*

I speak will of night, so ill of day,
Is all I know, lest thorn be known,
More drums I dull lest heart be drum,
In muse I wake, this cry I fake,
The meagre weep is lasting sleep,
Who knew this breeze lest rain to freeze
Till morning drew this life be brew,
From which I drink, from which to brink,
No dawn in sight, no man to fight,
No more is tried now branch is tied,
These hours be gone is come goodbye.

Answer

And the answer clear,
And the answer dear,
Could n’erupt from here,
All dreams come to fear,
Questions come to leer,
As though nothing to be,
All song in write me
Cash not on chilled feel,
The way was now closed,
His heart he then froze
Can warm now once more,
And the heart longs more,
Ere the blood pumped soar,
Whose tears can scarce bore,
This skin is yet so sore,
Shall then pour away,
All dark thoughts at bay,
Now this essence is calm,
Sooth me better balm,
Wash all that gall way,
It is now to lay.

Of Follies in a Single Moment

All the world’s a meagre chase, nor bred are the hundreds gooned for base. And the art of folly so vivid and few can never in arms twice be fed. Nor like the saddles of knowledge whose lives attached are bequeathed upon me this solemn night, the artist wept in cool blood pray. Alas! My honed wretched state of no becoming thwart but sulked to stay. Nor was I the wiser none in keeping state that larks in space and bitter stone this fire come path. These people I ought to know can never give ought what I am; it is in my knowing that they are past. Oh, my life for their knowledge! Who am I to kiss the rock whose life forefeit in great disdain? Am I the curtain to kiss and scorn? Am I the jest to bleed and scorn? They are the virgins of ill got so torn. I am the nightingale of ill suborn; whose loneliness in song is gall so thorn. Are we then the sinners or liars of jokers born? Why don’t mine eyes roll to their nerves to tear? Am I this much a boy for man so ill? Can I not listen to gut in shape to throw? Nor am I this sight in keep’st shred. Nor all echoes are tales be known. No beer nor wine, no coke nor weed can shape me here. This abstract fellow too soft to be fluid; this concrete I lay are beds of chains I cast to stay. Nor better are the stars whose black spots can me shine a light to bring closer at the yolk of night when all lights perish into mine eyes in kindred sleep.

Broken Tree

With new hour come an old hour fall,
In least of which was tree yea tall,
Ere he stood all his nil was struck,
Ere he stood all his joy was sucked,
For what seemed an hour then he stood,
For sought was sentiment in brood;
And all time compressed to a drop,
Whilst all mem’ry pressed to a sop,
With every tender touch comes warmth,
With every tender thought is morph,
Which how soon is but ill despised
At how the next years are come surprised,
Nor better are fools with hope at stake,
Now gleams in tide this Earth to take,
Had he not walked this far to go
Then roads yond can n’er come so low,
This ought be the hour life partakes
Though few have stopped better to take.

Adam’s Plea

Morn for all no more, oh Lord;
On fall or torn but bored
What woe on all ere dawn
For lost on ground to mourn.

And sat was fair ground halt,
‘Tis time that flows like salt,
‘Tis time alone to make best,
In this world, at all fest.

I walk the world in heart,
I sing the echoes in hearth,
In the bliss of day bind
Mine heart in you to find.

Now enter a built entrance,
When Eve was in a trance
She could never believe
The words I ought to weave.

For You have always been,
Oh Lord, our mercy seen
Your bulk of beauty known,
Your sulk is mine beknown.

Ghost ye Lady Part

Mine hour is but laugh to sing,
In cast of my deforme’d nature
Is this happy hour am come to fling,
In the clothes in white; how mature,
Is part of me; all and whole but a pun,
A spectre of lust I seek and now I am,
It is the echo of what I yearn so fun,
The misery of failure is success I am,
All round the woods in these greater days,
Near that familiar junction by the road,
How happier are the lakes so ripple away,
Now seek my ghost and guide mud my load,
All the words I seek myself in cumber free,
And I walk the art of silence in great dismay,
It was the feet that drove me away from ye
Who could never hold mine arse this bay,
A puddle I sight, the pleasure but fauna
A sight in lieu and all puerile ill attempt,
Very, and so bitter are lips my words donna
Can never rip from heart nor give to tempt,
All I kept to consume and this my birth,
Born to weep my bred heart in leapt mourn,
Now all is dark whilst I walk through girth,
As all motion sewn between us is bitter scorn.

*

I’m a girl. It’s not easy.
Every wave shook me and then I cast away.
I wish I knew reason; what a concept:
These emotions I have. Every case is new.
A memory is as wild as a jungle in spree.
Name a boy, I am the one who sought.
Help me from the other side of stars,
I caught myself in a net of love amongst
The grieving and tearing soul to hold.
My ancestors gave free the choice I have,
Now I sing of misery and curse my heart calls;
It beckons me to go back and never live.
I have to die twice in order to live once;
It’s so true that I am the dodo in ill flight,
Whose only defence is the last it can fight,
Beautiful. So rain hell on me to a thousand.
Let all the fire burn the homes, the fields,
My family; my friends; my life; my soul adorned.
So give me a reason to live again to shine.
To tell the mirror upon whose note was shone,
A heart of eager miss can surely sound me here,
If I am to live and move on, it was all but fought.
A thousand ties and a thousand knots my soul is crossed.
No Bible, no Qur’an, no Torah can become my Exodus;
And there is a skin that breaks with blades anew.
All the sights of life now sing in dreams become.
The difference between wife and mother is me.

He

In the midst of chaos, he found his purpose; in the midst of woe, he found himself. In the midst of defeat, he found his vict’ry; in the midst of death, he found his life.
In the midst of thought, he found his reason; in the midst of fight, he found his right;
In the midst of knowing, he found his base; in the midst of God, he found his faith,
In the mist of loss, it was he who became lost; in the midst of now, it was he whom he shall know,
In the midst of past, it was he who became now; in the midst of song, he knew he was not alone.

My dearest, of all sights. Now comes a time when a man’s life suddenly ends, and then is never returned. But his ego will always return. It lives in the mantelpiece of that brain and casts aside all reason and thought; everything becomes in peril. Imagine being took by an unknown force and in order to live you ought your life to give. It was simple. It was the ego he had to give. The art he gave became the chance he diced. In muse besought, he wanted to be something better. For all men desire to be someone better, but none dare walk the steps that lead him to danger peril. But when he does, so shall he in desire fraught, so that any who knew him shall remember him for any he gave.

But I mention no further the calm, and the serene, and the moon that is but akin to star shine bright across the Earth. It is he who walks the day. His peace is the war of others. Your words ill-thought are but comedy to a man’s venture. And it comes to this when she becomes the man and you become the lady to sing in vital prose to understand the way of knowing and the ink that throws the fray.

No tattoos nor metal can break a man, nor make a man, nor fake a man, nor forsake a man, nor partake a man in restful hope of who he is and what he ought to be.
No meagre lie can make truth a man, nor loss whether in court or foe make better the art he ought to give.
Nor insults nor compliments can move a man without a value in the meaning he ought possess.
Nor fright and fear that his life be gambled and ought be shambled in the essence he once ought to live.
Nor exist in the lurks of others as demons true; he himself becomes the demon.

So cast aside all the worlds he himself sought, and so last in the now that all moulds himself he brought;
Nor kite the lingering feel, the emblem wheel, the chasing eel, the darting meal, the exiled zeal;
The harp is broken. The lark is dead. The art is led. Homer is said. A soma is fed.

His is the sum of all he knows; he is the product of all he endures; he is the difference between himself and foe;
He is the life he never had; he is the reality that brought him dread; he is the shout that calls him forth;
He is the new that brought him old; he is the love that brought him cold; he is the dove that brought him sold.

Everything Washes Away

The concrete so cold and so dry,
A nightingale sings a few feet nigh,
A Chamomile reaches for air anew,
This prologue of nature is scarce new;
For it cast away all memory of ill respite,
Now only the product whereof is gain despite
Such meagre memory that shakes mine eye
Whose veined image can never me dye,
Nor can tears alone from colour remove,
Nor contacts can mask mine eyes what move,
This notion I now know is but new motion;
Take mine existence for granted to own,
And everything between birth and death
Shall all but few woes come relevance not,
Lest mine own is part, lest I am forgot,
Nor am I. The scene of rain now dries me,
All the birds have stopped. They’re now we.
So we, are but we, and little are so thought,
Now it all comes to past, tis past, all brought.
Imagine a soul parting from thee and flows,
It flows down and downward. It doesn’t throw.
Now we’re gone. It’s all gone. No more meds.
‘Twas all gone. Morals. Thought. To you who gets
The art of water on my dried corpse is sung,
Now I flow away. Everything washes away to song.