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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

listen to ‘The Ethereal Superiority of the Shrew ’ on audioBoom

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.

listen to ‘Do not take from me my wit, nor the sarcasm of my life until my grave ’ on audioBoom

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.

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: …