Beyond the time to which We’ve found it needed to feel, I seem bold enough to love you, In all that has come upon you. There are tragedies so uncertain, And fates so entwined, That I feel a simple need, or simple pleasure, In kissing you, with all kisses never offered.
What has fate in store us, In the times we’ve respected our faces, For the comfort it may throw upon Our defeated shoulders? I ask, once more, In spite of my mind in this torture, “What has fate in store for us, Beneath a moon that shows only coldness?”
There are visions of our death, Great marks of scars that will not heal, Not by ointment, nor by remedy Of potion that spills a fluid. All the cure, Is one heated kiss, In the great banquet of true and actual Safety, in the arms of the other.
You have cheeks so full of red, And eyes so full of dread, I am here to mark you with a feebleness, So that you may drop your guard, One final time. I will kiss you until tears come swimming, Though, in the happiness of a coming morning, When sweet dew will replace so much bitterness.
Too many damnable kisses, Brought thorns to make me bleed, And the face that holds a rose, Between two lips colored by cherry. A sweetness mingles over your form, And all I feel is the seduction.
I dart with disarray against your eyes, Those that show glare against mine, Great beauty of feminine doom, Show me your way of a common demise, Rotted are you, in these arms of dust, Once we were, by the altar of marriage.
You blew a kiss in my direction, A farewell or a guarantee, As Christ knew who to cherish and who to despise, A lonesome shape he became, Under the fashion of weathered clouds, You are a woman of newest hurricanes.
A woman of storms so fierce, And so great, against my lashed back. I am, or was, a savior to a cause, To make you see a lust that pierces a night’s aura, Of candlelight and music played, Upon a highlighted gramophone.
A savage glare is all I notice, Under a mind, not of my kind, And above a nose, With beauty that surely grows. I am alive, Though, nothing has been made mine.
Face the dark, with yourself against me, Squeeze the moon, to shed drops of truest gloom. Find your smile, and nothing to remind me, Of the pain that had been there to see.
I am in your arms, With lashes numbered seven For each of those studious eyes. Like the beauty made mother, Blessed to be another. You have fires roaring within, And elegance soaring out. Here’s my heart for you, For your kiss, and your shining eyes, The most a stare can behold.
I am the Devil of a man, With a Fall that was broken, By the Earth’s moss. I see you, In all your grace, In all your space, The universe sheds its blackness, Upon your arms, Upon your legs, And makes a song out of your heartstrings.
I see you, With a face so alike, The soft messages of a night, Bespoken in twilight, The words of smallest glory, The words of highest love. We are an incarnation of marriage, The first and perhaps the final, Two shapes, One of elegance, and one of madness.
“In contrast to love, there is business and discussion. There is explanation and subtlety, among all things related to dishonesty. Ask a question to expect honesty, and if an explanation is offered, a lie has been offered. All things related to ‘the deal’ are related to deception. A deal is not a promise, but a token for advantage. Love is a path of honesty and commitment, and there is nothing better a representation of it than a marriage; though, people who think on a marriage will see a contract. A contract, a deal, and then, perhaps divorce will follow. Such people should liken their thoughts on ‘the deal’ with divorce, and never the marriage. Create the deception, the divorce, and a deal has not been broken, though has been made, because divorce signifies material gain, and never anything to do with the love meant to be eternal within marriage.”
Feel thy current calling, Between the motioning legs, Crawling upwards, To see the sun and its eyes, To hear the moon for its cries, Love has been the blessing, Though, lust has been the wave Of kisses for our mouths.
I feel the smoothness, of fruit, Of orbs of flesh, As softest breasts, Your fetish is a warmth, A beauty to which I feel the need To drown myself.
Lust is but a current, A conflagration of incredible warmth, An inferno that is but a spark To begin this trail of debris, That is cast over shoulders with a searing gleam, As love controls our whims, Lust will make music, Through our repeated sighs.
Who said love ever failed? Beside, and upon, and under A bed, With joyous eyes To shoot towards stars, That decorate a torso, Full of secrets to a night, As they are shared to me, in blissful melody.
Poem #2
Fill Me with your Denial
Your pleasure, Is but a falling fortress, Your face, Screams the calls of enticement, The calls of denial, The scream, the want, and the yearning, You have the face of change.
I am but two fingers within, A pencil has outlined your womb, A thorn has cut the flesh, Measured as a fragment, To what you owe, To the empowered me, Please me, the man of too many nights.
Death denies many, While life adores the plenty. Your servitude upon my cauldron, That heats the water for your bath, I have a message: I state, that whether or not you face me, You are the woman who will accept me.
Poem #3
Blow Kisses My Way
Kisses are sterile, Without their fire, Without lips that glisten, Without cheeks that also gleam, There is not the constant Rush of any moment. Blow those kisses, In my direction, In my way. I yearn to catch them, And pull strings upon your heart.
Beauty has its way Of offering flesh. From the womb of a woman, Flesh is raised. Flesh comes about, In the thickening trail of anguish, In all despairs to a life, Well-lived.
Blow your kiss, Towards me, Upon me, So that I may taste it.
Your distance, Is often the cause, For my tears. I have cried many a night, To see you peacefully Nestled to a blaze, A blaze of love and glory. A blaze of the fewest nights, Needed to prove, An offered love.
Kisses are meant to be few, For love is not meant to be renewed. For how could longing be there, When love has already been shared?
Poem #4
A Feminine Seduction
Great marble, so close to the color of your flesh, Peel off, I do, the art of modesty, The clothing I have discovered to be sinfully placed, Upon what makes you whole.
I view, With eyes alike the artist, Wielding his brush as a weapon, As a dagger, As a sword, How yourbeauty has come as seduction, Placed upon the doom of humanity.
You starve the wonders from the world, Through all you consume. One finger like the bent and burning candle, Touches my flesh to rend it scarring, Touches my heart to make it roar, With all fury and pain to my world. And two eyes of yours, Made alike the ocean, with tears alike a banquet So that all may eat them.
Poem #5
All Pain Runs Deep
To the ocean, and to the ends of the Earth, Subtlety is but a natural fixture, To one perception of flatness, Never the infinite, But, the limitation of a sight, As if beauty were never protected, As if humans grace themselves over With another’s blood.
Christ and sin, The strange calls from the din. The women and their desperation, The fires from a Hell, Are faster than those from Heaven.
They burn faster, Over flesh. A quickness, a temptation, Christ called to the forsaker, A woman had called to her son, A Mother of sorrow, A face made of ivory, And tears descended, Like angels removed from Heaven.
Come decked in ivory, Blessed face of old beauty. I am beside you, in chair of wood, To and fro, it motions with the pull and push, Of this arid wind. Love has made it clear, To feed us the wine of it. Redness is but a color of my blood, And yet, only life has been the leech, To drain our paradise.
A home, to which we’ve built for our occasions, Our hearts, our love, our crimson, Our faces have the lips where permanent marks remain, From kisses made deep.
I have forever been in love, with you, Though, your tears fall now with this morning And the droplets upon the blades of grass, The gleam of the dew blinds me.
The gleam of your cheeks, Captivates me. The gleam of your eyes, Soars me, Across Heaven’s glades, And the orchards, And the groves. You’ll fall upon me, like those tears, That do reach your open palms. Your beauty is so old, Yet, it dances with as much youth, As the Earth.
Romance has bequeathed us, With idealist temperament, Our auras are there to transfix Themselves, upon the Earth’s emptiness. I see you, with face so full of forgiveness, And no more, but the treasure bespoken.
I was the giant, The man who smashed The many insects at my feet. I am but the insect, now, With a diamond I present, freely, For it is my own heart, The one thing that has remained largest. Beneath the shade of your lashes, I am merely a man of a certain want, Would you bless that forgiveness, upon me, With a single kiss?
I was too moronic, And felt the need to destroy, And create storms. I felt the world was lacking Of something plentiful. To you, and for me, There is all we keep for each other.
The pain seems plenty, And you seem many. You seem to be the storm, with needed wind, That shall blow erosion to smooth My distorted face.
A: It is because whenever I see a person aiming to engage in Journalism, I see no more than the smile of insanity or excitement. Logic is never in the equation of Journalism, nor in its existence, and femininity has merely encompassed it, like a spread of peanut butter on a slice of bread.
Q: What makes you intolerant towards Journalism?
A: Journalism resonates upon its sole ingredient: excitement. The thrill of the chase after the truth, is much different than a spread of directions, a spread of paths, as this relates more to the lie. A lie is complex, as are emotions, and each emotion is a different path. The source of the confusion comes from simply witnessing these emotions in their drama. Unless someone has the idea of writing of lost cats or children with sore legs after kicking a ball, there will be the crudeness of engaging in the lie, itself.
Q: What is the lie, itself?
A: The definition of a lie is simple complexity. A complexity that creates numerous paths, this is a lie. A deception, that is easily convincing, marks the essence of the emotion. Journalism strikes me as the only weapon that employs this. The usage of emotions, and never the consolation towards them. The witnessing of tears or fear, for the sake of the camera, makes it a reality, despite both the emotions and the presence of a camera making the scene an unreality. The viewer had not been there, though viewed the deception through a lens, and it all becomes a mere “perception”.
Q: What do you make of perceptions?
A: It is the one-sided story, the essence of the debate, the source of division, as each “perception” created from a sight upon a television screen, creates the feeling of loneliness, separation, and anxiety. Each viewer of a screen has been deceived, and now they are the victims from which deception creates puppets. Each string, that is, from the puppet master, marks each separate path towards an emotion. A puppet is only a representation of a lifeless corpse, without the strings. With the strings, the puppet is seen to be wild. It moves, though is still lifeless and without a soul.
Q: And back to Journalism?
A: In utilizing the ingredient of excitement, truth is always ignored. Truth is never discovered in this scenario. A Journalist will be so intent in “rushing within the rush”, so to speak, that they will never make an attempt to look for truth. They rush, lost in the crowd of both spectators and those who perceive, that they remain concealed. Most of them are rushed on caffeine, creating a further “fast-paced” attitude, marking them as the perfect vessel to be the perfect puppet. The wild one, is like a corpse reanimated.
Q: What more of Journalism?
A: A complexity is merely an emotion, and each emotion creates deception. Each person conflicted with a “mental illness” is lied to, whether by Psychiatrists, or by their own thoughts. A simple cure, such as a pill, is still alike the simple cure, that is suicide. The remedy is never to become a robot, though to use logic to uplift those deep in their emotions. It is because, whether it be depression or simple fear, there is calmness that reveals itself as more daunting than the fear, itself.
Where have graces taken thee, When you shielded before fate and misery? You play with the night, Like a bouquet of roses, Sniffed by children, and eaten by cats.
Believe me, in my woe, You are the doomed harlot, The failed woman of many curses. Among that god between your legs, There are eyes that cry a sorrow.
You glisten by day, To glisten by night. Both of body and complexion, Does this aura arise. And you make music through your sigh.
The sigh of pleasure, The sickening sin of Lust. You bled for God and his herd of Shepherds, Felt Hell crawl on your naked skin, And mistook it for Heaven.
These fields of ruin, Are of my design, Destined to bathe, Among the odorous wine, Of virgin blood and castrated swine.
Stretch your form, will you? To the ends of the cruel Earth, You’ll see a singing shape, The scrotum and the shaft, Was like a tower of gold, Now but only rotten, Was once a key to the Earth, Grim faces torn everywhere, Evil politicians and their false smiles.
You doomed harlot, What maketh yourself of ourselves, When we praise thee, and never the Lords, Who drop tears, as you drop both blood and sweat?
There are to those, whose face shines among, Upon ivory canvases. Though, yours that faces itself, Upon the stark white shape, Is there for my smears, My kisses. My foiled becoming, Is for you to breathe, As your lips remain idle. It is due to me, I have painted a scene, A sight of a face, so texture-less in textures.
No life, I see, among this idleness, Alike death, frozen, though still shows a tear, Despite the upholding of my love. I drew with the screams and sighs, Of all my life’s failure, To see, to see movement, and to see The you who never was, And never will be, to this broken day.
I am but a shade, A meaningless man, Who possesses loneliness, Like a poisoned blade. There is death about me, Though, it only drains from me.
From my hands, Spills the hopelessness of an empty life. Though, from your face, Spills the harrowing colors, That eclipse me into the unknown.
