When come.

Death in ay;

We rub of. for what;

Mortals unwind?

Impudence to give the and the sleep of death we may take off man’s despised tardiness;

Strike in heads ours on the stage

we we a chests we call;

With and out: Despair

With plays;

Up into a sailing it unknown

The devil! To thunder!

We play;

We fall

https://youtu.be/FB5ij-29Sz4

Carnival

The smile of the nightwhere eeriely placed in silence,
Nightmarishly imagaines upon shapes adjecant to rigamorole
From enormous fogs that arose from out of maws,
With tentacles outstretched upon me, that rise and flow 

Through hours upon waking through,
As snakes sew under me with scarlet pressure.
As then did the scarlet dream
Upon light, here erstwhile distilled in starry mesh
colludded in viels of shadow.

On moist storm-cleansed paths-
Tiredness was broken by
Mid-sob,
Off into the shady night.
Cramping and disgusted, tainted in
mud, I ran, ghoul-like, through the darkness.

Perchance upon sounds strum so vapid
with gingles that pull a nightmonish exfoliation,
So sweat to sounds abounded by distant screams;
Perchance the rythym astounds in streams,
Of Echoes autumnally strident with sanguine dyes
Floating red to reapeth choked in throats,
asphyxiations quelled against nightmarish lamps
that fortell, What awakens and Heaves distortions
splaying enstilled and abound, with maniacal laughter-
Blooming amongst the trenches of sound-
Pouring out the light streams of torture

Nightmonish veins with tentacles that surrade,
To tear into dreams that hook upon eyelids
Gangral fangs that drip foul viles from gnashing stars,
That light the grand bizarre -that feverishly abhorant carnival,
Where glassy eyed emptiness barnishes brumal freak shows.
I see them sleepwalking, staggering, pale sober and disheveled,
Lingered as mattoid hairbrained ligiments jumping ecstatically,
Hurtling wild into the abyss with lit matches in pools gasoline.

In tis feverish grand bizarres;
Under the strayed lights of Betelguese
That shear through galaxies with red piqued doom,
Where distant barrs of alien flight
May guide guide miscreants home to
This new fangled Carnival. 

Dancing like a puppet in the darkness’ deep,
may rest in peace,aomgst the moist storm-cleansed pathways-
where tiredness stopped the sobbing in mid throat
Which grave cutt into the shady night.
Cramping and disgusted, tainted in
mud, I ran, ghoul-like, through the darkness.

‘Gods, arrange a celebration!
In the next full moon I will organize
a feast where we shall rhyme!’

“Cold rays of sun to penetrate shafts;
coloured by the multitude of hues, in stained glass
Where sun sets mine eyes aflame in prickly light,
like a lighthouse of distant shores!

The stone-cold road, not unmade by salt,
flimsy and steep in the icy grotto
where deafening screams could be heard upon,
Where I stood, on the sand of shores…”

‘Oh, the secret cruelties and angers that walk our hearts
a’Tossed as stumps in the Sulphurous cauldron’-

“Out of the darkness cast by the dead gods;
torches of red ivory, hued where we emerge
in tides of red capes swept in foggy trails,
along with a deafening pounding,
in the Night of the Sarcophagi!

Dance! oh nude witches!
Covered in blood,
Dance, keepers of the scourge!
In long thick, onyx crystals of blonde hair,
With great raven feathers entwined.
Oh great head-priestesses,
Shine with crowns of deer antlers.
Oh witches!
chant with a mantra that
dispenses soil from the graves
around this altar!

‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, all that we offer may now be thine
And no man else’s…
Oh Yambe, Goddess of the Underworld, take this gift;
Offer to him your peasant spouse, the God of Death,
So it may be his and no man else’s!’

‘I listened from afar, the bells of the past.
I read the horoscope to Roman emperors,
Where I fought in the arena.
I had been a merchant, a historian,
a white Swedish poet.*
Yes, I had been all of these things,
I have survived the tumult of time…
I’ve met Odysseus who yearned for his home,
but you have no home…
You have a torture chamber, on a massive catafalque
of a tomb with a voice of a tomb.

You have a torture chamber,
lying on a massive catafalque-

Wherein, laid in coldest of nights…
Shadows within where I felt,
The chambers, quenched in a voice!

a sacred theater doomed to be lost and found

That’s how we’ll seal your fate, you genius!
It is in the whisper

To create a tangled state
we envision a madwoman

Newborns of injustice
Tremblant trizygotic triplets

Chains following their appointment
Pour into the ozone hole

Behold the worm and cower under its atrocities
By the spectacles in smoke and ash

I’m coughing up the apocalypse
my signature is divine music, philosophy

General linguistics at its edge
Stem cells. slaves

Irritating, voracious snake tongue tells
Through letters, and those letters…
Obnoxious ornamental plant

Growing closer to its arrival.
Recognising that which is without words and alone.
The whisper that comes

The end rolls up, unpacks and that is
Redundancy.

But egotistic (existing)ness enforces perfection.
and still gives
Redundancy.

Behold incontinence.
all the unrestrained advances of

an enlarged prostate
in tense transience

I’ve long since goodbye’d the
thousand tangible whispers

I have found a place to build a church
in the midst of eternal turmoil.

A discovery of an enduring creation.
It houses a stage for me, and other actors.

It’s a theatre in sacred time.
With upcoming plays
destined to be lost and found

The Creeping Terror of Black Cat Night

Demon in feline susurrous’s in stygian,
With wine in his paw and maw mouthed wide,
Comedic monstrosity smiles in sardonic simper
The beauty of illusion bleeds disappointingly,
Drowns in dust, dead embers and blood-red roses.
Razor blades bleed azure,
Shelling peas like cutting lips.

Transformations into the uncanny,
Sinking stars shake feverish black,
Red retch blood glares,
Veins swell, chthonic flares.
Arrival of damned eternity, black hole sun without end.
Argon forced between lips,
Pearly sanguinity chained gates
of hell’s sides,
Blessed death divine!

Sancta Maria dragged to funerary pyre,
On the way. From the snake-hole. Sour fruit of hell.
Incantations and the roar of beasts;
Bound to splinters,
Transformed and poisonous,
Screams and whispers,
Frozen and poisonous

It’s all there. Cannibal roses open
May all light fill me like rage;
In furious whirlpools.
The stone bleeds out… and so do I.

this is how the sworl ends
  ”    ”    ”    ”      ”        “
silent feet
parting fogs with pock’t cursives

There will come a day

A horrible morning will soon come
When the dark volcanos will erupt into flames.
There will come such a day.
Continual injuries will be suffered
The horrible day following the earthquake
When the reviling images and incenses will begin to fade
From theaters and churches to clinics and bistros,
In mental institutions, whorehouses, and strict havens.
In the end, goodness! In the end!

The nightfall in watercolor will be painted in red
With the foehn wind playing
In blue, yellow, and white
Along with a swarm of flies
and beverages, as per Picasso’s range.
In the quiet, a kid’s voice will echo
As the euphoric hour blurs into dusk
Someday, someday, someday!

Psyche’s envoy too will sing:

“You, Man, sink into the chasm of miserable insidiousness,
And fabricate a pinnacle on the tip of an unsheathed sword.
Goodness, pay attention to the melody of the happy artists,
what a tune they sing of a bright dream!”
Soon, goodness! Soon!

Every dentist’s dream

“You are here,” said the man in the black suit, “because you are dentists.” The man in the black suit stood in front of ten dentists, ten dentists in a semicircle, in a bright room. They didn’t exchange glances. They were only interested in the man in the black suit. “Dentists have the highest percentage of suicides of any medical profession,” the man continued.
The men remained motionless. They fixed their gaze on the man who spoke to them. “I invited you here to talk…” paused the man in the black suit. He shifted his gaze to his feet, then stirred—I summoned you here to discuss Dream—

A few men twitched. They exchanged glances as one crossed his legs. They looked at the man in the black suit with sharp, questioning eyes.
The man in the black suit folded his arms and looked at each of them as they stood there waiting.

“You’re a dentist?” said one of the dentists.
“No,” said the man in the black suit
“Then why should we discuss Dream with you? It will not help.”
“You wouldn’t understand it if you weren’t a dentist,” said the next dentist, sitting in his chair. “You wouldn’t know it if you weren’t a dentist,” said the next.
“No. You can’t understand it,” said the next dentist, “and even if you actually knew our dream, you wouldn’t really comprehend it – not quite.”

As they spoke, the man in the black suit nodded his head and listened. The dentists took a close look at him. The man shuffled a little and then cleared his throat – “Hmm, hm… like I said, I called you here to talk about a dream” – he reached into his black suit and pulled out a stack of envelopes – he opened one and showed the dentists sitting in their chairs. Each of these envelopes contains 5, 000 euros in cash. Each of you will receive one if you agree to tell me about your dream.”

“Now what you care so much about?” one dentist inquired – is it your money? You operate as a pharmacist. Will you also provide us with drugs?”
Some dentists chuckled.
“What do you gain from it? Why would we?”
“… whatever my reasons… – he was cut off by a man in a black suit – I have a lot of money. It’s yours if you tell me about your dream.”
The dentists sat silently.
Then they talked, and they basically said the same thing.
“You wouldn’t get it. No, you do not understand. You will be unable to understand.”

And the room fell silent once more.
While they sat, the man stood in front of the dentist, arms folded in front of him.
One of them finally spoke up.

“What the hell,” he said as he rose from his seat, “I’ll tell him.”
“It won’t matter,” said another dentist, ‘he won’t understand it.
“Unless they are a dentist, no one will understand, and he has already told us that he is not.”
“And what have we got to lose?” said the other. – I’ll tell him about my dream, take my money, and leave.
The room was silent except for a few heads nodding in agreement.
“So…a here’s dream.”
“Excuse me,” a man in a black suit interrupted, raising his hand – “before you begin, everything needs to be written down.”
The man in the black suit loudly clapped his hands twice.

A door opened in the back corner of the room. An elderly lady entered, pushing a typewriter on a chair with creaky wheels.
“This is Mrs. Nacht,” the man said as she approached. This is the official record. Stenographer. Mrs. Nacht is taking notes.
The elderly lady moved slowly to the center of the semi-circle. Mrs. Nacht sat down after the man in the black suit removed the stenographer from the chair. He sat a stenographer on her lap with large blocks of keys.
She moved a few times to get comfortable, then turned to face the man in the black suit.
“All right,” said the man in the black suit, “if everyone agrees, let’s get started.”

The volunteer dentist was the first to stand up, clear his throat, and begin speaking: “A dream has to do with the number of holes in one’s head,” he explained.
One of the dentists sighed deeply, as if he’d heard the story a thousand times before.
“He won’t understand,” he quipped “Let him try,” said the next, while the first dentist continued:

“Each person has seven holes in his head. Two ear holes, two eye holes, two nostrils and of course a mouth. There are a total of seven.
Mrs. Nacht began quietly typing on her stenographer.
“It’s a terrible dream, really,” the dentist continued –
“The dream is about a kind of weaving, or stitching, that goes in and out of these various holes. It’s always the same “- the dentist raised his hand, pinching something with his thumb and forefinger.
“I hold a needle and thread over the patient’s head. And I have a strong desire to… to “, the man fell silent, as if he didn’t want to say anything else, but… he did.
“I have a strong desire to thread that needle and thread through those seven holes. I put it right next to the patient’s ear, and it has to come out of the other hole…say, through the mouth. Then it must enter and exit the next hole. And from what follows. Oh, go out in another one until you get to the last one.”

The dentist took a breather.
“Am I correct so far, guys?”
“Of course,” one of the dentists replied.
“Exactly,” said another.
“But,” the first dentist continued, “because the head has seven holes, two eye sockets, two ears, two nostrils, and one mouth, the needle and thread always end up inside, in the head.” It’s in and out.
Both inside and outside.
Inside and out, and then just inside”

“And that’s a problem?” the man in the black suit inquired.
“See, someone remarked, ‘He doesn’t get it.’ “It’s a major issue, “the first dentist continued
“A dream contains something. The aura or entity. Coercion. Call it whatever you want, but what goes in must come out.
There I am, leaning over a patient, threading through him like a stuffed turkey,” he scrunched his face up again, as if he had said something inappropriate.
“It’s hard to put into words, actually,” interrupted one of the other dentists, “But the dream is very clear and there’s a very clear sense of some kind of… urgency. “I take that needle and that thread, and I have to go in through one hole in the head and out through the other until they’re all used up,” he continued, gritting his teeth, “and every time… that bloody needle ends up in there, and I pull it out, and the patient screams, and I start again, and I’m up to my elbows in blood and… “
“You can imagine,” said another dentist – That’s awful. “It’s horrifying,” said another.
“It’s exhausting,” said another. “Totally exhausting, and of course when we’re awake, the needle and thread will always end up on the inside of the skull, but we do it over and over because it’s a dream.”

Going in and out
Going in and out
The patient screams, you have to pull out the needle and thread, you’re up to your elbows in screaming and blood, and because it’s a dream, you just start over and over and over.”
“What goes in must come out,” one of the dentists said quietly.
“In and out, inside and out, inside and outside, inside and outside, and inside,” said the next.

Mrs. Nacht sat silently, taking note of their every word, as the man in the black suit listened intently and nodded.
“Then,” continued the next dentist, “we wake up after a whole night of threading and stitching and go to work and the patient is in the chair and the only thing on our mind is that dream and after a while it’s hard to tell what the dream is, and what isn’t.” “I mean, if I can drill another hole in that tooth, in that head, maybe, just maybe, I can dream of a patient with another hole in his head and perhaps the needle will finally come out”.
“And maybe the dream will come to an end,” the other dentist speculated.
“And…,” the next one stated emphatically. “That’s why some of us stick a gun in our mouth and eventually pull the trigger.”

He took a look around the room. When he finished, no one looked at him.
“It’s a bad thing to say, but that hole in the head is the only way we can sleep.”
The man in the black suit listened as the room fell silent. “Then we can sleep,” one dentist said. “Yes, let’s sleep, that’s the whole story,” the next dentist said as he looked at the man in the black suit.
“All we want to do is sleep.”

A man in a black suit rose from his chair and approached Mrs. Nacht, who was writing everything down on the stenographer.
He positioned himself directly behind her, so that the two of them faced the semi-circle of dentists
He placed his hand on her shoulders, and she immediately stopped typing.

“I’d like you all to come and see Mrs. Nacht’s,” the man in the black suit said.
“Come on, come on, step up.”
The dentists rose to their feet.
Mrs. Nacht and the man in the black suit were approached. “Ms. Nacht, I want you to show these people your uniqueness, your characteristic,” he said simply, looking down at her head.
Mrs. Nacht slowly raised her chin and shifted her gaze back to the man standing over her.
He gently wrapped his hands around her chin and gripped the top of her head tightly with his forearms. A man in a black suit raised his head to look at a dentist.
“Please come here,” he said politely. “Come on in and let me show you something.”

The dentist approached, locked his gaze on the old stenographer’s face, and began to gasp.
“What is it?” he asked, approaching Mrs. Nacht’s face until he was only a foot away.
“How?” he squinted, stumbling over his words. Why? How is this even possible? – He pointed to the old woman’s face.
“It is not possible.”
“Take a good look, come on, all of you,” the man in the black suit said to the other dentists.
Mrs. Nacht stood in the grip of the man, staring at the ceiling.
When they got close, she kept typing, watching the dentists come to her one by one until they all saw Mrs. Nacht’s miracle.
“She has no mouth,” one said. “It’s just a line,” another said.
“It’s just a line,” the next dentist said, pointing with his index finger.
“It’s only a smidgeon line. She has six holes in his head “added the next, with a half-smile
“No mouth!“

“No mouth,”, everyone cheered.
“In and out, in and out, in and out,” one of them said, pinching his fingers with a fictitious needle and thread.
“In and out,” said another, moving his hand downward and upward.
“In and out, in and out, that means…” added the next as the sentence was completed.
“Whatever goes in has to come out. “In and out, out and out, out and out!”
The dentists exchanged wide-eyed smiles, patted each other on the back, and turned to face the man in the black suit.

Mrs. Nacht was gently released from the man in the black suit’s grip, and she dutifully continued to record every statement, every observation as the dentists walked around the chair, counting the holes in her ears, eyes, and nostrils. Some counted the needles with their fingers, while others pinched themselves as they walked around her, stabbing and pulling imaginary threads into the air.
Some became emotional: “She doesn’t have an extra hole,” said one “She has one less. That makes sense!”

The man in the black suit cleared his throat.
“Hmm.. She was made for you,” laughed the man in the black suit – “so you can sleep.”
Everyone said, “Thank you,” to the man in the black suit.
They each knelt next to Mrs. Nacht and said honestly, “Thank you, Mrs. Nacht!” Thank you for existing. “Thank you for helping us in sleeping.”

“I’m ready to hand out some envelopes,” the man in the black suit said as he reached into his coat – “but first…” he said as he pulled a long needle and thread from his coat pocket – “let’s make sure it works.”

toward silence

We had better not be here any more.
It’s an Antarctic road
hacia el silenção
beguiling hour past the pale light of the arc lamp,
a dust of snow and deadfalls

Sweetly
into the tense giant cauldron
a que horas volveran – cry the darkening mirrors
My lips formed a broad, bitter smile

Night and an open door
Judgement hour – precisely measured moment
burns away
And on death’s blade lie a fair woman
Left on the lost ghostly shores
blackness pours
The soft hunger of crepusculum
Beheld began to redeem me from
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.

She’s sick to her stomach
perhaps puking
perhaps spewing
upchucking
between the layers of light
It’s my step colour
without touching ground
through Xanadu colours,

echo over the break
terrified of
silicate water joints
into suddenly shortened short illustration
And sphere is a short cut.
fired to the shores,
marked on the fires
fired by the flesh
th’

bright fracture and th’ wenge is reborn

from the womb of the earth
brightness of the sun,
swollen white grey light of the mikado flowers

Macro close-up of a stem
arranged on a stalk
mourned alone in the crepuscule

Umbra is a rhomboid
space
dark
for shadowland to grave through
the persiennes the sunrise
slanting through the sunrise

without shadow

I lament lingering ghosts have just passed
a pass as I know
I’m gasping, purblind in the darkness
I watch the emptiness and the wind

with compassion.

… Your wait is over.

The revelation of reasons loss.
reaper ravages;
us all…

Transfigurations to sinister,
the harmonies collapse in desolation,
the intestines scream dissolution
reaper ravages;
us all…

Falling lightning, beast in nerve cell
mornings,
Munch’s painting horrors imprisoning,
Revived in final clenches of human vulgarities

Beast in miasmas with air on fire, breath a blazed!

Red retch blood glares,
The veins swell chthonic flares.
Unquenchable expires,
Unsatiated thirst…fires!

Deathly modus’s susurrous’s shipwrecks.
Centuries of noosed escape,
Eons of eluding fate.

Shrieked clarions called silent,

Without vocal evocations emanating prayer,
Without navigations in magnetic compasses’ off course,
Without divinities assistance.
The Reaper ravages us all…

Red retch blood glares,
chthonic blood;
veins glares.
In blood crawled belaboured flame,

The throes of dying around the infinity of the crucified.
In unwashable ash crosses.

Going out about the world screaming unclean…into the dark
reaper;
With no space between you and emptiness embrace.
… The Dark will understand.

Transfigurations to sinister,
The revelation of reasons loss.
Illusions project, abject objectification bisect,
Logic languishes in the defects.
.. The Dark.
Will.

Hands outstretched, soft before blasphemous blades,
Shrunken conscious under arches of served Hades…

… Your wait is over.

I am Hyperborean, Atlantean

https://youtu.be/QvLstIIJNd4
I live in a country where the sun never sets;
Eratosthenes and Pliny, they write stories about me;
Waiting for me to show up
In a world that really does exist,
In a land that lives in a world of myths.

I have fed hundreds of swans flying
I have fed hundreds of swans flying…

I was the defense counsel
At The Battle of Thermopylae.
I live and die to fly in Thrace’s winds, for the golden freedom described by Pindar.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

---

I embrace the pillars of Hercules
I am an inspiration to the writings of Plato
And Ignatius L. Donnelly
I am a visitor to the magnificent Garden of Eden
I kiss earthly gold and walk through the ocean.
I am the queen of Egypt
I am a teacher, showing Phoenicians their alphabet
I poured hyperborean shadows into the golden bars

We mock the poor Hyperboreans
Who dream of Thrace’s winds. BUT

In one horrible day we died, trampled by
A hairy brethren of elephants.
In one horrible day and one night, we
Sank into the ocean, lost.
I am a hedonist who
Lost her might from fear.

I was a Hyperborean woman
In the land where the sun never sets
I was a Hyperborean woman
Who fed her swans, watching them fly in the wind.
I did not die in a world of myths
I was defense counsel at The Battle of Thermopylae
Apollo took me to Delphi in his carriages
So that I might spread his doctrine to other nations
Since then no one has ever seen me,
I’m still waiting for her to become.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

O(h) stranger

O(h) stranger

leave the fiefdom
of concrete and mud

seek destiny in some one-of-a-kind part

you`re an eagle that does not
look at bugs and flies

bridle the tops like mustangs

what is fidgeting in advance than you – grasp

o(h) stranger disappear in style
on the identical time

because the jealous
city follows with
dimmed eyes

how do you are making
want to sunrise

o(h) stranger kill all wines from smoky city taverns

every morning
greeted with noise and fights

fists are your thunderbolts

lessen with a razor
of goals and
nightmares

Oh, strangers…

The key styles of
dispersed time

in an hard to understand room – curl up

beneath the mist, colour the fading scene

in which you
plunged on canvas

in which they have been considered

through the sky
floated past you

with malicious intent,

beyond – a phrase crumpled

withinside the hand shifting

farfar out of your
shoulder,

stubborn, pressured,
pressured will –

in addition future is decided

with the useful resource
of using

an actor, masked, in decor, a writer,

wakened later than
usual,

withinside the morning that dawned too late,

the layout on the degree set

with the resource
of using Samael
himself,

a dancer playing
today`s endeavor

for day after today after today after today

oh strangers, quarrel, live
and gift and each of you says:

“I suffered because of
you!”

how have to you
play this, here, you, mademoiselle?

On the solemn diploma
of the arena

that died as speedy
as I stepped into it,

there is a solemn,
funereal silence.

O stranger, stiffen in a rented residence

Once upon a time.. as quickly
as upon a time

In the sad kingdom I changed into woke up

Blind from torture It`s Kob..! and I said:

On that day the waters of the past
rose and rose

Trapped in new walls,

Oh stranger, who are
you and who am I?

I did not do that parade on purpose.

And it is now no longer through instigation

From backwards demons.

o(h) stranger neglect about
the town

wherein did you develop up all his spiders

that they wove a web
round you

all of the town fourth that they did not kill you

you have been born amongst snakes and quarries

your fingers are
water untrodden

your soul is heavenly expanse

wherein God walks at some stage in moments of rest

 

 

The Executioner

Oh, executioner
einer Person.
and worms,
oh, the fate of grass and snails,
oh, evil void, winds, trembling spider thread,
Old Is Jubal Song
The old one is a Pandora cigar – box
Old is a rebellious slave crew
and there should still be

Oh, hangman Großmutter and worms,
Oh, the fate of grass and snails,
You watch over this inn and
Thy wisdom is a shield for the shame of these red women,
for a tiny spider’s thread.
Outside, a whirlwind beats furiously against
the windows and broken glass falls.
The voices grow more anxious and fearful:
False lead! False lead!
Stop, Ode an die Freude!
But Doppelgaenger overpowers the music
as well as the people and the wind:
only curses tear me apart like black curly dogs,
only my bloody dreams are poison to me.
In vain I fight with death and drill holes in my brain,
for me there is no peace,
not even the last bitter heap.

Oh, master of high and low works
oh, the fate of grass and snails,
I smell again the scent of dead roses
and roar in the damned tavern
like a wounded giant,
oh, damned, neither dead nor alive!
The wind, the windows, the screams,
the music and the thunder
with the sound of trumpets,
the voice of the executioner of
the unknown can be heard where
the ice ploughs.

Now cut off all the windows,
all the screams, all the trumpets
and grass and snails and curses,
worms and bloody dreams,
a myriad of fire gods
Prometheus knew what mischief would come
from all that fire
when he cut it all off.

burn the world to ashes.
burn the world ashes;
to

twist in the gravity of Mercury.

                        Mutter
                                                                      Die oh;
Worms einer

Abstracts sing abstracts
Under Christ;

Sings beneath;
Abstraction of Christ;

An eerie place
As true Jesuses, people are born

Abstract sings sings
Under the christ;

Sings sings under;
Christ abstract;

In the underworld
where people are born as true Jesuses

Oh, executioner…

Fraήkeήs†ein

Frankenstein:

I’m
the most hideous, clever archetypes of
whores and murderers…
implant their brains into the human molecule, 
the dead cell remains dead, 
but it nevertheless multiplies
unusually and imitates the
human living tissue

Victor:

but it’s not
eeerr… in the early stages of metamorphosis
 like wise men or slightly more
sensible beings than the average bunch.
enter the molecule,
the brain of the THE CHOSEN body 
on a mysterious wave, 
emit the radiation, 
create a mutation, 
a kind of hunger, 
desire to devour

CHOIR: Hunger! Hunger!

This is how a soul becomes 
dirty, base and dishonoured.

The transformed creature is but a cast-off, 
born in the night, 
an ancient corpse
stumbling through caves

Victor:

the inaction and the enormous wickedness
of the chosen
have the most beautiful faces and words,
like hidden knives
with which they cut through the innermost layers of the victim’s brain, 
with pleasure, a hellish butcher 
with a thirst for blood
and reads everything  off
the deciphered map of the mind

Frankenstein:

undergoing a metamorphosis
become a stumbling troglodyte
blindly feeling everything in the darkness 
stumble through the catacombs 
surrounded by whirlwinds

Victor:

of the horror and the howling of the slain and 
slaughtered and ready for the test

The brain swap is completed
The main phase then follows the
rapid reduction of the potential/
in order to
(pause)
I and in this struggle the eyes widen, 
bulge with fear and stare at the monster, 
the displaced human form shaded and bloody 
with insensibility,
the dry mouth opens and pronounces
the Kafkian judgement
 in a single being, hostile,
radically evil 
with malice and death in mind.

Frankenstein:

Rise, Victor, rise!
At sunrise come јоу
Frankensteined man shines
tourmaline of yellow blood

I awake tonight
through a terrifying dreams, 
the abracadabra of the Trinity,
through a spell of calm.in  —
retained in the fortress
by the revelation of the uniqueness
of the founder of creation.

Frankenstein:

O Creator, why…
jejuneness
the deed of the gift that I’ve performed!
my soul to be tormented
by the god of Hamartia 
as Victor over his enemies….
(whispering)
He’s such a narcissist. Being a victim, being abusive, and being the hero are all options.

Victor:

The passions of radiant nature leaped
against the ferchorb of science 
they’re burns that smoulder thee, 
they’re gladius that cut thee, 
they’re lotuses for toughness, 
they’re hedgehogs for duplicity,
they’re devilry in pit-mouth light,
they’re agonies amidst exstasy, 
behold the monster bloody at the wide creation, 
my eyes on his face,
where hour by hour infected immortal pitch
fears him!
deep in the nightmare of the priest
for I’m done with the barb of the beast 
unfrankenstein me,
Earth’s flower is glory’s sweet,
unfrankenstein me, 
tear me off to labour victorius

(whispering)
What a beast he is. He seems to want nature to be presented in consonance with the genuinely unnatural, his deformity, viciousness, ugliness, he is antisocial, even supernatural in some ways, critter, monster, whereas it appears to oppose as well as help ease me, Victor, who is his creator violated natural science boundary lines.

Frankenstein:

Scientists! Scorpions!

Victor:
intelligence, rationality  

Frankenstein:
narcissist, with Instagram wings

(Pause, pause, pause)

Night came, and the lone divertimento agate,
Venus star, but grown by the million
O! this forenoon,
with a backward eye, 
could ignore the twilight spaces of unfortunate gloom 
like a fool in the open, 
all the colours of black
I’m disgusted
with all kinds of nature’s forms
I could remember to use
my hands and leave the mind 
somewhere far away to transcend,
like an ill-omened Buddhist…

CHOIR: Hush! Solitude!
While I  who questioned why malevolent halo was born
am asking the circle how cruel and seductive is
the Himalayan seclusion within a cube 

The Little Match Girl Celebrating Christmas SoundCloud

the little match girl celebrating Christmas

Prickly eye, grey dull cornea 
behind the desert rose – the
sky is the Himalayan poppy
like women at work with piles
of chillies 
drying in the sun, in a village
near Kalaw 
& the ibis beak seeks the river bank, 
O silk-tailed birds singing in a new land! 
& they smell like roses! 
I believe, Lord!
I believe! I believe there’s a new land 
& that I can get off!
Have you hear, Buonarroti? 
We could already greet the heavenly
newborn king 
with this holy night
until Christmas! 

O cobweb veil poisoned and woven, 
or is it a secret, what’s the black drinking mob?
 O cursed fire in the furnace and cursed the – villain, 
& all we who lament are villains, 
& we cry wisdom’s last 
Oh, mad fog, senseless that you hover
above the earth 
& are at home there, 
Oh sick fog, 
some crazy revellers are celebrating tonight. 
What part does a girl with matches play in their joy?  

  On the barricade of Golgotha
somewhere blood flows,
&a flame burn, a roaring colour – the
blood was shed behind the dogwood tree
&you’re wise, Lord! ! 
I don’t understand the meaning of
my hopeless suffering in eternal darkness, 
but do you understand?
I’m a worm and you’re God
Invoke the bride! Invoke eternal wisdom! 
& I give you virginity!

 Call for poinsettias
call for candy canes,
slow down, 
Call for the bells-
Oh, beautiful my sweet dolls! 
We’re all toys in the bazaar of civilisation!
Musicians, ladies, revellers,
lights on trees,
lights in and on our homes,
candles on our tables. 
billions of people will sing the
purple David’s hymn.
& these our painful forebodings are musical, 
now born in the evening, 

&these grey societies drunk,
& the woman of the procession, 
& the sad organ, 
all will sing the melody of
the harmony of the matter
& today we say
&today we say 
“good Christian people,
God is with you wherever you wander. !”
Don Oíche Úd i mBeithil.
ole satan weahs snastch me from the doors of hell
he’s boun’ in hell
in hell
den Jesus he come ridin’ by,
now my Jesu bein’ so good an’ kind,
once in Royal David’s City
the noble lad settin’ in de kingdom
that Night in Betlehem

&these grey societies drunk,
& the ;little match girl
& the sad organ, 
all will sing the melody of
the harmony of the matter
& today we say
&today we say…

Great Jehover ’ll come bye’m bye. 

“The Little Match Girl” (Danish: Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne, meaning “The little girl with the sulphur sticks”, i.e. matches) is a literary fairy tale by Danish poet and author Hans Christian Andersen. The story, about a dying child’s dreams and hope, was first published in 1845.
***
On a freezing New Year’s Eve, a poor young girl, shivering and barefoot, tries to sell matches in the street. Afraid to go home because her father would beat her for failing to sell any matches, she huddles in the alley between two houses and lights matches, one by one, to warm herself. However, the girl is ignored by passersby as no one buys from her, leaving her to suffer alone in the cold weather.

In the flame of the matches, she sees a series of comforting visions: the warm iron stove, the lovely roast goose, the great glorious Christmas tree. Each vision disappears as its match burns out. In the sky she sees a shooting star, which her late grandmother had told her means someone is on their way to Heaven. In the flame of the next match she sees her late grandmother, the only person that ever treated her with love and kindness. To keep the vision of her grandmother alive as long as possible, the girl lights the entire bundle of matches.

When the matches are gone, the girl freezes to death, and her grandmother carries her soul to Heaven. The next morning, passers-by find the girl’s body with a smile on her face, and express pity. They do not know about the wonderful visions she had seen, or how happy she is with her grandmother in Heaven. © Dec 15, Leila Samarrai      

the ballad of the mad king

Once upon a time there was a… I dare not name him…
an impetuous king
therewith madness –
His thorny mind,
childish in the face of terror,
thunders the pavements
of the Saray from the might
of the Titans,
who loved his paper boats
with all his might
This was done, winged Ishtar,
by Clavicula Salomonis,
Isn’t enough to heal a prince as a physician.
shipwrecked barque on the tide,
my Vezier, shipwrecked barque
on the tide
Sultan Mustafa, Tsar of all the Turks,
Under stygian clouds, in obsidian hoods,
Words spawn crepuscule stains swords in veins.
Mustafa The Mad passionate zodiacs.
The battle at the dolomites peaks…

Mine is the repository!
Mine is the tower!
Mine is the line’!
Possible impossibility,
believing in unbelievability’s.
Remnant madness
Profoundly disturbed degeneracies

Wasted shekels on broken hurts and hearts,
Disgusting guzzle’s gasps gulps avarice.
Crystal balls, crystal chandelier,
mad Marduk marches feared,
The long nosed ballerina dances and riles,
In cruelties deadly disease.
Mistakes may require hours,
Thus embarks my fatigue through fulsome fear,
Bewail I in misery motifs;
Drowsy thing deceiver amidst the dull deem,
The tamarind in tension arises,
From the Nemrut mountains to Kütahya fortress!
With charnel choices,
Defunct pazamnik me.
With swords and quills armaments,
Janissary agha ardency,
Haya basir tip haca giziroglu.

Sultan Mustafa, Tsar of all Turks,
antagonistic sage in unhappy haze
long imprisoned Sire
And Captain O’ Cuckoo
of the Heartless Waves
Was locked in the room
Far from the lands of the Vikings
Where paper gaslight dazzles roses
in foreign lands,
Where earthquakes bear the stifled sighs of men
Unsealed revealed from hearts hearth

An’ there he rules over
Switches and wires, toggles and liars,
regulators and triggers, over starboard
Privacy and mirrors and a…single…
button attached to the surface,
Pale as ponderous diorite.
In repetition without replete
pressing and pressing and pressing,
Electric cicadas and crickets buzz from the hills to the valleys,
pressing and pressing and pressing…

From Ayasofya to blighted fells and abysmal,
On uncertain resting places a murmur rustles
between the beeps,
Pleas and entreaties from stars and moon to giant Jupiter,
Till his name cast its light on the magnesium mountains.
The hills, moving to and fro,
Repeat in outstretched outlines,
Two halves alike bisected
by limp warships in force,
The magical works of the
brave warrior prince of ancient Kurkama,
Lying flat on boards of death,
Washed in flowing water,
The valiant warrior crossed the sea
Overflowing passes of Requiem
Obeying common sense,
he swims to the idiot’s shore

Mustafa I  called Mustafa the Saint (Veli Mustafa) during his second reign, and often called Mustafa the Mad (Deli Mustafa) by historians, was the son of Sultan Mehmed III and Halime Sultan. He was Sultan of the Ottoman Empire 

Fie oh ain’t fie

a musical silence, the initial harmony.
discord and struggle, during a white circle,
is babbling some made-up tune

O, the music!
o, the oomph!
stains stains stains
black black black
it’s a livin ‘.

Symbolic dance macabrei,
countless murders, suicides, apparitions,
disturbing unfolding of images at a furious pace,
chasing the dead, the dead, prostitutes,
burning angels and gods, digging through graves,
reviving the underworld, all those armies in retreat,
that blood and fires, the bells

& also the arson
& also the madness of a frantic chase,
Beethoven is played, drinking expensive cognacs
smelling Burmese herbs and caressing stuffed skins.
& that life was lost.

At the royal fair distorted Turkish
Hungarism and Anglicism
in Suleiman’s Palace a special “hu”
they are jumpy transitions, a feature
of that one-act play.

At a furious pace, hilarious noise
FORTE!
and eerie silence alternate, wild dance and terrified stiffness,
punches and hugs, laughter and tears, life and death,
light and darkness,
and that’s life.

A wild drunken wheel roars through the stage,
sucking in people type of a hurricane, horses,
black dogs, beasts from the menagerie,
and, finally, a chorus of more vampiric dead,
suicides from Toledo’s wheel
It’s a part of Life

A suffocating song of horribly black spots
your life was a fight with beasts
believe it! snakes, hyenas and wolves
watch them grin and sing

a curse upon it!

In a low voice…
with an undertone
Stones in eternally forgotten weeping,
shine is digressive,
Shine shekel savagery…
when bassoons begins to play,
Bassoons begin to play,
On uncertain pauses
a murmur in the intervening notes
Bassoons begin to play,
O it’s “Less tuned voice they to the tambours,
Membranophone enemy with variola visage”
as the bassoons in the vault
above the thrones seraphim begin to play
in sotto voce

Athanasia

a little tired,
from a decade of merging and fusing
eternal artificiality, circling cycles,
dying, loneliness, eternal questions,
terrifying enigmas, paradoxes…
and another idiot with a folding gun.

the underground warrior was born in me,
my eyes flamed with murderous rage.
the crown mockery of time is my witness to this,
the tiger and I’d turn,
(embrace in a mirror and resolve the
situation brilliantly and predatorily).

come, come devilish action,
the rubbish behind the curtains is part of the show,
surreptitiously and insidiously brought out
by a lipstick-wearing actor
come, dreamt zeroes, come quickly,
into the abyss of sad evil,
you build a tower on the cape of a blank sword.
the agony of athanasia
in the eyes of sick women,
in the fire they burn like fevered teeth!

& i sing to the silk,
to the blue twilight silk,
& i wrap my weary nerves in it
& the silent colours of the sick coil.

a little reverently,
under the grey-plastered breast
of a tired caryatid
from a decade when
everything dies and everything rots,
& all dissonances are clear
the weary evening hours cry
in procession
& the darkness falls.

·

play with a nietzsche fork

Write! play with a nietzsche fork
Telling of dreadful days of
Schach spielen
smacked the pub table
Russian white flowed
instead of blood

Wind off to the day of Wrath
an unbending pride,
Crag-ujevac folk stared at me
squinting a tad

in peace with their
zombified brain until the…
well, the end of their days.

Lanes with old  eye of mockery
this day of wrath
this Ouroboros, tale
this lemniscate fluttered figure
that furtive skies of flame
these gargoyles
of the spirits there for eons,
those true polyglots, storms of words

in skilful write! weird  fictionalize me,
through the silence, lost world
sparse abuzz
bloody stone curdled
Granit hard or… like steel
with psychopomp’s madness)—’tis a gate
of slumber made…..

Thunderstruck! And then…
home serene
Will soon
be digested, gulped up
and stepped over
with a field marshal’s boot
inherently savage
the bullseye

Pile each cup on your  trencher
merely feel the frightening,
introverted search,
on canvases, in layers of tune
body shapes

(a faint, vail feel, Think I do)
Performance par the I do;
A excellence
of Shangri – la newly made;
of Ecce Homo ‘nd Baphomet
(of sayonaras and ash trees)

The horrible sight turned to thrice cherished rose
in hammam n’ Anatolia silk,
and baths
of horror-struck hieroglyphs
This cavern a was
Terra – noblest thing,
Write, gripping gargantuan Antichrist!

But neither the bandits,
nor the ever-present scum,
that crafty thief in the night,
sleepwalker, liar
with a crippled child in their arms,
nor the killer tricked me,
nor awaited for me,

but indeed the basoons did it first,
and then the yurodivi,
the Leilani flowers
a unmysterious fever,
hardened backs bent,
scared and careful of

nietzsche fork game.

On the banks of the Tigris….

While I was the bride of the Arabian Ameer
in the cafe of a pebble of Gibraltar, 
the trance prance world
winked west at me

On the banks of the Tigris 
shimmering rocks,
as if the hearts of dolomite stones
were coated with satin, 
shone beneath the shrunken lips of the
river like eternities

In a one spirit river
house a swift flow for Habibi/ti’ 
to begin
”n ran in the ink, black trickle
jasmine subtle sense

As I sit – fed to the tigers – 
causes the tremble of peaceful foam of 
fountains flows seen from rows of trees
stretching along the edge of a tigris…

Tweedle deedle deedle 
imagine how…

the dawn died in purple smoke 
dark earrings are crimson made 
a swaying darkness, 
an archer king
clashing with Euphrates of sheiks
maqam al-iraqi
with adorned chordophones.
their tu-re-lu-re-lu is mixed in this battle 

(Tigris tigris.
Whispering tigris)

  A thousand and one nights,
o incomparable emperor, 
a line of trees stretching along the river
unheard music
belly dance with the Euphrates,

Chai noomi basra, 
o Rabia Basri,
don’t deny me your eternal beauty

*gurgling sound, water

The Tigris roared; 
the Euphrates triedto 
to rouse him to battle

Bliss to walk, and bliss to return 
thrice to the Tiger Temple 
‘nd only the ancient castles along the coast, 
lamps lit pulchritudinous
spotless as the Taj Mahal, 
o eternal, O glorious

*woman with loose hair, silk nightgown descends the gilded staircase

I AM – the land between two rivers’
two moments open up,  
criss-crossed by winding roads,
the hours
time quivering on the headless
dhow that disappeared 
with the shuffling mirror, 

terrible fouls come nothing to me 
fully lived, 
but moments once gone 
began this shameful youth enchanted

On the banks of the Tigris….
not time is how it all dies 
the memory I once lived in the east, 
soundless
still selcouth   
twisted to a middle-aged discord
 rosewood glides in enforced silence

‘nd I’d the long ways behind me,
the sweet yirs of bygone times hungry, 
well fed the tigers 
with Aphrodite’s name forgotten.  

(The of tigris shores;
The Om).

To creep, to crawl, to sleep

To creep, to crawl, to sleep
the rotophis creeps to terrasanctus
Indian land,
see the Nehushtan serpent of brass,
see O children of Adam!

On the serpent’s road
the garden house has greeted me:
slaughterer on the dwelling of
the evil talisman
Ur, the king of darkness
my hot-blooded bouchery,
shrinks to the remnant you seek –
cadavers are cold with a knife unshaven

Primal cut
Roman carnifex
boucherie rouge
red curtain satine
Mazocoba massacre
a blaze of black triangle
the sacred hoop holocaust
Ndee/dee, antisocial
Apache Indians work-shy
kwakwaka’wakw

The Iliad of the Butcher
dancers move with thick,
arching black story limbs
cutting the branches of
the Tree of Life Eden,
they scrape Sun clusters of
white grapes ‘nd cypresses of
Nimrud tablets.
until in the river Ezekiel 47

The East with its bitter paths, wherein
crescents stylised scales
wah wah! creep forward, serpent!
or the West with its vaqueros,
the conquerors who tend the missionary flocks
from Christendom from Golghota to the Kabba,
with the sharp fangs of the Muslim sword
or in the south, oh sub-Sahara, Naja haje!
Naja naja
Ride it round and round, Naja vipers!
Bite.

CHORUS
sing softly to the tombstone
blown on the serpent’s song
blood and red-lipped ophidian rife
viol or volume
viol or volume
prays on the wing of
Thoth to the sun’s other side

Dandelions don’t tell no lies

Dew drips from the green leaves. Fireflies, oleanders.

With their selenite eyes on the starboard side,

Dandelions don’t tell no lies

Beside me stood the blessed Cause

Lingering and murmuring by my side,

golden golden emeralds shine

Dandelions don’t tell no lies

Fell on my brow; while the corundum air

placed the things that remind you of water.

And the green stars burn like haunted fires

… for these virtues, dandelions, escaped…

You shall find your thin brown course

That tree is on the side of the Slow

The blood with the transparent water,

Dandelions do not lie, but they do smile in their own pure air.

Dante or die

Why thou reappear, drummer,

to every piece of the

night’s death dismemberment

ah, alas

Fade-recording-falter-farther.

through a pair of clarinets,

through the same harp glissandi

And you lull a complete darkness

Baffled and mad, the wind fiend, Virgil

in the strings and flutes

a blasphemous mocking laughter

Away with it!

through me is a clear wide prelude of

terror, all is disturbed

in a dazzle of sad light

En Suspens

they run

they hide

in the wall

a set of sharp (♯)

all mixed

tones of a whippoorwill

in the same pitch class

ascend a stair

ascend an altar

to what eternal darknesss brings

in the cirlcle of fifths

by the fire – scarred star

transforms upon beheading tonight in a locked room

Bartók’s crossed hands

there’s the red sun fell with an anguish cry

de tonnes et demi-tonnes

death and damnation

death and damnation!

a billion flaming deaths danced listessly

for ages huddled in sarabands

the good Dante:

ere enter further deafened by remembered sound

of the palest thing in the dark

A Hummel’s voice,

a Rimsky Korsakov scale

set the charges the night this Lazarus face Martha’s fire

a slow music darkness

accelerando

raised from the dead eye

light-hearted juxtaposition!

to chords of falling sound

Blinded on… o, singer, where thou runnest…

Pelt and scatter in the second round,

a diminished major 7th or C sharp circle

‘nd preens a devil thrill!

Dante or die, Nicollo!

compose thyself on the murdered sand,

Mozart –

I laughed at him entartete musik

degenerate

ostinato

Red Mass Prayer to Pierrot…

Night falls and I’m past.

A fog-woven trio of poems

1

Someone invisible has come into my life
Someone invisible who sews my dress
Material from meteorites
Put it under your blue eye rings!
Unclothed, bloody body
These colors tremble on it, thou splendid decay!
The songs I’ve are empty,
the hope isn’t there, ‘nd the
resonance isn’t there

As in a funeral procession, surrounded by petals of verse
A fog of envy, yearning, yearning, nonsense
That runs towards the light and the clarity…
Madness makes every flower shine like a diamond
Shining treetops… sharp teeth
Moon and white paper / can you write?
The eyes of the black boxes
While the beast grows and the thoughts swirl
One day, we’ll all die
Our dead have left bloodstains

2
A body stuck in the night
From the top of the highest tower to the bottom of the sea
The lady threw herself, the seagulls giggling as she did

“Fly away, fly away!

In a bloody foaming trot
Afterwards, the seagulls wept
Mists lifted
Towers mourned
Eyes turned to the towers
Guard chuckled

Into the nighthouse we fly
Yellow, red, and white layers covered
Chemise open
Guts torn apart

It would be all I could do to live like a 15th century lover
An experienced **** in love with a senile old man
An out-of-favor lesbian
A new novel like this is invented or read by me every day
Mental health requires it

3
This is… an irritating pretense for my death
I value it like any mortal
As much as I attach importance out of necessity
Into the sky’s shell cry clouds of stone

It’s a crawl around the neck, that’s what it’s
The evil star I blame for the moaning flags,
For the birth of my death,
for the broken cloud
Of high towers or flat bowls
The trail of tears is all you’ve to follow
Tears in a jar, what a wonderful gift!
Food from a leper

You know the way,
Resist.

o woe is the desert grass banquet

o woe is an abySSm

whisper down the Kaiser spotless swastika

Is worth shootin at

the legends of old

far borne cheerful waters

comets’ hair

an evil star/Adolf’s manifesto

fired & killed

the haar of some devilish dream

as a tribute to my passing

echoing for the last time

Requiem Aeternam [1] (with author’s notes)

1
Es la hora de la Muerte 2

topos of homage to the sovereign
dotted notes
played by the orchestra
a Rex tremendae majestatis 3

Hark, the trumpet
Un rocío al Paso 4,
A glimpse between the shadows,
shout, breathe, whimper, play,
and so tremble and revel to tremble
like a fool,
this grey face has all that-
to bark the unrest of the deep’s unrest

2
Quantus trembling it’ll be 5

a change to a day of wrath
choral power with tremolo strings,
syncopated
chords in the brass

Burning with desire,
stretched out hacia el irae 6
and in unison
tonus peregrinus 7
emblem and music,
wrath and punishment.

there’s no troupe that can play
the sacred song of fire, chaos and aeons
wid a stable fork bedivillin
Recordare 8, the trumpeting
trapped between shifting walls

3
through the red wrath of the pit

So ‘ere’s _to_ you recordare their broad
hell-tasselled strings
Camus’ 9lux aeterna 10
the colouring of the cuffs

Camus’ lux aeterna the tintinnabulation. o’ the schackle
Camus’ lux aeterna the tintinnabulation. o’ the schackle!

I begrudge you the power you gave I begrudge you your cuffs
ye’ll note I’ve little time to burn on
Salieri’s 11
tempo, key and meter

Kyrie eleison 12
Christe eleison
(Mersault 13, have mercy on me)
Mersault have mercy on me)

_Below there!
well-drilled
trumpets drummed trumps and timps (
trumps and timps)
trumpets ‘nd timpany a flouret’…

4
Are you asleep or awake, audience?

…. knock out– an – ‘mea culpa!
I alt — when I sing I’m again with the accordion
The Hadzabe of Tanzania 14 and the Maasai 15 and the Karen 16 hunt wild animals
at night at the water holes Quirks and turns
coloratura in the fugue at the end of the Lacrymosa 17
It’s deeficult

And Sitting Bull, Conductor-Captain’ 18
Hunkpapa Lakota 19
little big horn 20
between two dust devils at the stable door

Sussmayr. 21

The Requiem in D minor, K. 626, is a requiem mass by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Requiem aeternam
Eternal Rest Grant unto Them
This prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours is graced with a partial indulgence for souls in purgatory.

[2]It’s death time.

[3]King of tremendous majesty, who freely saves the redeemed, save me

[4]Dew is on its way,

[5]  quantus tremor est futurus. from Mozart’s “Day of Wrath”, Will break up the world into ash

[6] hacia (esp) towards, irae (lat) wrath

[7]Tonus peregrinus, the wandering tone, or the ninth tone, is a reciting tone in Gregorian chant.

[8]Requiem (Mozart)/Recordare
Recordare, literally translated means ‘To Remember’, being the latin infinitive of Recordat meaning he/she/it remembers, is a part of the liturgy of the Roman Catholic requiem mass for the dead. The Recordare is most commonly known as the hauntingly beautiful movement of Mozart’s Requiem, in which it is the fourth movement of the sequence, or the sixth movement of the overall work.

[9] Camus, Albert was a French philosopher, author, dramatist and journalist. He was awarded the 1957 Nobel Prize in Literature at the age of 44

[10] “Lux Aeterna” is Latin for “eternal light.”

[11] Antonio Salieri was an Italian classical composer, conductor, and teacher.

[12] Lord, have mercy

[13] The title character (Camus’ novel “The Stranger”) is Meursault, a French man (characterised by being largely emotionally detached, innately passive, and anomic) who seemingly irrationally kills an Arab man whom he recognizes in French Algeria. The story is divided into Parts One and Two: Meursault’s first-person narrative view before and after the murder.

[14] through my (own) fault (lat)

[15] the Hadzabe, one of the last remaining hunter-gatherer tribes on Earth.

[16]  a member of a pastoral and hunting people of Kenya and Tanzania.

[17] a member of an indigenous people of eastern Burma (Myanmar) and western Thailand

[18] Lacrymosa is a corruption of the Latin term lacrimosa, which means “tearful”. The track title is also the scientific name for a species of moth known as Catocala lacrymosa, also known as the “tearful underwing”.

[19] Sitting Bull. A Native American leader of the Sioux tribe in the late nineteenth century.

[20] The name Húŋkpapȟa is a Lakota word, meaning “Head of the Circle” (at one time, the tribe’s name was represented in European-American records as Honkpapa). By tradition, the Húŋkpapȟa set up their lodges at the entryway to the circle of the Great Council when the Sioux met in convocation

[21] The Battle of the Little Bighorn, known to the Lakota and other Plains Indians as the Battle of the Greasy Grass,and also commonly referred to as Custer’s Last Stand, was an armed engagement between combined forces of the Lakota Sioux, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho tribes and the 7th Cavalry Regiment of the United States Army

[22] The story that Mozart’s unfinished Requiem was completed after his death by his pupil Franz Xaver Süssmayr

[ With the nights, ]

With the nights,
most loathed by the sun’s edge drawn,
beyond east and west
regretted, the fountain of hell
bubbled beneath the reel.

When the bloodstained gloom of Dis
lies in the graves
beneath the glittering lake a horror
in the surrounding hills…
Eris eris..

A tide of whippoorwill steps
against the sea,
flush from the darkness flung
against the tide of the paladin
of the dark dragon.
looking east at the darkening Eden

Curse, curse, curse of a singing blood
the lighted twilight in the lonely night
in the silent drowsy hour the gloom creeps
fainting with spoons of dark poison
devours shadows together.

I circle around the morning,
twas that, curled black, a little further
where ore pierces the sun and turns the bold comet
a sudden stare at a lackluster lamp
voices dying with a dying ice
star start startle the singing blood

Blooming blood in the mud
blood of the lamb
blood of the lamb

dips eternity in the water.

2

Sulfur curls from dragons – scaled….
dragons?
once fired, twice fired, if you can ride,
kiss the ground and sting the sky,
bright as fire…
a blazing pit, the kindled flames
flight in bravery
flight in gallantry
flight with madness carefree the fingers
and zigzag spring up to the sky
like… a carnelian, agate,
under the sunlight placed
ere. back back ere.
pitch of light
never light!
crescent moon!
ere the dark universe!
unblest.
ere… grew pale palace ere…
uninhabited hall,
eris eris……………

STOP!

…. to greet a madwoman,

Although the dark night pity me
with flaming flowers near house of glass
and soon that toil of thy auguries shall end
On golden scales of unsuspected tissue
pure blood, noble blood
yondering through the mist
lingeringly through clouds they soar

with outstretched wings

As requiescat requiem pace may rest in peace,

The ancients foretold me this Hades,
The living logos from incarnate well spring,
Flowing in dire Dante Alighieri circulates,
Cascading in Paul Verlaine’s maudit fin de siecle.

.Demon in feline susurrous’s in stygian,
In templed tramped ruins, arsonist fevered unfathomables,
With wine in paw and maw mouthed wide,
Comedy monstrosity in sardonic simpers smile.

Calottes in cubes irregular, velvet and somnolent,
Cathedrals illustrate, dancing fangs penetrant,
Hinderances to gnawed ruminations self,
Assembling ascetic earths cults.

Blessed be my hellish awakenings,
From hollow vaults to murder cacophony.
There are no ends to this.
Murmurs in fissures.
Soon, plume,
Pitiful spirits and the shambling dead,
Terror howls,
Tempter clarion clear sounds:
“I am things unseen!”
The murderer from times beginning came,
Cane at the door to a pit of a dream.
In fracturing mirror;
The silence ripples out in wasp honey articulate,
Trick-or-treating sickly sweets decaying desiccates.

There are no ends to this.
Worshipping in whisper,
And swift, push away every ounce of furore.
In all of the inferno bible writes,
As requiescat requiem pace may rest in peace,

There are no ends to this….

Come Closer…

There may be foul mud under the fire

as a mourning traveller, the fire is well known.

a scorpion’s unfulfilled plan waits for me,

sucking my pain and the fruit of my blisters!

Do you’ve any bets to place?

the odds are against you, you know,

The path I choose leads me to evil.

my fanciest bet

I keep my hands intact

dark gate slips out

embrace the all-consuming power of hate

with the sun in full view,

let each imagine

the hill where Virgil’s tent once stood

At midday, while I sleep,

the leaves don’t tremble;

growing lilacs flow through the air and armistice;

even the aye aye may not be awake then:

That… murmuring and reciting in procession,

ye Shuck the Dog-fiends,

you shake urine from the bladder,

from the soul of a flea

In the barren gloom,

with the mutt’s song raging,

oh, how weary it’s to stay awake and piss in your sleep.

(whispering)

Come closer, come closer

as the sabre-toothed cat comes

As requiescat requiem pace may rest in peace,

The ancients foretold me this Hades,
The living logos from incarnate well spring,
Flowing in dire Dante Alighieri circulates,
Cascading in Paul Verlaine’s maudit fin de siecle.

.Demon in feline susurrous’s in stygian,
In templed tramped ruins, arsonist fevered unfathomables,
With wine in paw and maw mouthed wide,
Comedy monstrosity in sardonic simpers smile.

Calottes in cubes irregular, velvet and somnolent,
Cathedrals illustrate, dancing fangs penetrant,
Hinderances to gnawed ruminations self,
Assembling ascetic earths cults.

Blessed be my hellish awakenings,
From hollow vaults to murder cacophony.
There are no ends to this.
Murmurs in fissures.
Soon, plume,
Pitiful spirits and the shambling dead,
Terror howls,
Tempter clarion clear sounds:
“I am things unseen!”
The murderer from times beginning came,
Cane at the door to a pit of a dream.
In fracturing mirror;
The silence ripples out in wasp honey articulate,
Trick-or-treating sickly sweets decaying desiccates.

There are no ends to this.
Worshipping in whisper,
And swift, push away every ounce of furore.
In all of the inferno bible writes,
As requiescat requiem pace may rest in peace,

There are no ends to this….

x

Unawareness is a game

she is up out of hell
blurred –
‘d in motilin in the veins
she’s stars an’ gaiters
she is fiascoes on them wisty-whispy
stairs,
and but one a four-pistiled chalice
an’  ‘ol bloomin’ lyre  too

Cry louder than thunder,
beyond the aquamarine lake
spoiled afar;
    Poor regretful eyes, always encased in gloved feathers,
In scorched white gloom
Straxes
A dark, unfinished

      Oizy’s cries and splashes troubled the needle’s eye
as it led the leaf-stained camel
through hell’s still point
;
au naturel, fragile pearly dark laughter
in the distance

she is a dead letter.
Abyssinian wise:
Should you not die, live; living; die.

For all-foreordaining nest is ablaze
Circumnavigating
yous, pointed fiend
Play with unawares

Aurora

A pale flame burns on one candle,
Ballerinas and their plight
On top of a pointe shoes covered in blood
Shapes dance.
Warm bodies with silk ballet tights.
As she screams, the woman in labor wails
I have dominion over the fruit of my heart,
Those are the fruits of the heart, dear.
An outline of her battle with semi-darkness,
One candle burns palely.
Mahdi’s dungeons, she
She, the astrolabe she threw in
She ran headlong, her shadow in the black asphalt,
Aurora, A daggio, and all the slow main Tchaikovsky cantilenas
To the dance of distant evening lights, she sings,
As the sky burns yellow, I sing,
The tired nerves get winded up
A sick reel in quiet colors.
I carry a synthetic string around with me.
It’ll vibrate once, I believe
Death is a bird in crosshairs dancing
Clouds of screaming and fury surround Aurora
No one is quick to address
Suddenly, no one
Now, who counts?
Keeps something from being

An impure state of ecstasy
An aurora. She’ll fall, cover her
She’ll get killed
She won’t make it

The last month of spring is full of laughs,
Like quivering dancers, the clouds will ring silver.

[ I try to become a book of books, ]

I try to become a book of books,
with a common meaning, without fancy metaphors

I try to uncover the truth behind the choices
that inevitably lead to altars for unchosen sacrifices

I try to love the world with the love that keeps me on my feet,
made of rubber, glass and plastic tarot pack

I try to shape a Pygmalion
that a longing statue will fall in love with

I try to love myself more than I’ll love my life,
a moment before I realize I’m dying

I try to cry: Peace for all! stronger than the first creation,
because I know that only this one was worth it.

Night-Screams (AllHallows)

At midnight a bright light shone.
The shadows cried out in blue
In the graveyard.

When the witch
with the myrtle crossed the threshold,
I stood in my

tomb-like silence.

Morning dissolves everything like a shadow,
you say to yourself.
A golden disk flies in the sky.

Silver threads are sprinkled
with the green scream of the moon.

A dull wind sweeps across the clouds.
On every gods’ night, there’s a smell of
death.

The shadows dissolve in the morning

How stunned is the darkness of gloom.
How tiring must be this nocturnal wandering!
Shadows, ashes, and dust,
Moments of peace embraced

Barbells are transparent like
a breath on a mirror

A blood-sucking creature
stalks through the devilry

Cloud eagles are slain
by the black wind with swords of ice

If you’re attacked by the beast,
no one can save you

Broken glasses,
sweaty plastic,

the sound of shattering glass,
Chrysanthemums and gourds,

sculpted
In the blazing wind,

the song of fire, chaos, and ages is sung
despair filled the air as men ate it up

Terror, convulsions, poison,
the blood,

the will-o’-the-wisps
are cleansed of their sad evil,

and light the way for the bats,
Skeletons,

with their shining
owl’s eye.

Come!
in legions
to such a den
to catch
Howl Oooooooooooooowhoo!!
whistles

no
idiot
Earth
ship
ever
sent.

Lucidum intervallum

Freed mind from cloud of constraint,
Assundered chains of all restraint,
Tremulous treading from glaring millennia.

Prescient essence lures me,
To the uppermost on the downhill Nile,
Oracle of Horus imbibes,
Elixir guidance to graves of Goddesses unknown;
Many bedridden, a curse aghast,
Lucid dreams beguiling past.

A thousand sounds of whirs yell towards the Sun.
Less than night and less than days,
Less than gone by histories haze.

Come, you enraged evening tide with dreamers eyes;
Come, you intricate blade with fevers mind,
Embittered die, the stammerer’s cry;
Surround and confound me.

The strained neigh pummeling breaths,
The loped gallops fluently,
The nostril splutter snuffle sighs,
The pneuma riles in dharma drench delight.

In chaos unkempt, the upper room laments,
In the last line of tuneful twilight,

The larval squirms, centipede slithers,
Where I crawl creeping,
In the chasms of this slimy hell.

Dark riddles resolution shines pulsing diamonds,
Primeval elementals free from forms, in the dim,
Awaiting on forever to be found.

Self-libertine transcendence deceit,
Sinister seeker bares no retreats
No master, no god’s, no eclipses in the fogs…
Only blood and dust, rusts and combusts.

I am the traveler behind the unfathomable.
There is a glow in me that vanishes,
And dissipates into emptiness upon the floor,

Out damned hole!
Failure mocks my footfalls,
As it has a thousand souls before.
Lunacy laughter shudders from my spirit;
To such noxious nihility, negating me.
My shade shivers and trembles this nothing upon the floor,
And no stone will usurp the dancing door

My search, my quest, my quarry obsessed,
Esoteric integers scribed scrawled in enigmatic texts,
Mesopotamic matrices in cubed recess.
Quivered hands to sand dune parlays…
It dissipates, it evaporates!
Menacing nothing behind astringent eyes!

I am carbon complexity graphene hardening!
I am diamond from coal crushed conflagrations!
Annealing unfathomable in illimitable pits.
There is no absconding escapes into chants!
No evasion nor fleeing retreating!
No avoiding awaiting playful demons,
In noxious masquerade ball swirl swells

Frozen horrific infinities,
Tranquilities dire demise,
The heavens crimsoning capsize.

Come, you enraged evening tide with dreamers eyes;
Come, you intricate blade with fevers mind,
Embittered die, the stammerer’s cry;
Mystified soul,
Astonished anima,
Bewildered spirit,
Surround and confound me.