THE WORLD was made of bad choices.
  My love is forever and tainted
by flesh and blood.
My IS forever.

People get what they want.   YOU can take everything — i give
if freely.

AND THE SKY WAS VIOLENCE and the words of whores and male
bastards —  take my heart  tear it apart .
  Crying is forever.
They take and get what they want.
Go on bitches.  Take everything i had.  I grew a star before you
were thought of asshole.  How I hate humans.  I know.  How you are.
I hate you!!!! You take everything!

——————FORGIVE ME.
you could say i lost faith in ancient mysteries and the Holy Church and say
i lost my sense of direction. 😉  But if I ever lose my faith i say
there’s nothing to loose. Someone said i was many personalities — they can say
it on multimedia and how many politicians said:  game show host:  but if i every lose
my faith in you/then nothing else to lose]   then, if and when i lose my faith —
in you.

Now another bird. My poem for those who, in a period of uprisings or vice, and want to depart with light heart and cheer.

Nymphea and Hymen! I see the tree of Hymen gleaming in the night, my heart holds fast to the seeds of the dream. Also Mars, that beautiful ant of war, I wish a cause to fight for; but love flies more far, and at least we may win through Cupid’s dart, which is a virtue.

So now, Charles Lamb, and Alfred Tennyson, and Leigh Hunt, and Robert Southey, there are three people whose poems are much overpaid. But, as a matter of fact, an independent mind (as mine) may be defended against such a charge, for with my poem in the Thistle, now our rightful equal, I fancy I speak, there is even room for Tennyson.

As for the man who wrote the Lamb’s Reclining; if he were to appear before me, I should feel obliged to speak. The world may as well own the Lamb’s as own him not. He cannot help that. But that I should call him truer than true — ss a proud privilege, and one which If I were to exploit unwisely, would tarnish the honor of true poets.

Other poems:

Among my compositions not read (i shall not waste my limited time) were a couple of portraits:
sketches of myself, as thou wishest me, of a madman and an old man; and now I say, that if I died this evening upon the ground, without tears nor regret.

:: 10.21.2021 ::

THE WORLD ate the lungs of the forest
and HUMANS escaped the pain to answer
this little WORLD who they made crazy!

Why do mouths lick their lips
and politicians line their pockets with
the blood of bleeding people’s tears?

The devil is knocking upon the living’s door.
. drop your religion of deceit and hate___
how is it when little creatures eat your feet
you praise their words and move on? Haze
and confusion and how i try to step forward…
is somebody gonna save the world? Save the World.

Angels falling — purer than purest pure
whisper of a whisper s0(big with innocence)
forgivingly a once of eager glory.no
more mi8racle may grow — praise god who has
many names and the devil has many more

i walked the miles and awoke the same. In the voice
inside my hEAD. Torturing the words of the rocks
rolling — the day i tried to live bruised my soul
all over. The day mother and father died i knew
we’re alone: say, ‘one more time to die? one more
time around this circus cloud of pain.

The pain was great and hated how my face melted the
paint i brushed across my pure face — so one more
time around, one more time around the joke of how
i tried to live.

:: 10.21.2021 ::

THE PRECIOUS terror is realizing most adults are dead children or like a day that folds itself into a basket of reborn night.

That long-necked geese and stiff necks are either pretending giraffes or self consumed souls; ignoring the mirror reflecting thoughts, introspection devours its own mouth.

Surrealism is hickey upon my heart that bests freezer burn sunlight any now. Kiss me you brilliant stupid fool.

:: 08-30-2018 ::