the rain of nothingness

how palpable this realm is really...indubitably serene a land,creatures englufed in varmint desires....in those smoky appandages i see outside the half closed pane.....though this unrecruited mind of mine is writing,hands immerged in paper,i see a mirage-the coconut tree,black with the red outscrape-lonesome as a static windmill..blowing up his mind in the weak gust under these drops of insanity...as every shrill leaf cuts across the wind shores,its seems to be waving at the blue dome upstairs,apparantly though reddened cheeks as if some painter himself has been dileaniting its sorrows..my vivacious ardor is of to work i feel...alas..unsatisfactory its work is...words it does not find in this closed room...doors shut and a window half closed..the floodlight works less..an old lantern it seems midst these mundane showers.illuminates enough to contemplate me in these surrroundings i see..indulging these corrupt eyes of mine,hungry for sleep to gaze past the silhouettes on the standing water...

its flooded with its burlesque muddy forms and it carries to the shores these daily chores of the neighbourhood..as if these broken drops are befuddled in writing a prelude to some scrappy work...i lighten again in half-naked murkiness...stiff yet frantic is the drug inside...it leaves my lips less of a grandeur than bequeathing the suave smoke....ardent i feel...conscience rues still...scratching at the musings i feel...it feels nauseatic.....i unlip it again,harsh it feels on my lips...nonetheless,avarice has lost out in the mist tonight...my concsience exalts its rejoice...disgusted i am at it..smlithiring inside like an imbecile..it thickens quickly,i'm aroused again from dizzy multitudes....empty are the terraces that eludes my vision..and its still falling...reminiscing this ardent soul of mine to much provocation..for ages now as if undending sands of a closed hourglass-  

how these drops elude a shrillness in the standing waters as if chiding a child in its sleep...its flashing past..the half closed  pane is drenched in the slow wreckedness...wicked it is not,it falls slow..it kills with patience---the victim is unknown as he does not feel the approaching dumbness..it smiles asleep in ignorant bliss of unknown treachery these drops culminate...yes it comes...the blush gone now..the gery,pallable emmisery to martyrdom..the paleness now awaits..and the world awakes in cold distress..and finally i ride to bed..ah the shimmers of the smoke has not vanished yet...i smear past the widened crevasse...my eyes fixed still on the window ceil..which moves to cradle me to lethargy till dusk again---

the naked vampire--

it stripped naked in my doorway near

i knew thy soul was full of fear,

it held my towels in its smouldered hand

bare of clothes,coarse like sand

it smelled like wine on rotten fish

like Butyric acid on a petri dish.

the pale brute,crawled past the room

i had no knife but a dusty broom

as he saw the shadows that was mine

he gave a cry like a porcupine

and i,i rose behind my winding fears

the whisk in hand,he doth appear

antagonized,i felt my mind

travel beyond a sense of time

remembered where the creature stayed

in forks,he lived for ten decades

dismayed thus i kept my calm

this naked fool can do no harm

b'coz in his shaven chest he bore

the writings of a skinny whore

sparkling through like flashing lights

kept me rouse for days and nights

it said words thy fear to speak

though it made the fool cry and weep

it said,

"o edward mine,since you went

with this filthy wolf,i'm not content

come here o edward,lets find desire

but first turn me into,a fertile vampire"

The Hourglass

linger each age...

akin a golden sage

it moves,a shadow with another

every hour does it synchronize with the other

harmonize with the world of fain

with a tick,and a tock

it moves with the flock

of tireless insatiate men

jaded with obscure vain.

and it doth turn,all o'the way round

the hourglass maketh a little sound.

laughs on the scorn of fate and death

awaits for each turn to spurn their faith

it hides the box of her naked chaos

the grim and wrath of malicious pathos.

a machinery of the prejudiced mind,

naps on the walls of every kind.

chuckles on the steps of the beauteous Morai

the clock plucks the thorn of every man's cry-

wither it not,nor rests does it after evey walk

fleets time's sheets,with every tick and a tock....

a christmas eve

thru the ages bygone,

crusades i have sailed till furthr'mre

amidst a distant dream i had bourne

thine vivacious self has been possessed to lure-

every jubilant carnival that hath ensued,

by dint of course thine has seen through;

nevermore,a cleft leftover yet been brewed

a day of twilight on the branches of yew.

thy yearn for an escapade within the far west

lost in a chalice of florid mulled wine,

a realm of the sage,the roads of bethelen blessed

thine smells of the mince pies;shepherds sitting for a dine.

thy weary self doth behold a serene land afar

a distant castle lit by flakes,of ancient flames

that chars a shadow.lost mistletoes hanging ajar:

the frost filled land of thick wooll'n hand inflames

the nights;or a fain tramp with his pharos,moving past the eve star-

thy sees the amaryllis floating 'neath the canopies,frames

o'the al'mighty 'bove the grate cover'd in tar...

thine hear the ringing bells rung by thee

chanting carols in bethels faraway maybe

children hymning the holiday song with glee...

'or stockings hang'd for the claus to forsee.

the heart of ivy cherish the christ

holms and bays of evergreen boughs

a bridge of paradise thru snow flakes iced

the abbey bells reminds thus of forgotten vows

sleighs and snowmen of the brightened hill

midnight's children are dreaming still

of reindeers, chimneys -of goblins and elves

as the bearded ghost glides past ourselves

as thy looks on:scottish pines are bathed with bells

with garland, tinsel and candy canes

but the star of bethelen stands gladly firm

as a host of angels glimpses doth affirm

the witching hour approaches the silent night

the new born king is here to fight

bells are ringing louder still, the bagpipers

are roaring.the barn art filled with

the three wise men who looks down from above...

thy forget what seen and thine yearn for a night,

to dwell in the stars , rejoice like a knight

revel in smell of the crackling goose

a butter tart or a chocolate mousse...

but thy corporeal life will drown my dream

stir thyself in a goblet of poisoned creme

the river defrosts- as the Twelfth Night is burning bright-

someplace else,a distant away,

thou ruptured star carries my yen of sprite...

ode to dreams- a vigilante,a regret and a secluded mind...

"a knife ,an edge, a winding road

its sharp,so steep,i stand alone

it works,she screams,i hear no voice

the blood,she drops,a distant noise

but the visions cease,lyk empty breeze

and sleep lyk a wicked charm,is there to seize

the pictures past,as in my dreams they do not last......

he smiles,they cry,i find no glee

he sharpens again,headlights i see

it cuts alive, close in on me

he has an alibi he loves to keep

as i wave my hands to escape the sleaze.

i wake again,killing sleep,

nostalgia then starts to creep

this time again the flashes leave,

those dreams i see,i cannot weave.....

wounded heart,a treasoned soul,

a jaunt to find a berth forgone.

he's got revenge,she's got her death,

i stand with hope , retrieve my faith.

he has let it go,she breathes at last

while i walk away ,under the gloated sun.

 this woeful world then creeps away

no memories of this phantasm,

but a trance,of lost artistry.

nothing more as i wake up

lose the trails of aftermath

and they leave me for an other mind

 cover him with a shroud of vile... "

A sweet remembrance (mi gracias to s.m.o)

thy blurred visions escape the corniche path

as the dawn of odessey flares vaguely back...

i brood over the trails of the paltry alley

and although dense mists fill my mind as it may;

i return to the prime of the glorious past,

the age of radiance that can be ne'er surpassed.

thine knew not the essence that'as destined there

'cept innocent breaths and curious stares.

our ladys grotto sneaking thru the window creaks

a cranked corridor leading past the memory bricks-

the land of lea cached behind the empty trees

and gold'n clouds ,lapping by the summer breeze...

thy found existence hideous in thee mystery woods

but acquiesced-i hath not wanted be like the oth'r hoods;

today,looking through, thy subconscious rides back,

to the cavern filled fountain ,thy elder life lack

barks of timber ,growing darker with enthall

poppies in the porch, the ruptured birch- bespeak the rift of fall;

the churning of the morning bell,

a bend of road as approaches the edifice

along the barks of shrubs the squirells dwell,

the dawn of dusk captures the insence of poppies

a mystique land captured within the verges of the lost

the dried crumbs of wise leaves taken in by the frost-

as winter sets in,the dewlets run faster thru the blades,

and the cold nose'd rodents envisons their darken'd wintry graves

i see thee run past the half trodden vard

in search of something beyond the thicken walls barred.

and when i thus pull myself out of the past

realising thee flashes were never to last.

 thy heart is scared of the dark rooted fear

tho' vanities last but my memories disappear.

i wake myself away from the trance that is lost

away from the boundaries of narrow domestic hoarst.

thy cling to every rooted moment i lived with adore

and although thine bosom rises every dawn for more-

i realise what thy soul has forgot

the depth of belonging i somehow feel not-

and the sun rises once more thru the snowy flakes

the woollen clots that descends to wake the world awake

a dark sunshine that once knew no bounds

contradictions waffered on every ground.

thine memories are somewhere cold asleep

and thru the ocean of dense white misty heap,

i see thee standing on the wake of ancient stones agleam

         the chapel bells are ringing-

                           as i push away the remembrance of my empty dream....

ODE TO THE WITCH-

A year before I write with scorn,

Thy heart ,thy soul had seen no mourn.

But hail the whore who filled the throne,

The bitch lacking dressing sense,with a nose overgrown.

But St.Joseph's-humoured,failed,wounded and beaten-

Experienced the 21st century breakdown,saw history rewritten.

Through our magical eyes we shared the vision,

The blasphemies committed are by an evolved Satan.

An inflated ego,the face of a shemale

Cursed by all ,she is symbolic to evil.

I remember the man who was overthrown-

A sublime personality that he had bourne

Loved by all,he got respect-

More than this wretched bitch can ever expect.

Thee have facial hairs all over thou face

Thy doubts you descended from human race.

Thou is evil,thou is cruel:beneath that sacreligious  layer-

Shakesphere envisioned you while writing,

"Fair is foul,and foul is fair"

A metaphor to cruelty-an instrument of terrorism,

Thou make Lucifer look like an overrated euphimism

I  pray everyday for jesus to make her cry,

She's a hairy swine,an infected piece of horse dung,

I say this because  I must not lie.

So saying this I end my ode,

And although she is considered to be a rusted toad,

Psychological surveys have portrayed thus,

She's a control freak for a living mass.

And thus they thought without intending pun,

Her tyranny does arise from sexual frustration......