Tuesday, April 27, 2021

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

Wednesday, December 16, 2020

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.


Tuesday, December 15, 2020

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.

Saturday, November 3, 2018

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.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

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.

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'ĂȘtre 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.