Sunday, January 28, 2018

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.

Friday, January 19, 2018

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.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

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.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

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.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Happiness, or something alike ...

I see your smile
You're happy now.
I was happy once.
Your hand, resting upon mine,
Your heat, touch, made me smile.

I saw perfection in you, though imperfect,
Like a solider, I'd have died for my Trojan Helen,
But she never returned the favour, to the many who did.
Obscurity took them,
Obscurity took me, for you do not utter my name.

I miss your arm in mine,
I regret the lack,
That your presence is not.
I see you smile,
You've fallen in love again,
You fall so easily, for every sort of brutish man,
You've forgotten my presence,
My soft, subtle self,
Not the brute, but the poet.

You were the raison d'être for my hope,
My craving, my mote,

And for many a year, my substitute for forever,
Now but a banshee heralding my soul's hopeless depths,

And where I once asked for sugar,
I now ask for salt.
For sweetness would burn my soul.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Void ...

It happened again,
An impulse,
A moment,
A weakness,

I didn't contain my inner angels,
As they sang a tune of hope,

And out it poured,
Emotion, truth even.

And like oil, it caught fire,
Blackness, flames, smoke.

And words cannot be withheld,
And I said it, something true. Something felt.
A most beautiful emotion, a thought.

And a hydra formed of flames,
And a naked whiteness burnt my vision.

And I sat, bare feet upon solid ground,
Swaying like smoke.

Void, empty, null.

And nothing was left yet for hope.

Friday, May 5, 2017

I want ...

Grey is the fog of love and of war,
She's often been there, so why do I ... want ... more?
I want ... to grasp her ... in the darkest dark of the witching hour,
To hold her tight, in the brightest light of day.
And, perhaps, I want to be led quite astray.

And as Cinderella's clock strikes,
And takes her magic away,
My imperfect love, who I now prefer,
I want to feel her warmth permeate my life.

And in the darkness of the early morning,
As somehow I am yet to sleep,
My blanket tight, my pet cat upon my duvet, my pillows soft and soothing,
Staring into the tundra of night,

I imagine her, in the echoes of mine,
I dream of her as a mother to my future offspring, as my wife,
And I far from abhor the dreamy sight,

And yet, she's furniture, and there's history,
And what if these new feelings suddenly take flight,
And I could not forsake her in pursuit of night,

And what ... if, heaven forbid, it is somehow then but on one side,
We often fight, and we also do delight,

Yet, I want ... to grasp her, in day and night.

And 'I love you', means nothing,
Just words of might ... she often says them, day and night,
To me. Surely, just wind, not the force of oceans, and sight?

Yet I want ...

And I keep silent, for she speaks my name, and I delight.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

The world, it is not for me

The world, it is not for me,
There is beautiful poetry about chasing me into the sea,
And every blame that can be laid, surely, they fit right on me,
I am unwelcome in my country,
As is truth, but it means so little.

Injustice is celebrated,
Genuine cares obliterated.

And justice, my life's pursuit,
A mockery. A sham.

Honey lipped deceivers flourish,
And the ignorant are allowed to govern,
But I am guiltless,
At least for now,
I am at peace with God, and Mother Earth.

And if not for my love of God, I'd leave the Earth,
What can ever be achieved within its domain.
Like the Titans, it eats its offspring,
And the world, is but a trap,
Waiting to draw you in.

I believed your lies once,
But your ideals were false and self serving,
Foolish me, I guess,
But I still believe in ideals.
Just not yours. Yours are false lies.

Wealth is illusion.
Just the right dry spell, and all is quickly lost.
And poverty can be quickly alleviated,
Or, so we are told, by those who make it all the worse.
By those after others' wealth.

Devil's tales are spun so well,
And the masses buy into them,
And kill for them,
And hate for them,
Oh, how good it is to feel so righteous and to hate,
To hate the innocent as the devil,
To retell history,
And to tell all good they've done as a foul tale,
And the benefits you have as reparation, and act of God, good fortune,
Never theft. But it is. It is theft. In your heart, you know it.

I'm unwelcome in my country, I've always been.
I'm better for it, for the things I've seen.

I'm sceptical of the world,
It's a trap, you see.

You signal your virtue over me,
Your ill gotten claims,

But, I have studied history, broadly, and spanning millennia,

Fool that I am, speck of dust I may be,
But my end is something to consider,

As millennia shift, shape, and pass,
You'll only be remembered for your hate.

I'll be forgotten altogether.
At least, by your false world, your soiled histories, you see!
Or, rather, you don't, I think that may be the point.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Unexpected, life mine...

Unexpected, life mine,
Not as predicted, I've become.
I didn't know - I would lead this way,
Nor you, I guess, we'd say.

And yet you faded, but muse,
Forgotten, archetype, distant fuse.

Unexpected, path mine,
Not where I projected, far in time.

And the winds rustle, a breeze, light, upon frozen heart mine.
I cannot pretend to have predicted, the future soon.
In my heart, hope or ruin.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Mixed into life with chance, but lacking anything not yet bittersweet



I take my coffee, swirled with intermingled energy,
I forget my headache, my whelm of whelping concerns,
Headache, thoughts, any name you wish,

I take my coffee, my tongue, it burns,
And with it, my luck squeals and screams.

Memento Mori... The call of the grave.
And the Grim stalks closer with the passing of every day.
I toss another coin, perhaps I'll lose my of sudden closer tail,
For the world has turned, and again, the day is made anew,
With new thoughts to penetrate from another exterior world.

Frozen, like a character stuck forever in a horror scene,
But my fears are simpler, nuanced, more sophisticated,
Not but opaque, to any but me, though shallow as the Bering sea.
My terrors, too latent, profound to glimpse,
Except in my slight expression, fears a camera obscura would all but misread.

And in it, despair, a seed.
And in it, despair, none but me can read,
Even if they understood the foreign type I find an engrossing read,
Luck, libations and deeds.
Respice post te. Hominem te memento.

Hominem te memento.

Yet, my face, it would not display my thoughts, tedious silky weave.
I add a little milk, and sip my coffee, before time takes its potency.
With savage purity, and nothing sweet, it gradually invigorates me.

And in a game of toss and woe, life,
The background, and the grave, they always win.

I take my coffee, and read a little,
In a tongue, as burnt and unsophisticated as what I read,
And pretend I'll yet have good luck, good fortune,
Not the comeuppance due all who are, for a time, alive.

And I will out of bitterness, for a future,
A path to impede, for even a second, or a lifetime,
Memento Mori... The call of the sombre grave.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

It catapulted you through your many happy dreams



Remember me, the shadow, the one you once shared your hopes with,
Remember the things you told me, as you stood before the empty void,
Forget not my woes, and the love we once had honoured,
Forget me not... forget me, but remember a few of our moments.

Remember when you tried to convert me, to a God in whom you no longer believe.
Remember all your certainty, sometimes I wished for it too.
And I wasn't insulted, when you asked it of me, but I stuck somehow to my lesser beliefs.
You had such steam running through you, it catapulted you through your many happy dreams.
But you never once lost my esteem.
I wonder where your passion went, which had such concern for little old me.
And my lesser God has yet to abandon me.
And I still hold my lesser beliefs.

Remember when you talked of marriage, of your plans for us to elope.
We haven't spoken in many years, it's something that was once your hope.
If only I had held your beliefs, which have long since gone up in smoke,
If only I'd been good enough, as good as that of which you spoke.

Remember well, how you looked down upon those whom you now best resemble.
How you spoke of your vision for them, them who now mirror your heart and trembling soul.

And I wonder if you've found some right or wrong, amidst the grey of your world,
And whether your hopes still remain in some escape to be bought, for the wage of your salt.

And I mutter words in a language long dead,
And bow down still, with my lesser thoughts in my head.
And shadows pass before me, as candle light flickers ahead.

And I am glad I did not change for you,
In fact, I've not altered much at all...

And though I hardly remember your name or your face,
I remember when you asked me to change, to become something other, greater than little meek me.
And I feel relief in these shadows, as I softly worship my lesser God,
A slow river, not swift passion, my lesser, lesser beliefs...

I hope you somehow found the peace you sought,
You always jumped for a hope.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

She pretified me. Her hypnotic eyes. I was fascinated, like snake prey, staring at one. #Poetry #Poem #Prose #Love



She petrified me,
I was fascinated, like snake prey, staring at one, upon the hypnotic eyes,
Or a cat in headlights. Screech, splat, there it was, that lifeless deflation, it had once been me.
She undulated and swayed, like an old pine tree,

My blood solidified, burning lava turned to tarring stone.
My inner organs liquefied, my stomach felt a little upset.

Her textures and curves and smoothness enchant,
As shadows dance upon her unholy nights.

She gave me a solid fright,
And turned my world 180 degrees. I ran right out of sight.

I turned and ran, I tried to fight,
But whenever I stopped for breath, there she stood,
Waiting for my eyes to droop,
She petrified me, as though I were a timid mouse before a blood-thirsting, readily curling snake.
Or a victim before Medusa and the furies,
She undulated, with serpentine hips,

I hold back, and search for an antidote,
But she approaches even when I dream,
And darkness and nightmares are her quiet rural streams.
And my eyes and neck spin and move as she lets loose her beat.
And she enjoys her own dance as she moves her feet.

And she'd delight if I fell truly into her trap, and fell into the darkest deep pits,
If I joined so many others, whom she controls with the empty hand movements with which she strikes and whips.
But I do not desire to be on unsteady ground, as she continues with countless others,
An illusionary muse. As she hits the floor in ever new dresses and shoes.
And delights at the countless captive men she nightly woos.

To fall for her... I'd only lose.
So I turn away, and leave her and her empty rhythmic noose.
And she dances, as though devils and sylphs let her loose.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

A ghoul seeks my December, subtly, secretly, seethes

(Listen to this poem being narrated by it's author, Marc Evan Aupiais:)


A ghoul seeks my December, subtly, secretly, seethes,
It wants my soul and my very anguished end, charcoal flames in an otherworld,
By my grave, it breathes in deep, my death scent, it awaits, it adores the thought,
Of the inevitable easy decay... of my ways, it so very delightedly brays,
- to waste and edible death paste, it whispers away.
It is already a creature of death's final say.

And in the passageway, to my chamber's bed,
Awaits a foul ghost, a phantom spirit,
A soul split in many tortured horrible death tarred ways,
Angered by my stay, and by my living breath.
Glacial presence, haunts the summer haze,

And upon the clouds, heaven is amiss,
Dragons fight in the darkening white shades,
Their breath's discharge, smoke, like clouds of snow and rain,
And a Fomorian beast, meets the Celtic Gods with ease,
As Ra and Oden come out to seek.

Shades trace the way to Hades,
As the devil's widely grinning creatures grin, with glee, bray, moan, precipitate.
And demonically, in the darkest fathom of the gloaming,
Sometimes my mind does striate, upon the darkness, a pattern of unfaith,
As diabolic wraiths do fly, sour and ply the inevitable fate.

But logic divides dreams, and imagination it does mitigate,
And for the most part, the preternatural fears of primeval man exert latent, unspoken stress,
Are but a wisp, hidden in lurid night terrors, of humanity's intermittent sleep.

And I awake, to praise the bright African sun,
Awaiting a life, surely of love, affection, to be won,
And after death, a heaven perhaps,
But preternatural fears of primeval man exert latent, unspoken stress,
And many inhabitants of this earth, blame and wildly gesticulate,
Whatever it is, we are powerless, it certainly awaits.
And one day, we will know,
Or we will merely lie dead and emptily decay.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Softly flap the winged clawed digits...

(Listen to this poem, 'Softly flap the winged clawed digits...' being performed in spoken word poetry narration by its author, Marc Evan Aupiais)


Softly flap the winged clawed digits,
Of the darkly silent smidge of a death bearing, life searing bat.
It swoops above, and had dived upon the head.
It speaks, and squeaks, and listens intently,
As its night eyes, and mouth combine in perceptive proprioception.

The clouds are white, as the gloaming begins to reap the sky,
Softly speaks the squeak of the uncannily canny, unsettling bat,
As it circles, with bacteria infested wingtips,
And fangs from which maroon berries or blood drips,
And disease, an aura, surrounding it,
As it follows the moonlit aisles of night sights.

And in the distance, something preternatural speaks,
A voice or was it the rustling of leafless trees, squeaky clean,
The whisper in the worrisome willows,
An instinct speaks,
It says I lack some secret knowing,

Softly flap the winged clawed digits,
Of the darkly silent smidge of a death bearing, life searing bat.
And I ignore the otherly instinct,
And head into even stranger things.