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.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

And you told me of your dreams, how you'd go into the night.

We lay together, on our backs.
Looking together at the great black.
Bright white dots, sparkle in the lonely sky.
And from the stars, our star looks quite white,
Bleached dry, phantom sight.

And you told me of your dreams,
How you'd go into the night.

You climbed upon a futuristic craft,
It travelled to the speed of light.
And I looked at you, as you sped off into night.
Time is but change, and the more massive you became,
As you approached the constant, the barrier for light,
The slower you moved. You were there in the blink of your eye.

And you followed the stars about the milky way,
You went to strange planets, and did speculate.
You looked at the black whole, some distance away.
You said that from space, Sol, our sun, is white.
And you realised that the coloured photographs from the radio telescopes,
were only in reality almost black and white.

And you visited the quasars, and the pulsars, and even approached the great wall.
You did not realise, that time went for you, ever so slow.
When you got there, it was gone, only darkness and night,
Though our galaxy, which you left, still shone ever so bright,
As light travelled with you, one and same speed.
You realised I'd been dead for billions of nights.

And so you headed back home, you were lonely and alone.
Every now and then you stopped to take in the light's ghost of long dead lonely sights,
And time sped up, as you and light did collide.
Billions of years later, you reached, in the blink of an eye.
There was darkness, not a solar system. The earth had long since been taken and turned to night.
And amidst the emptiness, a distress call did sound.
A last craft, with a woman in charge.
She spoke of the end, our race quite extinct.
As you neared her, the time did begin to fly.
You realised she had been dead a billion years hence,
Not even a body remained to decay.
You docked and boarded, you let yourself in.

You discovered that man had learnt to weave gravity, to thwart the universal constant,
And had spread out across every stretch of time and space.
Trillions of galaxies, and trillions of souls.
Mankind had grown and matured.
And you heard the many greatest songs, watched the top films of ever world,
And read the annuls and the greatest of books.
Shakespeare was forgotten, you said... compared with the greats, you weren't too surprised.

And the last survivor had left a diary of the time. Some of her crew had children,
But the gene lines were thin, and even they died within a decade or so.
And they had all taken pharmaceuticals, to extend the range of their lives,
From several decades to centuries,
And you thought that no doubt that was wise,
And you read so many books with your time,
And you watched the greatest of films,
And learnt of the history of time.

And discovered that gravity did not just weave space but time,
And so you sent the ship back so many billions of years, and the vast distance back to were earth is now in the cosmos.
And you found me to speak,
Your eyes were bright like stars, and you were a little older than when you left.
You spoke of so many things,
But you had never looked me up in the great history of things,
Why would you, I guess.
And you hopped back upon your great craft,
And sent yourself through space and time.
You spent millennia exploring planets and stars,
And seeking out alien civilized life,
And when you found civilizations long dead and gone,
You sent your craft back those millennia in time,
And you found the planet which you had found,
Those many parsecs and light years away.
And you watched great and small civilizations rise and then fall.
You observed and sometimes intervened,
You saw the most beautiful and ghastly of all scenes,
And told me of history's great highlights,
And how the first man came to be.

You were older this time,
When you returned.
I guess many millennia had passed from your perspective.
You said you loved me, it was why you always returned,
And the reunion was a fun few hours, before you returned.
You were older when you came back,
Your hair entirely white, your face wrinkled,
But your eyes were lit like quasars, and your heart pulsed like the stars.
You said you only had a short time left,
You died in my arms,
And I sent your dead body to your favourite star,
As set out in your will.

I assume your ship crashed and burnt, disintegrating as your corpse neared its final tune,
For I did not accompany you, I felt your craft was not a great boon.
For it killed you young and all too soon,
And only a few years after we first had met.
I had wanted to have children with you,
A life, a career,
And that ship, had taken you from me, like a suicide, or the wind.
And we had both mourned each other's death,
You, at the end of time, a billion years after humanity had whimpered into death,
A great sadness, you had felt at my death.

We lay together, on our backs.
Looking together at the great black.
Bright white dots, sparkle in the lonely sky.
And from the stars, our star looks quite white,
Bleached dry, phantom sight.

And you told me of your dreams,
How you'd go into the night.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Flashing, pointed sabre teeth, a point.

Flashing, pointed sabre teeth, a point.
The catlike creature stalks.
But I feel as extinct as he,
His teeth once so sharp and potent,
A tiger stalked the plains of day.
He is dead now, but bones on an empty display,
Never again will nature let his padded paws still walk this way.

And the shogun rides eternally upon his horse,
Outdone by devil fire, and an evolving world,
His sword flashes like a flint,
But he is locked in the darkness of a world now lost.
Yet I feel as extinct as he,
His sword once so sharp and potent,
The sound of horse hooves once a fierce sign of war.
He rode until the dust rose up, and forever disappeared into rust.

And I look to the sky, and gaze upon stars long dead,
As dead as actors in the old movies,
As full of life,
And I feel as dull and dead as the as-though-bright stars I see,
Even as I break with energy, and run through the time's trials.

For while my sword may glint,
And my sun may shine within my eyes,
I too, one day, will be extinct.
And what is worse, I wonder about,
Is what is missing from me,
Flashing, pointed sabre teeth, a point.
A reason - A raison d'être!

Monday, October 12, 2015

... and the sky bleeds like in a song



My vision hits the rays of the sun.
I quickly close my eyes,
... the light is far too bright.
And amongst well defined colours, and nothing in shadow,
I somehow struggle to see.
I notice its shine, you sometimes shine too,
... and my heart plummets, it forgets to beat.
I think of you, and what was once so sweet.

My eye catches a motor vehicle of all things, an elderly Mercedes Benz.
A girl's name, for an automotive beast.
I notice its shine, you sometimes shine too, my love.
And as it revs its cylinders into a dance,
I imagine you spinning in the midnight blackness,
... under the flashing and spotting of the many coloured lights.

My vision hits the rays of the sun,
It is setting, and the sky bleeds like in a song.
I look away, it is brilliant, I fear I will be blind.
You shine sometimes, your cheeks are as red as blood.
And I look away, for you burst with explosive darkly light.
And I cannot bear to be blind, I need to have my life-giving sight,
And with you it is always the darkest night.

Sometimes, I sense it still,
Somewhere in my bones,
It is not yet disappeared.
Some iota still feels love,
And like Rome's ancient Dido,
It desires to believe.

For what is rational,
The heart is yet to have seen,
And what is foolish,
It thinks is bound to succeed.
And I look at that Mercedes Benz,
And I wonder why he named it after a girl,
Not himself.

And at the stars in the night sky,
Named after muses, and the raging of the night.
And while some iota still hopes in you,
I know it is not quite yet rational,
And you are the darkly lunar light.
A shadow of dreams, a wisp of what could once have been.
And while I saw you, with unseeing glee,
I ignored what could have been.
I forgot what my eyes could have seen.
And somewhere in my bones,
It is not yet disappeared.

And I think of you, dear love,
And I wonder when it finally will leave,
When my love will disentangle from me,
And yet, still disappear,
... into the blinding sight of brightest day's inevitable night.
It only awaits the death throes of the final blight's fright.



Sunday, September 27, 2015

Laughter cackles like a scream



Music, and dancing - break the hidden sway,
The tide is rising, a flood is kept away.
I watch from a safe distance.
You curtsey to your beloved rhythm.
I bow... out... and say nothing of it.

The meandering of your life bores
- Me, it does not please,
Your sparkling dress does not delight my eyes,
Perfect notes, do nothing for,
Your noises do not alight my ears...
- What good to me, is your ever perfect pitch,
Water's teeth approach from beneath.
I do not wish it was you I was... carelessly... dancing with.

Music, and your dancing, breaks and sways,
Your laughter cackles like a scream or a quiet stream,
A haunted wind chime,
Flowing upon the deep strength of cold biting icy winds,
You screech with pleasure, in twirling form,
Eyes lit, a glint, like steel blades,
Or the sight of a rifle, against the hedonic delight of the Etruscan sun.

Darling, your delightful looks, and ever evolving borrowed worldview,
Do nothing for my inner peace,
And I am not native to your happiness sprees.
Water's teeth approach, they seek not to please.

Music and dancing, break our way,
The solemn notes of your life, frankly bore,
You sway, and dance, with catlike grace,
You ghost about, and float above the floor,
The delightful melody that is you, deeply offends.
As you gracefully seek a tad attention, for you, of course,
And riches and luxuries, for you, and your court,
And wonder about seeking out any other than me to please.
I do not tell you of what's hidden below murky waters just out to sea.

You smile and tell us of us ordinary folk,
You are certain to keep a few close at heart,
You gleefully grin, and tell us how you condescend,
And keep your feet grounded, upon the air above the dance.
The floor is flooded, perhaps you'd know if you dared touch it,

Music and dancing, I break away.
I do not want to meander and pointlessly sway,
And the music does nothing for my inner peace.
And the waves are just a bit too close for little old me,
I watch you from a distance, as is proper, yet,
You curtsey and meander to gain society's medals, proudly,
- to hang upon your well ironed blouse,
- and dark blue ribbons for your hair.
I leave you to it, and it is truth, that you are quite superficially good at it,
All continues, as water's teeth near, white, glinting, primal and bare,

- But my soul is not native to the notes - which you aimlessly play.

And you don't for a minute stop to think, before your ruthlessly sway,
And endlessly bray about all the delightful things you've done, as you've strayed,

And of your acclaims, ever wisely won.

And you cannot for a minute, nor a second, believe, that it is not you I endlessly seek to please.
I hide my silent grimace, and look away, as at a distance, something seeks you from your beloved seven seas.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

I set my dangers on auto correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others

You hid it with a bizarre smile,
Plastered with lipstick and fake eyebrows,
Long eyelashes, upon your canvas visage of a fake face.

You run to the record player, and quickly fumble about.
You press a lever, and it lifts the needle up,
Like a druggie, you try to find the vein,
The next track... not this one,
Where with a record is choice, you don't much like this one.

Click, it drops, and after static, it hits the track,
And like a druggie you relax a bit... music soothes, it controls a mood.
Nothing vibrates in your brain quite like analogue,
As you play about with mostly modern songs,
Music, hits the spot, you say, it's your version of those Iranian bongs the students like
- it alters your foulest of moods. It soothes.

You connect your headphones, and switch between (twenty;) channels
Radio, blasting into a cranium, leaving - reeking and seeking... red hearts and yellow emoticons.

And you listen, and shift in the middle of twenty thousand annoying songs...
What you are seeking I can't quite tell, but the music, like an addiction, cannot satisfy.
You place YouTube on AutoPlay, and to dark places, you, it takes, once again.

And you reach for your IPhone, it weighs less than 20 stone...
Like Tor, it browses your dark web,
It speaks of who you love, and who you'd pay to waylay or spay,
And from it, more music blasts, and a spell, casts.
And you stand, and break into an unbegotten dance.
It seems like you are having a blast, like a suicide bomber could never cast.
And the clock strikes, and shivers with effort,
Time moves backwards as you sing along to a certain song,

And you raise your flag well beyond your mast,
And Instagram your latest self portrait, via a poor man's Photoshop.
And certainly, you are wearing quite the crop top,
You turn on the beat, and feel everything is quite sweet.

And so I set my dangers on auto-correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others,
But they only ever lead to your darkest of webs,
And I fear this path leads to infinite recommendations,
And to songs that blast, and spells that cast, upon the tattered hope of any good man's mast,
SOS- now - SMS, I re-pen a redundant acronym- Save My Soul... I seek to say..

None of which I desire to follow.

Do you hear me?
If you see what I mean?
Perhaps if I uploaded it to Instagram?
But it's not quite my style.
And your most annoying songs have blasted for quite the while...

So I seek peace, with my curtains closed, my door locked,
And a book set in 1884, a century before the era we seek, everyday to once again meet, on empty streets,
And you lay down on your bed, upon another planet, in black and white,
And set about photographing every item you choose to eat.
And in some bizarre unthreading of fate, autoplay has us listening to that same foul beat.
For some reason, you think it's sweet.
To me it's not quite the same,
Music is not how I seek to speak.
And the futuristic novel I read, has me quite upbeat.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

So I said, let's give lost love a test.... even if it's the worst at best...

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them, with her front left digit,
She smiled weakly, and looked to me.
Her eyes were... were questioning me.

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them in, with her feminine digits attached to...
An appendage from her torso...
She was done up nice, more present than a package below a tree.

She asked if I loved her...
I spoke my truth,
I said, I really didn't know,
I love a you, but I don't know if she's real, not yet, you see.
Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them, with her front left digit,
She smiled weakly, and looked to me.
Her eyes were... were questioning me.

Pretty curls, in unwashed hair, she twirled them with her fingertips,
She licked her lips, and relaxed her furrowed brow.
Wrinkles had spread about her beautiful visage of a face.

I love you too, she said, but I don't know if you're real, just not yet, you see.
I was glad she agreed.
Perhaps she'd fathom my soul from a venetian canoe.
Maybe she'd twirl my thoughts about, with her front left digit,
As she licked her lips, she narrowed her brow, and funnily looked upon me.

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them in, with her feminine digits attached to...
An appendage jutting out from her left, connected to her shoulder, from her torso...
She was done up nice, more present than a package below a tree.

She asked if I loved her...
But still, I spoke my truth,
As I had that time before,
And she frowned, but hid it well.

Time, will tell, it is the test,
She said this to me, and I heartily agreed,
I looked upon her, more present than a package below a Christmas tree.
We'd argued at times, love was put to the test,
But the woman I thought I loved, still stared me right in the face,
So, I said, let's give love a test, even if it's the worst at best.

And she frowned at me, quite strongly.
For she didn't know just yet,
With her, even the worst was always,
In every way, the best.

Curls, in unwashed hair, she twirled them,
And with her eyes, she braided my soul to her,
As she twirled her hair, and curled it into some other thing.

And I smiled, and I told her I love her, for I think she's real,
Her form, complied with my fantasy.
And she frowned, and with great sorrow she looked at me,
And finally, she said it to me, as though I were quite daft, you see,
'Your fantasy, complies with me, it's not that other hurtful thing, you just said.'
'And my fantasy, complies with you, too,' she kindly added as an afterthought.
And she twirled her hair, and curled it into some other thing.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

A boy, fallen, upon a beach - it's just, he couldn't quite breathe.

She said I was mean,
Cold hearted about these things.

That Lion, Cecil, was it,
Had died up in Africa, while I focussed on... other...
Everyday and mostly mundane things.
And a boy had fallen upon the beach,
It's just... he couldn't breath.

And perhaps the toddler's parents had been tortured,
Forced to leave a far flung war zone... a Syria, so to speak.
Maybe they leaked out of the country, fearing a regime.

And the boy, he'd fallen upon a sandy beach,
In Europe, a place his parents did as safe-haven seek,

But Europe rejected them,
As did the stormy seas,
And a boy sun bathed upon the lifeless beach...
He'd bathed in the treacherous seas,
Floating like driftwood upon a beach.
- Except, he couldn't quite as yet breathe, you see.

And she said I was mean,
Cold hearted, for I said he was one of many,
The cadaver of a boy, who'd once sung, walked, and dreamed.
The unwelcome corpse who'd immigrated onto the beach.
One of many, he is, I mundanely did speak,

And then did wonder my thoughts, my dreams,
I pictured them, as the photographer has the long sleeping infant...
The many dead toddlers, claimed by Europe's bordering seas.
Sunbathing upon the ocean floor, just as yet... unable to breathe.

She asked me to coffee or a coke... But all I got was a dreaded laugh and a soak.

She asked me to coffee or a coke,
But to be honest, I didn't like her ever-present sound just as yet.
Clickity click, she walked upon the ground,
In shoes grown from hippo hide.
And flawless skin - thicker than cast iron.

It rained a bit, and her expensive heels did squeak.
Her perfect hair frizzed a bit,
A deep delicious brown, the Nile, as though in flood.

Her laugh rattled, and fully soaked upon me.
Her brown eyes, the deepest of wells, Widened with flowing delight...
It entered me, that terrible, awful sound.
She asked me to coffee or coke.
But to be honest, I didn't like her sound too much as yet.
Dripping, water, squishiness against the pavement as she did speak and squeak.

She asked me to coffee or to coke.
Coffee, I said.
I needed the company, and she was good to the look,
As her expensive perfume wafted over a bloke.

And the rain did coldly do me in with a soak.
And as I ordered a coffee, she ordered a coke.
And me- her augmenting laugh did mercilessly soak.

And all of this, did loneliness, stoke.
She asked me out for coffee or coke.
The sky had darkened, as afternoon turned to night.
But all I got was a dreaded laugh and a soak.

She looked at me with perfect eyes,
And in them, I did soak.
As I drank my coffee, and she drank her coke.
In her wretched laughter, I did soak.

And I wonder if she'd laugh with me again,
If I asked her to coffee or a coke.
As in ironclad darkness, my emptiness attempts to soak.
And I think of her wretched laugh. I smile. I hope.
Perhaps she'd meet me yet again... for coffee and a coke.

Friday, August 28, 2015

It is my doubt not to speak

An angel in an orchard,
She said it spoke strange things.
No angels, or voices ever yet spoke to me.
Though my thoughts debate and argue matters endlessly.
It is with my own inner voice, my doubtful thoughts speak.

And surely, God has never spoken to me?

And my God is life, God of everything,
But my end is the ground, mortal darkness, or ashes of things.

And an angel in an orchard told her strange things,
It never spoke to me.
I was never foolish enough to follow my empty dreams.

And my God is light, and full of energy,
But my death approaches, a date is set and I am late - it will not delay.
A date written by my God, who will not betray.

And I well wish others, as my enemies thrive and laugh and smile,
And of me, they say the most ugly things, without basis,
And not in revenge, no... for the fun of such things.

And I admire Joan, the witch my ancients were convinced was a saint.
The witch our modern world no longer forsakes, nor burns to ashes upon the rough-made always-condemned stake.

And though they may not be true, I wish I heard her angels speak.
And I foolishly admire those with more from life to seek.

And around me, all simply believe,
But doubt has been my nature from infancy.

And I second-guess my every second-guess.
I wonder what will happen to my now empty body upon massive eternity.
Torn to shreds, or burnt, indistinguishable from cigarettes once seen.
And even so, I believe.
Although God sends me no audible messages, and his angels - I just cannot see.

And I doubt everything, even me.

And I wish some angel had spoken to me.
But all I have is intuitions, dreams and feelings of unease.
And perhaps a voice, inaudible to me, speaks of things unspoken.
But in such a thing I cannot just believe.

And the world itself, I doubt as I do see.
I doubt everything. I doubt you. I doubt me.

And God I sense not, not much at all just lately.
And I have never been foolish enough to follow my dreams.

And yet, somehow still, silly me, I believe.
And around me, I hear a million angels whisper unspoken things.
And yet, they speak to doubting me.
And I hear not a thing.
It's a predicament - I am doubting me.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Hubris... set my soul upon the deadly seas

He stood upon the muddy clouds with the mortal corpses of lovely saints.
Looking down upon us - gladiators saluting gold,
He stood, bent over - deathly, holy, long dead,
He looked upon the snares set, the traps crept.
I ignored him as he spoke,
Surely, it was optimism, not hubris
And I believed the beautiful impossible.
That I was an antagonist in a novel by the guardian deity,
Who carved me out of gold.

Of my great tragedies, I forged sense.
Of injuries to mankind, of deaths.
I was the leading man in my own novel-life, a character in a fiction.
Not a long forgotten footnote, or some hollow, empty soul.
Hubris lit its eyes, shining like gold - it set itself free.

And though Absurdism is not my faith,
God writes in a language I do not yet comprehend.
And The World does not ever centre upon me.

And so I stood before the waves,
The rocks were blacker than black.
The seas swirled with lurid blue and vomit green.
They took my soul and bashed it against the teeth of Midas.

Empty, I lay down upon the silky sheath of watery suffocation.
Hubris left my benign form,
The ocean filled with my unknown tears.

Empty, I tossed upon the sandpaper strandline of the full moon beach.
Amidst seaweed, waste and lost manmade nets, I struggled somehow to breathe.
And though I am not an absurdist, the tea leaves, the meaning of horrid fate, I...
I don't even pretend to sight read.

And the white horse, with a shining amazon warrior riding upon the waves,
I admit now, was but water - angered and strained.
Not a saviour upon a horse, in well polished silver form.

And though absurdism is not my faith,
There is no profit, dear lass,
Of thinking you ride upon solid ground,
And do not accompany the time winged death took my soul.

Hubris is a funny thing,
It caused me hope, unwavering belief,
Betrayed  - yet - I always believed.

Absurdism is not my faith,
But nor are you,
Flawed, and an unhelpful liar,
You were never once true.

And so I let my hubris go,
And with Jonah and the whale,
I catch a wave,
And let God direct my insignificant life.
And hubris, like barking at the moon,
I actively subdue.
Along with it, any hope I once had for you.
And along with it, any hope I once held for you.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

I'd do anything for you... then you open your mouth...

Be still... storm - upon an accelerating heart.
I look upon you, I feel your stare,
And somehow, I feel you here, and there.
Upon my skin, my hairs do raise.
Electricity starts and unpredictably sways.

And slowly, my heart... flutters again.
And what they say of you,
It cannot be there...
Such a creature of ever... beauty.

Be still, storm - upon an accelerating heart.
Yet... then you open up... your mouth,
And I observe you with ears, with sight.

Be still, storm upon an accelerating heart.
And ever true, deepest love for you... I all so suddenly...
Just realistically, I... I... I simply cannot find.
Since you opened up... your mouth.
And words happened, they swiftly dispersed... came out.
And with them... most quickly, I fled.

Friday, August 7, 2015

Quiet, the Maddening Voice

Nothing... else. Your voice, it's you.
What you say - I tend to ignore.
Not on purpose. Truly. Of course.
Radiance. Hope. Your voice sooths me.
It's what I love, not just the... rest.

And I await its sound. In its unholy rest.
I crave its rhythm, its unsettling upsets.
Your voice fills my form, and my unsettled unrest.

If I could, to hear you protest.... I'd upset you...
I'd buy you flowers, if it caused you to speak a word most unset.
I might'as well be entirely blind. And though you are beautiful,
For it is your siren sound that attracts me,
Your natural speech, that sound, I seek.
Your magnetic chords of everyday - I everyday seek.

And as your voice undulates notes,
I sit and listen, fate not unset.
To a voice, unrivalled, a voice I...
I cannot but sit through a million undue, unset.

The winter ice touches my lungs,
It freezes my inner sets.

And I listen carefully. I await your unsettling upset.
I look to my telephone, but it seems unset.
I do not bother to lift it,
And without your voice, I am upset.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Whisper of the Hidden Sociopath

From the depths of Avīci, the Devil blew a wind.
Hades commented on it, he said it made him sin.
Within a prison of not eternal hell,
The Devil laughed a bit, He sang it in a stroll.

Fire did burn, and whisper upon the words.
One in a hundred, he or she was born quite free,
Nothing good about her, a predator after thee.
No good thoughts about her, killing makes her free.

And what is it to thee?
Her words seem quite a reprieve.
She sings of horrid anguish,
A world too mean to be.
She sings and weaves perfect lies,
A world that hates her and your hide,
Of her many troubles, and people who are not free.
And with her words, you find it,
You find your synchronicity.
For her tainted words, you'd give her every might.
Upon the altar of her lies, you'd give unto, even after life.

From the heights of the heavens,
The devil blew a wind.
A second saviour, just when you needed something different, now to see.
Fire did burn and whisper upon the words.
And to his song, you did lean.

Emotions, he has not,
Proto- the limiting of his reach.
Primeval thoughts do rule his scene.
He sings a song of love. A word he secretly delights to despise.
And your affection builds him up.
Besting others is his daily breath,
And his thoughts are nothing but the berserker's best.

Your love builds him up,
He holds you, a trophy, quite unnaturally high.
And he enjoys your destruction, as many times as time and will.
They say he murdered thee.

One in a hundred, one of many almost demons who walk this hallowed world,
They call it planet number three.
A mind quite different, chemicals not in balance,
He whispers into the ether.
And the devil delights as another and another joins him upon the nether sun.
And hell is filled with trusting souls, hell on earth, the darkest bowels.

The Whisper of the Sociopath, at first it makes him free,
Innocent of Conviction, he tells his lies to thee.
Fire did yearn, and whisper upon his words,
Then he made you free... of all that would make you flee.
A mere Whisper of the Sociopath,
He who hunts humans who were once quite free.
And staring down upon you, he sings his sad song to thee.
And glancing down upon him, see he has no empathy,
A predator pursuing you,
Death and Destruction, are his Daily Breath.
Believe not his secret lies,
Do not aid or assist him,
Perhaps then, in your humility, you will as yet be free.

The Whisper of the Sociopath, perfectly, it is crafted to deceive.
But seeing yourself fawn and faint,
Its influence upon what he sees as your soon dying corpse,
In humility, admitting his effect, that only his ilk can make tread.
How truly you are deceived,
Seeing yourself from outside, perhaps now, perhaps then, perhaps you might be free.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Laying upon my pillow, surreal, of a haunted might's sight.

I am different, there, in my dreams,
Around me, a different scene.
A snake - in my bed sheets, a scorpion, upon my hair.
I fluff my pillows, I subtly rest my head.
And controlled, rational me,
He can no longer be, in this, a haunted scene. Upon the pillow, the head, a different me.
One who cannot help but see - sources of disquiet. Silent, though, the night may, or might, seem.

A hero. A monster, a black jaguar, I prowl.
A mouse, a rabbit, unwitting, I flee. I live upon a die. That, I don't deny, to the pixies within my then unquiet mind.
I turn off my light, and into darkness, my soul does rest.
No longer in control, I fall upon the great reset.
And magic mathematics, are worked upon, there, in the currency of my nightmarish dreams.

But - you know that, do you still not, you star in them? Against my throat, your blade,
You, the venomous snake, the scorpion upon my hair.
A lady monster, whom I always somehow see. Anthromorphized animals: are prowling fearfully upon my mental street.
You, unwanted, yet haunting me.
The circus director, who controls my dreams.
The banshee, whose day-lit nights: I swiftly do flee.

And as I switch off my light, with it my mind.
I cannot control what it does - it will fall inevitably into unsightly art, into dream.
In the morning, I am oblivious, forgotten is the monster, of the never boring sheets.

And blessed daylight, washes away the things not to be seen.

The blade of unwanted fate, still points to you,
A compass, charged, magnetically.

And I live upon a die, that my rational mind cannot help but still deny.

And as I fall asleep, you, a monster never heard or seen.
A monster, raging wars upon my dreams.

And blessed daylight, washes away the things not to be seen.
And yet, somewhere, upon this unusual planet, you prowl not just within my nights.
Yet, upon some distant street, real, not in my mind's uncertain sights.
A real person, though mythical upon my unseeing sights.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

His pedigree was not yet in doubt

As he strode, his clothes had not quite fit him,
The colours did not yet match.
As he strolled along, imprisoned in a style a few years out, a few years past.
As yet, he stood quite tall, as though he were confident, still, as yet.

As he moved, his feet tentatively tested the ground,
He seemed to notice everything and nothing...
He never spoke, as he seemed to glide, or perilously slide, upon the ground.

As he strode, his clothes did not quite fit him,
Sometimes, he even, in his abject loneliness, he caressed an old book,
As he stared into the depths of the broken nights.
As he strode, his clothes were slightly not in fashion,
And he'd missed quite a bit, when he'd attempted to shave, it would seem.

As he strode, his clothes did not quite fit him,
But when he spoke, his pedigree was not in the least, in doubt,
It was not how he spoke, but of what, and the words he somehow perfectly chose.

The world, he saw, with different focus,
The ground, from which the deathly angels rose.

His clothes, did not quite fit him,
They certainly did not fit his voice.
But his broken mind, saw angels rising from the floor.
But his broken mind, saw angels rising from the floor.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

The Ethereal Superiority of the Shrew

Control was a thing for her,
Her little mammalian clutches,
Her power-dress approach,
She had to grasp tightly upon the world,
She had to be in charge of all.

A shrew, 'mouse-like insectivorous mammal' Oxford says,
Wearing black, or pink.
With a grasp of language, that grasps the entire thing.
And a nastiness most women wrongly admire.

Estuary, or General American she had best speak,
There is nothing received about her, an insectivorous mammal, as of yet.

She does not inhabit temperate climes,
It is all snow, and ice, and deathly heat.
Control; was a thing... for her.
Control of her prey, her unwitting surrounding movements.

If you encounter her, or in the Western World, sometimes him,
Stop still, slowly back away.
And run swiftly, when you are out of her sight,
For movement attracts her, fear, she adores.

Control - was - a - thing - for - her.
Her power-dress approach,
Her tight grasp upon the air-pipe of the world.
Estuary, or General American, she had best speak.
Street, street, street. She chases you down with street.
Shrew, her thing. Pink or black, she wears,
With high heel boots,
The better to pounce, the better to maul,
The better to attach you with her un-brushed teeth,
The better to control you, with her nagging screech.

Shrew, untamed, she is a force upon the unwitting world.
But upon me? I stand deadly still, and slowly back away.
Shrew, you shall not tame me.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Do not take from me my wit, nor the sarcasm of my life until my grave

I look upon life,
A cloud shivers overhead, and fate begins to rain.
A dark cloud engulfs the sun, with dragon wings, it flaps away.

I imagine my deathbed,
Perhaps a rock, or gutter as my pillow
Newspaper, if those still sell, upon my frozen, broken form.

I do not drink, nor experiment with altered states,
But perhaps in the future, I would?
I wonder if broken bottles would accompany me?
Would I be found in a field, or resting upon an outside dustbin, leaking red and brown colours.



Would people notice I was no longer there?
Unimportant me, who once had a gift of gab,
Who once spoke, and wrote, and read, oh those glorious days and nights I read.

And yet, perhaps the world would cheer,
For it is the evil among us that the cameras do most acclaim.

And I imagine myself, cold, shaking, almost dead.
Clasping desperately for warmth. And coughing like the plague.

I look upon life, amid the clouds,
I look down upon myself, saintly, but not evil enough to live.
As around me, nations change their names, and languages disappear unto dust.

And I look upon myself, as the rain pours, and the hail hits my forehead.
I look upon the broken man in a gutter.
Not quite evil enough to flourish upon this earthen planet.
Too humble to fight dirty,
Too honest to steal from the poor.

And I look down upon the meek, as he inherits the earth,
As his unmarked grave eats his body,
And as the earth, he inherits, is tossed uncaringly upon him.
Six feet of earth, upon a man with no coffin.
It would mask the smell.

I look upon life.
I am young still,
But idealistic.
I believe in doing good still,
But idealistic.

And I imagine this future me,
Buried under the natural world's floor.

Sunlight, cures all things,
I utter, as the cloud passes by in my drifting, daydreaming mind.
You will not lie in an unmarked grave.

You will make something of life,
No matter its challenges,
Those who are evil will not have their ways.

And I wonder at my future self.
What is it I am expected to be,
To persevere past every peak,
To climb up from the crevice of death.

I am young still,
I have miles to go before I sleep,
Yet, with every day, as it passes, I have less.
The clock ticks, and makes an ungrateful noise.
And I look forward unto my future,
Across valleys, mountainous slopes.

The worst, seems quite clear,
A man too kind to survive this jungle world.
And yet, perhaps my innocence is not my death,
Perhaps those who love their fellow man have a place just as yet.

And maybe the meek inherit the earth,
And heaven as it circles us as though above.

And I speak, and air my voice.
I say unto the world, through my life,
This is not the way,
Nor the path unto life.

For, kindness, empathy, love.
This is not weakness, even if I fall upon my unmarked grave.
To steal or defraud is not the path to wealth,
Even if decades have helped the enemies of love.
For I was raised on love, and love I know.
And those who choose cruelty over love,
Will never those riches, ever know.