Tag Archives: #sadness

Breaking My Heart

I want to hear your voice in my mind as you claim me.

Claim me.

I want to taste you.

Taste me, too.

I want you to feed me. The power that lies within my mouth is the power I will employ to make you scream.

Scream.

I want to possess you.
I want to bring you to the edge.
But you won’t let me; you’re in a hurry,
so you push me away with your arrogant smirk.

With your arrogant winking as you take another free-hand
with your fingers, ’cause you’re like that.

I want to be on the receiving end.
I want to give it all to you.
I want to be grateful.
I want to regret.
I want to be satisfied.

There you are again wandering through my dreams,
haunting me, making me helpless to resist.

I want to see you again making me wild, shooting through my body.

Letting me know, listening to me scream and cry for more.

I want to feel you again.
I want to own you.
I want to feel your teeth on my breast.
I want to see you again close to my flesh,
your hair piled high in a manner you have perfected.

I want you to have your way.
I want to feel you again.
I want to fuck you once more,
but this time I want you to be mine till the end of time.

I want to savour it. Till the moment we enter my womb
and know, with our blood, that we are a mother and a father
together.

I want to see the vastness of our love in the walls of our home.

I want to see it, know that we are a family.

Until there is nothing more.

:: 07.07.2022 ::


THE ANGELS OF ELYSIUM

THE Sun reborn and divine
The Dragon Of Light and Shade
The World awoke ~
You Hear Ravens Fly
It’s Morning
The Light wins the night
The Great Work is done
Back from the darkness
Behold!

To look at the lights
I’m Waiting for the Angels Of Elysium
Waiting For the Eastern glow
Oh dance in the dark of night
Sing to the Morning Light
The Mornin’ Light!
My will is to hear you sing.

Meaningful snowfall, a Lifetime
Of broken dreams, selfish leaders,
Left wing leaks, lies and fake news,
Dishonesty, and The Destruction of the Soul
– Outrageous // double standards, the Elite
Vs. You.

So we dance in a darkened night.

:: 04.07.2022 ::


NIGHTMARE IN MARIUPOL

THE bombs rang and rang
out with light
into the night
while long nursey nights
as laid i within bed
that darkest hour
of gigantic, formless
queerest moments
a hideous nightmare
a form of father
and mother came
to me dead :
as of night

run oh run for life!
said in almost mock despair.

I leaped and ran i ran
pulled my brother from his bed
and into the night we went.

As earth moved. As skies
shook, as stars twirled
i hide baby brother’s eyes
from that horror.

We went.

Into the wet, cold dark night.

:: 03.17.2022 ::


AS LONELY AS MY HEART

Dark clouds as lonely as my heart Weeping tears of my life
so begins again the night the fright of living life

I want to be the one
I want to leave & run
I want to see the end
to taste real things

All my life I wanted to feel but fear a hold upon my heart
Never had a thing to say to the indifferent Souls
So let me feel let me hear all the pain of my lost life

Where I belong. sadly wondering
Where I cry.

Where I live inside a vault
where it’s all my own fault.

So dark clouds as lonely as my heart
weeping tears of my own life.

:: 11-06-2017 ::


HOW THE RAIN CAME DOWN

HOW the rain came down as drops of lit sunshine is why i started to laugh:
since life broke my heart
i found my Soul within a cloud so full of darkness
and thunder-song then i laughed

such deep blues

As though we’d just won a war and the world rejoiced
all inside my head — my skin said, ‘you can leave whenever
you wish’ i decided to stay instead

a heart full of silky scarfs of rainbow colors for us all
summertime out /as if life’s a real thing\

so i cried

as the rain came down as drops of lit sunshine is why i
started my laugh. Butterflies and lonely tears screaming
/reaching for air\ is how rain came down as drops of lit
sunshine is why i started to laugh instead of tears.

but my garden is green and lovely by the touch of my
private heart.

:: 10.24.2021 ::


MURDER IN MY WORLD

i am the life
i am the death
i am fueled by
adoration for you
you are my whore
you are the mother
to my poems.
and i will never
leave you.

i ate the edge of time
and pulled my heart out
placed it upon the rock
of gibraltar like a gun
to my head

and how the world murders
words.  oh i love misery
and find energy in love
so in time…in time.

And how you counted stars
and tasted all your scars
and how we feel the same
flying away toward Mars   .

Into my world i lead you.

:: 08.18.2021 ::


HOW YOU FEEL SO ALIVE

HUG me but leave me alone
tonight kiss me but say nothing
harvested feelings come and go as
ghosts weeping for you and me
watching how we changed: smooth skin to lines
firm convictions weakened tells me there is more
i held the hand of failure and watched how love died
like we never had brakes once so alive and now changed
i watched the sun explode like nothing ever before seen
and once so alive — watched it change.
you left me alone / months into years and decades gone \ and its
like you never went away always alive and eating my insides.
watching how we changed ah oh ah i watched the sun explode.

i look at the plot of ground
and the green grass of Earth
tomb stone and words with tears
it is like you never went away
still so alive.

:: 05.03.2021 ::


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 ::


FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


SO NOW

so now

That the Iris opens her eyes upon early morning sun
that the wind dances her showy flowers and is luck
the lost voice of forgotten lovers?

some Not

when wind forgets its dance and green devours
(feelings) by nature’s beauty shall the fisherMen
of hearts sail from continent to unknown places;
their gravely instilled by amorous desire.

some NullAS not would never go there.

:: 01.21.2021 ::