What simple brilliance,
embraced of elegant yellow gradience
and plucked in love.
Not from above was it given, ‘spite sequined skys,
but genesis it has in two Earthen souls.
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What simple brilliance,
embraced of elegant yellow gradience
and plucked in love.
Not from above was it given, ‘spite sequined skys,
but genesis it has in two Earthen souls.
We are naught but the sum of our encounters.
I myself am even now alone in a room,
far from what loved me and I yet do.
These, I have found, in brief epiphany,
interrupted by a search for a pen
are what make us.
Note the invocation-absent to the Muse.
Why?
I speak to humans now,
and as a man, needingn’t assistance.
No god need aid man in discourse his fellows.
…Sure.
So, I shall, should I be rebuffed, take my advice to heart.
So I hope.
And dry eyes burn. The bloody cold!…
In any case, was written this thought-sage advice.
To borrow twice over:
Love with whom you are.
If none a person be present, only love thyself,
hard as it may be.
How could i have known?
Such a journey, a pilgrimage to Rome…
In fact brooked such a splendid future,
As to make the whole trip a mere opening act.
And to end it no mean curtain call.
How hideous, to have closing a chapter six years in the making;
And of January 7th, only a year in the breaking.
So this was to be my fate, aghast, my doom?
Ultimately supine, sans mates, TV’s slave in-room?
Do i feel this city a flashcard and vindictive,
it crushes this feeble heart. Left no incentive.
Nocts drunken and retiring- am i remembrant,
and of Her admiring.
Times like those We shared and counted,
but me, unthankful, do Her memories pile too highly amounted.
Recall briskly evenings at Miami road,
whence from memories like beer and conversations flowed.
The awful pain of reflection and recall
from within me, without flows;
thus does the city amplify and return on me
innumerate and vicious blows.
These streets what We have walked and talked
now only condescend, fix on me and gawk.
Time to retire.
It yet burns.
The music is felled.
i can leave in silence.
Timing and timing invites the crush.
Almost ten years since i have felt him.
But now, back.
Choking myself, the future blinds me and the fear
at once holds me spectant whilst he makes me cry to You.
But i have twisted Your heart.
Now i don’t fit, do i?
Book I
Only when I look back
do I see what I had done in doing.
Those to whom:
Borrowed lines of an antique custom,
please badly think it naught, but be cheerful and flattered.
Something lyrical to you comes.
Devilish scrawls, twisted and pompous, vainglorious efforts
for absolution of sin! –And are not ample credit.
What follows here, unknowingly placed in my skull was,
by the Muse of no Greek extraction,
in Latin named,
but of yet no mean race.
and, needn’t She avocation!
Though through my Oriental Muse do i make mine-written,
with no small help of Bacchus am i aided in my task.
i to our good memory restore which was held before.
Yes, such is my Sisyphean and dismal charge,
my crown of thorns not such piercing, but Heavy so…
unfortunate that i did not know it then.
What mighty paeons commence (not),
bene audit, so do i command, this:
my last.
Book II
Forced, but not, a moment so bold and recognized (by He:
Amicus Meus)
Jacked tomfoolery of a blustering chill night,
of but few in this peninsula,
did i hurt you;
i should have been repentant more so than did,
and, prostrate and beggingly should i have lain, awaiting thy Mercy.
Sprints, Intoxications, Shameful-displaying Friends,
ill-Clothed, all marks of Thy genitors meeting me are these.
How ridiculous and loathe.
To that You would have maintained to be admired.
A ring -tendered to me- ideal and glorious;
but i yet be unperceiving.
Tragic barrows are Fords and Hondas what ferry Hearts as
sparrows- that is destined to be spliced twain.
Breathe in, my Love, close Your eyes,
remember home:
Such places belong to Us, those of our City.
Constructed afore our arrival.
But naught for it, till there was Us.
Rung round did We such immurements as to safeguard Ours,
thus were We entombed, alive and comfortable, prepared to die plexus-ed.
Our Cyclopean glass trough -made in many a special
endeavor, only to return home-wise, to yet further- forge(s) Happy Moments, those to cement further what We had founded.
Rain on the window, so many times;
cars,
Our house,
and We slept off hangovers in the sweat of last night’s loving.
Hot days…made to ride…that We might buy our things…to fuse
a family.
Returnant: a cook in his antique shorts, Blue Eyes from the
kitchen. Our love shouldn’t die but You warned me.
Sharing a smoke on Our gray patio furniture…
So glorious a grey morn (where is it now happy?),
of a day the Lord’s repetitious but every Seven,
so ancient a cycle but did bless me of so many morns.
Yet to appreciate i could but naught till i had been
divorced of they.
Such is me to make You Hurt.
You bore it, Your own crucifix nailed but for My Sins,
asking no forgiveness me as some weak-hearted “King.”
Lest i had been the one to unfix You of Your cross-ed
upright altar.
Only then, no?, should i not be yet resident in that Immaculate Cor possessed You?
The report, simple.
Clear,
like a soul,
and so that bludgeoned i with it i to have possessed it have.
Passing time in my cave, caring for Her like a nave.
Troll! (reflexive)
Prophesy!, Sibyl of the Land of Efficiencies!
None too noble a title.
But, like Tarquin Proud i too burnt Six Books.
To my own anguish i have let myself go.
Adrift.
Such flotsam to be was i NOT preordained,
or so I thought,
in this certainly is me characteristic.
You drank my poison until it made You sick.
Book III
Fuckups…mine, frailties of this mind (You understand?).
My Ocean of love equaled by You, and how did i drain that.
Are You able to forgive? nay, forget?
Ill-proferred request coupled to ill-wanted recount (i
imagine).
Errata, Erato, Errata, Erato.
Insert Amends, Love-ly Ends.
My deleterious deeds done direct and diligent,
You’d think i meant it.
Love hath no rules as that Pastime? Should i not be
afforded a chance tertiary??????
Book III.2
Skip some time…
His eyes have caught Yours as mine once.
Learned You, i have, in such allotted time.
For me once was Your heart loosing a past lover.
Now,…be cursed!…i am he-former reincarnate. Fuck!
What evil travesty!
i am not lost, but loosed!
…Lost is something which only i feel.
Now: records and records spun, like the yarn of Us or the
Gone. (friend)
Vainly do i anticipate schemes within which are Little
Boots bait.
i can see you in front of me,
lacking love.
Sometimes We share Our moments but mostly We can’t now,
i’ve pushed You too far…
Weak fruitless and but bitter ashes of what once was great,
And You become those ashes and such Aegis a-me.
Blessed Kore.
Book IV
And now do i turn to such bucolic shit of Vergil,
the envy of medieval sages rendered not so median by
us the future ages.
Baneful existence as weighted leaden sheets holding me
prone, to see Helios transgress Ouranos i have been forbidden, through time indefinite.
my graven face smothered in, ille est in and through Gaian
death-matter skin, all so i might peer into Hades’.
And through even, does he permit i, to see at what lies
farther and about all, what has always been Chaos, wherein is resident Chaos, wherein is resident Nyx and Eros.
The latter some bastard of positing Energy with gulfs
immeasurable from my definitions of him, what was such pleasant frivolity in bucolic nugae.
Such a misanthropic likeness to my own heart does he make
that i might wretch (but could hardly spoil that i observe, so i swallow what the balloon-ed orifice holds).
A plane bound Boston-wise might have bourne two Distant
Hearts, alas One, but to have returned anew with
Rejoined Souls did i forego.
For the sake of silver-in-pocket.
Such priceless Donative for such worthless Coin!
Again i say self-wise: Fool!
But were i to have jettisoned such qualms and left for Your
age-d home, in which grant You never reside, but still, had i a possibility awaiting.
To have known such maintenant Hope was awaiting.
Lead me there again, allow me some trail,
i beg of You, a trail…
Please, its coldness permitn’t to infect from within
(ironic, to be affected by such a neo-heat!)
A sobering moment, one in revelation, told me twixt You and
a psuedo-cum-true-or-at-least-seeing Friend.
“Do not abandon he,” was advised.
And yet to it i chose to toss a key as butts spent tobacco!
And in it missed all-enveloping Warmth.
Spent Life wrought Mispent.
Book V
Now ashrouded in this house…
The house of the Ablative of Separation.
633 made as though aught for You and i; new hearts make
their lives illic, in not but my house,
but also my Woman,
tis my nest, you wretched fuck!
Cast yourself yon!
But Mother, have no recollection my former sentiments last
i visited you?
Only but for Her did i wish to have, and by me.
Irony, so bitter, had i left with such words of parting
tendered in a misplaced Erin’s pub.
Did i hear it break
-such a cracking could be heard the cosmos through-.
Only but for it fell to deaf ears, most of import be mine.
Should i have known, but of some precognition i might have
embraced so fully when i did rehome.
Nay, instead did i arrive again and caren’t either same or
less.
The former, most assuredly, but how hazy and impossible to
now reconnoiter, yes?
Yes.
Blessed retrovision does allude, evade and retrofuge…
“Douche” am i so cognominated by the like-blooded
Pretender.
And aptly so, for all he naught know of it.
Book VI
The carriage hasn’t the allure of such childish pursuits for me,
You must know,
what that i may be thy motorist is this humble dream mine.
Positioned wheresoever is only a matter of physicality, or
physics.
Can i ride in Your car again?
Would You such a pleasure permit me?
None but me has done so, said You, Thy love remains, or
did, and varnished yet, did You proclaim it!
As did i, and not from compulsion or to compel, but from
such warmth.
Must i collapse?
Antony at Actium, Thy escaping vessel have i seen.
But with no rally do We pre-name.
To break metaphor:
i am to become You, clutching ever a box of memory.
For which to place You in feels to be closing of vaults and sinking of deeper wells.
To bury such i have no desire,
All Egypt this pharaoh has been ordered to cease entombing.
Only burn it!
Thus will it have no corpus yet to be resurrected.
Can this be done?
Immeasurable doubt assures me not.
But, lest i did this, to forget i should not –i think- be able to close my book…
to a chapter fresh initiate.
Book VII
Death i desire for company, but to him can i not succumb,
too weak am i.
Fearn’t what’d happen.
Such a coward could never. Only know such possess i such
stereotyp-ed feeling.
The Anointed Jeshua hath no salve this bleak depleted
spirit.
Said he Cloth’d in Night, of Folsom Fame, down…down…down
into a such Ring Infernate.
So it does, Master, so it does burn.
And now the phone, supine, is silent.
Difference:
None is breath-holding at the end opposing.
Walking-whilst did i find myself thus:
Rendered sallow by certain mere shadow,
crying at such pining
am i rendered of a current day.
The cosmos fall apart.
i got this thing i consider my only art of fucking myself
over.
What is formerly wrought and perleged was some wretched
gamut of a 17th November as fleeting its subject.
Book IIX (Addendum of sorts)
Quickly whilst smoking did i think:
Think on what future issue of Us mightn’t not be…
Maximus/a (and whatever else) *******************.
Such a child(ren) a future bright would have had
…and I can see him/her.
And we are in love and loving them.
the cigarette is dry.
earth moves and i hear no sounds.
a car passing, a life running, but no sounds.
the pool is empty and calm. an ocean in a cup.
she is beautiful, and she means the world,
but i am nothing, and mean less.
the tobacco tastes like earth. she is the earth.
i am the sky. i embrace her.
she lets me.
it is miraculous. and she will be back. as the sun will rise tomorrow, and infinitely more tomorrows, i will wait.
its softer now, the pain.
softer. once piercing, forever slicing. but the heart can only bear so much.
so my cuts cannot feel,
and the warmth of that sun, like her, whispers.
all you need is love, he says.
and i have it. within myself and no one.
as it kills, it so breathes in me.
i must regard, in my mind, what my heart tells.
unbidden i want to enter, and am refused.
she must know. and will.
until, i remain, maintenant,
in the land of efficiencies.
yes, i remain, in the land of efficiencies.
The mementos of a friend unfairly taken,
Warm my heart with ice, remind me not to leave those loved forsaken.
As I collect his cooling Remains,
they go packed in a closet -it mimics the heart- and become my chains.
Who I love stil is still of spirit.
I could not bear to let myself drift not near it.
And so, I endure, to rebuild that which so callously I let collapse.
if i could give you the world
my hand would be open in front of you
if i could see what’s most beautiful
youd have my eyes.
but i can feel This throughout my heart.
and that you must know…
it belongs to you
For shame! Oh, for shame!
As Juliet’s dagger her moves are, and as biting too…
But laugh looker! Ha, do!
For the sight, by much, runs to yet further melodrama.
The dagger is meant for her breast.
As a Grecian hero, then, despite sex, upon it vid her fall!
Milling and specting us; some (not I) replace her sticky guts whence they came.
As some Catonis, her: ripping stitches! ripping stitches!
No grace, this Juliet! None even grace tendered us!
No complaints, spectator!
The recompense for playing seamstress:
Tickets to the Show (bought dearly still).
“False” she will say her moves be,
whilst she yet makes as the Goat-song writer.
If ye still care, for I don’t,
having seen, toss this about:
She requires your sympathy? or the pleasure of her own wails?
Perhaps: Medusa; and likely her own murderer (so she acts).
Reflect, Plain-man, styled a-friendly Angry Wuss.
And Wrought, of thy Subject you make?
Comes the antiphon: Tepid Waters.
To that prime toe cool, and gingerly dunked, promising,
yet possessing of scant heat.
I am amused! What potency, this? What governance!
Laughable witch what toys with the helpless.
Egression…and Stay, man!
Inviting, those seemed commonly.
For myself, however, not so. As I was (desirous),
I am but equally tempered,
for those could run Mercury down, just as up.
“Cold,” says I, in brief, “may well lurk.”
II. The Journal
Armed so, where then do I step?
Ambiguity, I find, is my soup,
served just as tepid but no less comforting for it.
And Uncertainty wraps her warm hands about and I am home.
“Not to worry,” thinks I, “For it will, or it won’t.”
A certain pitch band I see
girding, thin, another, but tawny.
Such as this sorrow, to mine a misery is arisen.
Please! Quite ex-depths let my spirit be bidden!
Those orbs hold burden…
Nothing rings to the last. A joke.
Has it a feigned style? or Short of scope?
One wonders or for him hopes.
Bundling for a cigarette,
did She explain to me…
And i can remember…and glow…as it floods my mind…peace is had at such memories…
…i am at once with her, in Her hometown, at a cousin’s.
And i am of Her family (my brief tenure here shining).
i see Her, in such present blankness,
next to me on my Mother’s porch.
We can remember together.
We embrace in my heart’s mind…
I am out of my reverie, and cold again, but
She warms my frigid cosm yet in absence.
Amazing! Such power!
She is beautiful…
The light brigade is charged.
She marches to another’s mother.
Spent.
And night is falling, no…swallowing
another chance.
And of a year’s passing do We find
ourselves.
Trapped, as it were, in a cacophony of life.
(or its paltry namesake).
And did I share some fond memory of You,
my Friend,
with a beloved uncle,
and in so doing did We homage pay;
in some unlikely way…and unanticipated.
You are still beautiful, my friend.
Treasured always.
Your chamber of gilt corridor and of eternal construction fortified in my cor.
You are missed and those deeds resultant
in Your death be cyclically rehearsed.
To no good cause, certainly.
But…
You are missed my Friend
And didn’t i tell?
Even the Victress dost remember You,
from one year’s twain and a single encounter.
How does that strike You?
