Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)

Cloudy Lines

Cloudy Lines

Entrenched and aching,

In a mild prison, that is barred by soft breasts,

And visions of a delight that never arrives

If you can look into the darkness,

That I have erected in the midst of my perfection,

You might tumble into rapturous laughter,

Gently urinating on my funny dreams

 

There’s a girl who lives in a cottage,

That stands beside a thin river

She lives alone, she smiles,

She bakes bread, has a dog,

Drinks whisky every night

She spares no mercy to offer her heart to the world of men,

No time,

To lend her ears to the tremors of fear that rule our world

No television, no radio, no internet,

Just her whisky, dog, and bread.

She’s happy, I’ve kissed her, loved her in summer,

Hated her at fall, touched her warm skin in winter

I’ve known her fears, tasted her dreams,

Drank her whisky, stolen her wine.

Her life rolls on toward oblivion,

Like the stars do at dawn.

She spares no thought for tomorrow’s possibilities,

And dies to the whispers of midnight light.

 

Lyrical delight leads us to naught but damnation,

Too much I have kept my hopes in verse

Invested my heart in beauteous tones,

Strung my heart to give life to words.

I have no complaints. Just a broken heart,

And a mind too small to hold and embrace,

Its endless frames of melancholy.

 

Words exist to tell lies.

There is nothing a word can tell,

That is anything but a lie.

Can you see? Look far into your mind,

Can you see?

Without words, our lives are nothing,

And yet everything, and nothing.

Without words, these constructions of color,

Have no place in existence.

Our world is a world of words,

And we, the most gifted of all liars,

We wondrous tellers of verses,

We poets, we dreamers,

We weave the deepest,

And most elusive of all worlds.

 

I feel like my soul empties into the night,

As I give birth to more verse.

You cannot see, no looking into me.

I bleed. A blood that has no taste,

From a spirit that has no breath.

I am the messenger of death,

And I say to you,

“Go now, live. Tomorrow is a tearful thing,

Death is our blessing. Our end, our gift.

Tonight you see only the endless sky,

So, that when death comes,

You might see beyond it.”

Broken Painting

Broken Painting

I want all kinds of things,
Like a life with no work, no hardness,
Simple moments floating around,
Like paintings, to be looked at.
I want lots of whisky, laced with magical syrups,
To do all kinds of things to my mind.
To be innocent, I want to be drunk with innocence.
To know nothing, and be in foolish awe at every penny,
Striking glass, spilt water on the floor, boiling milk.
And to laugh with the wind and dance madly,
To shave my head, leave my hair to wildness in winter.
Let the snow freeze my balls and the sun of May eat into my lips.
I want to leave my tongue to touch the rain, leave my ears,
To be slaves to the senseless semblances of old music that live today.
I want to be a bad poet. A good one. To listen to good music, and bad.
And drink cheap wine, expensive whisky, illicit rum,
To die young. To waste my years into old senile rebellion.
I want the world.
But here I am, sealed to a plastic chair and brightly lit screen.
Looking at the reflection of a large universe,
Dying every moment.

I want to fuck her with her hair pulled back,
Pouring peppered boiling whisky into her mouth.
Watching her groan for more, and smiling,
In all that dastardly pain.
I want her seething and rolling in thorned cotton,
Screaming for her blood to come rushing,
Through into the light,
Spurting through tiny holes in her skin.
But we as men make pacts, as women we settle,
For cheap roses and hot chocolate.
For expensive wine, satin clothes,
Plastic condoms and boring nights before a dead flickering screen.

I want me, in absolute insanity giving origin,
To new life. To let the whisky that dances on my lips,
Birth some great new verse. Great new dream.
But then, I’ll stay sealed to these old ambitions.

I want no schooling. I need breed insolence,
Bloody wreckage in all that is orderly.
I want to heat the blood of every working class drug addict,
Every tobacco smoking fool who’s sold his life to repetition.
Every alcohol consuming shit-speaking contract-making,
Hair-trimmed half-spectacled well-dressed dead body,
I want to teach them how to dance.
But then, I settle as a brother to them.

Only defeat makes me write, and I waste my wisdom,
To be ashed into the trays of self-righteousness.
Dead, already.

In those older years the words came from honesty,
Now they come from disgust,
Flavored with a strange taste for life,
To keep on living.
For what? Who knows?
The song keeps pouring away into the future,
And we remain, stuck to yesterday

We are the men and women of our dreams,
Freeing our hearts violently,
Fucking each other with our lies,
And seeing the final freedom in our bondage.
What a joke?
Life! Aha!
It takes a great taste for madness to understand it.
A madness to want nothing and yet all of it.
And then the cowardice to switch your love to that whisky bottle again.
A deep column of sweet shining gold,
In the sweet embrace of which your dreams find a marriage,
To everlasting non-happening.

People have forgotten the charm of tragedy.
To stand and behold, the subtle subliminal flavors,
Of injustice and monstrosity. The evergreen messages,
That linger beneath the ever-elusive grasps of death.
Tragedy is our friend! Our friend! She remains,
Till time frees us from whisky and women, men.

Here comes the bad news, we are all going to die.
And between the lines I see it,
The great hoax. The things I’ve wanted, the things I’ve had,
And between the photographs of red lips and heavy breasts,
Lost trips to wonderland in chemical indulgence,
Forgotten bibles and bashed folklore.
Between it all, I have found myself, and yet,
Not the self I quite expected.

Give me more drama,
Or I will fade away into the backstage of existence.
Forever left unsatisfied,
And screaming for one more breath,
One more inch of open eyes and honeyed lies,
Never to return.

The Endless Dawn

The Endless Dawn
Behind my eyes,
Lurking beneath every feeling
Hiding behind all form,
Expressed, yet unknown,
Backstage, yet the showrunner,
Endless, yet momentary,
So groovy, so secretive,
Forever unknowable, yet existential
Whisky brings a bit to light,
A little herb shines it more
Some chemical revelation,
Brings it to dawn
Fungal fruition, seems to tickle it
But yet, there it lies,
Unknown, unknowable,
Unseen, unseeable
That nameless miracle,
That is life
That is I.

Breathing in the Shadows

Breathing in the Shadows

Sometimes, we all get sad. We get distraught, entirely confused and craving for some light, a little inch of understanding that might salvage us the remnants of our half-wasted lives. The various flavors of guilt steal our attention to remind us of the miserable ways we treated people, the low energy moments when we fed off the joyous memories of some ancient glory we believed to behold but had no part to credit ourselves to. Sometimes, the whole of human existence feels like a ghostly movement of flawed vocabulary and broken spirit. And then, we turn to rum, on some days its whiskey and the few days of wine. And every day, there’s beer. The liquid diet serves to cure both a broken heart and the guilt that spurns from the memory of other hearts that were broken.

The universe has a tiny irking for brokenness. It kicks itself about it and yearns for more and more brokenness. Brokenness gives perfection a glorious crown. It is an element of art that decorates the highest level of creativity with aliveness. It hosts an immense power to alchemize existence into something higher than itself. Here we are, the pinnacle of the universe’s desire—humanity. A wretched race built on the broken ideals of morality, love, and hope. Here we are, a tormented people striving for greatness and blind to the doomed quality of our ignored mortality. We are the peak of the universe’s magic, and the foundation of that peak is the broken nature of our hidden spirits of whose existence we will always be doubtful of.

Every journey into the realm of understanding—to understand oneself, others, all of it—every journey, smells of vanity and stinks of cheap beer at the end. Sometimes it’s best to say things in a way that the only implications are the things being said and no greater meanings hidden or pointed at. The power of transcending grammatical perfection and lingual decency is the only power that helps anybody break out of the shackles of their own concocted verses of rhyme, meaning, clarity, and eventual boredom.

Each alphabet, each sound, is an explosion of the one thing there is—life. Is it here? What does it mean for something to exist or not exist? What does existing mean? Do I exist? Do you, who is reading this exist? Or are you just a swirling in the cloudy imagination of dreams that I spurned yesterday. So many men want their lives to end on the shoulders of a pretty woman and on the rims of a glass filled to the brim with rare whiskey stored in nurtured barrels for a million years. I have no dreams for tomorrow. I want today. And the more I look at it, the more I see that there is no today. Today was over, many years ago. All that remains is the inklings of the little child that dreamt each day of a future that never came and a future that never comes. I like Ms. Plath, glorious and alive in heart look up at that fig tree and wish for every bit of it that it can offer, but I see it all, grown rotten and created to hoax the only thing I ever believed to be alive—myself.

Our lives become staircases into the shadows not because of sorrow that we claim to be our own, but sorrow that we claim to have shared with the tender reflections of ourselves—other people. The many masks and personas that we dance with from dawn to dusk into the weary walks with our dreams at night, we are the dreams of endless nothingness. Have you ever felt like nothing amazes you anymore? Felt like the greenness of the trees and twinkles of the stars were nothing but boring kisses from the same old mother? In the end you see, all things are robbed of charm and light, robbed of dreaminess and steaminess, robbed of life. The only fear the living are left with is the fear of who gets robbed and who keeps robbing. Neither exist.

Somewhere between this dreamed beginning and feared end, there arose this “I am”. And “I am” is the hoax that breeds this endless oblivion.

With the end of things, all that remains is the infinite potential for a new beginning. Even such a thing as glorious and eternal as poetry meets mortality. The only real thing about being alive is death—the fact that one day, all this that we know and love and cherish, hate, despise, and scorn at will be gone. All gone! And then I, my own sweet precious I that I nurtured and kept moist with attention, light, and sweetness will come to what? Nothing. I see that now my friend, and smile.

I’ll ramble till the sun goes down on his knees and begs me for mercy. I will speak till the breath flowing in my toes leaves through my nails. I will not preach but I will scream. I have no reasons for my dances in the moonlight, no causational rendition of meaning to my madness. All you have is me, and the experience that is me. All we have is the stars, to mourn and complain of our mortality.

If you aren’t afraid of death you haven’t seen life yet. I’ll leave you now, with an empty heart and a shallow hope for an eternal tomorrow. Give it up sweet tearful friend, from birth to death is one large lemon, and we swim through burning ourselves, slowly disappearing into a forgotten nothing.

 

art – The Road Through Death – the jamesstark

Slaves of Eternity

Slaves of Eternity

Look at the things that we’ve got used too,
Spilled livers and hearts of stone
For the whims of invisible gods,
And the comic fashions of human vanity
Bring out the guns and shoot our darlings,
Tell them, on your knees, proclaim our shit
Tether your cows to your clean wooden doors,
And feed them carrots, cane, and juice
And as your children dance around them,
Pull out their hearts and wipe your brows
With holy ash; wash your feet,
My pious child; but let the sewers loose,
Within the temples of your soul

Pull out our grenades for holy war,
Our prophet speaks from upon his tower
The Earth has come to crusading oblivion,
Here’s to a great leap into the past
The future eludes every dreamer,
Our tears serve prophesy to our accepted demise
From our plastic boxes come sweet noises,
Of decorated ignorance and famished intellect
Come preachers of the dawn,
Steal the minds of our children
Teach them the ways of our wicked fathers,
And feed humanity with drunken destruction
For what, did our mother bless us with conscience?
I see none; I see the calls of hungry cows,
Coming from the mouths of men
Selling their children to broken ideology,
Settling for colored paper, cheap security

I rather starve than eat of this soil,
That fragrant with the blood of crying children,
Tasting of goat’s balls and blood ketchup,
The stench of all humanity’s history
Our severe lies and endless violence,
Seeming to see some glorious future
That never came, never comes,
The final sonata has begun
The end comes not from the sky,
But from the work of our own hands
Maybe, one last breath, we might give,
Our children a little chance
To redeem themselves,
But no, pull out their hearts,
And tie their corpses to stone
Hail that same old wasted ideology,
And blemish the new with the whispers of the dead

All these years of the great revolution,
Have come to waste
Our sweet dreams as one great galactic race,
Reaching out for the most distant stars
Our affections as running children,
Looking at the sand as if it were the whole thing
Our great enchantment at little things,
Our wonder at scratches and fire matches
Ah! The sweet gleeful screeches we made,
Our twinkling eyes for touch and trembling
Our love for breasts, windy mornings, rain,
The smell of paint, the whispers of moving bicycles
Our fear of ghosts, our love of smooth rhyme
Our great wonder at the aches of sport,
The movements of our minds in the deepest of night
Our love of food, all kinds of food,
Our fear of pain, simple pain, great pain,
Nail polish, toe nail décor, talcum powder,
Toothpaste flavor, hair gel, fantasy fiction,
Running through the zoo like a new born retard,
Photography, the sweetness of good pornography
Whatever that is
And all things human, truly human,
And yet we settle for ideology,
For gods and genteel mannerisms in this blood desert

Sweet darling, we must be kisses on the wind,
For none last to be immortal
We are passing windows of the cosmic magic,
Little moments of great elation
For this whole wondrous space to celebrate,
Why stick like dirty shades of paint on a colorless wall?
With all these great ideas of eternal life
Why do you want to live forever?
What have you to establish?
Why even be remembered?
Why can’t you be like the wind? Forever glorious,
Eternal without knowing so
Become a flavor for the skies to cherish,
Food for the soil, you endless thing, you wondrous thing,
Come with me and become a whisper in the silence
We have nothing to lose or gain,
This world is a passing frame with a mysterious background
Come live that background,
And see for yourself,
What moves, what doesn’t, what lasts, what doesn’t
Nothing lasts.
It’s dark, kiss me

 

 

artwork: Paul Schad-Rossa – Into Eternity

 

Modicums of Fall

Modicums of Fall

Fall comes, raining down upon us in orange,
Red, and little whispers of green through the trees
The world spins into delirious oblivion,
With lovers pausing from their thirsty kisses
Suited men in ties and bows pausing,
To look at how the whole Earth mourns
There’s a woman smoking a pipe at the edge of the forest,
She’s here to tell us how we shall break
As winter comes to steal our solace,
As the icy winds of Jupiter’s wrath,
Come to change the courses of our dreams

A little too much e-mail etiquette,
Brings our sensibility to cheap thievery
Being gentleman in the rain with umbrellas,
Only burns our innate imagination
See, Mrs. Candylady, she’s running and it’s raining,
She won’t get wet and ride a rainbow,
She seems to want only death and sunrise
See, Ms. Clockwork Angel dressed up like a man,
Somehow she put her heels on,
Got to work on time
And added more flavors of boredom and beer,
To her decorated fears of death

There’s literature dancing at the edge of my brain,
But I will not kiss it with eloquence
I will not give Eliot some bloody reason,
I will not let his ghost into my room
To tear the beats of my blazing heart into false lyric,
To sum my music up in his foolish equations of verse

The West lost their souls too early in dancing,
And let Newton wander about in their ecstasy
They let that mechanic ruin their hearts,
And now they’re running after Einstein
Let it go stargazers, leave your numbers to the leaves,
You come along sweetly and dance with me,
And we’ll leave your political pathoses to drench in rainbows

You will forget me, for I’m much of an ecstasy man,
And these people don’t like happy men
Happiness distracts them from their addictions,
Their addictions to boredom and dreams
They will crucify me to their sealed offices,
And tell me, ‘Keep your bloody music to your poetry.’
And I, sober like a black duck in cold water,
Will walk along on these roads of tar and paint,
To a little quiet death,
By the countryside

When we were young we spoke of meditation,
Like it was candy that we bought from a store
And as we stare into the raging fire of humanity’s tragedy,
We leave all those constructions of delight,
In the backyard of our worry
Liars, liars, sweet liars,
Children of the moon, children of assumption,
Children of the future, children without souls
Tell me more lies that I can tell myself,
For this world begins to move now too slowly
And the peaks of boredom come crashing down,
Into the valleys of my passing youth

We’re never too young to look back at life and say,
I’ve lived enough

We are the children of the moon, of the night, of fall,
Dancing to the orange waves of natural corruption
Death is all about us, calling to winter,
Like a child calls to his mother
And winter will come to make our cigarettes more delightful,
Winter will come to help our sleep be more complete

Mrs. Candylady will take off her heels,
And put on her new ones
And she’ll let Christmas kiss her hips,
As she wipes her face with shades of peach
And when spring comes along with its splendid dreams,
She will whistle her new tunes,
Of softness, purple eyeshade, appraised salary,
Minted tobacco, wheat beer, and cardiac arrest

And as I stand there at her funeral in summer,
I will sing for sweet Ms. Clockwork Angel,
Who stands beside me mourning her friend
Still wearing those long murderous heels,
Leaning on my shoulder, I smell those false tears
As I watch summer smiling through the clouds,
Smiling at the inevitable laws of our universe

Coat the seasons with your memories,
Tell your children the many lies of the sky
Coat it all with sugar, pepper, and chilly,
And bring drama to the corners of your smiles
Life’s too short for disastrous things,
It’s too long for ecstatic dreams
I see it all, now, above her grave,
The autumn leaf feeding off the sorrow
The autumn leaf, bringing life beyond,
To the evolution of dreams,
Into reality