The Soundless Serene Siren of the Comoplitan, Nighttime Figment of the Most Neon Harpy

The serene siren sounds silently into the effervescent night. Her beauty is as yet unquestionable.
The sound of a siren does draw one in. Her voice is beautiful.
Her shimmering hair is softly imbued with a beauty that is wonderful and she has done her make-up so as to turn her worldly wonderment into something just a tad more than sublime. Her eyes, hidden below her make-up, are still somehow yet very beautiful.
She is fashioned after the gods. I look upon her from a distance.
Above, the clouds do rotate about the Earth, and yesterday is a hundred thousand miles away from today in the circle of Earth and Sun.
I return my gaze to the beautiful harpy, to the siren. She plays a most beautiful sound.
She vocalises an emotional state. I smell her sweet scent in the wind. It wafts towards my nose.
I feel the ground vibrate slightly. I listen carefully to the sound as she walks soundlessly ahead of me.
I am drawn towards the siren. And I read my poetry to myself, the poems I wrote of her sounds.
And I know her promises have always been false. She has never told the truth to me. She is a trickster goddess. She is a pitfall that draws one into the darkness of the eternal night.
And my sound intertwines with hers. My mind is weakly subservient. She draws me in as I float towards her. I am mindless and malleable. She sings a song.
And so I read my poetry to myself, and a character in a book I become. And I wonder how I would write the book. I look to the siren, as the distance between us multiplies. Impressionist art is how I would describe the scene. Bright city lights in front of me.
And before me stands the siren, a million miles away from me.
And though she is quite the beauty to behold. And though she is a beautiful woman.
And she is standing there dressed to the nines. And yet, I merely stand there for the moment.
Though not a prostitute, she sells the wares of fantasy unto many, many a man.
I step back for a moment. I step back from this goddess called beauty incarnate.
It is my humility that saves me from her wares. The distance between us increases until she is a thousand miles away.
I have chosen the right path, I think. Trust is more important than any fantasy. And I have never been able to place trust within her most beautiful aeviternal words. And the Earth does rotate around the sun. And yesterday is a million miles away from today. All as time rotates about the solar system of our Sun. And galaxies do break apart and collide to form yet more time anew.
And her beauty increases as we are apart.

I cannot say what I have done today. I cannot speak of yesterday or my plans for tomorrow.

I cannot say what I have done today. I cannot speak of yesterday or my plans for tomorrow.
I cannot speak of work, for even where I am is confidential. I cannot say what I did today, for secrets and their keeping is the basis of my trade.
And in interviews I dig deep, but it is not gold I look for,
I look for darkness and confusion. I look for criminality, for weakness and for guilt.
I peer into the soul of another, and they speak to me of their darkness.
I leave unsettled, for I have uncovered the many hidden paths and secrets of the very devil himself.
This is my gift from God perhaps, for, in the year and a bit that I have practised this art: it is always I who can get the truth, and I must keep it secret, which I willingly do.
And what was once something, which in my childhood, I would see as the most salacious gossip, is boring to me,
Sin and evil have lost their mystique. I store away the information I have gleaned, and with it I have the tools to better assist the secret speaker.
And I do not speak of it. I say not a word, and yet I am 20 years older than I was a year and a bit ago.
And through me that divine thing, access to justice: persists. For if I were not bound to secrecy, if we were not all bound to secrecy in my godforsaken profession, justice would swiftly disappear.
And so, a secular priest, I hear many a confession. Though I do not save the soul, I’m better prepared to save the body and the temporal things that mankind depends upon to survive. Keeper of secrets, silent vault of rock and ashes, lawyer, this is my calling and my vocation. The secular priesthood, the foundation of peace and order.
I cannot say what I have done today… For if I were not a secret keeper, if my profession were not that of the mum men and silent women: you could not speak of a yesterday or at all of your any plans for tomorrow. Indeed, neither would exist at all.

I turn off the light of day...

I return to my hovel little cave,
I turn off the light of day, and yet I sleep, sleep is better yet than life?
For up rises a hero, and beyond the horizon, they wreak hope and happiness,
And down they fall, lower than the villain they've slain,
And I despair, and look across the Atlantic, across the Indian and the Antarctic,
No hero ever seems the exception, nothing but illusion, but mirage.

So I get back to my job, and to time with friends from my University past.
I focus on words, and attacks and defences, on work, work, and work,
I resolve conflicts for my job. It is about solutions, not right and wrong,
And proudly I do my job, for law is what upholds life and living breath.

And yet, over the horizon, just out of sight, I pray to see a hero,
A real one, for once, an actual good person, not the amoral mass of our world.

I get back to work, for work is my life, and hope I subdue, ideology and belief in humanity's exceptionalism are distant now.
Checks and balances I uphold, in this imperfect system circling a second class little sun.
My heroism is amoral. I do not save any lives. I merely assist, and come to another's side,
And in the battle of legal words I empirically fight.

I am not a hero, but an amoral upholder of rights, and fighter for might be and might not be.
I am no hero, though I wish I could see one, perhaps a single good person at a distance, rising up from day and light!
For the politicians, and the celebrated ones... they are never whom they seem.
And quietly I serve my goddess, the law, and softly, I speak on behalf of others...

I know that God is with me.

I don't know who I am, but I know that God is with me.

I don't know who I am, but I know that God is with me.

My future is not my purview, I know not how it happens.

I do not control my fate, nor do I regret being human and making mistakes.

Life is a lesson to learn, truth is a reality to forgive.

My book I write: my deeds create my life. It does not matter that people will lie about you. It does not matter for you write your life with your actions before God.

I do not know my future, but I know God planned it, long before my past. I do not know where I will get oxygen to breathe or the food to eat. I trust God, who made the blueprint that is my soul, to steer around my mistakes. To lead me home nonetheless.

I don't know who I am, I know what I do and say is every now good and always good intentioned. I know I've made mistakes, some of which I far from regret: for my punishment was for doing good. I know not who I am, only the name I call myself, but I know that God is with me and trust in his future to be.

What there is in vocal chords?

What there is in vocal chords?

A voice can sooth one. It can rattle one to the core.

For me your voice does both: it rattles me with hope.
And yet it sooths me with the pointlessness of the almost forgotten aspiration to find within you my own truth.

What there is in vocal chord. A physical feature like a face. An aesthetic thing and not the unparallel of the mind. What there is in vocal chord. It is but a feature of beauty or not. It is beautiful your vocal chords imbue it with the deepest of light. But what there is in vocal chord? The physical beauty that creates a sound. Inherent not telling of a truth – what there is, is what always was… What there is in vocal chords is not access to the mind which controls and folds and unfolds… What there is in your vocal chords: is my comfort and my undoing. Your sound is but like your smell. The hope that resonates from your voice is as telling as your smile… What there is in vocal chords is not the essence of the soul but merely an exterior dancing of the within in hope that we might hear.

And yet I am restricted to listen upon your vocal chords’ inconsistent noise – for I cannot access the inner depths of your heart and mind. Your vocal chords are like the beauty in your eyes… Beautiful for all to hear. They are but sound but beauty imbued by God and nature… They are not the essence that once you promised to me.

I calmly listen to the sound of your voice – I do not seek to find your essence – I simply hear the wind upon your vocal chords. I cannot know what you do not seek to reveal to me of your inner essence.

Voice can sooth. Yours rattles me to the core. What is there in your vocal chords that can reveal to me any hope of any pleasant experiences except in memory – for you denied to me the essence of your life. And though I might seek some hidden word within your mouth: I seek more than simply an enigma hidden upon the disturbance of the winds which bind upon my space and upon my mind and within my essence and impregnates my soul into and in my time.

What is there in your vocal chords? If only I knew the soul that disrupts the air into the beauty of a melody: …

A nasty thought interrupts my well-being !

A nasty thought interrupts my well-being a truly nasty thought that's not a thought of mine or yours,

An ugly thought, which some hurtful person determined to write down, a thought of their's,

A thought I wish I had not heard, a thought I wish I had not read.

A thought they wrote down many miles away,

A thought they penned down, many years before today. A thought of one I had never met. A thought that disturbs my peace and my peace of mind.

A thought of a stranger, an experience they determined to share. A thought I was unprepared for.

Trauma is something that can have a lasting effect upon those the one in the traumatic event has never even met.

What you put in your mind lingers in there: be careful what you eat with your eyes. Your stomach may become ill.

Black magic lingers on, the magic of the evil thought, the magic of the negative word, the sorcery of a bad event does stain upon one's happiness.

A horrid thought to have written: a hurtful thing to have done.

I surround myself with happy tunes of a different life than that which that person chose write down.
I seek out your voice it is soothing to me. I seek comfort in your sound. A nasty thought that has nothing to do with me: has me seeking you comfort. A nasty thought a nasty thought a nasty thought it pushes through me.

The trauma of a nasty thought circles my soul like entropy.
And so I seek you out, the purity of your voice as dreams did sound.

 And your noise is like white noise. I know it can block the other noises from any distance.

And I hear your voice it circles my soul.

My words are barely audible.
Barely comprehensible, I speak. I hear your voice and gives me peace
I hear your voice I hear your voice I hear your voice you give me peace…

Here lies the beautiful lie...

listen to ‘Here lies the beautiful lie... ’ on Audioboo

Ice snail-slides about my skin, it grows-and-amalgamates.
Cold spreads like icy saline across my veins. A dormant hibernation sets in within-my-mind.

For years I am to sleep, conscious not,
For decades I might lie there,
Dreaming beautiful dreams.

I lay there as the icy-weather-of-the-moment spreads across my unfighting cells.
My heart slows down, it ceases to keep pounding-effortfully.

I fall into an unknowing-coma, and there are beautiful-dreams.
Magic overcomes the icy-cold-world, I am caught in happy-serendipity.
Ageless I sleep my life past twelves. And ones and twos and threes.

The light is brighter, the colours more vivid.
Ageless I sleep, a million years in a moment.
My mind clasps unto the beauty of the-one-within-the-dream.
Ideal, perfect, I clutch onto her, and I do not desire to wake.

Elle est mon monde. J'aime la femme. Je suis heureux. Je suis content. "Merci Beaucoup" je dit.

And she touches my face with an icey touch, and warmth spreads away from her deadly unwarm.

My lie, my delusion I seem content to live. "Merci Beaucoup" je dit.
And I playfully play with her, La femme. "Merci Beaucoup" je dit.
As the cold spreads unto my lungs and they do not pulse, and the musical symphony of my brain,
Does no longer commence.

But yet while I have miles to go before I sleep, as the foreign poet once said,
But yet as I feel the cold become inset flow upon my unset fate.

And I must choose between content and life's contents.

Ice snail-slides about my skin, it grows-and-amalgamates.

All those dreaded hopeful expected things...

listen to ‘All those dreaded hopeful expected things... ’ on Audioboo

Thunderous applause, doth break upon the nighttime skies.
Broken, the rags of time and space release a stench of knowing decay,
One cannot glean from another's mind even a slight stench of their reeking thoughts within a life of time.

I hear I keep you back from your dreams, I stand upon them, a distant memory.
I hear I hold the hand of time, and disrupt your midnight peace of not mine,
I listen to the shaking nighttime breeze, as it whirs around my windows and downs the innocent birds,

They tweet indignation and ignorance prior their swift swift swift unbegotten fall,
They ask the wind why it seeks to leave.

The wind replies their wings push it down. It does not desire to keep in their feathers the breath of life.

I stare now into the dark sunlight. The darkness covers the sun,
And I remember years ago the comfort your presence brought,
And the excitement of your fickle life breath.

You say I hold you back. Or perhaps you wish I would jealously react.
Maybe you seek my disapproval or a reaction of some kind, for you strain against time's distant reign.

You say I hold you back, with my dripping distant once memories,
Yet all that remains is a shadow of a ghostly apparition.
I search but find only hints of your foot-and-finger-prints.
They only show up within my mind. All other evidence is with you, once almost dear.

They say I hold you back a bit, perhaps you wish it were not so.
They say I whisper in your mind, in dreams you have long forgotten to ask yourself to renounce.

And when I ignore you, they say you call out, and demand I not forget what once was a dream of fallen life.

The birds fall perilously toward the ground.
They beg the wind not to take their lives. The wind upon which they once did soar higher than the heaven's heights.
If you desire freedom, I do not hold you back. My memories though they fade, are but that.
The long forgotten almost hope I once found comfort in with you.

Ahead of me is life, and I doubt I see your shadow within my path.

All these dreadful hopeful expected things; All these fading memories;
Ahead I walk into the sun, and the falling birds do find their wings, as a second later the deadly wind does die, and another wind does lift their wings, birds are creatures of aspirating hope.

Ode to the good centurion...

He stood there, aghast, as all looked content.
He objected and raised every issue,
As their ignorant evil lives seemed bliss.
He had nightmares and wished this were not his world.
All as the usurpers had a smile.

He objected as the devil took control,
He wept as the incompetent men and women ruled.
He looked to the skies and howled like a wolf.

He did not forget his duty unto death,
His sacred duty, his sacrament unto the highest command.

The good centurion fought and conquered death.

When I think of you...

Roses, yellow, purple red.
Odysseus stuck on an Island, Calypso playing by his side.
Yet, of Penelope his mind has hope,
A woman not the goddess of island paradise.

And he heads forward and on, as the gods negotiate to make his song,
And Calypso and paradise and eternal sunrise he forgets,
As he seeks a woman like you, his Penelope.

And when I think of you, Odysseus to Penelope,
Stuck a thousand miles away, Or something in that stead.

I think of my Penelope, and all within my head, does instead.
I think of you, and I romance your ripples and reflecting waves of jade.

And I think of you Penelope, and thoughts become lurid, and
I wonder at us so estranged by distance, and challenges famed.

I romance the thought, I cherish the image, in rippling, draining water,
And memory falters, and your voice is a sound I easily forget,
Your smell is long forgotten, It is not something within my grasp,
And your touch is distant, I grasp at the air.

Odysseus to his Penelope, and the secrets within our bliss and bed,
The wounds in my heart are the wound in my head,
The history of Odysseus to his Penelope,

But my intentions are to search, within my stead.
I seek you within the rhythms of my head,
I bid to fill the memories in with a many coloured crayon or paint the stead.

I can but await you, await your breaking upon me like the winter tides,
I can bid to wait, wait and strain.

For if we never meet in this, my stead,
It is not Odysseus to Penelope,
But a man stuck out far to sea, who dies,
Of thirst for his internal misery.

Emotions in me...

He stood there without grimace, as his servants cut him piece by gory piece.
He disobeyed Caesar, by making the statement.
His dissent, his opposition, to the slaughter.
His grievance was his death, he died a painful death, joyous in his painful slaughter.

Shaka kaSenzangakhona despised the weakness of his troops.
They ran in small sandals across the savannah.
He wanted silent, barefoot men to bid his dues.
He ran upon the devil thorns which rip apart human flesh, and his men, he killed if they did not too.

He stood against emotion. He stood for pain.

And the great leaders of us, of men...
They stood against emotion, they stood for death the angel, and for pain.

But your laugh unsettles me. Your love and joy weaken me,
And a fire ignites within a spark.
An inferno blasts into the supernovas.
The acceleration begins, the snowball grows, and grows.
I pretend to hate you, to avoid this passion,
My pain is melting, my power fading.
When accompanied by you I cannot run over the thorns,
They tear my flesh and bones.

And I feel the darkness encompass me: emotion: love.
And I know not how to live, or be.
For with you, I am vulnerable,
And it is only hope I see.

But I fight it to my best,
And hope and pray, and silently obey.
But you, sweet lady, do unsettle me.
My path of stoic silence, is cataclysmically affected only in and with thee.

Belief is a thing... a thing based on other things...

listen to ‘Belief is a thing... a thing based on other things..’ on Audioboo

I watch the glass, and await.
I look into the world,
And await an image upon my spectacles.

Purple and red and blue,
Reflect upon the sunset lit lens,
As I look through spectacles, and observe this world.

Belief is not nothing,
It is based on something,
It is because of something,
It is never without some cause, some seem, sown tight.

My belief is based on that what I see and hear,
On what my spectacles show me clear.
On the light, which travels, and sound which edges on,
On the past, which I presently observe, ahead of my spectacles,
As my ears hear music, and sounds bounce upon the seems,

Belief is based upon things, and beliefs based upon these things...

I love you, I do not deny these sorts of things,
At least not in my heart, where I feel such things and things,
But as the bells ring, and the snow freezes my inner being,
And as the icy boiling world reverberates, and sanctions all sorts of false beliefs,

Make me believe in you, make me take credence, and truth,
Teach me to love you, as I did Yesterday and yester-moment,
Teach me to love you, make me safe in belief and hope,
Show me the things that build belief,
Teach me the days of mistrust can be at an end in ever,
And never ever again need rule.

Make my belief wonderful, as once it was beautiful...

Belief is a thing... a thing based on other things.. https://t.co/KLnhap6RCI via @Audioboo

— Marc Evan Aupiais (@SACNSNew) February 9, 2014

But God did not answer me, amid the echoes of my mind.

I hoped. I wished. It had to be.
I believed in magic, some utter see.
I prodded my mind and saw all signs.
I admitted it must be true.

I was overjoyed, and filled with hope,
I talked to God, and saw miracles.
I awaited hope, and earthly gift.
In my youth I still believed... in the magic of mere thinking.

And in hopes and dreams and fortune told...
The magic of signs... a time, a card.

And life was magic, and magic was magical.

In my youth I foolishly believed.
In my joy I shared a thousand prayers with God,
I swore I heard him make them true,
I was certain all that was needed was prayer,
I was safe, and assured.
I fluffed my pillows and had happy dreams,
And I preferred dreams to dry, harsh reality.

And God is good and true,
And speaks to all humanity,
But no prayer or wishful wistful hope made my wishes but dreams.
No matter how loudly I talked in my state of awaken sleep.

And like the children's book,
I spoke with the moon, and the canyon of life echoed,
And I swear I heard a otherworldly reply,
A resonance of my own being and my inner love.
But God did not answer me, amid the echoes of my mind.

I gloried, and felt overjoyed,
I celebrated within my soul,
But God did not answer me within my soul.
And God, was distant, And God was hard to find.

In the foolishness of my youth,
I believed I could fly, or walk upon the water.
In my holy innocence, I believed God could institute change, when human hearts arrange,
I thought I could ask for vengeance, and have my enemies die a dreadful death,
I thought God put me on earth to speak to billions, and save mankind.

But God did not answer me, amid the echoes of my mind.
God did not hear me as I meditated so blind.
God did not answer me,
And amid an uncountable menagerie of signs,
And infinite sureness, from all around,

God did not answer me, amid the echoes of my mind.
And nor did the signs yield any but hardship and a path of captivity unto death.
And God did not answer me, amid the echoes of my mind.

Forget life...

Grand lighting spotlight, it edges... it breaks, it shatters, and lights a human face.
The golden shards break forth and are exclaimed as wonderment and heaven incarnate.

A human awakes... and speaks and interacts, with others of their species,
Vipers, who lie, entangle and in pretence do smile, with calmly furtive falsity,
Scales await to strike, and consume humankind, their own kind.

Murder, is entertainment of a kind,
Leaders are absolved.
Size, is the stature of a kind, physical stature is a standard,
Lies are a wisdom, of humankind, deception is to acclamation.

In this vacuum human kind,
In this stark black world,
Even the moonlight is deceptive, and the goddess of the Greeks,
Leads men to stumble, over shadows that are crevices and chasms,
And fall into invisible human cooking pots, to roast for all mankind,

Indeed, forget life, and all her wiles, and endless array of inhuman wares,
Forget pride and envy, for you are imprisoned with the devil, and his kind,
Do not enjoy too much your kind, You are merely here to do your time,

And hope one day for aquittal, for God to take you from your kind,
And end the misery of you, and all humankind.
In this, the sentence of living...