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.

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.

When he speaks

Listen: the sound of cool breeze and swift cars pass. These days grow new and eschew old in streams to an ocean of memory await. A long time has past since we fought, then we knew nought what it was. There was a boy long ago who constantly did, never ceasing; he would argue and attempt persuasion to an argument fraught with nought the meagre void for which they were. It seemed clear that none was the wiser, but he still persisted. Could we have been mistaken he was a fool? Well, I’m not sure; but he was thinking ahead, but now he’s shut in the bowels of a decreased mind in ware resolve.

So, we went to the river and looked ahead, and I saw him drooping with a head low down. It seemed like nothing at first. Though a single expression he showed, it was the rest he sowed. The rest was what I wanted to hear. He could not begin to express them, as he was in such a state that he knew not his real self. He knew not who he was or the very element of such an existence. I would say he’s neurotic, but that is enough pejorative than he could muster and solely accept. Bring him here, along the banks. A slow walk to the river, but there were toadstools and a sort of retreat from everything. It was peaceful here. Somehow, I thought he’d be himself. Let him wait. Let him move on. Close your eyes; breathe; become yourself.

Talking to himself he was, I knew it; he would. That’s who he is. No one could truly understand him, but that’s why we love him. He’s a mystery in some ways because he expresses so much without his expressing such himself. A man in a dark cave would see all in the light but not himself, and those exiled from whence could not see the man he is, but hear only faint words and a gasp for breath through each vowel ushered in the fold that cracks the tree.

Whether these troubles ill or will, nor the solutions apt or sapped, the leaves shall still grow again the next spring, once the cold is spent; the ice is thawed. Now, give a bird her nest and let us be free; leave your problems there: four-score a threat is that which resides within. So dark is this come mind; see the light, now breathe it out so I can at least get some rest!

“I tried, but I can’t.” He claims. “It would not be the same without me. I try to be good, but it doesn’t work out good. I fail in everything and I try to succeed in hopes of compensation.” But this compensation, for what? You are whole, and need not compensate for your losses for there was never no loss to begin with! “Now, I see. There’s a loss in your logic, but now I exceed your bounds of reasoning with my flaws in prose and rhyme”. Not not could it be his wits, then let it sing through this, nor walk through river to swim, now leave that so grim-

“Perhaps. But I’m not ready.”

A trip to all those who know, and being with new folk will make a difference. Open yourself as you did a child and let the good change you. The bad have changed you at that age to grow you a man as you are now; but it doesn’t have to be that way. Do not let them win. You are better than that.

“Perhaps; but I don’t know what I want.”

You want to be yourself again. You’ve succeeded. You are yourself here. Now, with every step you walk from here shall you plant a seed that shows who you are, where you are and when you are.

*

A single sweat became rain and she was running towards herself. There was no mention of word, nor call, nor move; she went. Somehow, it lingered in her that she needed some air and all the space around her suddenly moved. The world was passing through her. All time can do was move. All she could do was move. So sudden she stopped. She called her dearest heart in earnest repair, but no blood would in part congeal. A warm bark of a tree can only warm her hand, and the swollen ground with ill-grass was all she could breathe. So high were her senses, and she moved. She didn’t know where; she moved.

Still searching, here and there, whether to gaze at her phone. Somehow she stopped and turned it off. She leapt from one world to the other. In one, she’s the nightingale in grace to conjure a fool in weeping song; another a wild woman with thoughts so mad and wrought she could not utter for words describe. So soon was it she had to return, but all she could ask was for time’s halt, but it would not. She moved. She did.

It seemed like she became a tree herself, except it was summer. Here she thought a new road was unforged, and only grass can cover her footsteps. Let lone her heart shall remain in the ground before she rescinds all comfort in the space alone. She’s still there. It is not she who passes through the world; it is the world that passes her by. All the people. All the animals. All clouds shall pass. Let time alone be an insult in presence hers, so now she sings in thought the life she is.

A wandering stranger

Some time ago, it was almost a speck; a boy I knew, but he was a strange guy. I didn’t know exactly who he was, but I could relate to him somehow. He loved to wander around in streets, even parks, the bay, under the night, lidless sky could not bind him away. I’d see him from time to time, walking. To no end. He would pass through the canals, cross the bridge, delve below a tunnel, and keep walking. He didn’t exactly know where he was going I thought; he kept moving back and forth, even looking yond his shoulder back. Whether paranoid or no, he seemed cautious. A hint of anxiety kept him, but he still kept going, somehow.

Beside the fact: this was years ago. I can’t believe it – five years. It was that long for a man his age; but five years can be five minutes in a squared amount of time. Anyway, I followed him. I wanted to know what he was doing, where he was walking, where he was going, the air he breathed, the sights he saw, the cars he heard, the people who laughed, and all the swans that swum past the brewing glow. This glow nought I had, in bitter thought comes shaking sleep. ‘Tis sound alone he ought to keep, the rest is bark to sleep. In this space, in this hour, half his sight was cast in gaze, the rest is brought in dark ahead.

Some hour later, he stopped where I just knew where he would stop. This was it. I cried. This was it. It all happened here. The beginning of an evening; the end of the morning; the start of endless night eclipsed by sun under the farthing sun. Everything just fades; echoes – echoes, into the fold. A sound deep, be it consumed in dark. Within this realm, there were no street lights, no. It was all different, you see. A bridge was yond from here, and there were lights, with some not lit. It seemed like it dimmed a road, and this was where he followed through.

Step by step, breath from breath, reduced to congealed blood that soured his heart, soon he kept his pace. His heart boiled and kettled vapour through each lung that sunk cold breezy air and dispersed a new life into the air around him. Within this dark manifold of sempre solitude shook the break of his communal worship in the gait that forsook his brow that gestured at the slightest sound that cast him from here to worlds above, so far from he, and not so far from reach.

Beneath two towering blocks, whose fumes used to bring gaze from all the city at long lost thoughts of musing jeer, at fusing cloth brought freezing fear fraught with a demise of a lost city buried under nostalgic price in gaping memory of one so lost. He stood beneath the biggest tower, sat on the grass, breathed the air. Thus seeing five brilliants of the night, felt four fragments of memory, heard thrice a wolf, a distant footstep and a ripple wrung with stone; twice he smelt a cool air and the smell of distant trees bellowing before him. Once he breathed, he became whole again. Once he breathed, he became me again.

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.

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.

Meaning

In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

Stones through the Light

Walk away and never turn back the notes when I say their ink are but colours of unseen before mine eyes can eat the words with tearing face. Imagine his kneeling before the drum of the sun beating then all come mute when no sound can utter the ache that trembles. He had to become evil. He had to leave everyone. He suddenly never appeared to himself so good as to God forsake. He read a letter from himself when he slowly transformed into the darkness and wanton sought his id to bigger fright in meagre sounds he makes: weeping. It’s just that he can’t weep; he used up all his tears. Read More

Burn a Petal

Don’t let it get to you, dear;
It is but only fear;
Let the past swim by you fair
These memories gone to taste,
Soon shall fade into the dark. Read More