End

Whatever holds the house of mirth intact

is hardly a fool to its own syntax -

I made my rules to be bent but by whom

as I'm only the lodger in a loss entwined tomb

False are the remedies we entrench ourselves in

the disgust I've reached is for my entire being -

the soliloquies of comfort are a horrible thing

when majestic emotion comes dazzling within.

So how we emerge is the question indeed -

the safety is no longer our own to be sealed.

Our emirate sinks past its docile consulate to be

only a caricature or a laughless epitomy.

This time I'm right, this time I see

all the love this ailment impeded me

the defenses are old, the face moribund -

I am left the shadow of what they want:

grotesque and terrifying

predatory prey

the ostracized omitting its own decay

I am the feared, the idolized, the adored

I am nothing to be kept for more than a moment

and in the territory in between their gaze and mine

there is only a few atoms left to ascribe

what makes me human but the warm blood momentary

since I cannot descend to be loved ordinary.

The triumvirate has fled, just like the progenitors once did -

mundanity is the safety net of the ones who departed

or leave once there is nothing left to drink

lest they imbibe the dissonance of this

Bent

The ironic sway took the youth box away-

once we learn we never forget but betrayals turn

our love to a defect - automaton smiles and tangerine tiles,

those days we were but the test that our faith hath promised.

Act upon or below whatever hits your flow -

the swerve is all too familiar for communion.

And when the temper's low and the fences rise,

we ain't got no army left to desecrate the demise.

All the words that embroidered my verse

with mechanical solutions - gone dead by the wind swept

that nurtured the soothing convulsions

that fed kindly the tyranny of elocution.

New slate higher stakes - the discourse of the modern age

perchance seduced by the fascism of the reasoning mind

breeds the clockwork cacophony, the deafening decisions -

the repeated pantomime of empty youth dismantled passion.

The temperament is wise, the intakes measured -

epicurean wit epitomized, oxymoronic!

Moronic indeed, the remarkably untrepidating will to live,

to exist, self monitored, smiling painting sighed sly delinquent.

And love is just a minor reaction whose ways shake me no longer

yet I can hear the turmoil of its industry in the distance -

the inviting allure of wholeness rising in its trenches

and being the hostess of a party under the sea.

No objection to be made at its glorious parade

no inflection is had when it breathes too close to my neck

nothing is reached for, nothing is had:

once again the autocratic bubble has sealed me in its nest.

Quarantined out by the revolver clout

I am the idle king like Ulysses' heavy head masks its past life.

I shan't remember pride nor melodramatic tribulations

but if I look ahead, little lives past the discriminate meticulous.

Movement to be had, yet I have turned immune to sin -

How to fool the Just into breathing once again?

The laughable tumor coughs up its temper

and the waves of temperance swallow me entire.

A body with no weight happens only in dreams

- to be tall enough to annul existing.

Herds rise to the heaving horizon of miscellaneous comfort

Comprised mainly of the inland of reason and fleeting commodity

Gathering strength as they take possession of dead roots left by shed skin

They hurry to the heaps of flesh pulsating still from the self's disaffectation

Girdled in anguish and languid disposession

the ornaments and deaths of a previous being

Unable to justify regret or recollection

in their unattached scattering to the alarm of a parted scenery.

And soon they'll start to simply fracture with a murmuring wail of decay

If only I could implement an excuse but all I may do is stare

at the wailing mass of ectoplasms

pained in their insubstantiation.

I stand hypnotized by the spectacle of curled up cries in motion

the tedious paralysis sustained by their frantic dissolution.

For all I see beyond the pathos of swolled tears and senile tropes

is the government that once made me -

abandoned, evicted, dispatched, evacuated,

I can not be sure how they ended up on this precipice but it is evident

they reside in me no more.

Kicked out, maybe, by the tame habit that oversees the main chronology

in the vestibule despatching of the hermeneutical building

The vaincquors of sin, the government within

the dictators of taste and instigators of routine -

these character consulates that regulate the whim

and cartographize the need in order to omit the gratification of want.

Maybe they could persevere no more in their fetal complacency

perhaps the Queen's ample bosom outgrew their capacity with lust

terrible, and the greed of maternal beasts

fiendish authority excommunicating the passive proletariat

of lacerated and lazy vicissitudes.

And before I part and test drive the contours of this new skin

pressing its potency to the limits of my limbs

I must lie down with the old, losing light in its adieu

drying out from all this oxygen we bore to live.

The familiar whimpering - I've enjoyed all your performances, truly

loved each valiant outing of ardor, frantically serving my turpitude

I was vastly fed by my blood in all existential lassitude, really

and together we vomitted the entrails of the womb

onto a progenitor no longer entombed in its symbol.

We puked the evil within

out to observe its symphonious convulsion

until I starved all will to live to a meaningless sculpture of lipsticks roses

and broken glass for leisure.

Le Souffle

Breath, the sigh, the woe, finite

in which the atoms strode like princes gallantly awaiting a lifetime for forgiveness.

So I swim among the dying ones, unfeisted and dedeified accents,

flurrying to their infinetisimal prospects

a self I was once, dearly departed

and perhaps if I I lay here, faulkneresquely dying

the sun'll arrive before they've entirely dissolved

and in my new skin some of them may melt before I resume

my senses to stretching out the newly etched personage.

Epitaph to complete, eulogy to be had.

For in the morning I awoke to the insolence of the sun

attempting to spiral its promise across the dusty blinds of last night's oblivion.

And I would say I felt nothing

but to ascertain this would be to ascertain judgment sufficient

to measure the void.

I recalled no pain nor tangible departure -

them fragments probably cleaned up their remnants

or the new disciples polished the surface

left dire by the newly evicted.

Are these now my own, to be certain,

experts in the experience of my cadaverous days?

Did they merely arrive and take possession

or have they caught up on multitude items of time, the same

that wore through the years of emblazoned you and the limbo of pharmaceutical death?

Is their general affability a means to conduct

my readjusted skin as their progeny, a trick, a trap conducting the ordinary

or can they just be the script

of a new chapter I've impeccable created?

What Is.

The words that are spoken in physical manifestation.

The men that arrest my head with intrigue inundations.

The flow that strides through interrupted affectations.

The deaths that compile each day's achievements.

The instant when everything falls into place.

The doubt that announces itself in waves.

The longing for a violence that may only be love.

The palpable desire for nothing in particular.

The grace that hits my limbs when I'm seen.

The look that middle aged men unashamedly give me.

The space that abandoned its pretense propriety.

The book that saved me from betraying belief.

The face that lures my mind into lustful abandon.

The archetypes that I relentlessly rely on.

The truth that hurts no more than the moral.

The flaws I admit to be my own and innumerable.

The faith that wraps my soul like a blanket.

The certitudes that may never be completed.

The loss of banal commiseration.

The change that sheds old skin amid the old kingdom.

The cost that matters most is not freedom.

The help always bounteous and sometimes cumbersome.

The past and its lessons released from incarceration.

The delay necessary for an unveiling of reason.

The time scattered across my tamed organs.

The days falling with the patience of Autumn.

The fire that awaits on the edge of self obedience.

The gaze that would once contain the momentum.

The sigh wishing to erase the whisper it strives for.

The dreams of the perfect skinned other me deconstructed.

The high of stage fright exhilaration.

The night and the inescapable lonesome.

Pertain or perish, but to choose either is to accomplish

Glorious tides of Time, take me along on your intempestive ride,

above the fathoms that my mind cannot reach to disallow,

above the reasoning sighs and unreasonable doubts

above the fatuous mist of convalescent youth

to a forlorn empire in which I alone may hide;

past the successful populace, the achievers, the rising marriages

past those who have been given a world to taste and question not

empirical knowledge

past the dreaming dreamers who seek, insouciant to become the dream

and become one with it, the brimming bastards

with no fortune to long for but hereditary clauses of war;

past the alluring beasts of modernity and their effortless stride

weighed down neither by age, self, memory or pride;

Let me writhe in the waves of withering old age

when I am apt and admitted to possess my own being,

when I need not weep upon future's fruitlessness

nor wonder, wailing upon the past's imprint,

when I may trust everything to have attained meaning,

when I need not strive to participate in the deaf city's jest

of fashionable howls and pretty pirouettes

when the only knock on my door will be life's last grace to be had

when the torrents shan't flood my indisposed head;

And I will greet the sirens of storms and Sisyphean wastelands

with the welcome of insatiable sailors and I'll outchant them

in evasive promiscuity;

we'll congregate in the sea's vast belly and reminisce

upon our straying from faith, from fortuitous existence

and the lure of matter, gravity, sentience

that made us slaves to the progenies of science;

Bounteous Time, pray, breeze me away

from the rapacious rulers of this dead century

from their deically challenged disciples who need no precept to walk,

and hold only mechanical extensions that attach them to human thought

take me, I beseech you, to the womb of the world,

quiet, undying refuge from the beasts of hunger

who'll strangle desire at its birth and never be patient enough

to await the crowning of worth.

I've got the peace I had been longing for

So what can I do if I may fight no more?

I can only be in my entity

and roaming alone in autocratic fields

I may only be free.

Outside my dominion there is no place for me

So why persist in a world with no belonging

and waste food, air, water, resources

that I'll take no more because I cannot give back

and when I do the pestilent rugrats take what's mine

and make artificial magic out of it.

Take me, I admonish

Let me get lost in the currents

Free me from my mortal liberty

and let me gracefully disappear

in the dark fathoms of your incommensurable heresy.

The moon is at my parlance's position this eve

perchance a savior in its own right-

and in my tumorous desolation

I might be persuaded by its regalia insight.