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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

Smoke and Flashes of Light!

Sounds Echo Here! https://t.co/S7H3Gbqhh7

— Marc Evan Aupiais (@SACNSNew) December 4, 2013

Sound echos here.
I hear it sing.
A new song, A song I do not sing.
And I announce it, not to the world,
I say not a word,
I merely listen, quietly,
To an echo within that is not me.

Sounds echo here, here in my soul.
And they have me bent all out of shape.

And I send signals, I light flares, and make do with fiery words lit in hidden fire,
I mirror, and I make louder,
I seek to be seen, I seek to be heard.

I speak into the echo,
To darkness, and to light.

Sounds echo here.
Perhaps I hear them in this chamber, echo, echo, climbing sounds into higher ground,
I wonder, as I see fiery lights, and the ever climb, smog.

Sounds announce, they blast into bursts of urgent newly formed reams, and rhythmic beats,
Sounds echo here, and my soul too.

I say not a word, though I sing a song that is not mine,
I merely listen, cautiously, to the echos that respond,
I am all bent out of shape, cautious, alarmed,

But sounds echo here, and the noise continues to grow,
And somehow I am calm,
Sounds echo here,
And I echo you, with me.

Sounds echo here, you echo, echo for all that is me.

Were all the plenipotentiaries, the envoys of hades and heaven to meet

Were all the plenipotentiaries, the envoys of hades and heaven to meet
Were all the plenipotentiaries to meet,
Empowered by the mouths of heaven and perhaps voided hell,
Were there an attempt to mitigate,
Yet there is none.

Were the bells of the earth used as a measure,
Were they to sing a song of heart so wrenched,
Were they to sparkle and sprinkle out a tryst,
Yet, there is none.

You have made your bed,
You fluffed up your pillows,
You lay there, in it,
Potent in your plenty,
Ringing with the bell of the emptiness of the void,
Ignoring the plenty,
You took off the plenty, and to another it you gave.

Were all the extraordinary envoys, or heaven,
The armies of plenipotentiaries to meet,
Were there an attempt to mitigate,
Yet, there is none, and the clock strikes midnight and noon, under the cold, dead moon.

You have made your bed, you fluffed up your pillows,
You lay there for ages, and you did not move.

Were all the plenitude of hosts to meet,
And to speak platitudes of parties, and empty seats, and empty sets of musical scenes,
And were the master of ceremonies to lift his drink, and cry salut,
And give the parole of honour that it were not so,

It still could not convince me,
It still could not coldly change what I see of you,
That you gave him your envoy of hope, and blissful tease,
This you did not please to give unto me.

Were the hosts of false angels to meet,
And meat the world into thin strips of mincemeat,
And grind pepper and spice upon our corpses, upon our dirt and upon then our voided dust,
I had thought perhaps you would still remain untouched, unaltered.

You fluffed up your pillows,
You wore lace and frills and black,
You made your bed, carefully but with haste,
And you laid down your head,
You lay in your bed, the bed you made,
And he did too, he lay in your bed on which you had laid.

Perhaps the plenipotentiaries could mitigate,
Maybe the halls of heaven could turn to hell,
Perhaps the clock could strike 12, noon and midnight at once,
But nothing now can mitigate,
No plenipotentiary could undo your extraordinary haste,
As the bells rung and you handed him the ringing too.

From dust are we made, to dust do we stay true,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
And my memory of you is ashes and dust.
And my memory of you… And my memory… And…

If all the plenipotentiaries were to meet,
I don’t remember what it is, with them, I would speak.

Forgotten Trust

Poem, by Marc Aupiais

Strange, I felt myself withdraw from you,
Trust I cannot feel,
Trust you have too often betrayed, in me.

And Trust, I do not know,
Not in you, as I knew in her.

Waves, seas, tumultuous ...
I cannot write, I cannot speak.

Pain, swirls, and drowns,
As I enter into these waves,
And feel the pull, as I am screw driver-ed into the deep grey sea.

Trust I cannot feel,
You never have trust in me.

I look into the deep grey sea...
As smoke and fire hits the coast.

Will you ever dare to trust in me?

To Trade With the Whore of Babylon!

Poem, by Marc Aupiais

More tempting than Circe, A grip, that rivals Calypso,
And the smarts, that even Penelope did not possess.

A nation, that sells violence, sells sex,
That trades with all the world,
And Enemy of God, and Enemy of Satan and the Devil's angels too.

And with it, we all do trade, this nation Great Babylon,
Enemy of the Devil, and of God, and all the Angels,

And God and all the angels, it does deny,
Daily, as it takes to trade,

And as it attacks Armageddon, and reveals the Apocalypse,
A challenge, even Calypso would not dare reveal!


A nation divided, a nation, that always continues to fall,
A house of trade, of Power Unmatched,
To be destroyed in an explosion, rivalling none.

Great Babylon, and its Towers of Babel.

The men at Byblos, would not have passed their secret on,
Had they known: it would record dear Babylon,
And her death, before all,
For her Harlotry, Enemy of God and Satan,

Lover and Enemy of all Mankind,
Babylon, the Nation, Babylon, the whore!

Enemy of Christ, Enemy of Satan.

Enemy of All!

My Dilemma

Poem,

You spoke of love,
You never meant it, it seems.

You spoke of happiness,
Your own at my expense,

Of morals: virtues,
As long as they were mine.

Your own virtues, hidden, latent in some distant desert swirling land,
Forgotten, along with me, my ashes, but a song to thee.

And I sit here, broken in you,
Living my life, trying but to spite, upsetting you,
Showing what is mine, and is not yours,

And I cry, As I realise this,
I live to spite you,
Not to aid me.