Blue Sea

One night I missed a shooting star

I did not catch a wish-

Only did I lose my head

Amid the surging bliss

And if you ask me where it went 

I'd tell you painfully

Into anothers wish it went

And washed away from me-

Mind

I grew up listening to these words

fervid heart

glowing, sadness

poetry

all walls

and windows

when it shifts

somethings gotta give

uncomfortable in this skin

and used to living like this

Cold

dry, cold
I think I know
I think I know now

move on
because I can't come back
I can't come back, now
lead on
because I can't give back
I can't give back, gone

but what's this hold?
this pull, this biting spell
stinging
leaves me under zero
sinking, shining new dilemma

because I thought I knew
I thought I knew then
but I think I know
I think I know, now

Room

planted in a new room
the low thread

dance in numbers
to pain and conclude
the dead
note- the light leaks
absorbs but neglects
she's blind
as time flies
the night slipped
soundlessly by her
and speaks finally
the morning
sun, rain
or anything.

Memory

I don't know what I'm doing

or why

I do know that I wish the winter

would stretch a little further

cover just a little more

cover me just a little more

carried with the wind

to the same place, I know

sheltered by a cold night

overlaid

is a day, coated with a strange name

topped with a wide grin

secreted

a flare

and deceiving glow

that holds me tight and won't let go

kissed by a star

that missed so many nights

but I do forget

I always do forget.

Walk on

Shaking, trembling

Tremble and weep
Behind the curtain
I can't house this sleep
I wake up
I wake up
And I walk on
And I fall some
Maybe it's in the way
That I speak
Or in the way
That I don't
I walk on
And walk on
Maybe the way
That I laugh
At the wrong time
Cry for all the good times
Build new stories
From broken homes
And simply walk on
Walk on, walk on
And fall some.

A nightmare on Paris street

I cannot help but consider you a nightmare

while half of you is pushing me to be strong

the other half works at breaking me down

this is not so much a white flag

as it is a momentary collapse at the knees

as I struggle to regain my composure

I can only endure you

for as long as I allow myself to.

I'm not there

I love to look out there
at that settled
early hour
unspoken but the wings
and a faint buzz
otherwise a nuisance
but here
here could pacify the roving
something of a way
those creatures that know
all too well
when to make themselves scarce
nothing
a home to everything that could be
where I lose myself
within a strangers dream
I imagine that I am there
with you
and the houses, the boats
and our ever so buoyant memories
but something doesn’t see us
you, and I
we were never there
we were nothing but storytellers
inventing scenes to ease the pain
I was you 
and you were to blame
for this tragedy
this vile tale
where I watch you move
but I’m not there
only the stillness
softness, of the early hour
happening without me

Full

The closest I have come

   To feeling like I did

Is early in the morning

   In the early hour

Where old words fall

   And old words fill me 

weak

Their  weakness, impatience

Mine, patience

Dirt

What is beneath the dirt
in all of these words
I search for an opening
but it is only pressing
how sick we've become
how repulsed
though maybe repulsive
in this crawling darkness

we can only become
what we've always been
and what eyes have gazed
upon the lumbering limbs
some mistakes made
in the shaping of things
behind mild skin
swings wild strings
cat-like with an early spring

stretching, feeling everything

back, and forth

and in every place
where with every death
we invent more space...
more space to fill with dirt

The dead sheets sway

Said one to the other
let's play name the stars

Inside us, or above us...

let us move the mountains,

beside us, or beneath us...

Let us lift our eyes
to the blue-gray skies
between you and I
we could never fly.

So this is heaven?
compared to underground...
what is heaven
to what's beyond the clouds?

Pretending

I desire to be forgotten

faceless in a strangers dream

Nameless

and taken

no more

and no less

Flesh

and naked intent

Rain in a pitcher of Lemonade

Could we not be, collectively

Altogether imperfectly

A little less than happy?

Over the glass

Could we not see

Dissipating memory

And still a little more of me

Spills into a world

Half empty

And becoming...

A little less sugar, for a little less pain

And just a little bit less to lose

MoonGirl

To be of the same
a long way from home
a forgotten face
and nothing but space
she delineates states
swells the blues, and agitates
questions the full-bodied mystery
and it's strange to think
she might have been
beneath the skin, and deep within
separate, and disconnected
from where she pulls the rolling sea
coalescing tears, her memory
a drop in a collective cry for help
She, the distant dusty plains
of earths remains
of the same
but a long way from home

528

In a dream
a smile as routine
as a dying star born to pass
and it was not I
but rather the secret
of a new lie
that slipped off of your tongue
and into my hell
winged words from the heavens fell
plunging into my years
salt-tears, aftertaste, the looming waves
pulling the skin, and signaling
clenched fingers, circling
emerging from the sea
drawing around me
such warmth with which you held me
made me a moment
within seconds I'm scattered
I'm sand between your nervous hands
and it was your dream that told me
it was okay to live like this again

Easy

If only a glimpse

Arms shift

Swift, these things of no account

No less, a jest

The faces set
Against a sideshow backdrop

Stop, a baffled blue cries

Bends us, these artists that shape us

Sketches, and sculptures

We the demented clowns, and performers

And in a day, each we will be

Like yesterday, gone

What form, previously

If only a glance

That which may offer more

Than a momentary view

Of the things behind the door

And slowly stepping through

Thin, skin, and broken bones

No substance in its purest form

No death of a question

When an answer is born

Can change just how I saw you

On the day that I learned how to see

Middle

Much of the rain today is not the usual trace of memory, or bit of ordinary imagery.  Not like tears, though specks nevertheless drip down the unclean glass, slipping through the little cracks, into yesterday’s sun.

Yesterday’s sun, he who brings to life the ashes from the fire, we watch this cinematic portrayal of the tattered, and untidy. Little tiny particles bowing in the air, basking ‘til the curtains drop- and we know they always do.

We were there where the lights change, and the houses full of strangers, full of stories simply cease to be. I took you, or you took me, that I cannot remember. There we thought to freeze the moments that were already frozen, lifeless. Note that I tried to keep you in focus along with everything still, and different. You were there laughing at something I had said, though maybe I was serious, nevertheless, you must have had some place else to be, because you were gone… and all that remained was me.

That’s when I saw their faces. A picture I did not entirely wish to recall, but there it was… Hair a labyrinth, or web of considerate misguidance, but had I ever been one to get lost or entangled unintentionally? No less transparent had the eyes been, colors as clear as shallow waters, overcast by the luscious lashes, those dodgy shades of gray. It had been them, for it was not me who would have blended my shades in with another so easily.

Now that I think about it, I hated that painting. I mean I really hated it. Every inch, and every stretch of it, every shape, and every color in it, and they were all there, all of the colors, all but the one I was finally seeing across a wall they had long since covered. Sometimes it can take years to come across a truth that may still only remain so for a moment. For we’ve all places to go, many times to move on.

I couldn’t help but picture the whole thing. Of course not just that one isolated incident, but that which had surrounded it. Like the old man who swept the shattered glass of youth, sweet fragments of the careless, though he was by no means a saint. He who cleans the surface with depths left unkempt. I  know it now, just as I knew it then.

It still rains, and I wonder just how vague I can still be, just how untold I can tell this story. Every cigarette feels like a fucking vacation from this book being read from the middle. This book with no certain beginning, and no traces of any end.  Nothing but the middle, where I happened upon myself looking far across the stretching empty spaces, of every direction.

Ghosts

They move like milk

Below an ashen ocean

Shapeless guards

With vague remarks

Of pure face

And treasures be, their pearly eyes

A fair disguise

For one, and one

More, evermore

Unfilled below

Merged the nameless

Virginal

Anxious birth

Which blankets pure

The innocence

Of deaths allure

Gone again

Much like a day I cannot remember

The thoughtful, and the awful

Had unwittingly collided

Much like a day that I had come to

To find myself sober

Familiar, and artlessly alone

Here,

On this day I cannot remember

My death merged so beautifully

With the present

I will, and have spent my years dying in

Here,

A world forgotten, I surrender

To the various ghosts of myself

Racing towards another end

Right here

Is a ghost that's always been

Diary of her skin

Sauntering, spent sight, absent
he was silver-tongued, and orotund
rich, like December guilt
whose subtle lips, and tender kiss
gently pressed against her wrists
in November

A gifted pretender

Remember,

Having read the scars
that span the quiet walls
felt her Braille skin
sheltered, fingers trembled
delicately undressing
her forgetful flesh

Secrets

The passing shades of nervous skies
That let the rain fall from your eyes
Where scattered seeds, of love unseen
Beneath the leaves of forgotten dreams

Could this function?

I must be experiencing some kind of sleep disorder. Too much on my mind, and always I cannot help but bite my tongue. If I had wings, they might very well be useless. Overcome under the afternoon sun, and for just a frame, I slept for eternity. He with the disfigured knee whispered "it was only for a moment". I'm trying to distinguish the difference, I'm trying to sleep. While the heat, rough concrete surface soothes my cold skin, and I feel as though I'm melting, a river now beneath me as he lifts me to my feet, and I'm flushed away, still wide awake. Worse, I cannot write. As the minutes turn to hours the days fade into the background, and I forget myself, desert myself, succumb to the scrutiny of every twinkling eye in the dark indigo sky. There must be hundreds of abandoned words, for what part of me surrenders. Little glowing embers they linger, and as the smoke consumes me, chokes what last breath I'd take to keep my light ablaze, I forget, again, and again I forget. What else but the honest, could anyone ask for. What but the true however frightful, appalling the face under the guise, there must be a beauty that lies inside the sordid house built to hide the shadows. Sleepless, the stars have left the eyes, another sunrise, another storm. Charcoal skies will cry, away with yet another day. Nothing like that unfaithful, pure, changing bipolar nature, the one thing I can count on.

What makes it so

What makes it so

a momentary skin,

imaginary luster

Like the fickle lover

whose love, so much

so often transient

Or the forever

of  worlds, by chance

an aimless twine of tender play

Where it collides, a scope

into the innermost

indelible memories

Falling

Tossed about the aisles
Drawing eyes
And dirty minds
Slipping into the years
Like the unconditional
Limitless patience
Of distance
Rendered speechless
Seemingly …
Unresponsive
Soundless underground
Beneath her special skin
Eclipsed
Still lovely how she moves
Delivered from the remnants
Of that so called  ever after
A breath from the overcast
While the only truth
She ever knew
Lies in the shy shadows
Whispering spring
Into the thin cushion
Of her delicate skin
When she looks away

What she saw

Was a brief sight
and only a victim
of a moment
before a collection
of afterthoughts
like lingering dust particles
basking in the traces
of residual love
calling out her name
to watch the thick skin
swiftly splitting
a deliquescent branching
of everything else to come
While we need not forget
that forgetting
is as easy as dying
or the sweeping
of salt stain fragments
across uneven cheeks
warm to the idea of nothing
until a moment
crawls upon the lonely walls
of a thriving, singular memory
to make love for eternity
and span across her imaginary surface
the birth of her very first death
reaches through her broken chest
and resuscitates the heart
beating another

Sempiternal

Perhaps separating them

Was our first mistake

In the beginning

We instigated our very end

 Her eyes are without number
Absolute, and untold
Wide-open
She reduces me
Caustic,
Her celestial scrutiny
She has many eyes
Or maybe it’s just one
And the connection eludes me
I note how she scintillates
Striking, and delightfully agonizing
Her brilliant end
As I watch her die
Or maybe,
As I’m watching her die
Again

Bolt from the Blues

If you have not felt it
then it simply must not be
how the heart feels like it bleeds
and the ghost, how she whispers
from depths I feel I cannot reach
she feels these colours, I can only see
and how loudly she sings
of a world beyond me
her blues, an art
an airy canvas
filling the spaces
and painting the stretches
and how much of it
can I really understand
worse still when I lull her ears
with any infection I can dream up
until her screams rise
and exit my lips like laughter
madly as I smile at the sky
because I know something
she does not know
and that is the inevitable limit
of my shallow skin
releasing her, my tired breath
to become one with what I've never been

Be still

If your roots should collapse
perish upon a fixed bite
decaying beauty
her faulty decline
an unsightly truth
sleeps in the broken
mother of pearly misconception

just as your hair wanders
slips like a secret
through parted lips
and before unseeing eyes
blind to the time
that's been wasted
would you still care
to be here like this
beside the telling glass
because there is something outside
that shakes and distorts
the monsters we've become

Farewell

He who yields to the shadow of another
withheld by dull monotonous strings
And in absence of variety
the dreary humdrum sings

In a final unvarying draw
prosaic breath confined
and with the years like a dynasty
preserving my callow heart
against such follies
as the lifeless lowly wait
where I suffocate
And wear blue about the face
until a dream like an air of reason
rains sleek, and silky myth
glistening fish by the dozens
streaming down my wrists
to wash my hair, and hands
of the shades I dared to kiss
in the glassy rush of treason
cascading all I've missed
absorbed I rise but fumbling
where in the midst of dread
might the self choose suffering
to lastly make its bed
for what the eyes have seen
is not to save the bridge
that draws the line between
all the heart has bled
for I`d give it all away
you see I`d bite the hand that feeds
I`d send it all away
to save what trembles underneath

Beauty

If not the lackluster complexion, Or rather pallor condition
Then that feigned yellow simper, reeks forthright resistance
And that dark around spoil, more the forthcoming grimace
That to Disfigure, and cripple, and damage the essence
Only perverts, and tortures, and alters thine  message

Such a sight if a lie
would in a mirrors guilt
eye the very deceit
it once held true
then a sight shall be the first
to shed light upon you
Verily a word to amuse
a jest at the very least
nevertheless if such were the case
then to muse for a moment
in your mocking embrace
Then what of beauty
might not the plain
breed less revolting
jolting it`s mild juvenile
state, and unshapely smile
such is not vile?
And what of this feeling
that blankets you
closed in sordid thought
that same glass of reason
or shame, or neglect
trapped in the caramel swirls
of our endless regrets
And what difference
of that string you forget
around your neck
drawing your life
by the very last breath
Lest you choke at the thought
that all that is left
are the sprinkles that sugar
your slight silhouette
that swallows the space
and begins to forget

Quiet

When I`m a tree, and you`re the wind

There`s seldom any time for talk

My branches softly brush your guilt

And plant your secrets in the dark

And thin within pursuading leaves

Confessions spersed through dust and on

Unsounded where your riddle sleeps

Your rare, unfolding undersong

Give up the Ghost

Willingness to commit
Transformation of choice
Where no other allows
Presents itself
A mandatory death
In some strange
Lightness, unmoved
And melting
Like butter, flies
Withheld by wings
Torn, and encouraged
To take flight
On flimsy wishes
Bleeding colors
Of insubstantiality
And superficial dreams
Whispered to the self
By the self
Do not believe
Exceed,
Overfeed
This answer-less disease
This cancer on the skin
Recognition in the eyes
And dreaming ever since
That sugary state 

Of constant departure
Remedied by insignificance
Regrets for the delay
But it is that point in time
When it finally waits for us

Letters from the background pt 1

Never love me
  Outside of myself
Or the way you would
  Bring two together
Only to take one away
  I will only break away

Or plant a seed
  To mark the isolation
Upon my desert cheek
  For no tears will fall
And withers, a purpose
 Like a thirsty flower

Letters from the background pt 2 Right here

If you think the universe great
boundless,
Consider your own uncharted
depth.

At times I feel closer to the stars
black eyed,
solitary songs in the heart of spaces
untold.

Letters from the background pt 3 Regret

Might I confess, or admit
         Regret

         In the sight of reflection
Behind  man, lies a beast
         Very much alive.
All that occurs
         That which nourishes and sustains
On this day, should we
         Were we to stand
Unveiled and unshielded
         Might we see regrets
Scattered like wandering particles
         About the eyes of the neglected

Letters from the background pt 4 Lean on me

What they know, is only what you show them
And even then, what do they know?

I wish to part the bond
Sever the chord
That binds these walls
Disconnect the secrets,
What shame
How strength feeds wholly
on weakness
As time unclothes
unfolds, and reveals
My shattered backbone
Lean on me.

Letters from the background pt 5 B-side

I was so deep in dumb
Tracing silver linings
And seeing nothing else
Recording mixtapes
And branding you
In such awful penmanship
Almost comatose to the efforts
That you`d fill both sides
At least there was that.

Letters from the background pt 6 What I did not know then, was that I did not know

I do not write about love as though I have found it, lost it, Or even felt it. Maybe in earlier years did I touch on the topic. Tread the unstable mystery of a heart reaching outwards. Even then,  perhaps it was not so much love, As it was naive dreams, or suspended ideals. Someone just like me, who reaches depths beyond my voice, sees past my skin, and into themselves. It was a mirror I was after, an ocean in it`s intrinsic color, mistaken for it`s surrounding colors.

Opposites attract, they say
Not from where I stood
Maybe for a while
Or maybe for a stretch
Past the threshold
But then back again
And so I gave myself
To the quiet pull
soundless, and natural
draw of solitude
As much as I value
And value, I do
The stories,laughter
Misunderstandings, and contradictions
I have found no better company
Than that of my own
I am still but a single speck
Marching, in a vast space
Stretching
In, and out of seeking
Never have I
To the best of my knowledge
Touched, or found you, outside
We are each a sound
a key, and part
In search of a place
In the quiet that is our own
Where our voice can resonate
And join the great song
Of the universe symphony
And if there was, or will be
Love, in the heart of gods among men
Perhaps they will lift their ears
And hear us once again.

Letters from the background pt 7 How she speaks

Susurration of a passing song,

Through waves of wraith we sank

Gather where the nights are long

And leave the letters blank

Letters from the background pt 8 Letters from the battleground

We can shout, “Selfish!”

At each other

Until we’re out of breath

“Heartless!”

At the ones

Who’ve left us here for dead.

Maybe truth consumes

The one whom cannot rest

The one who cannot face himself

Own up to his himself

Crippled on the side

And fighting this war alone

But how he held on to every word for you

Fought the entire world for you

Sunk his feet into the fields for you

To find you on opposite ends

He would take bullets for you

But he cannot take them from you

Nameless

I remember your greens, like capacious grass
Painted blues, like my navy dress
And how we laughed beneath the mess
Of orange dancing on our breath
And I remember your Winter
Tasted much like Spring
Your leaves of every colour`d sing
Hiding from the Summer's sun
To Fall victim to the moments
I could soothe your wounds
Though you salt mine
Lift the fears you left behind
Hold them till we're out of time
No burden, or commitment
Just to kiss your bruises
And sketch your scars
Wish you like the falling stars
Love you for that quiet dark
Contain your falling fragments

February Hearts

Lovers link, two beating hearts
The likes of cold february
Spans vast across
A winters dress
In white soft sanctuary

Bleeding reds, their rivulet
Dueted with devotions plea
In heavens freeze
The seekers meet
That`s where the heart will be

(For musical track of Feb. Hearts visit  https://www.opendrive.com/files/11252943_Coe6h . I was supposed to make it a Spoken word track, but decided against it, perhaps though, one day)

Grandfather clock

Judgment sounds
ticks my blood
talks the very rush
unrelenting love
never quite the first
or the last to look up
unfolding arms
and hoping it`s enough
The stainless years
Spots a fading pink
on the brink
and counting
oh sweet everlasting
worry, dear
need not abhor
the rouse and ebb
for many more
a face, to waste
and fill the hours
of your confined space
That within a breath
must spread beyond
and through the air
your wishes fare
now left before
your august hush
this aging face
still tender blush
swearing by your senile love
tell me that it`s not enough

Epoch

Have you ever fallen into one of those dreams? Where you feel as though you’re a drifter whose feet falter within someone else’s substance. Uncovering gray notions, and flimsy remnants that have manifested in the most unsightly of structures. Knee deep in dirt, and mildly victim to the slight, insistent tap of a heartbeat.  Slowing down, easy, and calculating. Forthwith you’re submerged, swallowed by a large body of water, with it’s featureless face severely swelling, upsetting a surge of ugly aspects that advance weeping, and stammering, just before bursting waterworks of loss, and regain. Passively you swim on, until all you can hear is the distant piping shriek. All at once, the air becomes quiet. All that is unfamiliar has began pursuing you. Disguised, and grimacing, alarmingly confiding secrets in your voice, with your words. There appears to be hundreds of them, climbing one before the other. You begin to peel off the layers, masks, upon masks. Only to find that strangers, have become all the more strange. Now you’re sinking before yourself, and just before drowning, you realize where you are. Carefully placing your fingers on the surface, observing as the ripples radiate, and dissipate, quietly back into themselves.

If you have, well then you simply must know that you do not necessarily need to see the writings on the walls, or anywhere else for that matter.  Despite that alternative I felt compelled to pass on this message to you, engage in one more approach, and perhaps hinder the inevitable plunge. In spite of the undying fear, my everlasting insecurity, that any letter I write should fall short, and fail to reach you as originally intended. It’s a diligent tightrope act you see, each passing hour, ink or less.
I write to you at every chance I get, moving along the fog of every cold glass surface, breathing a new layer when I fall short of space. I write to you in my thoughts, at any station, where waiting is just spare time to revel in the words. I write to you in each joke I tell my neighbors, and of course in all directions that I pass on to strangers. Each unusual idea, each forgotten face, unappreciated moment, each lie without a trace. Most of all I write to you in the dark, on seemingly empty walls with my fingertips, beneath cold sheets when my eyes refuse to drop the curtains. Inkless, I can still make out the characters the following morning. Awkward, and somewhat ugly. When I grow weary of the scatter, I simply brush over it with my palm, and begin once more. Often times my thoughts fail to make it to paper. Why would they when they have such spacious, impalpable places on the walls, and everywhere else. To write for you I dig into my skin, and wait for the words as close to perfect as imaginable, to heal, and form a new layer. So that I may start, and start again.  It used to be that the objective was getting as much on paper for you as possible, so that you should not have to miss a thing. It’s as if I was trying to piece it all together, so that you would have a safe place to fall into, so that together, one day perhaps we could look back and swim in all that we know so far. Although the benefit has long since been the thought process, spending as much time in the idea as possible. Finding the closest sound, the slightest vibration that could perhaps express all that it is we see before us. It is the journey, and not the destination. El tarik tawil. Always I am writing to you, from embryo to eldest, my thoughts a vale of expanding images, in search of their words. I don’t know how long I will be in each idea, but I will leave the traces, scatter the pieces across the aging walls.

Winter

I cannot help but complain in Winter. Try as I might to bite my tongue, while my heart races, and my teeth chatter. I begin to irrationally target the weather. As though my biting outbursts of objection will put an end to the cold. I want to be in it as little as possible, get to where I am going fast, or simply, not leave at all. My father is always telling me that I ought to be used to it by now, In fact, every time I voice a complaint in my shivering state, he lectures me under the snowfall, in his flip flops, and housecoat (mind you, taking his sweet time to unlock the passenger side) on how I have to face it, and accept it. Similar to how he tries to talk me into letting spiders crawl on my arms, it`s the only way I can diminish my irrational fears, ``They are just playing`` he says. My fathers favorite topic seems to be that of comparing the seasons to mans disposition. When I am in a terrible mood, he will say ``Don`t worry, the storm will pass``. To mope in winter, instead of embrace it, is like telling man to ignore his pain, despite all the beauty that comes from it.

Walk with winter, endure her

Winter

Let the cold Penetrate you
Let her anxiety, and bewilderment
Frigid, and accumulating
Disperse, and explore you
She is struggling, striving
To give birth to something new
Walk with winter, endure her
Straight into spring
And when the new
Is old, and dying
Wait for her return
She breathes heavily
And resuscitates

The face upon the wall

If you have ever filled
               The coral lips
You know,
            She'll never fall
Ever grazed,
               The subtle kiss
Of the face upon the wall

Reflection flips, her rising hips
Through cracks her fingers claw

An image,
  In a mirror's lost
     A face upon the wall.

The Art of Tragedy

The smell of whiskey, and liver
Lingers on the caged tongues
Of grief, and comfort at a junction
Lead with delusions of grandeur
What used to be a colourful mosaic
Of sinister beliefs, spoken repeatedly
Until it lost all meaning
Has become a faithless refuge
For the underground outcasts
Playful, instrumental
And unaffected by the light
That guides all prayers for nothing.

Forget

Honey drops, dense, how sweet
Candied is this house of cards
Blackened skies, of circling flies.

And what part of me, would I regret
If I coated it all, sugar and spice
What part of me, would you forget

Believe me, there is nothing
Behind these eyes

Fuck you (A history)

On needles and pins
Rather harsh, uneven
They have asked
Why do we not bleed
Under jagged knives
Sharp, and penetrating
Rusty razor blades
Sketching ancient scars
Something is lost
And recreated, even now
Why is it then
That we do not bleed
And just what spills
And fills these empty walls
With the splendid colours
Of mistresses, and lovers
Wild things, in diamond knit
Ripped, and torn
Animal claws, and snakes
Shedding abandoned skin
Under cotton covers
And dripping
Over the cracked glass floor
Why do we not bleed
Because,
We've bled it all before.

Vanilla Holiday

She wore black on their wedding day, and they laughed at the echoing buzz.
They were the wisest people in the room. The funniest.
They were one, and the rest now, faceless strangers in an unfamiliar dream.
They quickly moved into the garden, where they painted all the flowers gold.
Living off of honey, and coffee beans. It was always hot when they were together.
Laying side by side, tracing shapeless clouds in the surrounding sky.
He would turn to watch ice cubes melting across her lips,
As she spoke out loud, her life long day dreams.
One day they fell asleep, mesmerized by sparkling dust, on their vanilla holiday.
And lost each other in separate dreams.


He was flying, and she was earthbound. Baking in the radiant sun.
She could watch him for hours, making wonders, out of terminal boredom.
He kissed the heavens, and she made love to the earth.
All the while, they held each other, in airy thought.
Once he flew around the world, in a dream. Sending her postcards,
Of the pictures in his mind, And so she closed her eyes, and captured them.
Vowing to never wake again. He promised her chunks of the soaring clouds,
As she clenched the dirt between her waiting fists. Eternally lingering.
She continued to whisper her story to him,
As he watched her muted lips, in another space, and time.

``Everything is dead now
It is not talent, but madness
And I want to die with it
Like you did.
Everything is dead now``

Hotel de Paris

When the nights are cold
distant, and unconcerned.
We walk the painted streets
of the pictures on the wall
In someone else`s vision
we guide our colourless
ageing memories
through the playful brushstrokes
of endless fancy
Past the threshold
and into the picture perfect
Limitless skies

© Carla, 2011

Fisherman

A gentle grip on this pale,and hatching morning. 

Resting in a hook keeper, with just a few more trails to tread. 

Seems the perfect hour to watch the spinners fall, 

and dream their brilliant wings, into the distant, liquid night.

Blameless, and unblemished ideals reflect in ambitious eyes,

scanning each ripple, and rise, below the flawless surface. 

With nothing left to do, but wait, and contemplate. 

Anticipate each slight, and tender draw, as you easily drift, 

and find yourself caught between a rock, and a hard place.

It seems there are no more fish in the sea. 

© Carla, 2011

Gathering

There is a place, a safe stretch away from ordinary. Where we design, and fabricate our own adored  tragedy. Create, and distort our treasured calamity. An unearthly masterpiece, this fools paradise. Here we push the boundaries of what is unconditional. Battles of speech, and shrewdness, meddle boldly in the incandescent audacity of our striving inexperience. Illuminating the delicacy, frail vulnerability, of keen appetites alike. Paralyzed, and powerless against our own creation. A collective awareness renders the tongue suppressed, for a time. It might have been a whole lot worse out there. Gathered `round the brilliance of our ardent, hand made star. Were it not for the fervent glow of rigor, nestled delicately in an unlit fold of  boundless privacy.

© Carla, 2011

Rain Pt 2 (Gathering)

In the morning, when we woke
To find that it was raining,
It felt just like this...

One of those mornings,
That we secretly knew
We`d never meet like this again.

So we held on to tender age,
Every worthwhile drizzle ,
Of the fading  first blush.

© Carla, 2011

Dust and Gold

I do not value this short lived, recurring, left scale heft
Let alone, appreciate Its erratic spontaneity
As much as one should... I suppose
With milky white devastation, trailing closely
Her middle finger commitment, promises glacial love
You are never only chasing happiness.

© Carla, 2011

Rain

Heaven sheds, tear-laden cheeks
For days, she skips
And falls again
Sheltered in her gentle skin
Lips to the dirt
And eyes afresh

Drowning in her streaming view
And cozy in her velvet film
She'll weep once more
And evermore

© Carla, 2011

Garden of the halfway honest

Monday`s child lay motionless
Cradled by waves of sky reflections
Coasting off guard, fragile, and due
On the back of deep blue suppressed concerns
Surrounding, and comfortably sustaining

An appetite becoming, emerging
Like a dream, seeping effortlessly
Each breach on her punctured skin
Pressing, and overflowing with life
Soaking its way back into her

Fastened, and afraid of drowning
In these soft visions glistening
Oh reality, what perfect form or place
That brief and gentle kiss of clarity
Spitting its love, in some foreign counsel

Yours is not the pure waters flowing
But rather, stagnant, saturating dwellings
Brimful, blending the blinking images
Of your distorted secrets, crawling carelessly
On tension spots of consequence, and neglect

Disarmed, she begs on crippling knees
What vinegar compassion, tickles the senses
Of the two-faced curious bystander
Only to surrender the grip, root deep
On he who lays wounded, in your hefty love

© Carla, 2011

Underground

It's not all honest here, a toxic sweet cell
Even in my own and unaccounted
Fascinating free space, there are lies
Meticulously fashioned, and defined
Comparable to holding your breathe
Beneath layers of obscuring film
The surroundings are breathtaking
And the pressure is suffocating
Taking in a swift and treasured gasp
Clear air, my shapeless instant of clarity
Momentarily blinded, atop a spire
Wouldn't you hold on, and not let go
Shooting up towards morning star
Its rays mirrored on capricious waves
A short lived beaming tenderness
Before regressing into a drenching melancholy

© Carla, 2011

Sun Kissed

Sun kissed,  And we are here
       Kissing the sky
And though we`re never hiding
We`re always on the run

To let you slip, fall upon me
      Mirrored in my eyes
Where I go, hear me calling
Never far behind


© Carla, 2011

Kids

Remember the sun waking you up in the morning? Earlier than you would have liked, menacingly coasting along your face. You would squint, and crinkle your nose before the castle in the air, would admit itself as the reality of your brittle cracked ceiling. Sometimes it would be plain sailing, hinting promise, and day full of adventure. With dotted lined men seated patiently in rocking chairs, and stretched blue arms reaching for limbs, scurrying up concrete driveways. Other times, the enveloping dog days would pressure the sweat right out of your pores. Maybe your parents could not afford air conditioning, or were far  too accustomed to old fashioned living, so as to shun the technological simplicities. An attribute to despise at the time, but to later respect. I don`t forgive you for not knowing how to contact me through a communications network, I admire you for it.

There was never only one in boxed dwelling, there were a few. Not that you couldn't separate one from the other, but it was taxing digging into latent conditions, branching in several bodies. Hard to decipher what was what. But, there were always tell tale signs. Like baby locks beaming surely at all the soft white heavens had to offer. Reaching for whatever was reachable, and then even more. Bursting boldly, dividing pleasures, wonders, and tricycle scrapes. Or the coffee brown of uneven strings curling in every direction, unowned, and no ones. Counting to later in second hand reflections, storing ambitions, and dashed hopes in the back of family portraits. An esoteric world of obscuring layers, where thick murk muffled the cursing, hating, and the wanting. Still, twin visions fail to part ways on some parallel journey, to where other worlds were just over the brushing hills. To seek them desperately, tearing floral cushions, and squeezing behind love seats, in our torn baby pink t-shirts.

Remember when you had a whole day ahead of you? It all seemed so stretched, and everlasting. Weaving baskets on dirt mansions, in our year long summers. Incomplete, and 2 dimensional in a cozy winters blanket. The cold was just a push down the hills, and into the brushes of excitement.  Burying frogs, and family dogs, and getting screamed at for filthy fingernails. While your heroes snuck behind red prison blocks, holding basketballs, and cigarettes. You would taste the secrets, and cough incessantly, vowing to never dabble in the amusements of seeming wisdom. Christmas trees on planks, in the woods by the river. Where soon to be captive daddy long legs frolicked in their eyeless freedom. Crushing sip sacks, and exchanging broken candy canes in temporary closeness. Night would paint the skies in deep blues, while twinkling yellows lured helium balloons out of reluctant mini grasps.

The witches were in fact real, we`d later learn. They just wore silly hats, and green paint on Halloween. As for the shivering, sing low of ghosts, Well it`s said to be cold in the after life. But, we didn't consider these things, cowering behind tree trunks the size of jack`s beanstalk. The fearful ones at least. The brave would trail triumphantly, right into the hands of Parkinson's disease. Only to march down hills, sacs heavy full of apples, and copper coins. Don`t eat that it`ll spoil your appetite. I didn't know we had an appetite to spoil, Always too busy chasing spring, and counting away love on dandelion petals, to think about pots boiling on stove tops. Much closer than the tilting towers threatening downfall with illusions, still, far less intimidating.

Remember colossal weight carrying you away? Leaving behind the old cassettes, and scattered freckles. Windows captured still images of confused goodbyes, and promised returns to the fiery red of bedhead. Sure, anxious determination drove straight through decks, tearing down years of cracked blue/green paint, But It was still much bigger afterwords. Larger than the cold steel railings, dividing years of grassy green simplicity. The floorboards would still leave your feet cold, but somehow it can be different. Things start to look smaller, the brushing hills seem a whole lot closer than we had ever imagined. With summer, so brief in it`s gentle caress, evoking brief memories in a swift passing whisper.

Honey coated bodies buzz around your dizzy head, taking advantage of screen-less windows. Jutting wings flutter into poorly ventilated apartments. Suspended, as though they`re right where they belong, maybe they are. And there is still so much more, of less to come. It all changes, baby blond submerges in a dispersed sandy blanket, and bright smiles contort into sick lips curled around cigarettes. We finally reach the later we have been counting to. It`s just what we had hoped for, dreamed for. And if  we had known the vanity of our stored ambitions, we may very well have spent far more time rolling down the dusty hills of youth, and smoking cheap cigarettes with our heroes.

© Carla, 2011

Carpenter

It is them
That I admire most
6AM Wired, greased
Stained, and scarred

Blunt illness
They, who soak wounds
Slit snakes
Capful in venom

Yes them
Like frequent flow
Damned to drive
In ripped t-shirts

So like them
Who work only
With swollen hands
Our heavy body ants

You Couldn't offer
Greater, All the ways
To drown, and still
It could be worse

© Carla, 2011

Flesh

Your father was lost
     To tickle scents of honey
He would grin at kissers prying
     And aggravate the hungry
Licked by dashing bullets
     Missed the lack of heart
Turn blind the eye, a counsel
     Of flesh and flesh apart
Mangled bout of power
     To brothers love, a cost
Scorn the tyrant tower
     To leave your father lost
Ambush jutting wings
     Unfazed and years a distance
Beg phonographs to sing
     His needle point resistance
Your father he was lost
     To shrouding flights of feather
He would grin at angels trying
     To break a binding tether

© Carla, 2011

The clock strikes 2AM in a seemingly empty vessel referred to as home (Though a slightly skewed perception has been taken into account). The atmosphere still, silent, save metronome water ascending from the kitchen faucet. Somewhere in the space between silence, and inner chaos, it's as though I could hear millions of termites eating away at my very foundation. A bitterness grasping at the very vines of my existence, while ever growing resistance finds itself one and only in a vast sea of utter hopelessness. A playground of thoughts skipped and danced in the dead of night. As soft spoken whispers, exiting crimson kisses, pave the way for a long over due break down, somewhat a shakedown. A cleansing of over accumulated emotional residue if you will...

How long was I laying still beneath cotton sheets and dead skin cells, counting wolves in sheep's attire? Waiting to drift and reunite with misfit dreams. I lost my voice while calling out, a subconscious attempt to push it all away is one way to look at it. Really it's much to confusing to light upon a conclusion. Perpetual confusion has me reaching for more. Uncertain as to where it all began, uncertain as to how it will end. For just when I break the barrier of delusion, I find myself in a realm of hollow hopes. Ever changing and re-arranging is the vision that is placed before me. Creeping through a mirage of deserted ideas, I stumble upon a grave amid ashes of endless memories. And though it marks a new day, with all the more to burn. I cannot bring myself to forget.

Blood soaked finger nails tap to the wild tune of morning radio. Sugarless coffee and black and white polaroids. No better way to kiss the morning goodbye. I think of it as I lose myself in frozen moments. Faded, glossy and those kisses beneath my artificial sun. So much has changed since those days. Long gone are the petrified eyes, rather weary and shimmering before my gaze. How we've lost so much, through all that we've gained. Innocence caught in a tidal wave and to be lost forever. Still I consider it at every turn in my stomach, every bend around the corner. The scent of autumn breathes and releases, dances and traces silhouettes right back to that very day. Winter paints a picture so clear in my mind, with hands intertwined, And I know in that moment it seemed like forever. But forever has since moved on, and in this moment, forever is gone.

© Carla, 2011

When the specks march

Mothers mourn
Our Fathers scorn
And of course
The kids
They hate you

A fly is born
A hymen torn
Glimpse the harsh moon
Phase you

Jaded, shooting
Callous stars
Jilted wishes
Haze you

The Age old scars
Of salt stain jars
Turn tricks
Throw stones
Parade you

March on...

© Carla, 2011

Sometimes we kiss

Sometimes we kiss
in candy coated seclusion,
and my cheeks take
to honeysuckle pink,
sometimes we kiss
and you turn my greens,
your ever changing hues.
Though when we kiss
on monarch wings,
it can only seem
that knees quiver,
as vibrant the colors
take their flimsy flight.
And you are good
but he is god,
and in his absolute love
there I find no solace,
yet somehow in you
I'm to assume just that.
Sometimes we kiss
and you hold me in pieces,
small parts, in rotating shifts.
Sometimes we kiss
but please don't mistake,
any moments bliss
for falling.

© Carla, 2011

Hob bel leil

It`s only at night
that we meet
under the faint
twinkling bright
of distant dead stars

eager to lay open
their dwelling
history, singularly
or the clusterfucks
of death and birth

A night veiled
tenderly, nurtured
by infinite vastness
and pregnant still
with the everexpanding

cold lips press gently
against likewise
mute understanding
this mutual attraction
to emotional detachment

diffident, might
the drifting reach
of strangest forms
stretched far to meet
the divested, and the light

light, but still
lightyears away
in the night we stay
gripped by the hands
of the cold ones

© Carla, 2011

Matter

No mind, over this matter
In a wretched, clenched embrace
A blunder, it`s begotten
More, a wonder it`s replaced

A light will only shine
So bright, and for so long
A moments just a moment
Until we close our eyes it`s gone

And Never did I feel it
When I felt it all too much
Never was I in love
As the love was not enough

So a matter, as it were
Too dense to understand
Consider it a parting way
These old forgetful hands

© Carla, 2011

Change

The fall strips bare
To leafless trees
As winter sets its frost
Spring will bloom
Her infant flower
And another summer's lost

© Carla, 2011

Remember

"In that moment, we felt we were here.
    So alive, so helpless, godless and restless.
In that moment, we walked in the light.
    Blinded and bound by fools and tyrants.
In that moment, we remembered your face.
    So pure, so helpless, smiles and shyness.
And were led by the memory.
    Right back to innocence.
And it took black holes and no remorse.
    To remember."

© Carla, 2011

Ego

Under the same lonely sky we sit,
Beneath the bleakest thoughts we dwell.
Upon the same dirt road we travel,
Above the brightest stars we ponder.
Under the moon we rest our heads,
Above, the sun beckons our energy.
Beneath our feet uncanny tracks,
Upon our head the shameless veil.
Lips sealed with crimson lies,
Eyes sewn with needles of deceit.
Ears dumb to that which differs,
Truth lost somewhere in time.
Thus stood so high above you,
Losing sight of all alikeness.
As the pedestal shakes and rattles,
The reflection was long overdue.
Peered closely at the shadow,
Dare I recognize the eyes.
Spoke out, with subdued whispers,
As the echoes passed you by.
Comprehend that which unites us,
Steer clear from that which I despise.
Watch closely as the masses form,
Under the same so lonely sky.

© Carla, 2011

Your Truth

Through wary eyes
Beneath melancholy undertones
clear of anyones imagination

Your imagination
On a small scale
Perhaps due to its
Regrettable, unattainable nature

Your nature
A broken record
Skipping, repetitively
Shattering your world

Your world
In a vast desert of granule material
Is a single sand grain
That is your view

Your view
Requires no words
But a step back
And outside of itself

Your self
On a long winding road
Of space and time
While passing

You light upon it... your truth.

© Carla, 2011

Cycles

Looking through the glass
to witness death in all its harshness
no remorse it will take its course
cold and rigor mortis

Treading on the path
where lies a lifeless form decaying
fading skies through empty eyes
now you may cease praying

And time will nurture the infant grass
to a state of pure surrounding
ever green its always been
a never ending fountain

© Carla, 2011

Static

Turn the dial just a few times more. Past the useless dribble, and straight to the only thing actually worth hearing. Granted, given the in depth level of content being transmitted, what more could you ask for really? Seriously, change the station, and be sure to withstand any further need to tune your black box tedium. Get caught right in between the beginning, and the now. Simultaneously co-existing within your vicinity. What you do not see remains lingering, regardless of your ability or desire to pick it up. I'd suggest you settle in, keep warm by the residual fire before the cooling off period. It's a fascinating thought this roller coaster ride, reaching us subtly on a daily basis, catching signals and glimpses of an answer on hiatus. See, I love that noise, that universe light, it's a personal choice, my "god" given right.

We are all believers, or non-believers even. Better said. Seeking that moment of birth that brings it all to light. It is a possibility, it won't, or it might. Unknown it very well could be, I couldn't tell you, and you sure as hell couldn't tell me. We can all just focus in on that which we do or do not see. Grasping it quickly, and reluctant to set it free. I know that I do not know, that's one thing for sure. As sure as change, and as sure as death. These questions forever under our breath. Holding on to this idea in a disbelieved state, that nothing is certain, and there is no waiting gate. Perhaps we've arrived just a moment too late, perhaps it is not real, maybe even fate. But wait, that's something else I stand so firm on not believing, every thought counter acting, and is already leaving.

How grand, that a thought, aware or maybe not, sends a signal from one spot, and reaches swiftly its destination, And you meet in congregation, all to preach your revelation. I see you sometimes, alone, or in the masses. Pretty in your innocence, funny mirrors kissing asses, and through the crowd it passes on a new way to destroy. How delightful it is with your hands before your face, with your butter on the table, and your mouth chock full of grace. Considerately now careful not to go down under, and find yourself choking on this regurgitated blunder.

It's lovely how this light, this static fills your ears. Passing on through galaxies, and traveling through years. It's an answer in itself, and a question all the same, how it is here right now, and how it all became. And so the godhead preference is really just a claim. An excuse for higher power, furthermore for blame. Clearly we all have our sights, and they're set on what they're seeing. Mine, this fuzzy static, and yours this supreme being. Filling in your spaces, and so here I'm filling mine. We've got it on the station, this beautiful sublime. Residual radiation passing glimpses of its prime. I can easily see what you see, your fanciful divine. Fuck that, I want this static love, this seeing through the time. A fundamental fabric of mystery and maybe, a gift from it's exploding birth, my static, big bang baby.

© Carla, 2011

The Lofty and the Beautiful

Virile,

Is the lofty intruder

assuredly erect

his alpine stature

drab, and assuming

surfaced from a circus

presenting cocksure

immature passion

a clandestine sign

is the last nameless

devils amateur DJ

a true bête noire

got me off inebriated

engaged and impudent

his now hinders

inevitable eventual

even then inconsequential

high on indifference

with no inquisition

esteemed insignificant

skyward the imposer

parting legs

and raising roofs

© Carla, 2011

He talks of Alice Springs

What could be
   In Alice Springs
Surmise,
             Avowed
The dreamer sings

In Alice Springs
Two strangers meet
To talk of past
Restraint, defeat
The wits, ardor
Wed unlike beats
In Alice Springs
The creatures meet.

What might be
On desert sands
Discrepancies
Tread on command
Click track to
A mourning-(band)
In Alice Spring's
Promised land.

© Carla, 2011

Looking Glass

Shimmering Silks
drape pale, blanched
unliving
(are)

Modest, concealed
undressed, revealed
placid
(Fixed)

To walk among them
in control, subjugated
embellished ego
(in)

The light of looking glass
displays the mute, cold
archetype                   
(personified)

Ivory strings, suspended
marionettes to a sycophant
plastic goddess
(she)

Draws eyes, captures sight
to render them bemused
shackled
(acute)

To break the binding chains
an unfetttered nature
inspired    
(Self)
                          
© Carla, 2011

City apparition

Nether the guilty eyelids
nestled on the other side
capriciously still and frigid
unfrequented you reside
stale, the yielding feet
trace silhouettes in motion
treading phantasm streets
directed by subtle distortion 

The height of city light
Lends no perfect guide
and heavy milky white
blankets your sorry stride

doth this lengthy chase
haunt the slumbering city
on pride the flunkey race
fleeing from fret and pity.
A print upon the slate
another, now divide
left one to deviate
a habitual need to hide 

The height of city light
Lends no perfect guide
and heavy milky white
blankets your sorry stride

© Carla, 2011

Diary of a madwoman

We can call her
 though not upon her
She is unannounced
 at times uncordial
We may call her
 impulsive, half-cocked
Brief, the madcap doxy
 frustration chills her
She lingers consumed
 on behalf of tears
That never touch us
 trickles the dewdrops
Her lament pearls
 widely becoming
In the oceans curls
 until there is nothing
But all that is her

© Carla, 2011

You've made a proper fool of me

You've made a proper fool of me

Saturday, 02-20-10

Waking up at 7am with the typical morning headaches.
Shower, dressed, Same blue jeans, Different black tunic.
Borrowed Treble Clef. Stolen? Borrowed.
Just enough time for black coffee, and black and white keys.
Some more snowfall, the Jesus mobile is obscured.
Heated, cleared, driving through a snow globe.

Work, quiescent, a different kind of snow globe.
Strangers, contacts, telephone bandits.
Maddening ring, singing  inconvenience.
Distressed, perplexed, furthermore vexed.
Why tell me, when I hadn't asked?
It distracts, and plagues the psyche

Consider Law of action, and of reaction.
Fundamental interaction,  a subtraction,
Of you, and your distorted, contorted,
Sour, and vile, feign lemon smile.
Why tell me, when I hadn't asked.
It distracts, and plagues the psyche.

The day is closing, the snow is melting around me.
As if mother nature shattered her creation.
Revealing what was only a dream in a snow dome.
Crawling into bed with the image of you somewhere else.
Not here beneath disco balls, unraveling spaghetti straps.
The possibility, a theory, no longer being considered.

Not here, but light years away.

Sunday, 02-21-10

Waking up, at 9am with the typical morning headaches.
And of course a side order of dull prolonged stomach ache.
I'll have the same please, black coffee, and cigarettes.
Looking back, at what transpired. Life? A dream? It happens.
Pondering, considering, the most efficient way to forget.
Checking the mail, I recall, with a genuine smile.

Laughter.

© Carla, 2011

Summer in The Fish bowl

Glass Prison
Liquid vision

Everyone has got one
No more, no less
Than you, than I.

It's just an escape mission
Blind fold incision
With clear cut precision

Everyones swimming
No more, no less
Than you, than I.

© Carla, 2011

Gone

It meant the world to me
Imagining, day decline
Secret starlight
Poked holes into darkness
And tip toe spiders
Read finger tip messages

What did it mean to you
Embraceing, cataclysm
A Wanton surge
Cryptic, dead stars
Sharing parched lip kisses
And Callous caresses

© Carla, 2011

Evening Moon

Natures arctic gasp
Frost upon rigor grass.
Sketches of the past
Like dust on ageing glass.

Wasted pages,unspoken scripts
Hesitation at my fingertips
Reason mometarily eclipsed
Forever silenced are my lips

Weekend kisses on the loom
Infant flowers fail to bloom
Autumn bliss is ending soon
All beneath the evening Moon.

© Carla, 2011

Gods boredom

It starts as life's first breath
An aftertaste of the sweetest death
So begins the  newborn lie
Existence sounds it's premier cry

A detrimental infatuation
With the bleeding hands that sustain creation
A conditioned love, and admiration
With a wondrous sense of fascination
Ten rules require application
With an afterlife as compensation
Only one requires communication
In this universal congregation
Prepare for mental isolation
I am your only revelation
Devotion will be your obligation
Spreading my name your occupation
No relevant cause for interpretation
I am beyond your imagination

© Carla, 2011

Letter to the living dead (Lover of life)

I wrote a letter to the living dead,
Long Before I was gone.
I Opted to mail it to you instead,
For fear I might have been wrong.

I wanted to speak of memories past,
All to acquire point of view.
And though the time has since elapsed,
I still but think of you.

I recall with a faint uncertainty,
Don`t mistake my words so few.
In your chaotic, inebriety,
How easily you mimicked the new.

Your truth lay dormant in antiquity,
As I traveled down memory lane.
To rediscover the beauty in conspicuity,
Not these eyes, this minds disdain.