A stranger challenged me to speak To write as if uttering my last words And the fatalism of the concept frightens me Like a summary of my thoughts in a final poem And what’s worth being said on my deathbed
Yet I feel in so many ways I’ve already died in layers Because love is a death-wish And affection deprivation Is absence at the scene of a relative crime
Disassociation washed the blood off your hands But I’m a stain on your memory What is breathing when I’m wheezing to do so? Like I’ve got an allergy for...
Here I am standing on the hill top looking down at the very existences of the night, as it slowly disengage the depth of the dead of the night filling it with shadows walking around in an mere state of wonderland. Pacing from place to place wondering aimlessly through the stairways of darkness, within the deepness of silent whispers blowing through the trees that have lost there leaves.Yet those same shadows are Seeking and Searching, for that one thing that can feed them in ways unimaginable as it can be, only found in the deepness of the darkness that creeps through the night. Yet as...
1] . the longlastingly smitten southern skies of tonight
...are lit steadfast as palish~ white canvas of the mind from its still reminiscing jetstream stripes of skeletal skull ..of the shrilly hard metallic sun crop...in an undying holy vermilion iridescence of its (un)settingness
an eventual eye-to-eye languaging eternity, a 'gandharva' marrying spectacle of the juvenis skies... in a sun~laden infusional cynosure
Silence Of The Streaming Nights~ in shapes, sounds & more unsaid.. revelatory syncs
the little reptilian in the corner wall slithers in muted rhythm of streaming waters, a stealthy silence.. in meticulous sigmoidal wavelets..
[that somehow rapidly links me to a Czech's astounding nature~ sculpt.. their cross-sectionally hexagonal basalt fingering, the ‘Varhany’~ pipe organ columns of the once volcanic & now a static landmark.. as if raising revolutionary hands.. Mansion or Lord's Rocks of the Bohemian Kamenicky Senov]
Of the Existential Maya (which misconstrues Holy Dark Matter Silence as Deathly Greys, but Is There a Death at all?)
darkened tarred roads wink in wet sticky mirroring amber pillars …october’s monsoonal twilights’ a stirring chaos- fusing fabric ..of
(bodhi~ in the haunting oddities)
of the long ringing temples bells in hammering clarities of a sonorous resonance… with an unclassifiable racing~tranquilly simultaneity ....of a heart-drumming in a holy worshipping fervour, a dancing trance
palish last drop of the dripping in ‘natural pure’ such law-abiding corporate honey ...gotten over this morning
nearby outside in the fields the blaring fantaish-bud bloomed skinny rustic pomegranate branches hold the honeybees in buzz, a congregating chaos in their own-honeycombing homecoming for three newmoon stints, ...and there below hangs a skeletal comb of their ancestry in a linking continuum ..a mummified reminder of sorts