Category Archives: #perfume

TIME IS NEVER OWNED

OH time is never owned cause time is always loaned
you can never give more to it and you can never leave
without leaving a piece of you
so the yesterdays we were others
today we believe we are we
and how life can help one
believe we’re better than yesterday — hold up yourself
to the Living Light: i once was youth and now ageless
so believe me.
And how the sun rises
and how the seas undulate
and hearts beat…
time is never owned.

:: 08.18.2021 ::


THE MAN WHO SAW THE WORLD

\
The curtain hid my fear and ill-intention.
It led by with only a single hole, a reminder!

Then, right there and then even though behind
the curtainS, so wary of the cause:

What was the cost of the pain?

The cost for the life, the life for the key!

Oh!

So this time i cast aside reason for belief:

Knowing in the seed of life!

oH NO! nOT me! you’re face to face with
the soul who made the world.

Behind the curtain, self loathing became true
and trust, trust, loss for a minute
then forever wound within my mind! For
gazing millions of billions of years
a long long time ago — who knows?

How we killed the, “once I dreamed.”
Said he was the friend of Humanity
and i spoke into his eyes and he
crucified so long ago with the man
who loved the World.

I laughed and shook his hand and said
“My friend, you are so kind.” So so
a long time ago. And watched him die.
/

:: 07.11.2021 ::


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


WARRIOR OF AMARANTH NIGHTS

i would sink if the moon left these shores!  picture of myself,
bright floods!  seeking shadowed roads.  Of yellow and green
cellophane hearts –into the willows of an old courtyard.
   O my dying quiet hearts of arts and words of black dog,
brown shepherd hungry formasters — bitter peaches upon the ground : 
while sulfur and evil drown in shallow swims.
Oh but Lord!  through amaranths and Sahara blues as fire and creepers
seep through the widow’s cage!   i walked Guianan without shoes
and flew through the ducal window on such a moonlight as the blessed bindweed. 
Across ages of time and hordes cross our aged Europe.
Every soul crosses the moors — all warriors!

:: 08.31.2020 ::


A LARGEST NIGHT

Mellifluous are the songs of moon
lit lips pressing a maddened
heart as mine!

This largest night ate the orchards
and prismatic towns by the shores
where waves say goodbye torturing
women who have lost their sailors
on calmer nights.

Instead of life the sea has come
has come to take from me
all i have called normality

what most who love may dislike
what some who hate may balance
i n l i f e :
a severe disinclination
or tolerance for such as me!

so cold are some it feels as stings
from a polar bee!


A HUNDRED POEMS – XVII

the heart expand to the left
it demanded space to grow
lilies of my fields
sprout and bloom in sunlight
fed you blossom and color
in the dark night: hypnotized
musical words
nurtured from \ little poems
thus i am human \
skin from dust
below your stem
that is where —
one-day i shall go
soon one day
and my soul
be your bed

:: 03-26-2014 ::
rev: 07.26.2020b 08112020


I’M A NASTY SALT

SO i wish I smelled
like you instead of
the nasty salts of
a working man
Amazing Grace
by Philosophy
All you write;
“I have no right
fresh sun and love”
leaving me the
citrus note:
‘wish I was like you’
So white musk and
so regretful apologies
soft floral blossom
of ofactory you!

I’m scared cause I
want you — tic-toc
addiction of
whore clock

:: 07-01-2015 ::