Tag Archives: #blood

MY BLOOD HAS BECOME MY FOOD

~~ TIRED in the wind
lips bewitch me in the night.
… WITH MY ARCHE OF CALCULATIONS ~
i exist inside our universe
but i am not a part of it
i love you all, without you i am not true
let me be where i need to be
let me forget the hatred that killed you
that I slaughtered with my sword
There is nothing that cannot be forgiven
what is unforgivable is a waste
to those who die from the chains of Hell
let there be rest for those who seek to destroy
no solution exists
with you, it was a forgotten place
where we were free of the madness
you brought me to my knees
you changed my body from flesh to crystal
now its flowing blood is nothing
i no longer have the time
to fear this being
shall i protect my spirit
i shall haunt the night-horrors
that rule your beasts,
or shall i cower and die?
I came to you to surrender
but then you gave your heart to another
now my words are useless
and i see the dead walking
and in your eyes
there is only a false light
i am so confused, let me be
with you i am free
your blood has become my food
and so i fade away,
so that you can remain
never forget to forget
never forgive those who ask to be forgiven
always remember me,
and live in my shadow,
long after i have gone.
~~ THE CREATURE THAT RENEWS YOU ~
any expression of your sorrow, sorrow,
through singing or any kind of media,
it is a small pity that stays
by your side
until you are drained of emotion,
until the circles turn to squares,
until the rainbow fades
and you are on your own.
to allow yourself to cry at the loss
of an unrequited love is to do yourself

:: 04.03.2022 ::


THE WERE-LINGS’ ODE

And then, this good morning, how happy and glad you will be, day by day, week by week, year by year!

Who has not seen the dawn?

Who has not held the joy of sunrise?

When it came on, what was it but as if some eternal light had given glory to the world, and as if the future was made glorious before we saw it?

The air seemed full of it, and my soul, not wholly in tune with the day, seemed a full box of sunshine.

All, just all, was so lovely that I felt that it would not have been justice to anyone to send a low, dull, oppressive day to him.

If this morning did not deserve my raptures, I wondered what could possibly deserve them.

There is nothing in the world that is so delightful.

How did it get like this?

It is in one way to have these good mornings: this morning, this morning!

And yet the world was not designed for them.

Its beauty is only of such a loveliness that we are stupid if we can look at it without seeing the future glory of it.

To have them in the wintertime, when life is just beginning to stir, is something too wonderful to be seen merely as a convenience.

In order that the golden beauty may be present, the following conditions must be in operation.

First, a bare, clear sky must be free of clouds.

The sky has no dignity for its beauty if the heavens are full of clouds.

Second, no wind.

No wind is there for the clouds to play in; the sky should be entirely calm.

Third, no fog.

A night – fog, or fog that comes up like clouds out of the low country, is ugly and unnatural.

Fourth, there must be a break between two of their souls.

To crawl upward to the thin crust of Earth.

:: 03.29.2022 ::


TOJANI

Tojani!  Even this is an act of fraud
tainted as far as it will.

So turn to me tainted as they blow
winds to make me go.

Truth of a thousand lies with no mercy
they blow to make me go so embrace myself
despoiled as they despoil and swore i’d
clean this slate with great certainty
and God’s mercy to wash away.

so i darted madly into the rain and hail
into little clouds that felt like daggers of tears
from the torrents of lost dreams.

Thinly beneath the surface of never-ending
controlling feelings i found myself between walls
closing in — insecured!     Bleeding blood and
worthless words so real //this tragic
reacting reflection of haunting life!

i found myself (god’s confidence
drained down the toilet of souls)
 
 I feel as though i was here before
  weeping wars of confused reality
  how this flesh makes me sick.

Every-universe is inside me.  But one spot
i keep for just me/as you\are we/i am and was

away.

:: 03.18.2022 ::


LITTLE FINGERS

we forget about the summer that was just ended.

It is the time to honor the dead.

And yet, the dust remains.

Drunk upon sadness at three in the morning of

blue lines in a heart of your dark blue seas

Conceals everything that is the opposite of that.

It is a year before I write any of this.

First they must grow strong, then they must grow old.

SO As time goes by, we live and we die.

We live long, but we die young.

Blessed is the sleep of the aged.

Blessed is the man who stays awake.

When I read this, I wonder why a man who wanted to break
the sound barrier is so sad.

Perhaps he was thinking of all the men he knew.

Who died before making it to the top of the sky?

Maybe he was thinking of how great it would have been
if he could only break the speed of light.

it’s life and love for nothing but death.

:: 03.12.2022 ::


BLESS YOUR HEART FOR THE SONG YOU SING

I’d kiss your lips;

Crush them like grapes,
and lick up the sweet juice.
You’d smile at my kiss;
You’d turn, and let me go
to go far away.

Then, like the girl in the fairy tale
you’d try to outwit me
and return once more
to that thought, which you knew,
that still creeps upon your sleep,
the thought that it should

Be this way, somehow, all of the time.

All the time. For me.
Always for me.

Because that’s all you ever wanted to know.
And that’s all I ever wanted to tell you.
God bless your heart for the Song you Sing.

:: 02.05.2022 ::


Sprawling Glass

SITTING so pretty was that Thing
under a one-in-a-million-year Sun
so here i am inside my small world
kicked off my worries like a little bird
seriously knotted inside a ball without
shoelace: every time i talk to you it
seems you throw yourself inside a psychological
cheat /don’t ever allow them to see you please\
dying skies heave a breath AND
nuns turn the pages of gnostic gothic novels
all caught up in their sticky grace only one smiles
truely and how they think they’ve won
only because the shit has hit the wall
so never let them see you beat feet
it’s the One’s call (break! break the mirror
of perception and eat the sprawling glass inside
your Inner Light).

:: 01.11.2022 ::


WHAT IS LOVE THAT LOVE DOES?

WHAT is love that love does?
Oh n’ver dies!

Shall by choice or cupid’s whim?
Our hearts decidedly care thou
art more lovely than itself as Life.

As when and then everywhere as rough winds
change life as furious seasons may,
as processional change touch brilliant stars
and as summer’s lease hath too kindly
memories of love without losing.

To be half a part of what life gave
this by chance or heaven’s course
untrimm’d; what o’ love is love
that love does?

oh n’ver dies!

:: 10.05.2021 ::


NOW MY GOWN AND TULLE

Now my Gown and Tulle
feel the Wind that weaves a Shade –
and on the roof i cannot tell
since the picture there is –
because Time, a Form, stood a-hiding
and well It did.

Words and Music (my own)
Performed by James Dale
and Love.

“He is oft-injured by his men
or with their Menages,

‘I think I hear him say:
“His Portents are the Dews –
His Words the Dews – and Mine –
His Ends are Ieya’s.

“I wish this next Scene were ended
with the Destination of my own Fate –
“The Flight of Orpheus, I suppose,
“Off the Coast of Homer’s Folly –
Or Death – to Eternity.”

Futility was King in the play, under the pen of D. H. Lawrence.
I hope he was a reader of Shakespeare.

Well, I cannot write about this.
It is really too late.
There was an early book, and there is always another.
The fact that Lawrence is a poet is very well known;
and many of his poems have been put to music.

i have heard those – sometimes for many times – though
i should hate to go against the dead.

A great deal is being written about D. H. Lawrence
in the second decade of the twenty-first century.

:: 01.26.2021 ::


REFLECTION OF LOVE

As my sensational sensual moments bleed away and are no more seen by the vilest minds
my face deep within the riches of Earth’s soil away from unthought wars!
Unburdened by high wilt of human rine–
as pure Love has championed over darkly love.

And smallest voices as new born children spiritually cries of Spring keeping new born
butterflies afloat, is where Love strives
as droll god-beasts!

Such is the dance of perception as a reflection
through a prism; or early morning dew drop.

Time that not be for us — as purple roses
are sweeter to the but for me: deeper!

:: 12.21.2020 ::


LOVE CANNOT BE FAKED FOR ONE MORE SHOW

But huge and mighty Forms that do not live like living men mov’d slowly through my mind>
By day and were the trouble of my dreams.
But more marvelous and luminous are the imaginations of men, when their thoughts
are dissolved in soft summer rain; and the faint exaltation of seas and glimmering waters
move swiftly through the silent ocean, her vast wings and high sweeping curves, till with a sudden brightness; of crystal noiselessly an ardent swan of prismatic form, with plumes that arc tween two spirals or the reflection of a circle, gives up a magical report to the air.
And, as a wanderer home, sometimes, well passing around a hill, would hope that behind him the unseen if it come from a distant lofty land, and such it be, a home of peace and solitude to come.
At times of discontent and sickness, pillows covered with white birch boughs, the dark moss
Along the trees was moist, and cottages by watersides still left their grassy slope. But neither trees nor miles of grass, unlike the artificial things of Man, nor grass grown for buildings, nor waters drained.
And purified into a shallow and undrinkable concentration, nor fruit or flowers in sight, reminded me that the long and tranquil stream of Individual life must needs return before the stream of inorganic life can begin to dissipate and come to die. Its long memories have come to slumber as the long-continued dreams of Man.
But I was tempted by the stream. The solitude would seem so natural and so necessary, and be so reserved, and the solitude so good for thought, there was no heat of mind to arouse it; and even the
Exhilaration of the remembrance of that solitude : had a melancholy relief. But, as in death, the last affection awoke; and, sullenly sinking in a swathing silence, I fell asleep; And though my weary limbs
Were heavy, I slept with my mind reclined upon my breast. Come night, the vision of O the Wanderer of the Hills varying with the stars, and evoking each as the heavenly Eye pictures to a man an illimitable hall, and I was conscious of a sinister shadow creeping. It was a living, moving thing, a slithering thing. From the Cottage the shadow came along the steps and slanted over the plough, and on the lawn the grass was raised, till in the distance it and the shadowy Other turned its head; and then the lightning was brought down by the shrill clang of the bells, and though I thought the sky was dark and gloomy,
It was beautiful in the light of the lightning: then as I watched the storm came on—dreadfully fearful—and very thick: the waves and low groaning hills and swift-growing woods and noisome clouds with rows of storm-clouds of flame darting through them, while all in bright lightning the shadow crept.
So, when I awoke, a little later in the day, my body was ill with thirst, and I could not bear to stand up, but laid down against the cold stone and shut my eyes. The shutters had been thrown up of late. Strange and silent to me!
Were the night-cloaks that let in no ray, such light was gone
That Heaven, with eyes closed, was a dull light to me, black. This body on the stone without the weather-worn yellow waiting on, and in contempt, a coarse solitude.
And I dreamed of O in the Marsh—not exactly what I
Had dreamed of O the Wanderer of the Hills, but all
The same like it: but, turning aside as I do to run
(or travel, as I preferred), and every line of the
Ahab plot, for fifty miles, was clothed with strange
Fog like something floating in a vague haze, and more
And more, like the fog on the cliffs of Benares or at
The foot of Mount Almora in Persia, and took me
Into the Land of Vultures, where had past a Harrowing
Of the Dead.

Such were the dreams, which I dreamt in that room, and of which
They were dreams no more; and I only wished with all my heart
That I had not dreamed of O.

:: 10.17.2020 ::