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Leben (Life, Život)


a Sisyphusian average
of tomorrow’s bread
ground from today’s bones
milling from up-slant’s waggle
stirring-in leavens
of ant and grasshoper
pinch of dreams millstone heavy
oiled with sweat or tears
pelting a stone vault
whose chimney (damaged scroll)
sings in flab-cursives shards of ‘un bel di’
that turn hefted and dark
curl down again to
flickering among the blue
and stench of brimstone
dancing in the wings

curse by bullet
repetition sustains
gives endless birth to endless funerals
that begin again endlessly
as a hill-bottom fog

somewhere
a stone boat barnacles with grass
coxswain saints / Charon’ shadow
grinding in place

til then til there
til then and there
stone’s rude wheel
stirring from smoke and dust
a rut in furrow’s garb

endlessly (?…

Revelation Woman

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It hurts being clothe with a moon

As that woman about to give birth in front of the dragon

particular misshapen fiend

deal a powerful blow,

with a knife in the chest,

and then to devote insane

and grotesque calls

in pain, when dark places paints still water with spit of the fire

The blade was laid in the carved bone

and the altar, an ancient image of divinity

will speak the tongue of bones tonight.

that.. Being.. Revelation woman..

Her head peeked beyond all countless spirals

painted much in the same manner,

that way putting herself in the center of microcosm

of all-encompassing universality of nature,

becoming a role model for human (it – with monstrous are performed now)

y – axis whirl moving of the let – ergo going into nothing

My look at the city was one of prison. I

am here – behind bars.

This is a city in the middle of a prison.

Into the wilderness as is a desolate place

And full of serpents and scorpions,

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

The forest unbathed by an ocean of blood

An unhealed wound beneath the hot navel

The unpierced rib in the deciding battle

A lonely nest devoid of it’s eagle.

from the clime of the blood

walking in possible dragons

salute the woman over the infinite sea breasts!

time stuffs the sincere belly

and eh the oh beastly shrapnel

itlike the sharp knife

ping of fadead stomach

as around as death around me you

imagining dragon tail’s rise

My mortal body with immortal progeny!

I summon the Heavens to bow down to my tentacles

Folded into a clenched fist!

Photo Credit: William Blake, The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun

No photo description available.

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Things I Do to Survive

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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

A 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 opened and

utter the Kafkian judgment

This is where the compilation comes

of several entities

pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind –

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,

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

The ship of illusions that friendship was possible.

I owe you moments of 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 the 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

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 their names.

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.

Everyone who ever hated me,

eating sandwiches and sewing 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… )

This is where the separation begins.

The tearing to pieces.

The introduction of chaos.

The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan

from whose monstrosity I shiver even

now when I don’t give a damn.


Photo Credit: “The Struggle Within”, Igor Morski

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Me solum relinquatis*


me solum relinquatis*

#city#citizens#society#prisonment#harassment#traumas#artist#freedom#escape

The head of the orchestra

the Kapellmeister is up!

Ah mastery!

Hell’s spider lilies blossomlike thunder,

Sun,don’t swallow the passerby

(Are you able to ponder?)

One two three four

The hangman measures his rope

The hangman now, the digger now,

they dig and clutch and haul

Madness

death-fires

Dis

Death fires

Madness

horse

Madness

Death fire

madness

Horse

running

Dis

Horse

running

running

running

horse

Let me walk in pace

Towards the softness of the morning,

whitened sun measuring the hours

with ancient precision

like on four pedalled

Hornucopian dronepipe. …….

my feet mingle the sidewalk

Trudging The Road That plays Rossini

the asphalt is a hit in the middle.

cloven.

(Here and there, I hear a bat of footsteps behind me.)

The world can be horrible, but not dirty.

In all that disgust, I kept my good taste

Back into my room,

and round, round, round in my room

But laugh and laugh and laugh!

You, you – pathetical, obsessive, neurological, what else..

yes.. softandweak

Octobass morning.

I cried and was

rain

stream

light

the blood

the ocean

I laughed and was – am

amid the cold, vacant garden,

wet laundry, dirty glasses and broken mirrors

of a vagrant fool with the bumpy ears.

(Let me scream)

You expelled me into the living pasture

you expelled me out of the gates of hell

to serve as a faithful slave towards the ground

I don’t hear my verses, nor the sound of their lovelines

sIt just wonders my whole life through…

those beasts persist in waiting to die no escape from clutches of death

Judas kissing at Getsemani

Dare its ravel by the road tween the kingdoms

Gallop, my horse.

Whence this voice, on seven waters of yours standing flash

dewdrops thirsty

In the entrails, a hellgrows the chalk-white arrows

I’m buoyant. In bliss,I tread, brazen-soled,

Gallop.

Be lost, be distant, between dream and life

all the fires extinguished in the hearths

all the dead who believe they are coming into this world

lives equally

As were all the other evils that I hugged

as were all the other evils that have surrounded me

of that low ascent,

you fountain with bashful woundsmidway upon the journey

gripped by cruelty’s serpents as I had all along on my back

(Let me kill you)

Turn yourself back to re-behold my foreign blood

eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them

since in ill-doing through strange patterns of my childhood’s

Carne vale

Where witches go riding into which holes they go

from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me

little Quasimodowith Huckleberry Finn’s quiet voice

* me solum relinquatis* leave me alone (latin)

Photo Credit: Vasko Takovski, Macedonia-based artist Vasko Takovski finds inspiration from horses to produce surreal fantasies. Using an array of vivid colors and varying landscapes,

Spin


SPIN

Part One

THE GREAT BEAR’S NECK

This is a time for a single canopy
at the intersection of summer roads
This is a time for all
these dark blue little knights, harlequins,
had lost their sense of intrigue – from behind the mask
of a two-headed monster
Horn-rimmed thick glasses partially clouded
the murky look of the vulture.

And in false sleep you are born ruinous

The Andean bear pointed his muzzle at you.
His hair was like a cockatoo
after his crest was plucked out.
‘Tis the season of giving roses,
a golden petal for the first time seen

Petal, a complete structure shaped like a bone
within the red coffin of oasis
’tis the season of taking,
of implanting self-possession, is dictated by a trigger,
like a revolver trigger which tears down

every cell
in the great earthquake
each bar taken out by small grippers
bent toward the oath of time dying

Laugh, you… sniggering miniature knots
get sentimental, damn you
Imagine that you are intentional
Sensitive, of no consequence.

and what you saw – IT.
and what weighs upon the heart- cut it,
with a white noose
and around the Great Bear’s neck
From the fruit. From the crack

2

Part Two:

DREAM WEAVER

Rabies and foreigners.
They’re boiling
green fire.

Fighting them is impossible.
Their world survives, their red eyes are
aflame with a glow
of a killer’s sword.
They chop off heads, eat limbs,
and all of it together, as per a deal.
They shake after what they do to you,
fall to pieces – and they do not stop.

By the Apate, in the twilight
catch several and kill for Eirene
the gray-haired old East-European immigrant,
each breath making her larynx inflate.
Cancerous growth in her larynx are
aching to burst out.
As does the barrel of the gun peering from out
of a white rug wrapped and on her knees.

Do they paint, do they talk …
not only – All suitors of all sorts themselves enthral –
into the weaver-room; and there, there,
where the azure globe
of the Penelope’s needle burned
they leap forth, mortally self-wounded.

Spin…Spin Spin…Spin, you.. wicker backet!

Penny Dreadful


“I tried to pray that night and God didn’t answer
me, but another did.”

Rabisu demon lurking menacing at doors,
desert anguishes and roads of bone,
At bittered ends and vicious roaming form, in
the dust reeking reborn.
Pouncing lurid predator vampirically, sardonic
seizers in scorn,
And whispers: “I’m fascinated by your wicked
and lucid appetite for your own useless life.”

In lament from fluttering sent, leaps from
window eyed portals denied me,
And whispers: “Oh no, I will bare no escape
from existences framed refrain,
I choose you, beautifully lined face with
loneliness, losses and clutched crosses.”

I am placing maliciousness monsters in the
pillory, reaching hangman rivalry,
Oracle with filled eyes of abhorrent horrors, vile
villainy, disgusting revelry.
Malice madness in theatrics, harbouring hunts
of hauntedness in the gothicness.
My Morrigain, my Mora demoness of dark war
and warrior corpses,
She susurrous’s doom and washes the bloody
cloaks of the fallen soon,

My one way love affair with fated despair.

Cain in crestfallen, commits unforgivable sin
against spirit,
The demons converging, surrounding and
urging,
The innocent blood screams vengeance from
the ground purging.

Corpses long dead roar excavations
incarnations,
Incantations transfiguring graves,
Fierce golden reigns irony remains.
Nightmares veins surreal tentacles, tear tense
dreams from tight eyelids,
Fang drip foul viles in gnashing violence,
The grand bizarre at the feverished abhorrence
carnival,
The glassy eyed emptiness of brumal freak
shows.
I smell like sleepwalking, staggering, pale sober disheveled,
The freedom of hurtling heights bridge jumping
ecstatically,
Running wild like thrown matches at gasoline.

The beauty of illusion bleeding disappointingly,
The nightmare fits it’s grip in bellicose
whimpers,
The darkness of the grave takes you delicately,
The screamers sing in outbursts of enthusiasm ringing,
White satin nights in nocturnal delight flinging.
The elusive, unearthly apparition was ignored.
Sorcerer horror summoning hoarse voiced Bael
invisible,
King crowned sixty six with demon legions
indivisible.

I was born barefoot and harsh in conditioning,
Washing away wounds of violent love eternally.
Handsome insomniacs gently jumped on me,
With eyes blinking surrounding me the world
turns disgustingly,
Nauseating turns drunkenly in fits of death
shaming me.
I pull back pale, evil spirits rise with days
dawning.
In ditched depths collapse and grips his
darkened voice is hardening,

Galabiya and long scarfed Ahriman tilts his
head in unbearable laughter attacking:

“You’re anguished miseries past entertain me,
You’re fool hardy determinants sustain me.”

The dark figure covers his delusions in ghostly
fog,
Hiding the curves of mocking derisive smile
mischievous,
The deception of tethered feathered cheerful
and devil eyed,
Amused by this Sisyphean pilgrim prides to
conjure wild Ahriman.

Golden-mouthed perceptively moving, lucidly
mystical moving metaphysics assistant,
In a long fluttering dress stirring surfaces into
snaking molten lava,
Covering the corrugated cracks in Babylonian
sandstone liberally.

“Perhaps it has always been there,
This thing, this demon inside me.”

Perennially shifting wilding howling cognition,
Volition in furious fiction,
Feeling snarling snapping at my heels.

The fictions, projections creating
subconscious,
The evil eye and other Jinnah making iniquity,
One day all will be concluded in concussiveness.
Connecting extremes and insanity to
contextually,
Esoteric central core in magic cube of ancient
antiquity,
Following flowing pictures through dusked
indignities.
Through furtive white crosses fealty and it’s
central orange,
Color’s evolve spiral through final chapters
doors.
In the end a detachable mixture, a riddle
puzzled,
A synapsed seclusion and the task is solved.

There are many ways to kill (a man),
And I taught them.
There are many ways to murder (me).
And I brought them.

Oh give me…pain with no repose,
Oh give me…ears that are closed,
Oh give me…mouths with no response,
Oh give me the burden of a new tongued order,
And the skin rhythmed touch of migrating
metaphor.

Oh his beautiful man, born of demon King
Ravana,
Raised in argent ardency dimensions,
visionaries,
Silveries through strange pattern properties,
Sacral geometries carnivale spinning pellucidly,
Samhain and Scylla spiral madly
metaphysically.
Resolutely, while dying they cut their hair free,
Administration of death in her presence seen.
Lost children eternally, anomalous demons
greeting them.
The world flies backwards unreality of what it
requires.
Ephemeral to ambiguities flame extinguishing
names.
The dead enfold, born moaning into this world.
Celtic God’s and blackened blacksmith sorcery,
Toys in the palms of callous cannibalistic
Chronos,
Witches ride wildly for frightful Phobos,
From the bales of fear my private lunacy
changes me.

Monstrosities grunting courageously,
Mumbling rotten membranes,
Leaves, thorns, beast horns, intestines, heart
shadowed scorns,
Fright at might dear antlers dead and red, rusty
machinery.
Morning breaks broke blood torments,
Nights in hellish anguish shatters.
He tore all his clothes off, and naked he roars
with torched lips,
Lunacy smile wild and wide shadowed caustic
fits,
Lives lonesome black buffalo and rabid holy
madman.

The stalking beast entreats me in rooms
without vision,
Where the light will remain hidden,
Save fiery twilight eternally bidden.

“There is nothing that is alive here” it cackles at
my shackles,

”If the light is prayed the shadows will explode
against expiring,

You do not know what is happening to you,
hellish heresy clarity confuse.”

I should shake the walls, slam fists to tables
expectantly, I said:

“I will make my blood flow like a tap!” I almost
didn’t bleed,
I revealed my wound to wise effect of
intercede,
He told me to dream.

It’s been a year and still he stands there sirene,
I pound him and drown him, stab him,
confounds him,

Nothing moves him.
The world breaks down around him,
He sneers and peels and smears,
He curses and tears,
And breaks…
And cuts like a beast.

“My innermost shaitan;
Predatorial preternatural hunts of my psyche,
Mavening movements within me…
Or behind my back

Waiting…

Waiting…for me to turn around.”

LETTERS TO BAUDELAIRE



The otherworldly letters I received from Charles Baudelaire on the nights of August 20 to August 27, 2000

Mon petite marquise,

I see you found me somehow. You have a long reach…
your heart is truly aching to be heard and mine constantly aches in search of its songs longing to be heard.
This sounds wonderfully challenging my petite marquise and I am eagerly awaiting these bountiful re-words 1st glanced upon inspirationally shared reminder of your gift’s surpassed rarity of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s all encompassing uniqueness of percerving life’s ongoing reflective self empowerment’s abilty’s unto others seeking solaces redemtive fully understood compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery right behind them backing their own stories no matter what stands in front of these attempts to be in the moment’s where just knowing someones guiding the hand you’ve held is all that truly matters.
Please lets begin chapter’s one’s onwards in and throughout your book of knowledges page by page turn of events.

I will maintain a 2 hour window daily throughout my work week in offering any guidelines acceptably sent back and forth between us until you are completely agreed upon its fruition of beliefs deemed suitably acceptable with your ideas original intents.
1 in the morning before with the 2nd when I arrive back in the Hotel de Lauzun, 17, quai d’Anjou usually before 9 pm.
And then the weekend’s like this one past will be my own recuperative times narratives focusing solely on my own similarly poetic journals of rediscovery and literally letting go of what needs of mine allow me to by penmanships sinking like a stones repeatedly cast 1st 2nd and 3rd if my own needs are not met.

And please, if you have any ideas of how mine could be more easily understood in the manner of fluidity I am completely open and have been eagerly waiting for creatively intensifying its representantions effects?

votre ami dévoué, Charles

Charles,

Please lets take it a much more carefully paced assistance this time in hopes of recognizing eachothers needs in hopes of inspiring one another’s creativity rather than stifling each ideas potential.
I know I over stepped my bounds in offering assistance immediately and then having to step back from being overwhelmed with my inability to realistically carrying a weight of responsibility that was in no way meant to be cruel in doing so rather an admittance of my artistic hearts reaching out to help another’s but then breaking each time mine weakened by years of being broken itself by over 30 years of disappointments reoccuring that it simply could not bear your disappointments in mine as well.
I have thought regularly of how you were doing but was scared of upsetting you again by visiting your poetry grave in the Cimetiere de Montparnasse

Engaged with ones
Beckoning sky’s kissed
Encaged with suns
Reckoning lies missed

Hunched over gatherings
Along freed loved fences lengths
Bunched clover, rather brings
A strong need of defenceless strengths

Hunger urged
Backboneless cuts
Wonders purged
Lack shown less guts

Souls scared of
My poetic responses
Tolls, dared love
“Show ethnic free nuances”

Woman obsolete
Through bliss Am I
No man robs, though elite
To this damn try

A known readjustment’s
Inconclusively thunderous applause
Alone we had lust meant
“Grin on whose give under us collapsed laws”

Reducing this beliefs brethrens
Clevery lasting laid upon hand’s
Seducing kiss, beneath heavens
Everlasting praid up on lands

Unproven life’s free sentence
To try hopeless dependency’s
One proven knife’s repentance
To my “hope less tendencies!”

Souls scared of
My poetic responses
Tolls, dared love
“Cry no ethnic free nuances “

Embrasse Josseline pour moi

Ma petite marquise,
Incredibly well pictured moments of humanity’s inhumane devoutly followed faith within their encouragable society’s abilities of poverty’s eagerly sense less concerned with entrapment than freely offering kindnesses returns.
How beautifully choreographed these rarely heard rhythmic beats fall from your uprisings literary thought as if to invite and invoke penmanship’s voice to dance across your tongue of a spoken word longing to heard from your song of choice.
Ok my maîtresse Josseline just called and is on her way over.
I’d like to pick where we left off when next we converse ?
Yours truly prefers to stay anonymous Charles
p.s Your secretly sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts, opportunity’s beliefs best suited points shared beliefs are offering in this our written life’s transfigurations contracts placed in times accordance of rebuilding these once broken doors of opportunitys that we now stand for by reminiscing poetically of be fronted justices cause to unite peacefully before the those forgotten within reveal themselves rejuvenated by our rights left uncharted perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts to remember love’s potential as well.

p.s I need a loan, My petite marquise.. no more than 200 francs. My lucrative publishing contract is just around the corner, but the situation I find myself in is too difficult to turn to Caroline .. my mother has always been sad about my inappropriate behavior. Oh, what a grief!

bisous,
Charles,

Mon cher ami Charles,

Pour reprendre les propos de mon cher ami, Mansa Musa, the ruler of West Africa and the wealthiest man who has ever existed la meilleure réponse à cette question est sans doute “non”

I cannot imagine your monumentally struggles, engagement within to be heard without suppressions ever listening suppressive fears of you and your message’s whispering scream of awakening society’s deafened sense turning a blind eye whenever freedom’s mentioned hope of for all literally scares those self descriptive elites from their point of views never ending nightmares readily changing wills of casting their first stones throne high archy based solely on being dead set against those daring their set in stone’s refusal to be held responsible for holding back free wills neverending dreams to not let go of your hopes to inspire others

amicalement,
La Petite Marquise

Ma petite,

Though my efforts to change societally influenced attitudes struggles with the minutest comparitive of yours,
My own similarity as a small part in our spiritually orated potentialities to change today’s water making attempts of flowing idealisms, recreates its intoxicating effects seen right before our eyes always half cupped optimistically looked up on as sideways towards life’s hand in hand journey to never look down on others as I have, simply because I can.

My selfimposed state of hell which dominated my life’s neverending hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison states of thoughts terrifying thoughts into continuing my torture for that 30 years sentence of solitary confinements nightmares of never allowing me to wake from its steely barbed wired fenced in and off from others grasping direly to the hopes of me breaking free.
Since then self admittedly starved to bone of sunlights promise of a new day only long for even a moment’s touch of any sensation other than darnkeness preludes of fearfully returning me into its waiting crushing paralyzing me with fears presences always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst shadows of opportunities once had and lost by mistakes neverending conclusion of its lifelong sentences of documented guilt!
My greatest fear is of returning to madnessess reign of terror. My guilt which I have spoken of and finally faced after all those years of running from myself left scars so unbearable to let me live my feeble attempts to secretly bury them within myself represents drove to the brink of a madness so indescribable in its descriptive unforgettable unfathomable certainty of literally a fate worse than death.
Blacking out was my only saviour.
Leave me alone?!”
And BANG !!
I hit the floor, Josseline heard the crash, came out and stayed with until I came out of my reverberating position on the floor and looked up at her wondering where I was while convincing her that as I went to get a broom to clean up the mess I had made

“Everything is going to be alright!!”

My thrashing up and down on the bed as each time I bite a small piece of my tongue off while spitting out flem and turning red with heat and eventually waking up to see the fear as I stumble around the place mumbling incoherent words of confusions hinted immently waiting dementia until I finally come out of it completely the next morning.
My entire fate is in the hands of the spirit that has guided me since I was 4 years old.
I cannot take any opiates due to my elongated method of returning for increasing the dosage to its point of no return.
I had been an alcoholic since finding its temporary numbness of childhood tears since the age of 12 years old.
My addictive highs led me lows of adjoining suicidal thoughts that have confirmed over and over again its waiting for me if still interested? Time is the only valuable boundary I humbly ask in need of your freely offered suggestions of your invaluably creative words of art.
I am in a completely and never more happily challenging at times it seemingly all consuming lover’s relationship.
Josseline’s love literally saves my soul from it’s own innate self destructive longing to write an obituary’s requiem of what could have been if only….
I need her needs of my undivided minds attentive states of varying unwearied readiness within its ever changing illusions placed before me so its after effects of realizing what I have either accomplished unknowingly or let’s it been known of her concerns about the lack thereof.

When I make and then mistakenly turn away his guidance of peacefully admitting its making of ammends to my obviously showing after effects while incomplete denial from my part of and in its promised never again reoccurrence is suddenly rebuked by my guiders compliance of asking its presence temporarily depart until I figure things out for myself.

I now have no where left to run, but the faces of those asking for help and my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes and my delays in doing so after in realizing.
I once again have overstayed my bounds of realistically abilities to do so.
I wanted to be your hero and foolishly thought my hidden weaknesses would somehow continue your belief in me as one.
Truth’s cannot be suppressed until realiziations of my obvious unlimited limits for me personally has become better than ever as my escaping personationations impostering as unto e arrogance.
… to have any affect of suturing my torn souls inevitable agenda of literally do or madly face a fate worse than death.
Madness itself.
I finally faced this hidden secret that I too had for my own sanity erased from my psyches memory.

gros bisous,
Charles

Charles,

This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so.
chaleureusement….

Ma petite!
How beautiful is and was your true intent all along when seen as yours of a truly reflective heart in search of an artist’s longing to be finally understood in her search perhaps to understand why she has been given this gift to share yet is burdened by her fears that no one else will be able accept its offer from her based freely on their acceptance of what they themselves may or may not be ready to accept?
Truly I am honoured and humbled upon your gracious and inspiring belief in my abilities.
And yes I believe ours could be an ongoing life’s enhancing looked forward daily challenged and faced together separately and yet their for each other whenever in need of guide in either penmanship or suddenly awakened by one’s momumental poetic moments of need and in to be spurred on by an encouraging word to continue its ideas potentiality through to seev this time and hence each and every time from this and that moment on where it takes you and myself as adventurers in rhyme and who will join us in our soon to be fabled journey.
I had awoken in hopes of perhaps sharing with you my thoughtful throughought the night thoughts inspired acknowledgement of your inquiries and was eagerly about to see if they actually rang true with yours?
However yours far exceeded any hopes I had dreamt of.
I was hoping though I could continue to share these with you?
Were you pertaining to how man’s uniquely shared abilities of attaining the highest forms in spirituality can only be attained upon the realization that he is the sole proprietor in this inherent ability to lose himself on this neverending search for why he seems to be eternally a loss while continuously questioning why this time he is always within himself lost
Please accept this first acceptance of another’s shared guidance with mine that each beautifully orchestrated language has its uniqueness that transcends translations attempts to clarify when an audiences sought after idealism’s transcending ability is found in their own lifes search to be found and finally understood in at times even one stanza or well worded soliloquy.
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and those truly seeking beauty, from what I’ve seen in your gift will truly find it themselves through you when they themselves cannot put to paper what so artistically yours continues to help them grow through and along with your ongoing growth as an artist.
Thank you again as the spark of intrigue can ignite the flames of hope’s peacefully offered warmth through its well lit darkneses of inspirationally shared interests and yours in mine calmly and reassuredly has added fires to the flames.
At the age of 49 I have experienced 5 physicians shared diagnosis of separate nervous breakdowns.
4 I kept to myself out of fears of being returned to the this life hospital.
I had a rare reaction to my addiction to opium which only intensities my isolation’s effectiveness to separate and destroy.
Please take care and be reassured that I am earnestly looking forward to our continued conversations

cordialement….
Charles


(a few nights later)

Long story short…

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was written on a six day cocaine binge, and I … I dream of hanging on a pipe, I am in trouble and in distress, madam. I would praise anything that is immoral, unhealthy and disgusting.
You must be tired of my deep self, full of mystery, indefiniteness, horror, dark and vague forebodings.
You are but a disorganized and scattered multitude of images and labels that get their meaning and harmony only in the imagination of the creator and thus turn into his subjective reality. Your poetry is a big scandal.
See what you made me do!
You, demon, martyr and damned. I hope they will deny you access to the church. You are a monstrous mongrel, a lying, ruthless, self-confident black Venus, which I turned into a beautiful girl.
I even corresponded with you!
If only you had sent me 200 francs …
If you’d like to correspond about YOUR official poetry with your picturistic fears of entering oneself into your bravely revealed systematically choreographed attempts to destroy what no man can or ever will. – and that is the eternity of MY moment! – let me tell you something:
Artistic freedoms challenges to and for the state to change itself through the blunt force of face to face recognitions of what was and continues to simply because the perpetrators of these horrendous crimes against humanity can.

Revelation is feared
And has the power
Of fears abilities
To change with
Or face the inevitable
Fear of change alone
In being left behind

I would like to begin sharing this voice”s guidance for and with you again but there MUST BE SET BOUNDARIES OF REALIZATION that,( if you Google (Do not think that I do not know what it is! Your deity!) the affects of long term use and subscription withdrawal from opiate) am basically rebuilding and constantly attempting through seemingly never ending day throughout night’s of rigorously reconstructive emotional psychological physical social therapeutically exhaustion.
It reached the point of a tartive dyscanatia that required speach therapy at our this life hospital, this life, this life is a hospital! and which also as you could imagine made most aspects of my healing attempts even more difficult to achieve any sense of securing more than temporary states of even the smallest momentary victories .
If I hurt I am very sorry and embarrassed by my panicked immediate uncertainty of what I had shout and could even do if my worries became a reality in your written words state(d) unrelenting spiritual and psychological torments?!
….and I can only hope you understand in your heart what mine needs to continue healing itself’s work from within?
I’ve mentioned this before I believe?
It’s make or break for me
Right now!
I cannot go near opiates having devices a taken like candy’s habitual problem whose nightly next seconds of nearly losing my mind has me more scared of them than any pain itself.

Charles, 200 fr

Charles,

I am sorry to see you are in need of help.
But I am at the point in my life where I realize if I am hurting myself in being there for anyone else’s pain and suffering I truly am not offering anything other than the temporarily shared illusion of the ability to do something I simply cannot.
I did not realize you attempted to contact me 2 days ago with honestly the words of which I stopped at rather than continuing on to your messaged request having sensed my heart breaking in knowing I can’t be there for yours.
I am not a mean woman a coward or acting out of cruelty’s turned deaf ears to your cries Charles.
I am simply – bankrupt

This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so.
Take care of your unbeatable heart Charles in knowing the connected rhythms within will never be without.
And when I saw my potentiality’s moment of a thunderously conclusive readjustment of their theoretically unproven life sentences of hopelessness self dependency’s .
I made my supposedly inconceivable mad dash for freedoms inspirationally welcoming arrival within and unless it was to close another chapters reassessment from my points moments by moments others well self preserved moment by moments prospects for healing a well intentioned turning of the pages never to be looked backed upon refusal’s of cant you see it in their eyes kind of sorry of story’s magnitudanalunly accepted acceptance of all those phases out ofv cant and be looked down or back up on!
If I could offer you one last peace of advice if you’re interest me has wained, as I too am lost at times in our mutually read uncertainty’s meaningful offered reassuring words of encouragement’s revealing worlds a part of mutually acquired wisdom’s approach to situationally associated uttered states of reflective confusions.
Even going back to our originally documented conversations there was always this taste of disolutionments challenges put into perspective when finally understood upon expectations shared narratives of concern.
In no way let go of your darknessess lights of rarity’s survival until you are good and ready to do so!
I wrote all years to stay alive
And now after I decided it was time for my own retrial and errors of sorts.
I am ready have recognized the want and need to feel alive at last again!
I at one time though when it was deemed the rambling in my irrefutably non sensical manner of tongues my message that not only would seemiglly never seem get across to any included within my message to the masses
I would begin to actually heal myself by temporarily bearing this burdaning overwhelmingly proportionalized burdensome crutch of unsustainable nonsupportive reliability
of living for others in attempts to heal myself.
But honestly I found this an exhaustively neverending source mutually noticed and possibly neverending seemingly unbeknownst needless needing to my hands) to one’self’s washing of my hands thoroughly misrepresented nonreconcilatory turning aways from truly coincidentally running into a person of interests to you m.
For talking simpletalk with in away that truly never lasted for more than its temporarily true version of oneself self revered state of importanc’es needs of recognition at the very least
It was until I took a step back to see the worlds around and see out right longing.of the people of non- coincidental opportunistically offered simplification of life’s truly treasuring day by day conversations of others individually motivating peoples of interests.
If you help even just one similarly outfitted one as such.
The wealth of this treasuring inner peace’s Unheard of mirrors.the souls pricelessnesss by looking in to the windows thie once selfendulgent magnitudally lost moment in time while receiving the resways within distances evechainging .

p.s

Madness is a state of mind
Frightening in the eyes of and never eyes upo of the beholder’s viewers like you .
And make no mistakes that all imperfections are perfectly situateted one on one nonconversational right in front the (wo)man
If you were able to work for you, Charles!
And you’re
Take care of ….

Ma petite marquise,

Tears are flowing with your honoured acceptance of my presence in your valiant struggle mon petit marquise
Thank you
Good night as you have made my dreams come true with its validity”s confided and never before so confirmed belief in from someone whose talents I have never seen before and look up to as my possible mentor of truth’s power in poetic written form.
I have never been so proud to be a part of a team.
Rest though I am so excited is in need.
And I will thoroughly read your letter in a better light when my dimming mechanism is as rejuvenated as me in this brand new light of days ahead to come.
I think the time has finally come for me to accept that I am dead.

affectueusement
Charles

The solemnly deep toned infection!


This poem displays a great amount of high – quality madness.
You are reading it at your own peril*
*Author’s note

The solemnly

deep toned infection!
(Trumpet! Lock! Lock!

As you are brazen to buzz:

too-too-too-too-tooooooom).

All the howls adrift adeck,

half the roars below,
(violin (sobs) in its zing

and here’s the prison sighing,
while years have rolled

in their passing).

Locked within

thunder pounding

upon mountains.
Locked within

sad burbling rivers.
Locked within

ho ho!

Within the murmur

in the shell,
never mind

the lamb baaing

all alone.

(Unison: “Blossom on

your barriers and bars,

creature
blossom!”
Locked within

haha haha!

She (snoring in her sleep…)

wears a goatskin piece of rag.

Shoot, shoot, shoot for beggar
was nothing much before the rag.
Curse, curse…
Lock, lock, lock,

choke her mad!
If key is what key seems,   

Quick and chuck her…

(Delaying not,

crawling not,

but…..
What time is it?)

Be a festival of massacres
Of infected parts
Down… go go go!
Grab many silences

Caught an eye,

where you’re pointing,
where you’re sweating
…..trembling.
Rapped out an oath Brain,
and the scour of the stormy tide
is declared.

Crush her by intent

and crucify her

by stakes of crackling fire,
on the river of blood

by a tangled wood.

Put in a nutshell,

the nerve of the true nobility.

Storytellers do
lie down, lie down,
lay bare.

Not all the circles

that encircles us….
Travelling uplifting

by a route obscure
…. will hunt us.

Not all sighs infection

till this

all this
to a trumpet’s veiled blare.
Out! It plots!
Not all our fame

by black angelic company’s

tenanted will…

Din din!
Lonely death

at last,
whom the caged universe

crowned.

The ring is set,
front straightforward

collapsed so best…After a stimulus of a sick man’s command,
walk at a snail’s pace
weighed down by serpents. 

***
Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds
http://www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

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.