Woke I from an abstract dream of childhood
As I watched her fall asleep.
There is no pain like a silent lullaby
And God works in mysterious ways.
Song of SaudadesSaudade /souˈdädə/ n., singular,
‘a feeling of longing, melancholy or nostalgia’,
it reads in the Oxford English Dictionary,
though this definition remains incomplete,
and justly so.
Saudade, a breeze from the depths,
that tickles in between the tongue and the palate,
to no avail. Saudade, the empty laughter
of yesteryear: the figurines of childhood.
A ritual cleansing of the eyes,
a watershed word or the wilting whereabouts
Saudade: to have what may never be had,
to die of the blues, to know sehnsucht intimately well,
to drown in the dreams of lovers.
Saudade. To forget wonderment, to forgo indulgence,
to cease the search.
A Familiar SpaceThe casement peered eerily at the decrepit churchyard, grimacing at the reinstatement of the bell-ringer’s apprentice. Two droplets shadowed each other along the ethereal landscape, only to conspire by the corner of the peeling muntin, and then go their own ways inconspicuously. Another subtle sunset had been set in motion, but the cornsilk curtains did not think much of this rather tasteless sport, and chose to censor it on grounds of sadism. In Dobnarov’s room, the tables were never bare and the armchair had seen better days in the office of an emeritus professor - Professor Levy Barnes - no less, the impervious face of spatial erudition on both sides of the Atlantic. His books lay around like the ruins of a pagan temple: much worshipped in the old days, but with humbled walls that had tasted the bitter defeat of completion. Dobnarov never hesitated in putting his things in place; there was a place for all things in his room once he began to contemplate how impoverished h
The Compassionate Adulterer to His LoveCome live with me and let us prove
What pleasured springs eruct with love,
In thorn and furze, the bracken dew
Can wait an age; it waits on you.
But ours is terse, its timely birth,
Whelped by the sorrows of the Earth
That girdled skin round workday bones
To slight our kinship with flagstones,
Can broach the deserts of decline
And palliate this sin of mine:
Oh let the nymphs and dryads be
What touches thee, tastes poetry.
So let us lie, the sheets are strewn
In purple riot, the heart of June
Seeps softly in sumac and myrrh
Embedded with a scent of her.
If she sleeps, knowing all, she sails
Adrift a sea of stars; the tales
That serenade the thirst unseen
Are ghosts of garbles—never been.
And though our twine is verboten,
And dawn will cite this fear of men,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The Old WaysThe old are always protecting themselves
in the way they speak, shouldering words
as they soldiered on through pink and pittances,
buffeted by diminution. They dice their words,
dealing only as little as it takes to enamel flavour,
retiring the rest into Tupperware paraphernalia, repairing
to the bedroom, inaudibly behind a hardcover, which bides its while
where the wind blows, bartered by borrowed air.
Always the unheeded precautions: the seasonal stew
may babble with solicitude, never gusto
while the julienned aubergines justify every austerity measure
- each a testament to the Great War -
the quiet war of animation and attrition
as winter finds a comfortless corner to die.
Each a Diogenes to his own cause, saving scraps
of dignity in misplaced parables and promises of bequeathal:
the old play the precarious sport of procrastination.
Enumerating the fears of the same dogeared journey,
the prognosis of the situation is hardly original:
'When I was your age' - begins the fated period d
Connecting the DotsI've dealt in death with you. We knew the bill,
and going Dutch seemed okay. Colouring in the spaces
perhaps resolved the stasis of these outlines,
but now this painted portrait subtly repines
for life, for what small art is born of drowning faces.
Submerged beneath your throes I held a beacon,
ambling between your toes I worshipped Eve,
so saturnine, whose lips of time could not preclude
this fruit of mine. Alone at last, the senses brood
on rectitude, while nameless lovers leave.
Would you care for a lie? An explanation?
You must have your own, mine are gormless -
it was not passion, merely impassioned:
irrationally cherished, rightly rationed.
When did our days perceive this lacking
rousing spore on spore, spire and steeple?
Evoking the strange and sublime to embrace
the earliest preserver of people.
We’ve dueled with death and dice. But who can blame
the shamefully bored of rolling one too many times?
I knew the rules as they were spoken
and you let them be, bare, unbroken.
Death of a YearWe stand on the footstools of yesterday’s promises,
peering into the blue harmony of a timeless aubade:
the new year separates us from the old;
their rustic charms and world wise baubles
are fading, falling, kissing white December’s brow -
the magic is in wane, the Wicca in the wine
offers little relief in way of innocence;
instead the remembrance alleviates the holidays:
what a time it was, what a place it was –
what paradise it was - that spectre of Insouciance.
Last night’s basting, Jacobi’s painting, the real thing -
sooner or later everyone becomes a thing:
objects remind us of piecemeal courtships,
passion in a pendrive portends the minimalism of the soul
once feather driven by the heart dregs of Tasso – Toulmin
explains the six elements fundamental to each argument
with little claim to why we’re arguing and
even lesser qualification of why conflict needs a structure.
Structure, edifice, complex, fabric, battery cages
The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
The Fall of EpithilinonI
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
LesbianGod loved the two girls at the end of my street.
Everywhere they went, they went together,
hand-in-hand so they didn't get lost,
laughing at everything and nothing
all at once.
He was so proud of them.
They never stole, they never swore,
they brushed their teeth twice a day
and always said their prayers.
It was a gift, said the townspeople,
that two girls as perfect as they were
were born in the same place.
an even greater gift, said they,
that those two were the best of friends.
Long nights spent giggling in rooms with closed doors
was a good thing, back then.
halfway between their houses
and in the middle of the street,
they realized that they loved each other.
A gaze lingered a moment too long,
a heart beat a little too fast...
They kissed for the first time on a park bench,
hidden from the rest of the world.
God doesn't love them anymore.
Can you relate?On the outside I'm unbreakable but inside I'm broken
On outside I'm comprahendable but inside I'm ill-spoken
On the outside I look good but inside I feel bad
On the outside I'm happy but on the inside I'm sad
On the outside I'm sweet but inside I'm sour
On the outside I feel energetic but inside I have no power
On the outside I'm motivated but inside I lack all motivation
On the outside I'm determined but inside I've no determination
On the outside I'm sturdy but inside I'm tumbling
On the outside I'm strong but inside I'm crumbling
On the outside I'm laughing but inside I'm crying
On the outside I'm fine but inside I know I'm lying
On the outside I'm living but inside I'm dying
On the outside I'm joyful but inside I'm suppressed
On the outside I'm okay but inside I'm depressed
On the outside I'm happy but inside I'm screaming
On the outside I seem optimistic but inside life has no meaning
Can anyone else empathise with how I am feeling?
A midnight confessionWhen sadness
I only wished
to put a stamp
and send it away
(the result always
return to sender)
I can't write poetry for dead girls.there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
you know that i'm still waiting
for a reply to that one
email about the world's
best puns because fuck,
there's a stubborn part
of me that still refuses to
believe that you're gone.
an hour after losingwhen i walk into the bathroom, with dawn
breaking her fingers to squeeze her hands through the windows
at the end of the hall, i am surprised to see a girl at the corner sink.
i expected to be alone to wipe at my face, to press gentle fingers
against the tender skin of my neck, to pull up my shirt
and check the visibility of my ribs
and the flutter of my heart, to stare at my eyes in the shitty mirror
in the shitty lighting and calculate all the little changes that a boy’s hands
can wreak on a body in under an hour. but she
is there at the corner sink, scrubbing at her red and irritated cheeks
like she is lady macbeth trying to erase the ghost of a touch
that never left a physical mark. i have makeup and sweat sticking
to my skin and knots in my hair desperate fingers left behind
and i’m not sure my shirt is my shirt and i just want
to be alone to examine the damages and count the casualties
of a war whose victor i could not point to,
and really, the only reason i walked in
I waited too long that the autumn leaves
changed into all the colours they possibly
could and cluttered the streets.
The bitter crackling noises quietly
mocked me as I walked over the
leaves, crushing them into tinier pieces.
Winter's blizzards were no match
for the frostbite that punctured my
Dare I say, without your love
my heart felt colder than snow. Even
the snowman was better off and he
had no soul.
As bright and arduous
as the summer sun,
its heat waves cannot melt away the
feelings I had grown towards you.
In a battered, old box, I had
stored the countless handwritten letters
that I had never intended to give.
It's too late now to even give it a second
thought. But they haunt me, and remind
me of how I feel.
Time has played its tricks
as the days turned into weeks
and the weeks
turned into months
months progressed on to a year.
It is still a mystery, how time
escaped itself fro
You were alone from the start,
But you didn't care back then.
You were special.
So special that no one could understand you.
But that was special too.
No one could reach you in your bubble.
Then the others came.
They were more special.
You pulled away.
While being surrounded you felt so alone.
Until you were really alone.
And no one could understand you.
Not even you.
You tried to change.
But the bubble was strong.
You kicked and screamed, but no one noticed.
That was what the bubble was for.
Then came the time when they pushed you away.
They couldn't have known you are different.
Are you different?
you drifted away,
They won't remember.
They won't remember what they never knew.
Did you know?
Who are you?
Why is it painful?
What is painful?
Why are you crying?
Jeff x Jane Child Hunt Page 1Many months passed since both of the Demonic like Killers were both put into the County Morgue upon waiting Jeff The Killer and Jane's bodies had recovered thus both of them rushed to Hospital, both put into the same room but on separate Beds. Jeff after hours finally woke up, blinking, his vision still blurry he looked up to see a white ceiling "where the fuck am i.." he said before slowly sitting up putting his right hand up and onto half of his pale white face "fuck my head..was it a Nightmare?" the male asked himself looking around catching on Jeff was back in the Hospital this would be his third time going to hospitals now "not again.." he then looked to his left arm noticing a tube put into the skin under his left wrist, then he looked over at the other Bed by the window, seeing black wavy long hair, that face, black orbs where her eyes should've been, Jeff's gaze just turned into a glare as he shook his head *No i fucking killed her!* he said to himself shaking his head before l
the abandoned and overgrownact i
the no trespassing signs declare this strip of land impassable, somewhere that can never be known.
you duck under the rusty barbed wire fence effortlessly.
the sticker-bushes throw their hands out in greeting, snagging your clothes & sketching blood on your
your camera beats your chest with every step.
sneakers slipping, crunching; head looking either way for witnesses.
the hunt, the thrill of finding something no one's seen in so long.
you walk in & the walls bend back, shivering glass.
some ghost notes your name & fills in the blanks.
your camera flashes & you see yourself reflected in every shard, over & over.
ivy wrapping around a wrist, skin growing sad & blue.
this house makes you hurt; your eyes mirror the melancholy in the windows.
you put the camera to your eye & you could swear that the walls are weeping.
the flash lights &