Metamorphosis The day I turned into you, you saw me first. You were there, breathing petals like lilies, plucking stars from my heart, to the earth on your palms. I whisper to the wind to whistle songs to you, & you —a bright shard from the sun— eats up the darkness on my tongue. I pray the hook in my throat unfurls Into lyrics of old starlings hymning your name. I search your name in the sky of my heart, & all I harvest is memories of you as an angel, & I am incomprehensible for dishing void from my voice. Demons are fallen angels, & oh! what do we call fallen demons? But you are the clean waters, shattering darkness from my bones. & I moult from dirt to your kisses wrapping my tongue with your molars, making my breath as quiet as a sepulchre.
That Famous Black Dog Sadly, I have to admit that depression is getting the better of me. Everything is really hard work. Just getting up, and dressed tires me out more than an 8 hour shift at work used to. I've lost interest in nearly everything. I used to love playing guitar. I was never very good, but it was something I enjoyed. I haven't picked it up for over a year. The amount of poems I've had published in the last year, I used to have that many published each month. I need help, I know that. I've known it for a long time, but now I've reached enough of a low point to accept it. Tomorrow morning, I'll be phoning the doctor's surgery. Hopefully, I'll get the help that I've finally acknowledged that I need.
Homunculus Cooking a scrawny, hairy newborn... - What the fuck are you doing, cummer? "We'll boil the nine devils out of him." Nine precocious, duck-legged gnomes, born by God-tempting practices of witchcraft. This brat is not even mummified. (parchment-coated, peeling, scaly-skinned) he is a disgrace to the crib. His shrewd, bow-legged hounds chase and hunt the stray deers' akasha image. Nine paces from the river, nine moons sit above the motionless water. Usurer, the sevenfold crouching creator rules the real and the imagined world. He deals zinc-clad cards while fertile scribbles guard the nine crystal-structured Villains. (Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
Oh! My Dear Face Oh! My Dear Face Never be upset I didn't come to pimples I didn't come to dimples Oh! My dear face Never be upset I didn't come to wrinkles I didn't come to mind rankles Oh! My Dear Face Never be upset.
To Boys Holding Hands. Each time I want to say this my mouth becomes lead. I saw a boy holding another boy. To be another boy's lover here is what might drain you of your breath. I cannot say, if to lock lips with a boy is bad. I cannot say, if to lock soul with a boy is a sin. You might walk into your grave, get lynched, stoned & as you scream in pains to be left alone, your father might be the one to cast the first stones.
The First Time The first time that I remember thinking of suicide was in my mid-twenties. I remember being around 18 years old, and a friend saying, " If I killed myself, that would show them ! " " Who ? " , I asked. " All of them, the teachers who put me down at school. Al of the girls who've said no to me. " I felt like I had to say, " Most of them would never hear about it, anyway. " So I did. I don't think he liked that. But it's the truth. I mean, killing yourself just to prove some kind of point seems idiotic. And very self indulgent. If you really, really, can't take the pain, anymore, then I don't honour you, neither do I judge you. Or me. I prefer to believe that as life can always get worse, it can also get better.
Midnight Blues away from the bars for a while, swilling cheap wine that allows for trips down memory lane. saving money, trying to figure out the bleak future, a way to make it, somehow, alive out of the whole damn charade. as cruel mornings dawn, and drinks flow, the blues come back with an extra vengeance I haven’t seen in a while. bitterness returns, I see faults everywhere around me, on everyone, including myself, and there’s no light to illumine the crepuscular rooms of life. even in strip joints I fail to feel at home anymore; a constant reminder of how things were constantly looms over my head. dark rain floods the streets, the emptiness of the world engulfs me once more; exhausted, trying somehow to disappear. always remaining still, unable to react. more drinks are poured and downed. the dry bottles withhold no real answers. Late Night Embraces she held me tight, when we were both high on high octane rotgut and fortified wine; “I love you” and I couldn’t mutter it back, my heart resided my throat blocking all words. going cold turkey and someone else held me tight, refusing me bourbon and junk (that had momentarily sent me to the Bar); she, too, said “I love you” and I had no voice to reciprocate. few years apart, the two long late-night embraces that kept me sane; one from my whiskey girl, the true love that was taken too soon from the merciless spike. the other, I did love, too; she couldn’t take the madness any longer. went through too much in too short a time, all the bourbon insanity I relish and in which I feel alive. too many other embraces came and went; none significant. temporary escapes from the mist, vain attempts to glimpse at the sun. more are to come and I know the ending; wordless poems on yellow napkins, while Wild Turkey and Four Roses water my withering heart. it’s all right. barflies will always be there, bars will never cease to exist. home, the corner booth of a dimlit joint and a broken down angel in whose embrace I’ll lose myself for a night.
The Hereafter After my last breath Let the river sing through me But give part of me back to the earth For my ashes yearn for roots Invite the wind and rain As my dusty bones seek a new Zion After my last breath A place with no fairytales or preachers
Monsters of Legend Bigfoot lives on skeletons and mud, Moonwalks through the meadow. His heart is a fist of crawling crickets. There is no limit to his awesome evil. His feet aren’t the biggest you ever saw, But they’re goddamned big enough. Middlefoot lives on bacon and eggs, Prefers the shortcut past the meadow. His heart is the common array of valves, His bark and bite just a joke someone told. His feet are not a topic worthy of discussion, So small and normal. Littlefoot lives inside of Bigfoot, Glides free through every meadow. His heart is boundless and filled with love. No violence salts his sweet dreams. His feet are not a burden to him anymore, Bigfoot does their walking, and that’s fine.
What is life? I don't know what is life Who designed it for what purpose. I am esoterically flabbergasted for not being able to understand it. If we were to die what is the significance of being alive. I wondered about this tantric saga because it created the maze of curiosity. when the elixir of imagination gives me a philosophical emancipation. I will celebrate the reason for why I am here.