I get scared to be

The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish

I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own

Before wounded knees everything opens

Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice

Wanton skulls and eras without rest


God will punish me I know

But in the cramp of passion

I will not be broken by those absent


We danced the whole day

The solitude anew embraced by valleys

Above the springhead

And sin to people


I get scared to be

Striving for SURVIVAL, part 1 Thing I do for survival

Along the catacombs
surrounded by whirlwinds of dread
and howls of the killed
and the slaughtered and ready for testing.
– for in the final phase,
some try to resist, an unplanned,
human, nature-provided ability

to shift focus and fear for the bare sense.
The optical ability enhances,
images of merry demons
smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues,
upon the rapid degradation
of potential to maintain one’s own


I and in this struggle, the eyes expand,
bulging in fear,
staring at the monster,
the shifted human form
which has the same countenance,

but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings,
whose disgusting, dry mouth open and
utter the Kafkian judgment


This is where the compilation comes
of several entities
pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbours
in one singular entity,
hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind –
that I struggle to survive…


and the following sudden departure of a loving being
comes in, a being that uttered a judgment
out of nowhere,
using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think,
to use a flaw in its mind map,
each to his own moral metrics and laws of fidelity,
I struggle to survive

the universal reality consisted of
no more than a handful of cigarette buds
and other than rage at the impotent God
who punishes the good and awards the weak,
something that cannot be known,
but merely believed,
It was soft, hiding spot
I struggle to survive


The ship of illusions that the friendship was possible.
I owed moments of erotic bliss.
Whenever entering my head, with roots, the wind,
the breath of tropical sun,
I struggle to survive my friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,
hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.
to go in pairs and be bound to a pack,
somewhere out there, on the edge of the lost world,
its monstrosity, but also its shininess,
none will notice it gone or even as having existed,
the light and shadow play will merge with vile contours of envy,
doubt and shame,
A haze, a wave in my thoughts,

a vortex where they wallow

in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps
I struggle to survive


A vision of a lunatic,
a nightmare with a hundred thousand deaths.
Obsession with fear.
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at them, listed names.
I struggle to survive

a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions
And when they stick a knife in your back,
everything moans in bliss.

The cowardly lack of will of the people
to stand up against the dictatorship of the benefactor
and peddled at their flaws – I am trying to survive!


To barely get by
a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting,
well-intentioned advice from good people

Soft, muddy picture,
then the image comes into focus
and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes.
Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion
and that would last for ten seconds
or so on a movie screen.


From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand
recording what is happening in the writing on the wall

holds a great feast and drinks from the vessels

that had been looted in the destruction of the First Temple. ..

The terrified Belshazzar calls for his wise men,

but they are unable to read the writing.

It says: I struggle to survive.
Everyone who ever hated me,
eating sandwiches and sowing leather jackets
that I pay on a loan,
then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.


They filled my suitcase, set aside my things

in it as if they were laying
my corpse in a sarcophagus .
Who are these people?
How come there are so many good intentions in this…

They must have been practising their skills for centuries in…


All those precious things I do to survive.

Perfect enemy/Prayer

“Perfection is the enemy of good”, Voltaire

Taken from our minds,
the mist has strewed
and let us sing the piety dew
that stood with costs.
All away!
For sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shaken,
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty of the birds
that calls perfection an enemy.
…thy beauty of thy disheveled loss
take them, hear them, strike them
vessels of fraud, fly away,
let anyone’s revenge fear.

Lo, mount the stairs to the boiling pond.
The fringe, the cringe,
breathe through dreadnought,
and out of the great rage
make the balm foam from
the innocent’s fleece,
persist till tongue is black at drill.
Let sweeping rain numb sobbing wind,
let the shire of cloudlet using a pen-and-ink
speak through the luckless wight.

The terror-stricken itch
within the blood weakens the fire,
o still, the voice of calm
take out from our souls
vroom and grace in triumph;
make not worst,
there are nails downward
the middle state
between self-illusion and self-substance.

With long consumed shot had,
more speech will not operate,
nor fire fangs sheer and frightful waves act
to give relief of adamantine to the heart;
the heart far from being well
then lulls pitched grief
and dwells in cheap shell
fathomed by whirlwind sphere
of tympanites in captivity,
life differs from his commentators,
end death and of forgers semblance
in the echoing day,
each day comforts to our sleep.
Sing and fight us
through our terrible lives
of satires obscured on the martial ground.

My gods heave, murmuring, beards long,
a name to fury had shrieked,
a name to ages cursed with crowned liver
delighted with immortality.
Prometheus, I feel your liver,
stretch wide the lips of immortal fire
eating daily the amorous bread.
As I have come into a dust bowl
with phantoms yet dripping church moorings
with a cypress hate to weep,
let the gentlest voice to game deprived
to burn upon night-foundered infamy,
freed mind by this latter,
humankind’s nothings,
the infamy on this side of attenuated corners
lies a portion of the penance.

Take from our signet divine,
music, philosophy triplets;
incontinence, all distempered advances
of humankind enlarged prostate,
and let us fight goodness with perfection
for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shaken,
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty of the birds
that call perfection an enemy.

And let us fight goodness with perfection
to rebehold
thoroughly learnt false note
sung by profound chimaera
as the vile misfortunes,
behold the worm
and huddle in the cruelties committed,
the spectacle of humanity of smoking ashes,
and let us fight goodness with perfection,
the conclusion smote,
begin unpacking
and that is Redundancy.

But the circle of perfection
is rendered lethargic
by the hand of vanity
who has, and still gives Redundancy.
And that is picture-perfect!


Dark, deep and challenging spaces cut in white,
sharp flat does not only show random links
to the dark circles of Dante’s hell.
It is a hell of beings and languages,
a devastated wreckage,
death bypassing speech,
the newly born meaning that stops
the contest of the resistance and challenge,
a helpless page filled with dead bodies.
But I am not a corpse that never dies.

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers
forgotten by splattered times
of bloodless slaughterer’s design.
Waking souls lulled to long days’ sleep,
forced to steal robbed dreams endlessly
till winter freezes them to sleep.
In effect cut short dreams harden
frightfully, the nights frightfully
seem as long as winter in length.
Frenzied paced yelling, to end put
lightning in its excited place
awakening death’s silent scream.
Immortalized storms are forming
under the bitten tongue, they then
secretively bloom shade with sense.
From hiding you to dodge the knife,
no choice with the merit for me
to have ‘tween green eyes and brown eyes.
Knighted enemies eye alone
like Kings of the Night, shimmered like
white foot soldiers woefully,
heroic scream of blue lightning
pride’s flashes animatedly,
whoosing beasts move to foil its growl.
Hollering his disenchantment
steadfastly pitted against his,
bows to the trek’s will’s end at peace.
As those viewed in deathly silence,
perched like prey’s birds on the hilltop,
will stand still in the dragon’s sound.
There is no realm of pure meaning today!
My God, dead, but yet quick! Death in itself
and Words above the world – a burning bead,
a heated hollow and a cry of fear.

The Darkness Will Understand, N0 8/Analysis


He George

Very powerful and shows one accepting of God’s will and only fearing Hi above all else. I felt this poem could been broken into two chapters. There is an inner struggle to both accept your fate and at the same time demand and control it. Your most powerful poem.

Daniel Brick

WOW! This is genuine poetry… This is the real thing. I’m stunned and at a loss for words, which is very uncharacteristic of me because I taught Creative Writing to high school students for over 15 years. And you probably know Language Arts teachers always have something to say! Let me focus. Your title is excellent – it is ominous, suggests a hidden even dangerous knowledge gained from experiences most people don’t have. Your poem develops by means of images which is what a poem should do. And these images are fused together – that’s my word for imagery which isn’t just a pretty word picture, but rather part of a developing theme. Finally your poem expresses a Big Idea very effectively, namely, it’s the silence of God, that’s a hevy idea, but the violence you’re describing demands an accounting. In Macbeth, when MacDuff learns that his wife and children have been murdered by the tyrant, he says, What? Did Heaven look on, and not take their part? That’s the kind of Big Question your poem asks.

[Act IV, Scene III, lines 201-240], MacbethDid heaven look on, / And would not take their part?”
“A man must accept his fate… Or be Destroyed By It” ~Batiatus, Spartacus

The Darkness Will Understand, N0 8

In the bed I do not rely on commandments
The roses already fraught with wind
How many clocks do you ask
While the morning overladen with eternity is late
Delirium morning

They foresee the end of the world
Through stargates
They will wish to open them, open them they will not be able to
They will wish to close both them and the road
The poems shall herald the dead
The dead and the living will depart for false mouth
Without a single sense

My God sleeps murmuring prayers
After which I inherit sadness, wind, mountains, birds
Yet hands and bole resist

I do not fear bullets
And horseman of the apocalypse
But you
My beloved Father