The suffocating edge

How do you suffocate a blade?
how would compress sight?
how to we trample a shadow?

Such is the language i seek
I seek to find it every day
the incomprehensible, harsh and meaningful
It exists in the bitter space between blade and armor
on the edge of the wind cutting a mountain
where gravity battles air endlessly
where the oceans fight sand
In every narrow space between them
lying there, the pearls gleam
The harshest and the hardest
contradictions and clashes
Lay true meaning , too mighty for words
that they surround it like subjects
carrying it forward, never to touch
never to be left alone.

Looking out of the pocket,
watching forces battling for eterneties
The heaviness of nature compresses my views
i become the space within spaces.
I arrive to true meaning or perhaps
the word itself.

Come Undone

Slide this texture on your hand
the soft chill as it conveys
luxury and form; desire
pleasant and thoroughly rich.
press it forward and downward
the shroud becoming you
the warmth from the center
entrapped in this net.
Raise. raise your voice
it echos on the fabric,
speaking of gold and silk
and other things.
exhale, inhale, capture.
swirling the mass, it sings
as it slips onto the floor
onto other earthly things
within and without
we come undone on hands
legs, hair and words.
We speak, we sing
and the music bellows from earth
and we are the brief note
waiting to manifest on a melody
the key that means to complete
music that goes about searching
for its lost soul. So we say.


Words should never exist
nor should we listen
to come undone, we turn
we seek the void
the ones we pull apart
to hide our confusion.
Escape is a necessary illusion.

A dream

A dream of Paris. or Tokyo.
A snowy cold night, the lights are yellow,
the place is dark, someways away from
the heart of the city, it appears so.
I look out from a window, i am alone.

Its late but the image is too haunting.
The chill, it creeps into me,
the sodium vapor light lamps illuminating
a forgotten driveway, forgotten and overused
i see a bit of snow drip off the roof to the snow below,
the night is dark in the distance, snow fading to gray
and the people, they have turned in to sleep.
two electrical wires move occasionally, there is no wind.
there is no noise, silent and foreign

The yellow upon the snow
The hint of sepia haunts me. The is just enough
tone to convey tragedy. or something that should not be lived
but only seen from afar.

It is as if i have stumbled into the corner of a dream
away from the bright happy center,
becoming a sad member of the audience,
who drives home after watching my moment
and goes on with life. There is no fire here to see.
but i am me, this me.

lets say, this a small road on the way.
take a picture and it floats away
go to sleep. Wake up another day.
Perhaps when im old and gazing at the wall.
you will awaken and take me back.
to the yellow feeling of sadness.loss.
i felt it. its real. it was truly yellow.

perhaps. no not perhaps.
Its true. i just felt it climbing my back.
hello you feeling. thank you for the message.
the picture itself is a message
it said simply:
make more memories.

I realize the complexity of explaining
a simple feeling. it long, not hard.

make something of yourself.
do something. be something.
you are not something.
how can a picture say so much.
its not even real.

i guess its the potential of it,
perhaps it could be my view,
just before i leave to a evening of laughter
wine and warmth. but its not.
its me looking out with nothing to do,
alone, in a place that reeks of solitude

perhaps its my view after a day of achievement
and i long for the sun rise to travel
to a place of happening and fullness
perhaps i already made plans and i withdraw
back into the room.

i ve been avoiding. avoiding the room.
i don't know whats in it. no.
its my loneliness, my old friend
its whats there for me when i turn around
it does not greet or smile,
its just there. like me.

I look at the common and see the real
its where the magic happens i think
normal is wonderful. can i not be
happy looking at events from the sides
appreciating and assigning value
learning and feeling

but im so lonely. Sometimes
i want to kill myself. what are you asking of me?
are you asking me to shine?
why should i be so bothered?
i could look at this yellow picture
for ages and ages. Even till i die.
and not see the end of it.

The violence, it was sweet
Such as it cant be spoken of.
The trembling begins from calmness
the motion appears out of a shadow
that awaited, awaited long
becoming itself when stepped into.

The sharpness of the thought,
it burns with suffering
as if suffering itself seeks existence
to give birth to the thought.

The scent, how it has searched
hovering, colluding with the sound
it burst forth onto the scene
armored yet forgiving.
Its color is blue.

ON SEEING A ROBOT

the roads need sweeping,

the curtains, they wave

the sea foams away

the stars out of reach

into the night we travel.

all that we take away

from beauty, paintings and mountains

music serene, stinging silence

laughter of children,

a ball bouncing away

on wet green grass, remembered.

A step in, a motion blurred

your "eyes" roving, hands shifting,

you case is painted white, you move on creaky gears

speak predetermined words,

and i wonder..what makes you this?

not real but more than a "thing".

You evoke feeling in me, 

from you, my being rejoices in the real

and so you become part of the real

you robot, ive felt you,
felt for you.

this energy. it came from the dark place.
That place thats always not here.
the wonderful place of exile.

its where will is manufactured.
its where dreams were scribed.
its where music comes from
its whats sends me the shivers.

I walk on the street looking,
but the dark place, it sees
it sees me looking
and its gears begin to roll,
shifting and curling
it creates things. It places objects
in front of me.

When i touch a woman,
the dark place whispers,
and i recoil into myself
im lost and when i come back,
i am me, but darker
it does not want to be left out.

when i eat, the dark place
it sings to me. It loves food.
you animal it says, become me.

When i love, the dark place
it sits contemplating
its critical and analytical
it says, this is not for you.
only i am for you. for i am
the real you. welcome me.
become me. Worship me.

the tree stands with feet
it seems that way

the buildings built themselves
it feels that way

accomplishments were granted
it was ordained

the music stands alone
inevitably

i observe
because i can.

what a gift. oh wow.
what a gift.

i can see. i can feel.
i cant get over it.
i am alive,
wow. wow.

But don't be afraid,
we wont make it anymore,
its too late to cry,
we've come to far,
lets hold our heads up high
face on, straight ahead
See the lights, they've gone
its getting dark, too cold
the feelings gone, its leaving us
I can feel my soul moving
shrugging off this body,
breathing free of me
entering the stream
Come a long way, you and i
lets say goodbye without words
go on, live the good life
free where i couldnt be
live for me, so i can
live from you.

THE VOYAGER

We can aim for the stars,
going strong, reaching far
but when we are nearly there,
lets kiss and prepare

to pass on by. pass on by.

We aint meant for anything,
making do with broken wings,
you can say what they will say
they aint the ones alive anyway

Lets pass on by and say goodbye

We have got each other, you and me
the human race aint the place to be
we can war and we can peace
a better world aint meant to please

lets build our own with pain and love.
Pain and love.

They say dream the journey,
but words don't mean nothing, hey
Lets live on, passing these dreams by
always aiming above the sky

Cuz living is the real dream.
Living is the dream.
Yeah.

I see the sun burning away
pouring its life out everyday
and when we live with your light
It aint right to forget you name.

We've passed on by, and that's ok
We shall take your place, shining on.

Alien (A,B,C,D) of X

For me is the (question of) Man.
For me is the (desire of) Animals.
For you is the thought of me, unfulfilled
full of expectation this, exceptionally
a compromised feeling.

I can see. I can hear. I can hear me seeing.
I can see me sing. This lightness.
I can feel me tasting. This heaviness.
I taste me moving. On.

I am but a picture of myself
a portrait of my  recollections
I have split apart, or rather
lived apart from myself.
Too long and too far.

Everyday i wake up and call out
my feet! my arms, come to me
I need to move. I need to feel the world
Why are you not at my service?
Am i not your master?

Everyday my eyes see
and they request my heart to feel
The server is busy, and your request
will be processed shortly.
Thank you for waiting, please accept a token.

There is so many sunsets in me,
so many smiles, plenty of bruises
waiting for a verdict, on the feeling of it.
I am an alien, living in some alien body.
Synchronization is living.

ART OF SORROW

The art of sorrow is esteemed and revered by centuries of tradition. Its appeal is undeniable even to most well to do persons, esteemed learned men, men of power and especially to the children. Champions of misfortune, tasters of bitter wine but celebrators of meaning in life. A life of sorrow is a most serious endeavor requiring rigorous training. As will all respected professions, some of high aptitude learn easier than others, and are able to taste the fruits of of the discipline with little effort.

The world is now advanced to such heights that it is full of masters. Man kind must be praised.. In the old days, mentioned only in legends, man lived with such nonchalance to the glory of himself that he dared venture naked on the land, with a smile on his face and perhaps eating another mans bananas. He did not dine, bed or wed, he simply did not know the importance of such. His banal nature, retarded and possibly oversexed must have caused much grief in the high heavens. How can he ever know the noble calling to sorrow?

The scene must have been so distasteful that God must have sent his purveyors of sorrow to the lands, and thoroughly exorcised the brutes.I see no other way those animals would have (through many many generations) given birth to me otherwise.

A life is sorrow is the most beautiful experience that can be imagined. It was once rivaled by bliss,and ecstasy yes sorrow won over those pitiful experiences without much ruckus. Sorrow is slow moving and all encompassing, while bliss, like a pin in the arm, is short lived and easily forgotten. Sorrow brings human beings closest to God , who bless us daily.

Onto sorrow, we go, we go
The promised land, come tempered
horses graze the cobblestones, where lustful
maidens hang themselves, where music
is always fearful, where children practice everyday,
to cry before bed. The cold gloom shines brightly,
The days of winds and tremors,
the sky always aloof,
and we hold in or hearts,
Sorrow till we die.
Sorrow for today,
Sorrow to praise all.
All the world needs,
bitter wine, is best for all.


Notes: Grief is not sorrow. Grief is for a brief moment, sorrow is a way of life. refer to notes.

Monochrome.

The day is today. The time is yesterday. Moving on from the day before, it has always been a day removed from the man i want to be. Days are for dreaming of doing. Before i knew what doing was (or is), that's what i did every single day. I check in to the day, it does not matter when but i am always aware that nothing has changed. I carry an unchanging weight that is always equal to the situation of my surroundings. There is waves and clouds in the day, there is stars and breezes at night. I think of this and say, equal. There are but one and the same, much like the shattering glass that refused to startle me. 

I think of the monotony and then i think of what may be opposite it. Perhaps its sex. The wave of tingling has begun on the left side of my scalp, and I am waiting for it to come back (please come back). There are days and there are days. There are bad days and then there are bad days. The days are punctuated by me looking to escape from the day, but in reality I burrow further into it. So much for saying: not today, like the day before.

Then Id say; fuck this shit. When ever i say that, i don't feel like killing myself. that anger, that little blind spark, even that can move me.  I believe that no amount of strong emotion, whether good or bad, will lead me to kill myself. which makes me logically conclude that i don't feel anything right now. A reprieve from stone. A gap in the stream. A block on the road. Something, anything to make it stop. No, not stop. Anything to make it different.

When i see myself in the mirror, i lift my hand and hold it out to myself. I want to see the vision of me reaching. Reaching for something, anything. Am i gone? Am I still here? Am i still relevant? Beating and alive? The machinations of my mind have been explored to the end, now, the explorer pilots the doomed ship he boarded out of curiosity.