Hark! Attend, and with thy mind’s discerning gaze,
Behold the secrets of a soul ablaze.

For ’tis of love’s ambrosia I declare,
A murmured tongue, that only hearts may share.

The art of a kiss, on love’s ethereal wing,
Its depths surpass the starry evening.

As love’s flame flickers, vivid and divine,
So unfolds the kiss, a tale undefined.

In passion’s fervor, a tempestuous flame,
A fusion of lips, a burning, deep acclaim.

With stolen sighs and breathings intertwined,
Two souls aflame, in ecstasy confined.

Yet dawn does break, and passion’s fervor wanes,
But love’s soft embers in the heart remains.

And on those lips, where once the flames held sway,
A tenderness blossoms, as sweet as day.

For morning’s kiss, a whisper on the air,
Carries a love that frees the spirit fair.

A brush of fingers, soft as morning’s dew,
A vow whispered, ever steadfast and true.

So mark these words, and let them be your guide,
In love’s embrace, where hearts together bide.

For love’s true art is not in fiery strife,
But in the gentle dance of moonlit life.

:: 01.08.2024o ::

In the Maine mist, thick as lobsteater stew, a skiff slices the murky water. Not a peep from the oarsmen, just the creak of bone on bone, the sigh of rusted oarlocks. No stars for bearings, just the moon’s greasy thumbprint smeared across the sky.

They weave through drowned trees, skeletal fingers clawing at the fog, each gnarled branch a hungry ghost reaching for a taste of flesh. The river flows like molasses, thick with secrets and whispers of things best left undisturbed.

And still they row, these shadows in the mist, their destination as veiled as their faces. Is it a hidden cove where forgotten gods slumber, or a desolate island haunted by a shrieking wind? They could be ferrying souls to Styx, for all anyone knows.

The silence tightens, a shroud around the skiff. Each stroke of the oars echoes like a dying breath, punctuated only by the skittering of unseen things along the banks. The moonlight spills, revealing glimpses of faces etched with a primal fear, eyes wide with a madness caught from the river’s gaze.

No slowing, no stopping. Only the relentless rhythm of the oars, driving them deeper into the heart of the unknown. Where the river leads, they must follow, even if it leads to the edge of the world, or worse, into the waiting maw of something older than time itself.

For in the fog-choked arteries of this river, secrets writhe and twist, and answers are colder than the grave. And sometimes, the only way out is to row, row, row, even if it means rowing straight into the teeth of what waits in the darkness.

This, you see, is not a journey for the faint of heart. This is a voyage into the belly of the beast, where shadows whisper and madness blooms like barnacles on the hull. This is Stephen King’s river, and these rowers are dancing with the devil on water black as pitch.

Choaking upon the splinters.

:: 01.08.2024 ::

\

Can We Be Heroes Forever?

I am a meme — like a space invader
i adore and freak out Jesus, it is a holy
place to be… just you and me with your
electric eyes and wonderful spacesuit yeah

keep your mouth shut for all it’s worth.

In your electric mind we see: we’ll write it
all in a Moonage Daydream let me know you really care…
Let the forest eat and allow the skies to devour
and our heart –> We dream Out a Moonage Daydream and how
a holy place to be loving regardless of where we’ve been.

How I love your space-mind-moonage daydream.

:: 01.01.2024 ::

In yonder frost, where icicles cling with icy grace,
And Dick, the shepherd, clasps warmth within his hands,
While Tom, with logs, strides through the echoing hall,
And milk returns, frozen, in a chilled embrace.

When Blood feels the biting chill, and ways grow foul,
Then cries the owl, with haunting howls, a mournful tune,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a note austere, a solemn chord,
As Joan, with pot, cherishes her task with devotion.

When winds resound in boisterous glee, dancing with joy,
And coughs, in chorus, outmatch the parson’s tale,
As birds, in snow, sit pensively, contemplating time,
And Marian’s nose, in red, bewails the cold embrace.

When crabs hiss fiercely within the bowl’s embrace,
Again, the owl’s mysterious soul unfolds,
Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a somber score, a melancholic melody,
While Joan, with pot, tends to her lore, a keeper of the flame.

HOW DEATH reaches into weakness
when Life is dark ~~ do not be weak
for death but strong for Life; how
old age and mental images rage
and how once known by birth
a baby knows it should not die
by the painful feeling of birth
as those strongest dying by a single
ember feeling the dying light – that
no feeling dying is just for good men
how frail now they rage | how earned
some fortunes and others pennies
all are equally blinded by the Light
and you, my father, there cursed
but saved by the Light / rage/  
by the living Light.

:: 12.292.2023 ::