Bitter March

I, the Duke, from Brunswick hail,

Have marched lone yet never sail

In emotions sought; thus I cease;

Then comes my being hence at peace.

A bayonet I sharpen twice,

Whom no light fails to sap its vice,

May our guns be loaded. Twice.

When time allows is gifted vice;

They felled our French brethren royal,

Now who can sing ought be loyal?

Yet web of ties bears no loose ties,

Silked and perfect, no end in sight,

I go a task wherewith I signed,

That city’s mixéd air we find,

This ‘republic’ ye call splendour

Is nothing more than one turned sour.

So this be real as what we’ll teach,

Than see them goad a hollow leech,

Swift they assembl’ I can’t deny,

Our trinkets rouse, including mine!

Shake the muskets with all your will;

One comes more ill when sees the ill,

So shut the feelings, thoughts and fire!

So ere we win: French sons we sire!

We’ll marble place for bricks replace

Venus Temple of Austr’an face,

Lend more wine for one finer night;

She gives us now a bitter light.

Phantom’s Word

Whence times gone there shoulders two masks lifted by a single head. I am what ye call the phantom of its shadow, who knew no morals nor delicate treats than that I offer. Mine iron is my word; my fate is your sentence. Here, I recite mine own poem that eloquently written describes my views on the state of me:

Lurks, breathes, tricks beguile!
Lo, keys from lungs spree!
Dare a face, God is not.
Whose mud now? Mould him free,
A mind? Think not for bile

In whose grief is music here,
In whose brief state is apart,
Stupor my shadow lest ye stand,
Breathe such heights as those parting
Only for light give entry near,

As power wrung strings on spool,
Who knew better than face himself?
Then step through, reveal him:
Defect the phantom ye call yourself,
Till all I bid is sold for fool.

I call the ghosts of sunken ship,
My name creased in shame,
From this cup an ally & enemy sip,
His hate of me is fame,
Now accepts that whom he lips!

Oh, silly bile; this defect of mind that I call the shores from yond the meagre hopes that goaded dread in unsung thought till us phantoms brew. We’re neither enemy nor ally, we are who you are. In shade. In dark, we disappear. In light, we appear. That they seek the light is thus to seek us, and we shall arrest them there and by night shall free them there. So passes they unto us a forthold of figures, the dreams and the thoughts they never implement. So pass unto us a single tear that wipe words from ink as to value from meaning. So then, if never of us shall appear, then light shall never appear. If so, my dark intent shall be nullified by such; in whose absence of light there is no ally nor enemy but a single shroud of dark that envelopes all the above till one himself, or herself, shall bring to open.

These are the fainted shadows in text, and we raise a mould up in the sky to imprint these words in the world, and so take them as they will so that no shadow weighs heavier than the light; nor peace is found, till peace is sought. Nor trees are grown till the seed is wrought. Let us be that seed and so produce in time the order of that which stands, whether poison or not in produce is given. Then in jest the light is but joke for fools to acquire; then when it is seen this much we shall see. In void of everything else, it only becomes unseen.

*

She didn’t know what brought her
Through yard upon yard she walked,
Distant slopes called all to bear
That echo of all waves they tucked,
That calm and smooth sound forgone,
Not long before a city swept it gone,
Till more was new than weeping song,
In dearest pride she is barely done.
And in the steps she carries weight,
These steps that carry this too far,
In lieu of such glistening hand to fate,
Now begins one reality from old to bar,
But waves continue, no fire perish,
And the sun still shines even unseen,
Beneath which solely stood was she,
Nor could she on sun’s rays lean,
Could scarcely spot a cracked sky,
In the midst of storm, in the breadth of dark,
She seeks the light; Seek the light,
God is the light.

*

A chain turns cold round my waist,
Whose iron bonds give weight tenfold,
Nor right, nor left a turn I bid anew;
The sight I see is one enchained,
In every sound I speak a wisdom
Whose echo casts a shadow on me,
But never I said don’t walk away!
These bonds that break, my fate resigns,
Mute are the words of child he thought,
To pass adult now still his mind abides,
Though once I was able, now I am not,
With all I will so my heart endures,
Break the chain with warming heart,
Cast the Sun’s rays mine eyes do kiss,
Ere blinded by life anew, who could tell?
Rather I this much blind than be unseen,
Link by link, double bond by bond: blessed
Be those who have believed, but never seen.

Er/ *ata

Devour me with your kisses, my dry lips have touched no stone for erosion – ill-gotten fate. My heart is fire. My tree of leaves hugs the Earth.

Even fish swim toward the light epicentre; the journey of rays tells the tale of echoes whose ripples play a note so smooth it flows.

Aha! A comedian. Suited. Booted. A tale of politics riddled by jeering and the heaving of words flanked by an artifice of applause. She makes them laugh. She can never make herself laugh. Sad.

A joker’s flaw…

Now Faust is walking through the a hot patch. Somehow he ended up in an entangled web of fates that in great exclaim minuses his inner proclaim. “I am the beast that howls the moon. I am the man that never was!” Thus he said, and then his demons appear: first Mephistopheles. Here, a remarkably handsome man approaches, tatted and graced well, indeed. “I think I’m done for a day but will you come?”

…As though it were for naught.

“Nay; I already have!”

Above Uranus, say, there’s in fact a part whereof we think little of but know it’s there, but see little of. The rings, and the sounds! Whistle my name, so that I can never hear it again! Who made it? Who sang my radio till no frequency arise?

Faust. Fish. Fate. Appear.

These are the Universes that I have created. Here, I examine all that is, and analyse all that shall be. But I do no good nor bad in intervening. Like a drop in once is ‘nough, their excess leads a flood. Degreeing all measure that all creations shun, but is simply too lax in wit and sharp in thought. Then they come up with images of heaven and hell, and say we ought to be like this, like that, like so, here; there; no; yes. But I never gave such answers, nor did I ever raise such questions. My creased being is that of non-being, and I failed in bringing non-being to the state of my being. Even the softest mink can still cry to shed its fur.

Such errata is at hand any day, but I fear my will is got; I am but a mirror. I am the product of everything else. Whose science am I is yet to prove. Whose religion I am is yet I am.

The scoundrel weeps, ’tis you Faust. I have seen all you do, and trust now you know better. That girl wasn’t worth your effort; nor was a tower of babel virtualised in pendulum with the spheres you bear. The clucking stops eventually.

I do find that little I say is but marred in oil and barbed in plastic. You, too, are victim of world mused in the artefacts of glory of one I tasked. Though no fault your own, you did well to seek the light; ‘las, it was but net that got you.

Fate. Why so sombre? You only walk yet what you cannot sing. Nor dance, nor deliver in pamphlets and propaganda except envisioned in the conscious of those who believe in you. I swore an oath to distance in Fate, but now we no longer talk. I can never predict you for I am unaccountable to you, as you would conversely agree.

Let be. We walk and somehow find our way again. Most things just are as much an aberration, but we deliver no tongue nor ear to qualify them; and then, we discipline ourselves.

Seeking you

Every star, a story untold,
Hermes sought a light now gone,
Limp is he, but whose stand is fraught,
As breeched his air now casts a dew,
Breathe a light so my life is so!
Rumi, give me the darkest depths of light,
Hafez, alight mine eyes on God’s dark iris’,
A Milton speaks here, so give Maker my life
In Ire, nor ere more greater words we wrote.
Shakespeare chant, and now is being non-being,
Negative as I seem, nor cynical as I optimise,
Seal my trust of breath this happiness lasts,
I seek the dark, so do You. Reader, seek, seek!
Money and charm, fame and breadth the world deny,
From Kilimanjaro, Everest. Oh, Chimborazo! Deny!
Now I see a moon, a star, more stars, a dark.
A past I forsook, even Cleopatra is her snake relayed.

Bring all venom from whose deny,
Give breadth mine art this solo,
Breath the wine that breathes a lie,
I play the tune that fills with sorrow,
Oh, it is now my crease from whose awry,
Now sings songs of hapless woe backward.

* AWAY *

I was born with initials scarred on me,
My eyes were browned by blood congealed,
All the horror I see is a horror I am,
No sound of music can wash a breath away,
If no sun can light every road so gold,
Then I shall carve gold out of thin air,
Let me construct the path I ought to walk,
Now I see a way, but I turn away. I know.
It was a silly idea, but I learnt and I went,
Now the cheeks of clouds pour forth their load,
No one is there to say I’m sorry, nor to gloat,
Now the angels weep. Now the demons awake.
Bring me to the palace of diamonds and dark,
Now construct a face I can never afford. It’s me.
I’ll dance when everyone else is danced out.
I’ll breathe when I’m this much a lasting one.
Now I am walking towards a sudden lapse of life,
One I cannot deny, so much a tree gives leaves,
Soon I find myself in the greatest crossroads here,
Some say it’s a trap, but here, it’s a life so near.

When Descends

Now descends is Atlas whom Zeus appointed,
“Now shall You I curse this world to bear,
Whom no greater pains but lasting fates
Shall crease thy criminal birth in folds
Of two. One for each hand; I give and grow.
Did I not give you the hands to make work?
Did I then not smite the hand that holds?
Or when Hera whispered in mine ear your cry,
But this will not serve, all must hear it;
Thy hold of my world is now my hold over you.”
So Atlas stood, descending from above on high,
Descending lower, and lower till all is come:
Is this the world I ought to bear, it is come.
Of this mighty weight, the rivers and trees. Come.
The mountains and oceans I bear. It is come.
Do I not add so much weight, if twice my sorrow? Come.
When I shall stand, nor leave my legs to crouch. Come.
And all the trees bristle with fleeting wind to come,
And noon is shone by a single light mine eyes are blind,
Nor grieve a single tear that rises the oceans more,
Nor rain can dispel the mute of space from dark mine face,
Here less I stood, and soon my legs stoned in shock,
Think less of what then, who cannot befriend nor mate,
Who could never see his face again, but stare by side below.
I am the slave that weighs the world by the zero-sum;
So Hail the Zeus that casts such a misery upon me,
Do I not hold a world that could never hold me?
So ends the sad tale of great Atlas, here and there;
Here and there he crouched with full weight and mused:
The Spheres of Mars and Saturn, so vanquish peril,
So cast away, and look yond the Sun that orbits,
To the North we see his tears vaporised to clouds above,
To the South his dark and shady figure comes aged and cold,
So come what may, whether be or not, ere set nor dawn spread,
The charms once leaked, so his shadow forms the space,
Till, flesh on flesh, blood on blood, eyes and heart depart,
The breathing yet lifeless figure dusts into the nether dark,
His flesh: the moons; his tears: the stars,
Till one day wonder a people sired this realm so dark,
Then ponder why and how such things were made,
Though never witness its Maker till Judgement,
Nor remember the origins of rain, cloud, wind;
Nor breathe another air mixed in pain,
So poor Atlas fades in mem’ry.,
And all flows and fires away.

Aeneid’s Passing

Alas this moon knew no dark,
Where lay eclipsed my wrong,
Now no light can hide my ark.
Now, a breath still as light,
So give torch ne give as such,
What words pass on falser right,
That appoint my brief yond march,
O Muses that calm my heart away:
Give me reprieve that I stay away,
That all I live shall turn away,
For all I say may echo all away.
Though life subtle gives nay,
And so I walk the walk I deigned,
In hair by strand greys by day,
But whose day is wrought if feigned?
Allay this doom fates doom this allay!
Come; a branch no leaves shall part,
Ne ate nor drink neither brew nor naught,
Now noon is naught of night as art,
But mine walk through pillar ye ought,
And all who grieve my pass, oh solemn,
Now cheat my heart, of Hers, I beseech,
Where is she? I give word for contemn,
A whisper then is the soothing speech,
Deliver words if not by eyes nor waned,
That ghost alone carries my free thought,
Aghast is mine ay this mind so caned,
Is spoke and ere I see her to my ought
Shall I pass over Elysium for pride deny,
I am the Prince of all Sin to declare,
No gentleman is I who sees whom I can lie,
In whose throne as still no way is lair
Now all is still, all so silent,
All ghosts am I, now I’m me no more!
Nor shall He, Jupiter, my sword for rent!
But all I am, unforgiven is me no more.

Paralysis

Born in the arms of nothing,
Foots a way that yond dismay,
I’m a kissing feeling known,
But no, not right these days;
Am paralysed by words of word,
Now I’m walking away to yond,
The tank can’t hold more brew,
Now the water this warm is hue:
A rain that I may soak and bathe,
Ere smoked is the air this mute,
Now shook my feet for quake aghast,
Who drags me down so all roads a cliff?
But I know not mine eyes wander,
When I look to the singing naught,
And all I see is yond be ought,
If I would eat till I breathe less,
Till I drink so I eat much less,
Till I eat much less since I lived,
Now cool is the air that speaks,
How true is the still life so beau?
Whilst I look round, here we are;
In the mesh of half myself and dawn,
When it comes another day, am I gone?
Nay, tis mine half who walks here,
The nothing that I am breathes here,
All along, and now he walks to You.