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.


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.

Muse of Dodona

I am the Muse who sings not of no other,
I am the difference between light and night:
The art of spelt wind to carve my bark,
An empire of leaves thus adorn my shape,
A whisper through the grass sings me wake,
Steps of travellers dance to my trembling,
Nor it be not music mine ears to breath of yours,
Nor is it shaking lest my lonely state is bore.
I am the smoke; the one that is lifted from naught,
‘Tis the burning of the seen that now is more fraught,
Make no mistake that my smould’ring choke you here,
Make no mistake that it is the end of my heroic end,
Ere the birds shall sing their last and leave me here,
Now the ashes fall from me to ground in utmost pour,
And tears of amber shall lift my roots in motion soar,
At last it becomes me not the endless to bitter end,
When once I ask of ye: why so this I ought to rend?
Then twice more you respond with fine eyes cast away,
To the next; ere the next, here perplexed; all is hexed,
Nor is fixed, the air is thick, my tree a wick,
And knick my space, and kick my face, so all is waste!
Uproot myself, in muse I call, so here I fall,
When more I try, so luck I find, is rare behind,
And soon I cry, ere ground I bind, so fair and kind.
Though he and love these guests I cannot plea,
Nor my slow’st motion, stoic notion I cannot flee,
Here I sing of what love I once had from pot to soil,
Who saw me grow and visited me here to never foil,
To he, I was but just a tree with no love to give,
For I perish with no leaves to offer so he can live
In knowing my presence. Oh, but now no more to seep,
And as he leaves, it is for all but mine to weep.

His Lover Beckons

Ere be man ere wrought is comber may,
Alas, indeed, is but fraught with greed desire,
Though twats in meagre thing can in bliss dire
Need sunder the flesh and blood and eyes fooled;
Is but a need for this couple to become cooled,
Oh, these lovers so cast aside by deception
Can soon become the greatest need for seduction,
She says “No, I cannot let you do this”, alas, alas;
But in all wildness, all reason escaped, morals last;
Now, and now, and now, she is but a weeping angel,
An angel she sought and thus her lost wings fell,
Weeping, deceit; but mirror held them both,
But alas, a mirror, a mirror cast love’s broth.
No suitor ere suited can this man ere be made,
Lest love in clothed silk and ooze be laid.
In the midst of danger came pleasure only,
If it were pain, it can be but fraud cunningly.
There these swingers are treating to vice,
It is but the nude lady in reflection mirror’s stood,
How gay are all who stood in wake of sight so lewd,
Now the vain pleasures are but pains to fuck,
And ere but snares be cast for dice in luck,
And but sought eyes in constipated looks decree:
Now no perfume nor cologne nor minted tooth
Shall free her soul from despair and pleasure,
It is indeed a lustrous life of weekends sure.
No quartet can sing in thrusts so deep as this
Without forbidding themselves to secrecy how bliss.

Train to Mars

Nor is it a random station,
Nor is it just any train,
This is now the train from hence,
This shall take you from hence,
The train, with no stop here to there,
Is but near to greater sort so fair
In price and of creed to depart,
From this place you are now in Mars,
Imagine all the orange and all the rocks,
Now look all around and see our train,
This departs and off to Earth it departs,
Now no human, now no alien, now no life,
You look all around and see no one,
Just no one, nothing, just nothing;
There’s no station, no government, no food,
No wine, no sight, no new light to calm you here.
Imagine, nothing. Just nothing. Just rocks and sand.
How beautiful that is? That no one is around?
I wish I lived there. No more drama. No more rife.
I don’t need hope nor fate to guide me now,
All I need is the rocks and sand.
Spare me the oxygen, my breathing is but poison to life;
Spare me the heat, for I am but heated mind beheld.
So, the answer is clear: a train to Mars.
And never come back.


Monsieur, alors les chattes de lune;
Jusqu’a avons engrang√© ne plumes de malheur,
There shall be no peace in mine so soon,
Nor shall be happiness shall this deter,
The art of such flight I bid you adieu,
Now I give sight my lacking purpose here,
I am but a slave to fate and nights tonight,
So that I sleep away the thoughts I sear,
Then never can I come to you so right,
Then leave me here so bitter I ought stay,
Now never see my name through cold glass,
So when I stand beneath the core to lay
Can I not spell your name in fire to pass?
So walk me home and I shall set you far,
The indigneous tribe in mind untoward
Has arrested my mind from you to bar
That I can never see you much forward.