Blake's Spirit

Blake returned to the grave (home).
(What home, Blake?)

I am in the area of January, O's time.
There isn't white snow, there's a wind that speaks tongues.
And a fire in your heart that is saying: "Don't miss this, up-in-the-air, in and out."

What does that mean, Blake?

In-and-out-of-what?

I haven't witnessed it
And with whatever comes along, I don't want your shoes to lose that shine.
Your spirit should be fine with it.

But: there's a cat buried around here, can-you-catch-the-smell?
What if this cat (assuming there is one) is found through sacred summons?

I couldn't bear the thought.

The Wagon of Martha

Some say these are difficult times
"Where's my money, Martha?"
I kept saying.

I opened the door. What did I see?
That Martha had hidden all of her golden lettuces in a blueberry gown she wore, bare.

MARTHA'S WAGON is at its best. Oh sure she's stacking up evil grudges.
Martha stole all of our money, our lettuces.
She's the villain of the village.

"Hi, surprise." she spured.

She came to me with a suitcase,
set the suitcase to the sun. The son's right there beneath her waist, a martyr of spirit that feels the scent of the horse, lacks the sight of it.

I don't care about the money, but I see that your lettuces are growing ripe.

She will deliver volcano kisses (saliva of lava), and ice-cold baths.

Martha, are you heading east?
If you happen to see that man with the black hat, make sure to deliver him this:

"The rush does not slip your spirit, may it slip your horse.
Take good care of your family. Me and Veronica are waiting up here, except I wait with good intentions."

O World Overseas

If you catch a glimpse of this spark
it could be pretentious
from your behalf.
We thought firm ground laid ahead,
Yes this could be true someday.


O little world overseas
Through glitters of wonder
The son is raised, children whisper in wonder.

O little world overseas
The joy is beneath our chimney
Let's go to sleep, Santa is a quirky son.

O little world overseas
In this town the bell rang, the
little children threw the books
And pushed all the nuns away.

Glances are here, buttersky lava
Stars ahead
Let us catch snowflakes
with tongues dancing

O overseas I see the churchbells waving, saying:
"Child you're in pain,
but we wave
we hope you do well,
come soon, boys."

"This is where the son was born."
Magnificent!
She hugged the sky with her eyes.
"Today I can feel the wind in my skin." she smiled.

The road is slightly frosted,
Midnight snow, the moon's singing
and she's not out of tune tonight:

"Lovely children,
our sky was never jeopardized.
Your love is stronger today,
Christmas is here,
Further joy lays ahead,
go to sleep child
winter's here, right in this road.

Say hello to the churchbells,
they're waving and they would expect you to do the same, be kind."

I thought I saw your eyes being all watery and shiny,
I saw it but you didn't see me watching.

Misery

Misery you are here to stay but someone needs to fight the bull.
The joy lost the world again, where are we heading if our feet keep threading different paths?

Join the second wagon, because this kisses that I'm seeing are made of desert's dirt.
Never thought they'd be so cold.

"I have a naked eye, a bull tongue and seven hundred years of yearning",
she suggested.

"Come here I'll make sure our feet stay off the ground."

Play another tune.

River, river
Raviolli Romina!,
Rivera's Rice!

Venus sat there screaming from DELAWARE'S VIEW:

"O misery, you came and our chidren started leaking blood, what are you doing to us?!"
She will come to see, very soon.

O, misery
you're grabbing disappointment by the hand, keep it tight down there.

I wish you could see it for yourself,
you would leak your eyes out if you could feel this too, ginger fella.

Backstabbing California

Look at this,

where do I begin?

I fell,

I handed the weapons.

"Beauty is melting my eyes."

Something didn't match, that night,
the air, and faces.

Then we collided, our limits found each other. "Look!, beauty is on the other side-
of the street."

"Flames, you're nearing flames."

Oh, and the eyes met, four-hundred eagles cried.

Boys, he can work the straw.
We walked 2 more miles. We're close to Texas, I wanted to be away from
Backstabbing California.
Girls, she can work her way out of him.

"Where do I find the way out?"

The whirlwind found its way to Texas and we're no longer in charge.
A future journey was suddenly left unsaid.

Now we are four and some of us have claws.
Some have mouths for eyes
I could tell.

You grabbed the night by the hand, you achieved what you were looking for.
My fingers coiled, not to my surprise. The air was ripe. "Nasty,
you are the master of oddities."


Now a voice said: "This is black grass you're stepping into.
the party is supposed to be over, and yet why are you speaking when your tongues could dance nasty tunes?"

Disappointment knocked on my door, and today is sitting by my side.
I had a chocolate-coated journey I will never forget.
Veronica is dancing at her house with vanilla tears of joy, mouthing this words: "oh love why couldn't he foreshadow this? Love, it is cold down here."

Do you remember when this was supposed to be fun?

I hope one day you'll be able to trace white doves
from all this black-blooded vultures you call "Beings of Love"

Oh no, you haven't learned: Love is out of this river, so is trust.
Still you closed the windows, I cared.
Today the windows are open, you smiled:

"The things you do for love, California."

Blue Lineage

At least this crow ate cold food.
You should not have been out there, out of your way trying to find microwaves for this defeated Mona Lisa.

She's lost in plain wind, a bird that once knew our lineage well, knew the wood was fresh.
And knew the food was waving, miraculously warm.

"This is not fair", Helga grimaced.

"In this town their hands are tied, Mrs.
The train (life) is leaving.
Come join aboard, one could say your lineage can do better once you sit down."

Her best qualities are being enhanced. That is what you wanted
and you're far, you can't touch our gold.
Your arms are interwoven by our mind, our guilt.

I don't see grey, I'm seeing blue.
Thank god she ate the food cold.

Plague

" A plague that maybe Mary Magdalene set loose. "

It just left a bittersweet taste.
Are we both gonna be able to swallow the future, altogether, all the same?

Turquoise, turquoise, orange.

Saint Louis, at your best you're a city that is yet to be explored.
Our landscapes and affections are missing.

My first turquoise, this I know well, drove heading south.
My second turquoise is eating from your lap, I can see (but I am behind the lens)
Now, orange is full-bodied with love embodied and a glass of tears and whatever profanity you drown your Vinegar Eyes in.
It's an outpour that has "Inspiring ivy-eyes and candles" written everywhere.

"Love", "an outburst awaits for us".
Saint Louis is hiding its head with a veil,
Your eyes are covered in metallic shells this time, lime lays ahead.

Wednesday

What's so funny now?
I thought I'd found the answer
looking straight ahead
"Don't go in"
I dive.

(Can't feel me)
But, this eyes found bricks and
screamed bottled
you say: "what's funny now?"
I haven't found the answer,
then you smiled: "You come across smart"

It's ice skin,
I craved a thin line
"I'm not ready to break"
They say "raise hands if you agree"
"Pull me back
This path led to other, this I've found"

Some paths have died already.
"Raise your hands"
I said, "try to stop me
after the killerwhale has been killed
and not before."
I went back to sleep, yes it's Wednesday still.

My version

Your absence is chanting, beneath my teeth.

"Absence. As if you ever had me"

I'll say this: my eyes were stunned
Absolutely.

Virgins were screaming your name, harmonizing and leaking all over again, tripped and fell, they ripped your clothes with her bare eyes.

"Bonnie wears pretty dresses to cover her stained soul"
She bursted in sunlight, I can burst easily.

I'm saying: his green eyes opened a world of possibilities.
Bring your soul, too.

Sun

To the Sun:

"If you ever walk on this street again, do it half-awake
self-assuring
you have
better yearnings and better lovers.

You go and say ''look at this fellas, they're steady, firm and fresh, and so be it!"
"I am on my own greatness" you say, "so what if he's gone?, I can pull January up my sleeve and laugh steadily halfway through it."

Better beings come bearing gifts.
"But where's the hay?"

She will grow to be a Mother of Vinegar and the world will not miss her.

(He will simply not)

-

"I prefer your eyes to all the beautiful lands I've ever stepped into."

Now isn't that bliss, Sun?

Watch your dog, Daisy

"Instead your eyes mean the world to me"

Watch your dog, Daisy.
He's touching fire.

She said "what's your name"
What's-her-name, Daisy?
She's underestimating our blood.

Whatever "betrayal" is, we're about to redefine its meaning.
Let us go Daisy.

Cousin Jo

I Found two Jo's,
one yesterday.

I said to my friend: I MUST BE CRAZY.

BUT RUSSIA IS BURNING

I said: RUSSIA IS BURNING!

Mate, it's not the weather.

Jo come right here.

Oh god, the irony of it.

I CAN CARE!

Rose Mallow

I.

He wrote carefully, the following:

" Faith draws from my face and it reads aloud <<your hair is in the winter>>
Truth is: whenever your hands supply
whether it be
out of luck
or with racy intentions:

I'll make sure to hug your bell, native blossom.

Rose Mallow forgive me if I ever screamed at you. "


II.

Truly thought of, my sky suggested.
I can swim in your pilgrimage, would not mind.

Rose Mallow, look at the witches, they dance around, coughing carbon:

"Sky's the limit" they sing



III.

" Oh no, she found ya! "


" Coco - "

I said to him

"- keep your flame burning."


I'm jumping off the tip of your pink ginger feet.
If you don't ask then I will never know.

"I'm set to worry."

Ice Tongues

Peace upon perfection, she said: "I have his flesh"
I said "you're a sweetheart on daylight and that's all."

At your best you can swing his bell with a fancy strut.
But your pledges are salty: do not work.

I may not be able to seize what I want
(blood of battle on the hill)
but I can tell you this:

We're more than blood buddies, our hands draw from ancient times.
Your charismatic façade may raise all sorts of nuances, but who assures you longevity?

I'm saying: your cards will expire,
until you don't look like yourself anymore.

There.

-

Unthinkable guns, Marilyn.

Soon, see.

Weather's keen

This is too good not to share.
89 and holding:

I was eager.
You threw the party down:
"When I decided I would be callous"

With black air,
and as the blankets begin to self-swallow, I said:
"Well, there is life in your skin and I'm not giving up."

It's a shame to think I'm against all odds as I'm peeling layers of questions stacking up.
Tidal says "weather's keen" on a creamy landscape, a dim sun that has yet to arise.

It's all good. I'm tackling you from another side, a hopeful solution.

Beautiful sunrise beneath my feet is begging:
"Don't approach another love, you were deceived in perished hands"

We can share cheap stories on this cliff.
You'd be eager too, if you could see me for what I would be.

"This is too good not to share." I thought.
"89 and holding."

Englishwoman Martha

Martha is able to say

to every man

" I am capable of moving mountains, of rocking hearts.

I don't need a courtier,
I can have

my own assistance. "


-


Martha, shut it.

Because you hang around weeping:
" I can't say no ".

To him.

You can waste money on this man.
Have him inside you.
Gorge beautifully.

Instead, I see:

" I am my own tragedy, night and day. "

Anchor

If anything, there's a new color in the streets.

Brilliant of you, Edna
to hint towards
our inner courage.

Their faces are tainted now.

-

The essence of every human begs to anchor your legs into the tip
of the mouth of a swallowing ocean.

Pineapple's Creek

He's tall and reaching his 20's - he has the balls to take take take.

A veteran in gluing chips together, to the tribe one of his best achievements to date.
"I have roots in my brain".

A diamond in the rough, the possession of his sugar cunt violet dame.

They twist tongues of pineapple flavor, airheaded both of them.
There's more potential to him.

Man I've got an army of seventy-thousand grandmothers on high-heels,
holding rifles,
swords.

This side proves to be the strongest.
Change directions.
We'll give give give.

Leave Windy Sally behind.

Put an acetaminophen on this wine, say:
"Windy Sally please drink the wine"


At the end, France will be calling: "mass meeting"
Singing vespers, fueling our bodies.

Our China

Using telescopes to meet
the valley
at the Eye's Mouth
seems
a safe step
for bettering
our
China.

They said.

-

"Man, dare to touch me" she said "I'm only laying everything


down."
She was a wise virgin, elegant.
Fountains squirted forth but "men are pigs", meanwhile our
flames collided, beauty enhanced.

"Our China is burning, in angst"
Her lavander eyes suffocated and our mirror-children were growing spores from watching them

Premenstrual, hooded child.
Leave now for your own good.

On Mondays we travel,
muscles on thrones, aroused, arousing.
Ourselves aloof, detached from schemes that otherwise would define "desperation".

St. Gertrude of August

I'm missing something here, help me out:
I saw them when I was crossing the village, warming up seconds before the pagan rummage began.
They were confident of each other, flipped with a vouching technique.

Rather giddy and overwhelmed
I heard my name,
I said - I turned - I said: "Yes?"

Lord knows I could see your clay teeth in the shine with:

a Caesar in the making,
a boy helding his daughter, saying: "Alas, bring ice into my mid-twenties daughter", and
a wise willowlike man calling out "I named to salute."

"Oh," - I leaned towards Bernadette: "Let us leave,



our future is kept pure in our sane mind."
St. Gertrude acts: It was pure in the seventh day of The Haze of Augustine
but now the dull bodies serve as a left-over, for another sacrament.

I could not conceive myself belonging here, I grabbed
Bernadette by the hand, I said:
"I can still break another jaw or two."

Our feast is held by a thin line, and struck by lightning.

Bernadette held a rosary with a veil atop her head.
I said goodbye to August: "I leaked my eyes out at your ending."

Storm ahead

"Is this where I once gave up?"

It's safe to say the wind's coming around,
days are approachable and easy to stomach.

But the lines are blurred inside of our pigments,
have we processed the magnitude of our actions yet?

My private ancestor acted wisely,
he buried the words of writhe.

To the tribe I can now say:

"Cut through thick air but willingly,
in this form of selfless defense we bow
with hot iron pressing on our backs"

They were glad to see
I can leave
to prove our minds are sacred
and return
with burdens already burned.


"It's a privilege to tackle the unknown for the tribe in spite of the risk"

Wilma

Wilma Livingston once set a statement.
She killed the man's dulcinea and didn't break a sweat.

"Babe-will-you-stop-calling-him-'love'-I-think-you-will-babe-"

Wilma has pale skin and dark hair, a Cruella-de-Vil in her mid-40's and a hunter with a vision: seeking the finest meat inland, strutting down the street in an inside ache, staring at every man from head to feet assuring the gentlemen she was willing to provide a generous sleepover from her behalf.

Wilma slid smoothly from one mouth to the other, the talk of the city -- she loved it. She was known for being an asset for the boys that wanted an experienced mistress. There she went with her "mother-I'd-like-to-fuck" quality. One that she could carry gracefully.

It was clear to me and to the rest of the folks that Wilma was not one to mess around with.

This is interesting. Did Perpetua know?
Was Perpetua aware of Wilma's vision?


Perpetua attempted to mess with Wilma on a rainy day of August.

She said: "You're stepping on forbidden land
don't try to further into our area"

Wilma smiled and she took three steps ahead.

Before anything was done, Wilma made it clear to Perpetua: "I'm the snake that's been blindfolded"
"Mess and pay."
Oh what a pilgrimage Perpetua Craft suffered.

Wilma is the scent of the devil, murder musk.
A fireblast of lust, a beast on the leash.

She left the room, high-heels atop Perpetua.

It's still raining. The children dance and sing:

sweet foolish woman, baby of the sea,
shed tears in vain, grab us by the hand
Wicked Wilma was once here, she payed and left

we told her, st. Gertrude, we were clear:
if you mess with the devil
the devil itself
will
bite
your
eyes
out,
foolish woman, baby of the sea.



" Baby someone killed my ladylove - he said -


Wilma - a void - this body needs you. "

At Old Billy's Best

He laughed:

"Darling, I clearly don't have any bones left!"

Old Billy sat in a chair in a defiantly poise, beer in hand.
Himself, slightly watery eyes and a cleanse soul.

Coughed.

He said to Rose, who was indoors: "This is the best we've ever looked"


"But I'm staring at the tip of my callous hands and wondering if our joy is ending soon. And wondering aches, sweetheart. It's the matador swording the bull and never looking back."

"I was a child and I used to run by the cemetery of the town. I now look at the cemetery knowing we will someday be a dried up branch inside these cold Sahara deserts longing every tissue of our holy bodies."

If the thought perishes I'll be packing my own self.

"And will our tombstones be together?
I re-arranged all of my teeth, a truce with beings that I cannot touch."

"We will be an oasis. And a voice will say:

The water was warm
even before you arrived."

the Bottom Bell

And because your private fantasy is that of the ancient man that longs the lips of a new girl, she said:

"When the ripeness is warm and dull: that's when you know the children are hiding.
Open the lava faucet it's alright to let the drops hit the pavement."

You said: "it aches the bottom bell and I don't find the sanity in it"

I clearly knew. I knew mate.
I couldn't trust the drawings.


Hands of vanilla
and a sky holding the sunburst


The faucet is broken

but she said "trust the faucet"

So you burst out and did it

And what a blast she had.

untitled 2

If you ask for a way to be explained
This is what I would say:


{Look at the punks, they are saying:

"Music is for pussies"}


There is something truly wicked and dark about you and I have yet to find out what it is.

A flavor has left the room

A martyr knocked an apple down.
Mary Magdalene
from the heavens and down to the mundane:
The arrows pierced all the fruits, a purgatory.

-.--
---
..-

--
..-
...
-

.-..
.
.-
...-
.


I really wouldn't try anything out of the ordinary, we're all being watched


But I wondered,
today and yesterday:


Has it been enough time already for our hearts to start developing more and more and more stories?


"This is the cauldron in which you will let all the stories out, child"
- she bestowed the recipient.


"Oh really."

Short-termed

Sweetheart, go and tell:

Before I turned the page
I got the chance to
in cold ways: breathing
or whatever stands lesser apart from a warm talk
see how you were building up.

I'm bound to say:
You're seven times more committed towards the physical rush of the wind that leaves. I'm seven times more committed towards the rush returning.

Are we leaking already?

Had I known before,
had we met a lot sooner when our decisions were still atop the moon, I would have been seventy times more committed towards your side.

But we're still committed on paper, on strings.
Lesser the howling.

My baby's into the blues

Forgotten, and cold.
Sweat, and paradise.


"Oh, baby" she sang

"Oh, baby,
sweet cider woman.
Grab the gun.

The desert called
but at noon you'll be
tender,
rolled
over
my knees
woman"


...

...

...

...



Woman, now drown the cigarette.
Tell a different story, man.


"They will not notice."

Grab your jaw and mine, and break them, man.
My baby's into the blues.

("Oh baby,
your cinnabar eyes
what I want
I can't afford")

Sing free.
Sing them, grab them by the single cord, it's our bare hands the ones that are speaking for ourselves.



Woman, this is when you leave
with your constipated hands flickering.
And your motherly affection at the lowest.


Something is in the air,
I can feel the blues, the smell of the dirt.


("Sweet sweet
woman how
you screamed
for the love of him for the love of him.
Bide, woman, and grab the gun again")



We're under layers of sheets and laughing.
Unroll, you loaded creature.
Red, plum. Feed the wine.
My baby's all over the blues.

Play the music once more,
hand me your best effort, the riffs that I love.


And lend the woman a hand, man.
You keep them all safe,
store them.
I'll burn them half today half tomorrow
For your name alright.


Juice of hunger.
My baby loves the blues.

Liver

Rip me, I'm hardly there.

Limbs

"See me there with the scent of the night that holds this place."

(a meadow)

"I am not doing anything but beckoning your arms and legs, and failing, I thought it would be fun to crack our creamy shoulders in half, and so we did so we did so we did"


And then we come around

I ask to you: will we ever be long-legged enough and less headed to be able to touch our arms without having to build a weak excuse?

Ten Steps

In order to truly see: read between the lines, child.

(Catch the bird falling)

-

Who am I kidding, Edna?

I know: myself, and stop humming already.

You rose from inside two white bushes, to my surprise!

(then catched the bird falling)

I looked to my right, I saw everything I needed to see,
You've seen it before Edna, have you?

You're ten steps ahead.

And he strummed your strings himself.

What did it feel like, Edna?
I looked at your hollow face, I couldn't tell.
You stood there.

Each string
told
a

st
o
r
y

and I stood there
as well.

Collapsing.


I catched the bird I catched it alright.

Journey Further Fantastic

Then there's the sun wiping our burdens,
Masking our eyes.

I walked a straight line with dirt beneath my feet, water beneath my fingers.
The dim lights swallowed moths once more. The tumbleweeds swallowed oxygen.

I had a tendency to look downwards then looking upwards and allowing the sun to gobble.

And there's the moon providing a place to hide.

"Mate stop mourning over, then jump and hide again."

I looked at the spaces between the fences, I happened to be thinking about us.
I waved the streetlights goodbye.

Look at the creatures now look at the children. That.

I want to be able to say it without giving out what I want.
What do you have to say?

(sound of iron melting)

I fight for my bones, that.
And what do I have to do to freeze this frame we are in?


Who? and when?
I asked, that: What kind of moral is that?
Have respect towards me, mate! I lend and you take and I expect something back.

I want to hear what you have to say

Maybe then,
Lacking of air and water might be much bearable


I told you breaking someone in half was an option.
That, losing lungs, desire.
Air and all.

Say to your love, "watch your back".

And do it again.

Five Moths

Louder, in spring.
That, we knew.

(a monkey peeling off to get to the core)

I will guess
if you blindfold me with your bare hands.

I didn't laugh.

And I don't care where you've been, rather I care that you are here now.

the Seagulls

The sour air woke me.
On top of the hill, on top of the pigment.


I didn't find a pinch of backlash, I truly searched in the dirty snow and I couldn't so I quit.
There was a need, the wind could tell.


I took my garments outside, and still, in the same form of sensuous feeling the breeze woke me with, I walked downhill and the more I descended, the mistier it got.

I didn't trip this time.
I forgot, I found three dried-up vultures on the snowy grass, eyeless.

What else? It's quite a task to re-create the events, mate.

Oh, ginger roots.
I picked some ginger roots so I could make tea afterwards.

- - -

"I had forgotten all about the segulls."

"When I was at the shore I was greeted by seagulls."

"And when I ended up thinking you had perished, you pierced you rised up and the seagulls had me scrapping the ground off, bare-handed."

"That's the catch, you're atop my brain and that's hardly saying something."

"When I stopped thriving, the seagulls had my back, they begged for me to bear."

"If this is somewhat sane (I said) I am now beginning to feel the metal nuts twisting in my stomach."

"The seagulls nodded in approval."

"They were so mean, mate, I put a stop to it, I put a stop to them."

"I did it alright, see, I grabbed the upper side of my lamp and I leaked the oil, mate, I leaked it alright."

"If that wasn't brave from my behalf, then what are you implying it was?"


"I yelled at the seagulls nonetheless. "This is my day" that's why I yelled, they stood there."

"But I stood there too, mate. That's all I re-call.

Mess."


- - -


You're already on a high hill, free of fog unless you come down.

Will I wear boots? Probably.
And if you care, I will be caring seventy times more, you stepped on rocks.



And I
fell in love
with a submarine.

Honey Freckles

"I won't leave"
Then I left.

It rained, was that a clue?


Until we stop, I care,
and it's hard to picture
us in space. Determined.

In spite of that, I'll keep my sane mind, the one that stored beautifuly, mate:

Honey freckles I recall, puzzling-me-they-were-so-many.
We were on labour, and hair comes to mind as hands would come to legs.

/Felt


Putting the gloves on and turning the switch off,
We were at that: busting light out, only dim lights in our space,
We would yarn with oily fingers, so unaccurately to my sight
But it brought us closer

I didn't notice it was raining until you pointed it out.

Freckles, once more, honey-coated.
Beauty that blossoms, we portray.
And guns would rip my flesh inadvertedly, they are carved beneath my ribs and won't-you-see-them-they-are-clearly-there.

What kind of joke is that?
We're both immersed, and the oddest angles are the ones you love, admit it.

What are you like on the inside?
Oily, and, like a furnace: burning.

What is it?
Do you think I will not crawl? Because I am capable of.

Time will determine your next move, and mine.




It's safe to say you have a mind that keeps sweeping the same dust and doesn't care to evolve,




If it would,
we would not be sitting here.

You were made of wood.

Fair enough, if this is how you thrive, then:

Your intellectual side cannot compare to the side you have brought forth
And if I, carried, am aware of this, this should be an easy task:

You have brought forth mountains and water, sure
What else?
Shadows of pine trees.
Therein lies the issue:

Sure your marrow grows effervescently and has been under my nose all this years,
how did I not see?
Would I trade this?
Would I differ in seek?

I simply knew this beforehand.
See:

A row of arrows, have-they-been-fired-yet?
If not, they will never cease.


Atop your biggest intentions lies fear, mate.

But, what were you made of seven years ago?
I can't wait to find out.








I wouldn't say we have yet to consume,
I wouldn't say we have been consumed for the last time, either.

the First Pact

"Possibly, it might work, I garnished I garnished my own fingers tapping."

"Oh you garnisher it's the fourth the one I have"
{what for?}


"Pay attention to detail, mate."

"I can care I can get the third one sure, that one might work, will it?"

"It's the finest."

"(Barely) I'll go out of my way, will you keep shut?, I'm warproof"

"I promise and will I have to wait?"

. . .

"But you already know the answer"

"True."

"Is it evident?"

"What?"

"Nothing, you might smile on Friday and that's if we're not interrupted"

"By the stubborn?"

"By the heavy-handed"

"I'll shake them off"

"Would you? But I'm actually eager, there is yet one slot to be filled."

Pumpkin juice.

I.

How about running?
I ran steady elsewhere.

"I can't care when you're careless", I said,
and I ran.
I left with a walking stick and resembling
for once, three-legged ceilings, withered.
With gratitude on beacks of doves, sure.

I thought of Christmas.

"Will it ever arrive?"


II.

Say, is the race over yet?

Tell them it's not over, the race.
See, I wasn't promised anything!
And still I return
with plastic boots and sticky wet clothes, awkwardly.

And I tried, I chatted, I spilled nonsense!
And it wasn't enough Edna, how come?
How am I gonna be able to time with wonder?

I made pumpkin juice

"This will do."



III.


How did it happen?

Well it did.
We were two bottles of Coca-Cola, and moving.

And when the gates were closed we were still moving and boiling cells,
and we were walking for the first time.
Say, we're numbered now. Wired, so, will this ever change?.

"Sure."

I've come a long way, haven't I, Edna?


Today I run again,

ahead.

myself worthwile.

Ouroboros

If you were to break your bones on cold floor tiles,
and I happened
to see
you
doing it,


I would
with U-shaped hands
hold your head, lured albeit pain.

I'd be
truly committed
truly consistent, I would wade
throughout rows of ripe flesh and ripe air,
Calling out.

You, carried, upbeat
Me, carrier. Upbeat.

Will you ever see:

We're both two-timers,
in the morning when we cheat.
And in synch at noon
Nurturing pigeons that have mouths for eyes.

And when I break my bones,
We'll be able to
eat ourselves
in Order to
restore
my
heavy-handed bones.

(If you were to be upholstered,
you would make the greatest sofa.
White and well-to-do)

-

I recognize there are yet better landscapes that meet the eye. Yesterday I focused on a moisty landscape that had trees and musk and water dropping from each leaf and muddy grounds and gloomy clouds and fog and ants marching and cold breeze. It was a matter of minutes before I had forgotten all about the valley, the valley's shallow isn't it?. Soon enough it popped back again and I did turn my eyes on it, for the sake of myself, but for the sake of it, really.

the Drops of Talk

Squeezed out, the drops of talk.
(Black, thick ooze leaking.
Such
bad
omen,
I foreshadow the greatest,
but the greatest
cannot
conceive
the eyes
beholding
parts
outside of the reach)
with each drop
less aware
but wanting:

When you're dried up
and I'm dried up
and they're dried up:
Only then,
I might leave:

Full-bellied bearlike.
And thriving a bit more than yesterday.

Edna, in pain

Edna, move left.
Edna, make sure the house stays clean.
Edna, water the birdbath.
Edna, boil warm milk.
Edna, do the dishes and

do them alright.

Edna, don't be rude now.
the Guests deserve the finest.
Don't forget

to say 'thank you'
and 'your

welcome'.

Look Edna, the milkman's here.
He brought the horse,
oh wait,
this isn't the horse you wanted.
Keep it, Edna.

Edna, let's go down to my uncle's farm, we won't be seen.
we'll watch the cows growl,
we'll attempt to cross the river, we'll fall, Edna.

You'll net butterflies,
I will throw pebbles in the river,

You'll gather flowers,
I will knock apples down.

In three-way glances we'll wander
with the wind afront
and green grass below.
Let your hair loose, Edna.

Let's go to the cliff, now.
We'll sing at the top of our lungs,
and we'll whisper, softly.





Oh, Edna
Lend me peace of mind, Edna, lend me.
Lend me heartsease.

You're evil, Edna.

the Reach

What do I know? :

Papercuts and blisters I swallow, and grainy purple bruises and whatnot, all despite your oblivion towards me but I embrace that!,
I know that diamond well enough by now.

I looked at the landscape, I happened to say:

Who's to say
you're beyond
my reach
of silk
and reach of rough rawness that
ejects
maybe feathers
outwards?


Nevermind the color of auras today, but the ones that were.

the Clouds

See; the Clouds are


stacking up;
and I'm committed, fullbodied.

Aloof: lesser.

For the sake of life, of fun.

Thrive, thrive yourself with seeds that are watered daily, until harvest arrives.

the Blue Room

I wondered without
leaving the corridor,
with wide wind lingering, and
the feeling of everlastingness gone:

What will I be?
when you (wired up) leave on arms of fearless time that
makes me cringe in
anxious
await:

Riped, bitter plum, attempting to thrive
but
lacking
of strength

Sitting
on a table, and
swallowing morsecoded
suggestions
with

candles, melting
delivering
dim light
Turn them over, dear.


With hope left, grief-bottled
I believe you will arrive soon,
the train-tracks are rusty
and the wet dirt
serves
as a connection
with
senses

awakening
the parts
of bones
that
once
were
untold.

Now greet me, greatest.

Sightful on wings fluttering, welfare stable.


on and on and on and


on
now greet me, greatest.

Being swallowed sky

It's safe to say:


you're a pair of Wings in rush, dear!
the ones that soar upwards and crash deeply in wet grass
you cannot fathom my intentions, dear

Long-limbed, with imposing features
and powder - I've pondered (if it's the weapon that lures me)
With seamless joints and Metal Strings I've been rather consumed
Consumed deeply beneath seabottom even, sinking but loving half-way calf-down

Nonsense, but see the woods or the fabrics: they don't compare they're effortless.
Dearest, you never flinch and that is a thrill, with power saved, that awakens the long-buried that yearn breaths, stinging crawling.

Lacking of whatever fills you whole, what is left to do but swing with steel claws, and metal warm leaves.



Expecting one of them to reach you, reach me.

What are the odds?

It happened,
on an auburn day that had sleepless moths and clouds that
(resembled you and me whenever we tackled the "shared")
took care of the earthy haze on the village:

Unlike the surface of the ground you step on, it's safe to say you're made of soft wood.

After the brains made a sweet deal with the body and the body swallowed warm drops within its pores, I promptly marched, leaving the terrible turmoil, (the non-sense) behind.
Eagerly, still slow-paced, towards my new daily routine.

What did I see?

Dust and branches alright, with tasks, like mine. On guard and wanting to start, but thinking they would soon want the day to be over.
Such defensive attitude, such dullness.
Not me not today.

Meanwhile:
what is being offered at the left side of this sidewalk?!
Nothing is being offered and so much is wanted, much like seventy-thousand planes all aiming to land on the same spot. Fire is the result, fire stands for craving and ambition.

It doesn't take much to see that, even a dove is inadvertently defensive, glancing everywhere, groaning sometimes. White wings tell a different tale, however.
You glanced, likely.

(one, two, three, there alright!)

How childlike I felt,

Having the mind set on this, I ended the rest of my primarily tasks and maybe got a bit set up to the day that awaited.

Sure time passed,
and time itself opened the gate to the blurry fog, with subtle arms,

how could you set the difference? I couldn't.

You detached a while

(how long is a while your superior asked and you didn' t know the answer either)
from the tasks you were asigned, with intentions
{each and everyone of them shooting, shooting, shifting, dancing from your back, outwards. Plenty of them to see, I'd say}
seemingly at ease.

Can he care?

When in doubt be prepared and make things up I would tell myself.
Carve inside and mold them to make them sound believable.

Indeed, I coupled the words the urban provided, with my words and your words and made a steamy grainy soup out of it!

Afterwards time paved the way and you sank bellydeep on concrete walls,
guided by ancient tellings we would wade so roughly and generously still

How? branches breathe with bruises, boiling boiling boiling beneath.






How mundane we looked on the cold floor tiles, defeated but complete.

Wide-armed.

And wanting.

Who could blame you?, it's valid.

This is tough to stomach, so VERY.

We could break her in half,
with hunger itself.

Why the long face?

With such an effort the heart makes when the gold is perceived and with
nimble fingers that cringe,
why the long face?

With the beats on top of each other, so much smiling makes us cringe.

Quick, there's cleaning needed elsewhere.


How slippery!

Carved, on a hunter's rock:

I smiled a private grin before the Golden One left.

It just might mushroom into something more noticeable it might not.
Who wants a sign? We do we do we do they say.

Hey, a handshake is tasteless, do you care.


How seamless the knee-hurting and back-burning pilgrimage is.
Put it on the wooden table, the golden statue, how proud are we, we will win it some other time.


You're my backbone, you're my backbone.

-

Yes I thrive in the eyes of the silly and ease-minded!

Erase me I will care as soon as you leave again but let's wrap this up so you can leave,
overbearing beet.

How easy and silky this is.

How do you manage to cross to the other side of the road with muddy claws on your back?
May hair serve as a weapon whilst water serves as a bridge.

Where are you going after that?
Do leave.
But return.

I cannot even utter how ecstatic I am, today is the brightest although it's late in the afternoon.

Now,
what if the mouth served as a bridge?

Would you still cross to the other side?
Sure you would.

This is oh so ironic man.

the Fidgets

I don't play the game of self-control, he said with hesitation with a smile that resembled a whistle being shook and with shakesperian eyes he added the lives of them were hardwired to stiff so he wouldn't let them take charge, he would seek a fellow for comfort so to speak. Furthermore, he bestowed his hands and everything into a vase filled with water.

vessel, move left.

Melttttttttt

you're a diamond.


say,
won't you trust the sunny blaze of hands holding

you


?

Radulae

They're,
a lot.


The fully-grown summer sun is heating the valley, an open branch.
Whereas your intentions are at ease, mine are not but in rain we might
put our intuition to work on fullspeed,

It's as simple as guessing where you've hidden your food.

Look at the beginning, at the rows that are not hidden but made for a reason
Look now, they're moving, dancing : the teeth, watch.

Whereas they lack of brain and their attitude is uninspiring,
the teeth harden you for the path oh how stubborn are you won't you come over

Why so many teeth on these radulae?
It's, perhaps, the result of their own brains self-constructing.

The need is the eyesight of more.

the Quest

It has got to be inside the Flower of Ivory and White Wood, they say.
Or, underneath the wings of Frozen Ladybugs.
Either, in between the guts of a Nightingale,
in the belly of a White Bear
or in the inner part of the Sea Urchins (trapped in Seabeards).
Where is it, really?

To follow the hunger, not. - Rather with cohesive Foolishness and Wide-eyeness we bow and we consistently crawl these mountains and forests in the Long Quest asigned. No, we do not complain and yes, we manage to embrace the pain in the Knees of Ours. The armor is no longer wanted or needed, the Queen's orders. We're left, only with the fur, and with hope in our hearts. We eat Raw-ish Fishes and Unhatched Eggs from birds, and the Queen provides the bread sometimes. We make the jelly out of Ripe Fruits. We take a break from the Quest and we sit somewhere inside the forest, and with bagpipes, bithels and harps, we joyfully let a tune or two out. The enemy haunts us but the Queen quickly casts a spell and they are no longer a burden. Oh, how committed are we, for nothing has yet been found. What has it been? Two centuries, seventy-two years. Oh, how the mythology brought us to where we are today.

As for me? I continue searching, but no longer in Queen's command. I long for the day where I can return to the village and maybe start anew, teaching the little fellow how to build mangers in the barn, and maybe going to the sea, the three of us, hand-holding. Carrying the stigmas of what used to be an extortion but is now a lesson learned, buried, burned. By the sea then, with wide moonlight, with a barely perceived horizon, towards the unknown.

And, the cold sand is in our feet and, we really don't care.







For now.

What is it

You thrive on innuendos - I don't


clockwork clockwork clockwork clockwork
I'm slight-ly
driven to-
wards (...)
What lies ahead?
What
ever it is Arises all senses,
and liquids
and bruises
Notice! How well thought.
Shield the system
away from
you. This
happened before
And I long again.
Legs.
And the problem thereof.


Maybe

Sure, or someone else, or something that has been thought of.
What makes the skin stretch to embrace the bodily nuances?

An opinion, scrambled as it is, is obsolete and lacks of necessity, and yet you just have to ask,
don't you?

Look at the issue in the eye and analyze whatever lies inside. Only carving like this gives you the answer:

)statement(

rather than draining from where there isn't any room to drain.


STUMBLE

YES!

Whatever's needed. Sure you'll grow out of it. But :

Passion may be a foundation of a human being - never put a cease to it.

Ode to a dim sky

There goes the

old-west
pride.


Whilst skies lack of moist elsewhere,
here
newly skies with full-
bodied clouds
reject the boring succession
and decide to
crack their bellies_____________
_______________________open , on
earthy ground.

Frowwwwning.
Sheding water outpours

And the river is here.
Above
and knee-deep.


Oh, how the gloom is welcomed!
Indeed, gray haze: walk on by
and
wet the dry skin

Look:
above:
whiteness: working ; masking all joy.

Listen, this is anything but dull.

Bare

Oooooh.

Be
the
support that keeps the towers together.

Sick of
watering the fields, and milking the cows.

Wearing heavy robes, on a sequence.

Let's meet at the vestibule, (warmth) . The knightage left sooner than expected.

One thousand and thirty-three bats flew out of the caves and into the town.

It's the core

speaking.

We're callow to this.

Until now,

I had never realized how the city looks at night.
Sensuous mist breathes faithfully whilst churches ring their bells out,
leather-people walk, some sleep in benches.
Recent rain layed on the road. And the smell lingered.

Pinetrees outside churches and abandoned buildings, and a choir singing afar, with a faint saxo leading the way.

Looks that denote desire, or affection. A slippage would cause commotion, and I'm not sure why because the rode leaks grey, grainy blisters, and the uncertainty from behind all of us and from the sides is enough to make blood race. Forth.

Inhumane, dogs starving in a mundane haze.
Wind in trees, and now and then cars lightning the rode.

Ominous moths in streetlamps staring.

And then, siiiiiiilence
only
footsteps
paving
the - road

How is this any different than what you consider heartsease?

It was called.

Who knows because it's not cold anymore and although it's not the same weather, it is the same place indeed, and last time you were seen here you were leaving, handful, and maybe not planning a comeback.

Could we know?

It's probably been enough since last time, maybe, and between roads, clowns, parades, carnivals and masquerades and whatnot, the place hasn't changed much rather has had a slight twist, maybe, people-wise.

Can we care?

No.
We long for a comeback that doesn't involve fake masks, or dancing.
Sure. For it to be like it used to be, early Saturdays on boats that sail. Fishing and bringing food home.

Did that ever happened?

It's as if we were looking at ourselves through a mirror.

With a dead end.

Really, child.

Strife

There isn't money involved, whatsoever.

I claim to know what happens
when you laugh in between overdone jokes,
when strings and strings softly develop(golden ones)rising up and shooting rapidly

when affected by rain or gloomy weather, touching ice or cracking wood.
when poetry smells the same again, and you're being reminded of metal, bodily wires of carnage
that maybe rip on top,
and they long and crawl beneath pores of self-pity.

when unfriendly teeth meet the eye,
and eyes unfold, bowing.

folks assume, baaaad.

skin is not closed still but the roots bring up the truth that opens earth
and land, stirs.

With discretion

quite.


behind masks, of future.
or backwards over the sea, where the core is at.

silver.


Death comes with winter, and turns where the corner offers battered feathers of vultures.
Why, instead, don't you land far from here
where the raw meat thrives in pleasure

We don't deserve this.

They do.



Maybe it's selfish of me,
Or maybe I haven't figured out people yet.

I do not know the answers either.
May that be a statement.

Mary

Mary mocks my mind, man.


Mary means misfortune, misery.
My!

Merry Mary misses me : mistake!

Move, Mary, move. Mahogany!

Meanwhile,
Mary's mother motivates me more
Mary's mother mocks medicine.

Magnet! Manatee! My, magic. Machinery mows me more.
Means?

My mind meets Mary, more mess. My maze - murder.

Mourning more. Mistery, myths, miles... Many miss, many!

Most miraculous mistletoe marches, measuring me, meaning maybe monkeys marching.


Mayonnaise makes me merrier, Mary.

Develop.

Tumbleweeds.


Dust,
in wind.


Surely you were bound to be like them,
those who came at last, tired yet never-worried.

With dirt on hands, and cold looks, and sweating.

Surely you were effortless, but we spin and we sweat, and we go out of our way for you, but you concocted this, now finish it.


How come you chose money over this?

Gap missing (from 7AM to 8PM)

4 A.M

I got up and put my socks on, and my boots, and the rest of my garments. I washed my face
and went downstairs.
I fed the dog and gave him fresh water. Then, I made some toasts with butter and along, my favorite, homemade grapevine juice.

I, sick, with an ailment, brushed my teeth, hugged the dog goodbye, got everything packed, and went outside.

It was cold and gray, and fainted blue, and the sun was nowhere to be seen, yet.
The grass, green, and moisty, for it had rained the night before.

I took care of the hens, and fed the cows and cleaned the sheeps and brushed the horses.
Daily routine.

7 A.M

I went downtown to buy some food, and pay the bills,
I drove past the gas station, and visit my grandpa's farm. Hillbillies, all of them. They're still the same. Love them nonetheless.

8 P.M

I got home, and it was snowing.
I turned the radio off, parked the car, grabbed my coat and put it on, and I got home. The dog greeted me from the window.

I opened the door, threw the coat, went to the kitchen, made some hot chocolate, turned the fireplace on, kicked my boots off,
lay on the old sofa, turned the TV on


and watched whatever was on it.

It turned out to be some 50's soap opera alright.





Whoknowsmaybetomorrowitwillbedifferent

sigh

Sigh
you're dreamy


and well-to-do

On the road

(driving: )

"Maybe it's a crooked mistery but I'm not sure why because clouds don't say:

how can this work when muddy grounds shake
and instructions are part of the wind blowing

(and no, it doesn't fit, it's a thread)

But the crack is so wide, and we're falling.
One like you, blueeyed, is to be longed.
But he just won't see, he won't feel.

Or, maybe time is not one to be seen, but to be thought of.

Oh, we're building. Excessively."

Bearhug

Deaf tone___________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________With
white spit on the ground ;;;;;;;;; !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It's meant to b
e

s
tic
ky

Most proud of contact -o-o-o-o-o ppppuuurreee tennnnnnssionnnnnnnn

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((Ground on tongue > see >
Licking. Stiff . . . . . ..... . . . . . ...w.....

Reach out widearmed fullbodied and touch again, undo. Again, undo. A-

And spitting, slowly. (you live where my ancestors lived and some still do)
Making bubbles. Send
them
o-.ver ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^(open)^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

That's desire. /on/ think think think take advantage think think

Scrapping the ground off. ROUGHLY - roughly.


That was
after the bearhug // jkljkljkljkljkljkljkljkljkljkljkljlkljljkljkljkljkljkljkljkljkl

Left you : the same
Left me, --->----->------->--------->------------> explode(me

visibly shocked / hooked. (Can bear with it. CAN) ,,,,,all

God forbid I think otherwise @@@@@@@@I@@don't@@@@@@@@

(think otherwise)

Seek me, WOULD you?,,,,,, (blend____________fold__a world)

(seek me, would you?)


(spit) (;)ççççççççççççççççççççççççççççççççççç))) 0 0 0 0 0 00 000

(that's desire)

(the same) --------------------------------´´´```------we share an alloy of who knows what

(hooked) -----&

Seek me though I didn't seek you at first.

beeeear-hug {carries me} . in arms of longing skin, of burnt one. In tradition, in commitment.

Can care. (;;;trash) :::::::::::::::::::don't:::::::but:please::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: beat it.

Love travels

It's most likely that love travels.
Through wind, yes,

and trees and fingers and hair and teeth.
Somehow it goes deeper than that.
It's a shape-shifter, a stubborn one, that just lingers there, and grows deep roots
and attaches.

And, with absence, comes coiling.

-

Love is a burden, violet.

Yet wings of time return with love carried, warmer. Openhanded, fullbellied.
And you fall, deeper.

Violet it's quite simple,
once you get ahold of it.

Try.
It may take any form.
Embrace it.

Change from eyes and smile to hands and voice or voice to mouth and legs or feet.

And build.

Like ice being sculpted




and melting.

Comfort

Comfort is when I quote you
Comfort is leaving home
Comfort is traveling
Comfort is hearing sounds
Comfort is silence



Don't scream but hide in a shell.

Hair Comber

metal -- wood

metal -- wood

metal
and


wood.

Ring

the doorbell

and I
will

get it.

Step

and step,

and once more.


Come
on, sing

along.

Wood and
wood
and metal
and wood.


and do it alright
but never move.
don't, dear.
keep your hair
sweetly combed.

Therefore

It is



quite funny
to think
and look back,

Who knows if it's
the right step?

The answer

may lie in trees

or in your hair.
Or elsewhere.

Let it be.




It is

good

to know
there's still a sane mind out there

that waits or seeks and haunts, maybe.



It is

quite rewarding
to smile

and never think
about

the rest.



Therefore I smile.

Sample

dare you to
peer into a cauldron
and take a sample
of ooze
and
then
see it
for yourself

-

and
the
turmoil keeps
building
up
like a
stack
of cards
raising
more


and more

-

long you,
perhaps less
but
still
when did
this
happen?

-

maybe one day
we will know
or






not.

from teeth that sink on flesh

from teeth that sink on flesh

and mouths that whisper, all together, in synch
at noon

to

secretly uttered cold breaths,
truly disguised,
but meaningful,
lingering
beneath
your fingertips

and

almost
reaching
mine

Three Paths Carved

1) Present

This is not the end, because I chose to.





And if the tombs of ancient foretellers reverberate in scorn of the choices that were made

(because, after all, they forged the hill that marked the start.
They deserve to know even after death)

And if the birds of field no longer humble themselves down,
if the water of the well decides not to hand itself over,

If grass turns a shade of orange,
if machines stop obeying,

If dark grey clouds decide to never let rain fall,
and the sun chooses to swallow nickel, for a change,

If earth itself decides to lose its shape
and nature decides to shut down:

Only then, I will know that time is precise, because I will not be outside until earth is too.



2) Past

There indeed was a time in which I would shake my fingers, just to make sure they responded,
and there were five fingers alright, and five knuckles, which danced.

And then, I would say: when my thighs weaken
I will rip myself open, with the help of the continents, but only the ones that feed on dirt, mildew, and moist, and save arms, legs and shoulders.

And I had a tendency to gobble your eyes everytime,
and their blindness, their chasteness
revolved, like an army of prideful auras, blinking.

But the canyon of your face
Flared, and died out.

Repeatedly.






Sometimes, I would think I needed to summon the sun,
for it to measure us both.

I still do.





3) Future

Plants grow yet they're vulnerable and weak and tender,
which is not how they're supposed to be,

still,

in the same form

of growth

I shall learn,

and I will call out nature and those creatures that are kept inside the tombs,
seeking comfort.


The chances we once embraced have vanished away,

still, chances of a far encounter suddenly appear,
of a very, very far one.

which makes me declare:


I can already tell how it will be.

And when it does happen,
I will make sure
to hug


air.


Despite lack of.

Magnet

It was an easy ride

I spot meteors all the
time

sealed in discomfort not thriving

(like a seed would watered and with firm roots)

instead sinking like mist belongs to atmosphere


thin

air

lacks

of

any form of strength

whatsoever



and there were no facts rather theories shaken with battered brains spilled out

and brain not
connecting with hands nor feet

sunk
in
deep

in a maze of pure junk moving gliding with

ripe

flowers
leaves hair and vultures

and

hand me a rope stomping
on the skeletons

tongue-in-cheek

I swear I saw you
consumed
I do not need to go through this again


What will I become when the seeker meets the haunted
and the hunter meets the one being sought

?

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,

I hope you are doing okay.

I certainly hope, since I haven't heard from you in a very long time, and you won't return any of my calls, nor the letters I've sent, and, judging by the nature of these events, you seem to be a little inattentive towards me.

Unfortunately, since your departure things are not getting better, but worse. The weather hasn't improved much, it's getting a bit gloomier each day, and the city has become dull. No one says hello in the streets anymore.
Do you recall Fred, our neighbor? He rarely comes out now. He would take his dog out every sunday morning, at least, and then he would call us and we would go with him and we would all three enjoy a cup of coffee at Gotham Café. Do you remember that, Anne?

Paul and Bianca have split apart. They were the strangest couple, were they not? - But somehow they would always manage to put their disagreements apart, even with those three kids behind their backs, which I haven't seen or heard of, ever since Bianca took them.
I do see Paul sometimes. He has aged so much, you wouldn't imagine. Do you remember his stunning blue eyes? Yeah, well now they're hiding behind his eyelids, which have fallen, and he has dropped a lot of weight, and his skin is rather pale. He is so sick, Anne. He misses his kids, I'd say.

Martha, the old lady across the street, has passed away. She was such a lovely lady, wasn't she? She would always bring us oh so sugary food. Sweet, like her. And she would wear tons of make up, and always sport really bright colors, but she was so nice and wise and great to talk to, wasn't she, Anne? I miss her sometimes, but I miss you the most.

Anyhow, I went to the harbor earlier this morning, (that was when I decided I needed to write to you once more), and it was so cold outside, and I don't wanna stay in, I don't want to become one of them, Anne. You know me, you know what I used to say all the time, I will never choose the obvious choice, for I'm smarter, and you would smile with that witty smile of yours (which I miss), and you would agree with me all the time.

Well, I was watching the vessels making noises from afar, and a couple of seagulls delivering food to the litter of tiny, yet-to-grow seagulls in the nest. And I saw the sky, and it was cloudy, I could tell it would be raining soon. I used to like rain. You liked rain too, didn't you? - But now it's different, Anne.

And I grabbed my bike,
yes,
the one you would loathe
for the rusty sound it made (and still does)

Yes, I hope you're fine, Anne.
Wherever you may be.

You know I'm usually not blunt, although the situation asks me to be.
Please,
come back, Anne.

It's autumn every day, since you left. I'm growing aloof, and I don't want to, but everyone's growing apart from each other. Who am I supposed to talk to, Anne?

I'm sick of eating breakfast alone,
sick of torn up envelopes in the living room,
sick of doing laundry,
sick of drinking bad wine alone,
sick of this place,
sick of golden, sealed-up crowns, which I still save, for you.


Make things easier. Would you, Anne?
I long for the day you come back.
I can wait.




Until then.

- John

in Tradition.

break my
tissues

when
seawaves
all agree

like ice being
cracked, hydrocephalic
vultures
crack the ribs
open,

(whilst floating
against nothingness

arachnids propel with
the
help
of bodily fluids
,
they
bow
down

and produce
gold sand
which is still fresh,
but
never

quite


the same)


outside

of the waterfall

that hits

don't commit unless you really want to,

taste

the

one-thousand-year-old blood from the

ancient veins of willpower,

that
await

-

grab


hold



of the earthenware made.

and do not


let go of

it.

-

the tribe, when in trouble, breathes as one.

and some

members

awkwardly dance.



you, bring back

th
e

f
ishes

for them to feed on some-thing.

now, softly move back and forth

s e a m l e s s l y


Then,

fall downwards

in the crack made,

and groundly

break

all the rocks

and stones

ahead.


free-handed.
stepping.

rolling over.

-

skin is sculpted,

and fire erupted

then,

skin is tainted

Fogged Windows

through Fogged Windows the landscape resembles the
continuous journey that would lend me hope, embracing the finest never-existing moments that once were.

through Fogged Windows I never ache rather am healed,
and it lasts good alright, and the smoothness of the
window's fog is the hand that triggers.
And me:I'm shoot outwards in ecstasy, so that time
is not palpable in any form.

through Fogged Windows the lands of gloomy sorrow enlighten me, and the breath of seagulls is casted upon us -- nature's way of sending bliss -- and the melodies from heaven are being shot downwards as well.

how can you not take part of it?

I can, for the signs are not oblivious to me.

To
get
to
dive, streamdown, like a submarine being sunk.
By

itself.

the Green Room

Such an awkward altercate

Look at what you
have
done,
now.

!

Troubles, fewer, fever.
Borrowed, cast, in pain.

And I bow, calf-down
towards what I think is best for me

Magnificent!

-

Such nobleness!
certainly, that of thy heart
which lacks of mean
and lacks of feel


I would like to
peer
into it, and take for granted

at last.