My deartest
I should never
express I am
empty compared
to your heaven
that I am which
by nature expressed
this then is the incomparable
love. A flower whose name
the angels sing,
“Destiny” love So sweetly
gentle heart come toward
the love given by the Hand
of Our Eternal One
Oh! Love! I await for you
in all my tenderest patience
you, the Perfect One!
:: 09-06-2015 ::
EVERYTHING are words
now They are
sound. Their color sings
Opera and Rock and Jazz
and scripts of celluloid
movies all
Mixed within my mind
I 8 desperation
defated in this flesh
I Am
wondrously here//-all
of my heart spilling poetry
:: 09-09-2015 ::
AND Jesus likes-licking lollipops gliding King
of the boulevard
of spirit dreams
and I licked-like sticks
like the wooden
cross across Life
Oh Mohammad too,
who knows where he’s
taking me–somewhere
I want to be? Like my best friend
and religion is a sidewalk with many souls
walking the path toward diminished dreams
of an afterlife dry-stick lick so I’m taking
my best friend who knows my buttons; pushing love
and my shadow-affair
life
IT’S where I wanna be
just me and my best friend
called, “Me” and it’s my Soul!
:: – ::
SO up should be stop
and down should be go
What should be said
should be not!
All the way
into a lazy daze
I say bouncing thoughts
betray simple ways
and Laughing zebras
skipping town on a tram
undulating umbrellas twirling
into zeros while no one’s watching
why be so serious w h e n
we’re all guests within
the hotel called Delirium
and so on and so on me so
on you we say we pray
with a finger on the trigger
of a punchline dixie cup
— // —
THE IMPERIAL GARDEN
I walk the Imperial Garden of Abstract Thoughts
where the hedges are theorems
and the fountains run on doubt.
The roses are syllogisms—
each petal a premise,
each thorn a conclusion
that bleeds.
A statue of the Self
stands in the center,
headless, holding a mirror
that reflects the gardener.
The gardener is me.
The moon is a period
at the end of a sentence
nobody finished.
I walk the paths
the way a word walks
through a poem
it did not choose.
At the gate,
a sign reads:
EXIT ONLY
in a language
I have not yet learned.
I stay anyway.
The garden is mine
the way a scar is mine—
not chosen,
but carried,
and somehow
still beautiful.
the severed line
of my life!
my spirit sealed;
i was away in death
no human fears;
and so many hands
that could not feel
touched my earthly
years
A constitution
of empty chairs
silent motion or force
her heart never saw
Brought by bounty
of eternal diurnal course
of tears, fears, and screams
I too was dead when alive
NEVER MET a finger-Word
that some=thought One
could place a touch upon!
On time’s nobly proportioned
and monstrously horror shawl!
AND once said, “each time my
heart broken makes life
adventurous!
;; / ;;
IT was with a bang that first I heard
a thought: sparrow had hit the house!
my sorrow for sparrow so immense!
The second bang shook my soul
surely a quake that rocked the world
my fear for the town so profound!
The third and last pierced my heart
and brought me back to my senses!
As the firing squad
completed their task!
therein i died
remembering life as a dream!
:: — ::
i saw what i could not touch
beyond the pane of a glass
the distance a mere foot
but the reach beyond doing
Blood thicker than water
they say with a smirk
but i know the meaning
it belies the truth
Such longing is a blade
that cuts beyond the soul
with transgression as insult
a cold silence my shadow
Born into a circle as one
pushed and discarded aside
colors bleed black grey
and red dries with cries
A life review will say
in turmoil, rot and decay
what i could not this day
express to all who knew
–//–
 | EPRobles on OWL MILK AND INDIGO SMOKE |
 | Adam Fisher on OWL MILK AND INDIGO SMOKE |
| EPRobles on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
 | R. Marshall on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
 | Stefan on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
You must be logged in to post a comment.