As other stories came and went

I've been here. There.

Walked. Rode out.

Horse and cart; little car.

A dance here; cinema.

But here and there are gone.

And those I knew fell away.

Maybe dead, maybe gone.

Stories, now. Mind bound.

A photograph or ten in a booth.

A night and day. Memories, too.

That shark tooth. That slippery slide.

Injury on a bike. Another — that place.

Crocodile. Water. Boat. 

Too strong rapids.

Mud. Soot.

Gone. Past. And the friendship of the time.

Forgotten. Brought to mind.

Captured. Photographs. And broken lies.

Broken lines. Fractured times.

And through it all, I walked, half asleep.

As other stories came and went,

Stopping by for a moment in my life.

Falling, without resolving, out of my time and life.

Just as I, too, will ... one day ... some time.

- Marc Evan Aupiais

Upon that empty mountainside.

 Climb. Climb. Climb.

Upon a mountainside.

Heavy, the burden, upon my back.

Heavy, heavier, heavier.

Heaviest — one day, will take me down.

Up an ever steeper — steeper — steeper slope.

Climb, I say, Climb, I do,

As taunts come from the valleys,

And even from the mountaintops.

Climb, climb, climb.

Ever harder. Ever hard. Ever the slope goes up.

Ever heavier the pack on my back.

Ever louder, the baying about.

Climb. Climb. Climb.

I continue up. Tears within my heart and soul. 

Climb. Climb. Climb.

Upon the lonely mountainside.

Heavy. Heavier. Heaviest.

And one day I will not be able to go on.

Climb. Climb. Climb.

Upon the mountainside. 

Climb, I say, Climb I do.

Today, I must go on. Today, I must go on.

Today, I must go on. For today, I still can.

Even though I know soon enough in time,

The clock will tick, and my heart will beat,

And will it be that one last time,

That I climb, climb, climb upon that emptying mountainside. Upon that empty mountainside.

Prose by Marc Evan Aupiais

Vows entwined

 A vow. A lifetime away.

A binding oath, was said.

A lifetime — away, was vowed 

An oath did bind a life.

And suffering and sacrifice.

Libations of blood, and sweat.

Serving. Giving. All that was had.

And the mere mortal body to wild animals on need.

To love, whether of a feeling or not.

To give, with nothing left,

To give of bone and marrow,

When only eternity was left.

To respect, even when not loved,

To love, though met with grave disrespect.

And to give, and give, and give, and give.

Even to no respect. No love. No smile.

An oath, binding on the marrow of the bone.

On the flesh of the heart.

On the elasticity of the stomach.

A vow of sickness and health. No real escape, but death. Binding, always, impossible to be unsaid.

A vow. A lifetime away.

A binding oath, was said.

A lifetime — away, was vowed 

An oath did bind a life.

An oath will bind a life.

It ought to bind a life.

For words are sacred. Your word, more so.

And a yes must always mean yes.

Even unto death.

Vows that cannot be unset.

A yes must always mean but yes.

And yes. And yes. And yes. And yes.

A sacred oath must never be unsaid.

Vows entwined — prose by Marc Evan Aupiais

Void behind

 I speak. I am not heard.

My best shout is a whisper, within my head.

I cry out. I cry in. The void stands motionless.

It stares into me. Darkness fills my sight.

I run. I cannot move.

I flee, but nowhere beckons.

Sludge surrounds me. Quicksand slows my heart.

I cannot speak. I cannot breathe. Not in, nor out.

Riches, knowledge, sacrifice, work.

Youth. Health. Time. Offered away in a blink.

But I speak. I am not heard.

Sludge surrounds me. Quicksand slows my heart.

Failure beckons from behind.

I run. I speak. I sacrifice all I am.

I speak. I am not heard. Not yet. Never yet.

I speak. I run. I sacrifice all I am.

Behind me, darkness beckons.

I still speak. I still run. I still sacrifice all I am.

Behind me, darkness beckons.

Void behind - Prose by Marc Evan Aupiais

Unsaid

Few words. Fewer breaths. Cloudy skies, chilly bread.

A sun that does not warm the inside of my head.

Stars, blotted out by street lights, a moon hidden in daytime.

A buzz in my chest. A heart of lead. For cold water veins.

Fuelling the unseen shadow of my blood. Pump. Pump. I hear it in my skull.

Pump. Pump. Yet, I hardly move.

My chest does not desire to draw in breath. 

Few words. Fewer breaths.

A sun that does not warm the inside of my head.

Unsaid.

Prose by Marc Evan Aupiais

Of the flowering flower, the flower of good success.

 They watered its white petals with reddest blood,

And partied, drank, danced, and ate, with modern legend, well past midnight,

The flower of good success,

Its petals absorbed the blood, not their own,

And bloomed with such beauty,

Cannot be forgotten or unseen.

With words, which shimmering pictures made,

Smiles, champagne, limousines,

And flowers in flowing manes,

And they threw blood upon the flower,

An oblation to its infusion of beauty.

And unreality, they made, any fantasy enforced, And blood gathered from the believers of their very pretty lies,

The goodly gospel of good good good success.

And it delighted the eyes, the stomach, and the smiles.

And to its haunting melodies, we danced until sunrise,

But I could not deny the colour of grass or sky,

Or pretend clear skies were grey, and grey skies blue,

Or that the sun was but the moon.

And it flowered and bloomed,

And folk songs followed the flower,

And sought its wisdom and counsel,

And showered it in beautiful words and hopes,

And showered it in human blood.

Panglosses cheered and smiled, and danced,

And smoke like a machine consumed the scene,

And flames, like Roman candles did celebrate,

And around the flower, they danced,

And unlike the ancient living candles of Rome,

They did not go to a better place,

But their blood sparkled upon the petals,

And there they worshiped and rejoiced in the beauty,

Of the flowering flower, the flower of good success.

And as their many sacrifices, ordinary fools but armed with glitter and mascara, mirrors, and pyres of smoke, sparklers in their hands,

Flowers in their flowing long curls,

They danced into the flames, and smoke, and sacrificial beautifully spinning blades they themselves erected,

And their blood, too, hit the beautiful white flower,

Ingratitude their position of every bit of pride,

The flower of good success, full to excess,

But to me, it seems they never had lasting hope or real success.

Their blood spattered upon its petals,

And as the sun rose, it faded, and died, as all flowers eventually do,

And I watched from my spot a distance away,

As blood turned to dust and fed the soil.

Poem by Marc Evan Aupiais

Stark light of day

A cycle, of historic repeats, 

But it wasn't news for you,

Thread upon silver thread,

Sparkling under artificial sun,

You never knew it was commonplace, they never told you.

Disaster, tragedy, the ones they show you,

Through distorted lenses,

They show you those for the power to impose.

To influence, to win souls.

A silvery, leathery whip, bejewelled and glittering forth,

It sounds forth in a figure of eight.

They won't show you the ghosts and ghouls that break through their frozen ice spider webs.

What voice the objector gets is reflected through carnival mirrors,

It loses meaning and nuance, 

Until it fits, squarely in the targeted egg shaped hole.

Silenced by a swing and snap.

And news of shame and horror, is turned on and off like operating liquid taps,

The rest quietly unnoticed, the all seeing gaze relaying nothing,

Those raising above carefully cut down,

Like slaves in a Spartan field.

Or turning nothing into unread stats,

And slandering and name calling whatever hosts scepticism inhabits.

All as you sit, willing,

And dream the dreams of decades ago,

Of a world not strangled by ladders and fortifications,

Into most definite inhuman decay.

And in darkness, the silvery whip appears as a sun,

For we are not allowed to see our world,

In the stark light of day.

A Deathly Rising Sun

 Victory celebrated oceans away.

A deathly rising, with the sun.

Champagne uncorked, like shots fired.

Sparkling wine poured into tall glasses,

Flowing like spilt blood.

A celebration is in order.

A foe has been disposed of, it seems.

And bloodlike, champagne spills unto red fabric, silk,

It stains it with the pattern of a maze.

Like a computer chip, or concentration camp.

With the rising of the sun, there is celebration, oceans away, with flowing champaign.

A dawn rising, cements itself, as cross and green crescent is treaded under foot,

And the sky reddens, like a flag or like blood.

And the champagne spreads across a map,

On every key point, it rests.

Conquest will not be needed,

But libations, of wine and blood, flow nonetheless,

In celebration of a long dead penman god,

Whose vision guides the blood rising on land and sea, and a spider silk network, throughout East and West, loyal yet, as seeds.

A new Venice and a new Rome. And a new road, in silk, laid fresh.

And celebration is had, a harvest is wrought,

And blood pours over the cold steel produce.

And terror treads quietly, night and day, in full sight of all who see. 

A celebration is had, and sacrifices are made,

Perhaps of you, as of them, perhaps just of your soul, and mine.

To be dangerous, be good.

Be not harmless, not that lie you tell others. In your heart is darkness, anchored within the depths of hell, you are human, all are. In your soul, shining bright, like terrible death, is a blade, burnt in hellfire. Wield it, but keep it always well sheathed. Shining yellow and red, its flamed obliterative heat.

Be dangerous, a hazard capable of inflicting great and terrible harm, a stumbling block, and ambush for the enemies of you and of mankind, within your soul and outside of it. Capability, have within, for anything, and to any necessary puzzle, be prepared to answer.

Be wild, untamed, incorporate within you, your shadow, the darkness you pretend isn't there, and bring the demons within your mind and soul under your own well chosen control.

Be not harmless, be capable of great harm, but, be a warrior, firm, and disciplined, aware of the monster that stares calculatingly back from your abyss, train him by the destructive light of truth, subject yourself to what is right, enslave yourself to the prompts of good. For no human being is harmless, the everyday man is deceptive, but like good soldiers, they can firmly and consistently endeavour and choose to only do good.

The first ever cause, logic breaks down, could not be an effect?

Cause and Effect, an illogical idea, at the beginning of the universe
Poem by Marc Evan Aupiais

Tick Tock. The clock did stop.
Cause. Effect. Until the start.
A big bang, or a tiny grain of sand.
It matters not.

Go far enough back, there must always be a cause.
Something, a start, to continue to, dominoes, cause and effect.
But take infinity, call it X.
What happened before X.
What was the first cause of effect.
For something must have caused it too,
But nothing can have, there must be a first,
And this is it.

What is logic? Cause and effect.
To be logical, the foundation must be firm, it must be sound,
And that foundation must cause an effect, the specific effect, it must follow.

And yet, the entire universe is a non sequitur. It does not follow.
And neither science: cause and effect, can explain an effect without a cause,
And nor can magic: for magic is mechanical in its thinking, the precursor to science, it believed that one act, whether ritual or effective, certainly would cause another.

And whether a big bang, steady state, multiverse, or ever repeating loop, something must have brought it into being. A first knock upon the movement, the cause and effect we call time, for without energy, entropy would break the clock, even one in a circular loop. Without some outside cause for its effect, some source, all movement would stop.

What else is left? For time is cause and effect?
But then something not bound by time, must have had an effect. For, what caused X, what caused the first slight or great movement of time? The clock stops, for by its logic we know not its cause, the cause of logic, or time, of before and after, of cause and effect.

Either that, or logic, the patterns we observe as absolute, is neither universal, nor much but a precursor, like magic.
For the very first cause, logically, could not be an effect.

Careless tumbles the barrel of time

Careless tumbles the barrel of time,
Foolish have been my decisions.
Broken, rusts the armour of mine,
Painful, the thrust of misericord,
Piercing through my protective barriers.

Sometimes, it is over, good has met its end.
You try to fight on, ghostly, despite a mortal wound.

And as I stand upon the field,
Quite accounted for.

It is time I admit it is over. To safety, I hope to flee.
My life, my hope, my faith in tact,
But my heart shattered like brittle stone.

Such a promise has life

Such a promise has life; swirling, twirling, spinning.
Such a treat it promises; diminishing returns.
Such power; cannot but acquiesce.
And waves rush over you, and pull you deeper in.

And scaled tales, mermaids, or snakes,
Drag you further, deeper, farther,

And in you go, you lose your breath,
And your will is no longer your own.
And the freedom of God's creatures,
Is not your freedom anymore,

But, such a promise has life; swirling, twirling, spinning.
Such a treat it promises; diminishing returns.

And I stand on the roughened sand beach, near
Broken beer bottles, and signs of decay.

And in the winds, I slowly start to sway.
And life beckons, amidst the waves,
And through tears, I head towards them.

But, I stop. Ahead, scales, shining things in waves,
Beauty, tinged with eternal romance.

But I stay, where I am, and sway.
I do not enter the waves.

Coffee has a bitter taste ...

Coffee has a bitter taste;
But not the coffee that you make.
Teas can soothe me, I have my quite a lot, but serenity has a name, yours, in fact, and I love you quite, quite, quite a lot.

I don't like flu vaccines, needless aren't for me,
But there is no vaccine against how deeply your humour penetrates my soul and heart, and for good measure, bounces about.

And kindness is a word, quite rare.
Often a cue to naivety.
But your kindness itself is rare, and overwhelms me,
A force of great strength, not a thing weakness, nor simple nor of naivety.

And, though I might miss the odd social cue,
You write and speak, well mannered, and full of courtesy,
You'd put much of nobility and many a belle to shame,

All, while wiser than Odysseus, with a keener observation than Machiavelli, and a goodness even angels would cherish, as your penchant is to bravely follow the paths where they would fear to tread.

I am ever in awe of you, my aeviternal Lovely. I am ever in love with you, my eternal Love.

Souls entwine, fates unite, but seldom does a soul so still.

A poem inspired by the beautiful Terry-Louise, my love.

Souls entwine, fates unite,
But seldom does a soul so still.
Never does its essence hold,
Yet ever it does,
As days unfold,
And my future entwined,
It holds on, in you.

Your voice makes all good things true,
Your absence holds me like a grave,
And a grave thing, any sadness is,
For your single tear floods all my world.

In your soul, my soul delights,
Your joy fills my hope and love,
And love, I feel, every part of my form,
And love I feel, for every part of your form,
Every part of your mind,
Every curve of your soul.

And my deep waters, their depths, you still.
And my turbulent ripples, tides and troubles,
And my deep, deep ripples, even they are still,
They have peace, in your peace, in your hope, and love.
Love, in your love, I remain. I hold time itself, still.
And in you I am content. My soul, is stilled.