... 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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