The Call of the MermaidsFramed in a flowery frame isthis tunnel strewn with grainthat blooms into Styx' orifice;it opens on shores litteredwith limbs, bones and sinewwhich cast shades overboney nails like blunt claws; they hide amidst veined stones pulsing with neurons,spilt from contoursthat float, when leavingtheir bare prints;on their journey to harkenthe sirens' vagitus song,that grabs them in waves,when the gleam of the scalescasts light on their smiles,their scribbles in the rocks,and the coins in their eyes,sown along this seaside.
Towards the WindmillWe live on a dead islandswirled about a stoney moundwith corpses in its heart;in the midst of a sea of greenbare trees are littered,and peak from roofless houseswith burned foundations.And beneath the smokey sunan army of black sapplings stirs;followers of the rusted beastconducted upon a fallen logthat bleeds before their roots;to smother his spouse the cypressand their cones in their cradles.The bent weeds watch as theyare watched and avoided so plastic flowers are smelled - the litter of the false nature. In a garden where blind sunflowers guard the molded prison, tainted shells hide venomous pearls; they drip on imp
Rusty CageDon't perch me upon a cotton cloudOr quarter me by the country lake;No fields of grain inspire me now,Nor misty hues above the creek.I have seen too many daffodilsAnd belle bluebells too pall my soul,These mockingjays do not arouseA drop of woe, a drip of joy.Instead set me off upon a bargeWhere the shadows meet, by day or night;Off to a shade where silence unitesWith her soundless charms of quietude.And leave my haunt with little tintA monochrome wind, a fickle farewell,And write to me once every fortnightFrom the confines of your recent grave.And here let there be no robin's song,No blackbird's lay, no warb
That Doorthat door;plain, mahogany plywood,stood sentry all summerby the rapturein my heart.waiting silentlywith watchful eyesoverlooking the battlements of L109.here a flicker,there a clutterand wicked Erisset aflutterwhat drew my mindaway from Lenz,Brownian motion,Christaan Huygens,and all the lawsof reflectioncould not tell meif this was normal.there I wasted away July;the ripened fruit,the riband tealbestowed upon that door:an ode; a rispettoor merely a love for physics and mathand withdrew three weeks beforeI discerned she had left,and returned once morein the facade of a dream.I ac
The ArchiveOld ambered men,rotting in vanilla,are bounded togetherand numbered in open coffins.And a mist of dustprotrudes throughtheir wooden prison;conspiring with theever tempting darkshining from above.White paper roses budbelow ladders that endwhere shadows begin;there silk webs spreadover this waste of headsthat thrust upwards towards the bars.
Dream Series 3.29.13I started to live with my friend a few years ago. The lease was about to expire, and we'd have to renew it, but it wasn't something I was about to do since her family had moved in with us. I have no problem with her family, but it wasn't what I signed up for, and since they weren't paying an equal share, I had already told the landlord that they could decide what they wanted to do, but I wanted my half of the security deposit, and I wanted to go out.I walked in my room, which was mostly packed up, only to find that her family was already taking over. "Excuse me, this is my room for two more days…" I said pushing Ashley's stuff back i
MaximThe universe whispered in her ear Something fleeting.
our surreal lovedo you remember running through fields full of colorfeeling life between your toesdo you remember inhalingbreaths of lovewith the smell of happiness on your clothesthis summer was more thanheat, sweat, and longer days becausethis summer we binged onlove, friendship, and experiencing our futurethrough conversation spokenwe got addicted toeach otherand when it got chilly,we smoked our words in water vapourand when it rained,we soaked our hands inthe crying of those less fortunate.staying up late, talkingto the moonbe it through phones orthe act of standing close to youit didn’t matter the path sound tookto dive
a surreal summerdo you remember while running through fields,the smell of summer's colors,freshly watered greens, stale yellows,translucent blues,and feeling life growing between your toes?do you remember touching love, andas the deep red envelops your body,catching a whiff of a smell caught on your clothes?it's the smell of happiness,that makes sleep so easy.this summer was more thanheat, sweat, and longer days becausethis summer we binged oneach other, and experienced our futuresthrough smoke and mirror conversations.and when it got chilly,we saw our words ignite in smoke.and when it rained,we showered our hands intears over a friend s
Three Nights (Part 2)"Why are we here?" Gabe asked, as they walked uptowards a house."I told you what just happened, and I think our friendhere has a clue," Jake replied.Jake knocked on the door. "Now, I'll be the good cop, you'll be the bad cop.""But I wanna be the good cop," Gabe countered. "I don't know howto threathen people."Jake knocked on the door. "Alright,fine. Mr Morales? Open up! We just wanna talk!"A voice replied from inside. "Hey man, I didn't do nothing!""We just want to talk, that's all," Jake assured him."How do I know that your men aren't hiding in the bushes and planning a surpriseattack?" the voice called out."Look!" Gabe s
Sinister DreamsWhen will the cloud in my head clear?Stuck in the middle of a messy riddle.Tongue twisters told me not to toy with my mind.I have already wasted a thousand years and said “sorry” a million times.Chasing you became a constant dream,Waking up to find myself alone again.Teary mattress covers over me.Feels like Water board, feels like you’re torturing me.Waiting foolishly in the wind because this is meant to be.Waiting childishly in the rain because you are what I need.What day is today? I’ve lost count in my misery.Tick tock, the clock replaces the rhythm my heart once beat.Now it’s a hollow space inviting d
A Lament for LaikaApollo stalked a river nymphWhile Moscow looked with starry glimpse And all that clemency of manShowed no remorse after Japan.Instead the dire marathonOf bloodless states did dawn uponA mournful Artemis in tears:The glory of two thousand years.Behind the curtains of despairTreblinka, Dachau and the chair,Onward stood then the next conquestA giant leap for either chest.Away, amidst an icy laneWhere stray and stricken do remainHe leashed the throat of nature's pride; All of his virtues laid aside.A warmer, yet lackluster cell,A diet of insipid gel,A life beneath the measured glareOf pressured breath and pressured air.Un
The Fifth Wheelthe fifth wheel feels a little out of place;you know, like that third pint at the pub?or that flake of mud in your nailsthat stains your blinking heart?
Middle Agein youth:to age!with age,wish youth.middle age sure isthe apple of life.
Flaking Photographs We see the greatness of faces belittled in little boxes with windows; still shattered stairs. by Yielded
Sonnet XXIn time this rime will stir uncounted mindsEach line, each sign shall point another path,Yet every freight of wonder in whirlwindsWill answer in bellows like absence's wrath.And so here I save the unborn a key;An eye to look upon epochs long pastAnd gaze with love at time's loved hemlock tree To fathom all that is deceased did last.They will say times were varied and diverse,They will speak of context so as to speakThe world was different on a faded hearse,They will not give you the mild words you seek, Remember then we were mortal and thus, In each profound creation, you are us.
By the StrandI still breathe your name by the wavering shoreAnd cast away to the sail winds a songAnd close my eyes and evermore belong To the unfed brine and its yearning roar.The distant lamps polish the incensed green,A flock of fallen stars upon the bayAlights a dream of a submerged dayAnd strokes in feud a mind's browbeaten scene.And standing by the strand I pace and skewIn hope a rising crest will fell or hide Your voice; yet each raw spate, each rippling tideBorrows to bestow an echo of you.
In your garden yesterdayIn your garden yesterdaywhich you lodge among many loves:a gentle, wishful swaybelow the florid eaves;I noticed the quiet leaveshad weathered each cruel rayto foster the foxglovesthat flowered today.
Sta.sh
