Contention

I often ride this not-so-tall a horse,
Back aching, leaning crumpled,
Dashing to the rescue of the forsaking muse.
Smelling of the tides of war,
My faithful dog bites itself,
Trying vainly, discourtesy aside,
To reach the common goal.
My armor is light with feathers,
Tempting with the bull's eye
Of its elegant V shaped neck.
My sword rusts there in indignation,
Forgiving as natural to it as believing,
But I smite it just the same; just.
I often amble in these burning pastures,
Speeding at impasses and slowing at the gates of hypocrisy;
It would do no good to challenge that one in this weather, surely?
The mills drive by, now fully content by their wheels,
Spinning giants atop, lowly dwarves whispering behind their noble brows,
Chit-chatting in the easy breeze of mid afternoon strife delight.
Circling the florid mound, the mare recruits the stony aperture to her aid,
Casting swift slippery shadows across the ravine's edges and into the crowded center,
Frightening sleepy scorpions long not in use and dreamy emo children,
Whinnying as I caress the reddish mane, gawking at dark slit within.

You Called

My hands ached with sweet agony,
White, skeletal, splintered with bony fingers,
They yearned to hold it out from in;
My eyes, which once devoured your image in my stead,
Now sought to drown in it a-whole,
Occupying the mind's third fully,
Only to discover they were already scorched with it;
My temples, hammered by your treasured voice,
No longer seem to note the piercing feeling they there underwent -
For brilliance, your own, has sated them
And brought burning comfort to their midst.
Aye, and then you called;
And senses shifted and blurred across my bosom,
My heart there raced and cantered like a rabid dog,
Turned loose upon the world in some muddy mire,
Dark as night and hot with flames that burn and burn the flesh away!
Aye, you called and ended life;
You smiled (for I sensed it in your voice) and folly flied;
You spoke! (And I could still hear it) and clove the heart right out of me.

"Hello?"

Dark Fire

Your golden hair now flecked with white
Shining eerie in the pale moonlight;
Come sit beside me, my dark fire
Let us sing and tell tales to befit this mire.
Your cauldron is so hot tonight
Steam rising to fill us fright,
Scents of honey spiced with wine
Peppered to perfection ere we dine,
Hollow shadows dance around
Driving light out of our grounds
For tonight, my dark, we feast
Upon the offerings of men and beasts!
Your icy touch so burneth me
That I relentlessly agree
To walk with you in your own path
So shaded, so doomed, so full of wrath.
O, dim sun, shall I compare thee to a rose?
Nay; a flowering fragrant black Lilly is thy pose!
Cowled with your beauty you walk
Gliding along the fireplace without balk
Mirrored in the gilded stand lamp
Your reflection flares in my eyes vamped
And so I can finally make flesh my plan
To spend my undying nights behind the sun
Here, with you, in mists we'll drift
Our swirling stygian cores to lift.

Crossing the Byway

Skewed, I list across the sideways
Lilting through the courtyard,
Hanging by a thread
Of a rose's bloody thorn.

She is gone.

I float again in the grieving wonder
An empty flame in thy midst,
Hovering and winking in the husk
Of what's left.

She is gone.

My troubled eyes see the image
As an omen for the crucified;
I lean against my Mary Magdalene
But she is gone.

I whisper to my self.

Failing to grasp,
I construe the light without the dark and thus I'm blinded;
I hear nothing but my old broken self
And she is gone.

I cross the courtyard once again,
Attempting to complete the journey for the last time.
Her enmity fills me
And I am gone.

Staring Blankly Across the Ages

I
Waiting on the arrow's uncouth edge,
The tinker lays her hopes unto the dead man's weight,
Stalling, in the corner,
While across the yard the smith wipes his brow,
His apron brawned by white hot flickers of fire.

Thus was our village, long ago.

II
The harlot wails for the stranger,
But I can find no peace there;
The church bells toll for evening succor
But my bed is empty like my mind.

III
Riddles form on top the clogged fireplace,
Its mantle dimly reflects her bloody breath,
Consumed by the analogies and future hysteria,
Ebbing silently to the foggy street outside.

IV
Brother, come with us!
We march tonight against the dark foe,
Liberty and Reich, emperor and redemption;
We face our own mirrors, O vanity!

V
Daughter, don't go outside today;
The acid flows freely out there, as it does here,
Nimbling across the attercop's creation,
Devouring foundations and fermenting the grander stage,
Set willfully, desperately, on the isle's fancy.

Writer's Block IV

Constructed, constricted,
The hand lies down unannounced at the side of the curb.
Where has Calliope left her bread crumbs for me?
It all connects upon this finely honed dot,
So light that a mountain would waver before it,
So small that the ocean forbade it,
So inexcusable that I cannot sleep;
Not anymore.

Obstructed, obliterated,
My mind takes in the surroundings in a long flaying motion,
Now undertaking a dodgy worthy task,
Now burying its outcomes deep in the upheavals of the past.
The foggy moors call out loud,
But if a man hangs to dry at the city,
Who will hear the call?

Petrified, pitied,
I sulk again at the now closer images that threaten to run down
Pillars of ribbons and scaffolds of grey,
Towering within my empty self,
Single, unique, lost.

Sun Beam

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
The bee asked the dark spider.
"I do not know, small prey", he answered
"But it is most unnatural to me".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Squeaked to herself the honey bird.
"I do not know, rose petal", she chirped
"But it is clear as clouds of rain".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the lover of her mate."
I do not know, beloved", he replied
"But it is all over in your hair".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the goddess of the stars.
"We do not know, our queen", they whispered
"But the deep wine flows freely in our midst".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked himself the ailing poet.
"I do not know, bloody lips",he moaned
"But at last I see it in full bloom".

A begining (a story in the making)

His knee ached again. It always bothered him this time of year, of course, but that wasn't what troubled him, he thought. His skin was slightly irritated, especially where it used to touch hers, but that wasn't it either. It was a sunny day, as most were in these parts. Well, mostly sunny, he thought. He was sitting sprawled in the shade of Symbol's Street's Excelsior Cathedral, trying to take in a rare quiet moment. The grass here was certainly greener than his old home. In fact, almost greener, which was pretty good given the fairly steep water prices. That wasn't what bothered him either though. No, he sighed inwardly. If it were only as simple as that.
"Your grace", a voice said.
"Yes. Is it time then?" he asked.
"Yes, your grace".
"Very well. Here, help me up, would you?"
"Of course, your grace".
Damned mannered bastards, he thought. Sighing again, this time not as inwardly as he would have preferred, he allowed himself onto his feet. Grasping hold of his staff, he began his march, starting to surround the familiar water pond.
"Not today, your grace", said the voice.
"Oh? Why not?"
"After yesterday I'm afraid we've had little choice, your grace".
"Indeed. How unfortunate". He'd rather longed to stroll by that pond a bit, finding it quite soothing. An uncommon calming effect on him, he mused. The bile was only mild this morning, thank the goddess. That wasn't what troubled him either, of course. That feeling was a matter of fact by now, a constant battle to be fought without giving it too much thought, or at least to appear as such, he smiled bitterly to himself.
"Well then... lead on", he said.
The Cathedral's side gate was looming to their far right, beckoning occasionally as the sun hit the decorative signs and notes. The gate was actually leading to a separate hall linked to the cathedral, he now noticed. You can say whatever you want about the guy, he thought, but his remains have secured a rather splendid mausoleum for themselves, unlike so many others. He paused for a moment, examining the wood carvings on the door, then, swallowing a sigh, clicked the intercom button. The first few bars of "When Doves Cry" chimed, surrounding the opening entrance. "Here we go", he thought.

It Is

It is life, coming to a screeching halt.

It is a growing sensation of numbness
That stills and readies me for what's next.

It is only deep within the nebula
That the words are liberated
And once again receive their lost meaning.

It is only my side-tracked mind,
Seizing at the opportunity to speak
That draws me near here,
Every now and anon.

It is by this pain that I feel
That I am able to navigate
These starless surroundings,
Desperate feelers ahead
Catching the void in the act.

Echoes

There are echoes between the songs
Marking my way along the causeway,
Now dusty with rustling leaves,
Now swimming in bright ecstasy
Nourishing the anemones below.

These echoes do not remind me of the past,
Like the rest of their kin;
Nay, they come from the present itself,
Hiding in the plainest sight
Of the self blind,
Marked by eerie colors that spin
Only when you wish it.
And you wish it.

They, like the consciousness within,
Hallow the wild distances of the soul,
Now clear of obstacles and remnants forsaken
And yet unforgotten in their course of familiarity
With the distant and disdained.

The echoes are melodious in more than
Any single way I can relate;
They resound the sweet hollow of the walls
Of my existence as easily as the bitterest
Freedom bell of a lost libertine.
They signify the long road's narration
And equate it with its meaning,
Spelling both desire and remorse
In their fading and their longing.

I wish I could hear it all,
The music of the echoes,
And between.

At Lunch

Once again I am enshrouded with that white mist,
Encompassing my vision and blurring sensation
Like an evil trip, spiraling in all directions, howling, howling
For the dark moon;
I freeze, unable to think except in numbers, adding, adding just
To keep it there while it lasts.

The table grows far and the salad turns unto the happy isles next to your hand, your face.
I cannot swallow, cannot dream, cannot feel, cannot...

I am paralyzed here in this shabby light,
Crucified by your imagined glare, the steak stares back butNo,
I cannot think just yet. Adding is safe, yes. Safe.

My white shroud dissipates and I, a neonate Wight in lunch,
Descend upon my wooden throne to swallow last supper's remnants; a little stale, I sigh.

On an on I wait it out,
Not knowing where or who and when, I endure my tears and music,
Consuming myself in order to live out another day, yet I do not live in a single hour.

I crawl out of the wreckage, smiling at my lovely strange world,
Clinging to distant hopes of past deeds, once resembling the semblance of normalcy.
There I am one of the ignored. Here, there is only the void.
So who is staring back at me?

These Days

These days I am constantly angry,
My fury flows and splashes around,
Heaving its red and green tentacles
Around and around,
Amassing in great celerity
At the borders of my sanity.

My field of vision narrows
At the two butterflies
Twirling in the sun,
Forever spinning and dancing
Aloft the grass-not-greener,
Copious with yellow wasps.

Prodded by the doubled edge fork
The bile in my mouth builds
A thorny tower of disease
Not easily averted,
Nor lightly illuminated
By my moonless spurn.

These days the darkness claims me
And I cannot escape;
My chaos is making good
On its premise to deliver;
My anger flows back to its source,
That crumpled shell of me.

Undulating Field

This is a work in progress as I feel something is still missing with it, though I'm not sure what or how...

Desertion has its virtues
Upon the golden corn field
As the scarecrow backs away
Into the get away car.

Lone guardsman on the pole
Observing the yeast go down
And up and down again,
Pretending to be free.

The mindless wheat
Fulfills that which it sows
On the hard brownish land,
A stool to rest the splinter soles.

The crucified has vacated
The post no longer there;
Rot and decay dawdle
At the tall pillars of hay.

On the seasons press
And the agony recedes,
Tumbling down with the weed
Of a forsaken effigy.

On the Bridge

I saw the future once
Walking the bridge
Above the train station,
Phased onto an alternate
Anime world of steam
And electronics.

But the future merges
With an unforgiving past
Only to give birth to an
Apathic present,
Its presence lucid in my
Vision but for its reality;
The present, I deem, is
A conjunction moving
Between us by being us,
Separating and uniting
The undivided, calling
Our names when all we
Seek is the forgetfulness
Of olden days or
The ever illusive promise
Of aftertime.

Aftermaths replenish themselves
On our lost hopes in this future,
Feeding on repercussions we
Dare not avoid and nightmares
We close our eyes against,
All in vain.

The future, you see, is
Already here, lounging
At its pleasure, sometimes
Cuddling, sometimes stinging
Our expectant souls.

What will I see when I get to the other side of the bridge?
How many full circles are there in the void?

Let's Talk

Ok. This one is titled "Let's Talk", though I'm not too sure about the title.

To save my self
And that's not half
The matron must be told
Ere the going gets tough.

I must tell her what is known,
What is long lost and long ignored;
That which I readily fear
Yet here so anxious to reveal.

That which will save me
Will be ignored;
Of that I am sure, mostly,
If truth be told.

I must reveal it all and hide none,
Forever being the obedient son;
Alas, this deed cannot be undone
As I yet favor moon to sun.

The City and I

I wrote this one thnkinh I may enter it into the "In the end" contest on deviantArt. The point is you have to use the given closing lines, in this case written by John Burnside.

I have been to the White City
Though it is cowled in grey;
I have strolled through its peaceful side-walks
Along no cherry lane.

Memories of serenity fill me
Though now I only long
To lose myself in Sufjan's notes;
I remember it just the same:
Young ones riding their bikes
Shouting enthusiastically
What they'll rue in an hour,
A pair of elderly women
Heatedly discussing yesterday's remorse
Telling-tolling today's gossip
And prophesying tomorrow's.

No, I don't have a cigarette,
And neither should you.

I come back,
The city lingering at the doorway
Pausing shyly at the out of place
Refrigerator in the hallway. Finally,
It entered, bringing some grey
And sand and smog and life
Into my room.

Our time together now spent,
Now passing onto new heights
And lows I cannot fathom;
The city still speaks to me
Her voice half heard as something overhead
-- A splash of white against the wavering sky --
Drones through the clouds, mechanical, bereft.

Wondering during Atonement Day or Writer's Block III

So I walked softly
Through the sinful city,
Now silent for the
Agreed upon duration;
Hoping to find inspiration at its mer
I could only find there myself.

The sand is soft and white;
It graters at my skin
Trying desperately to find
A more suitable position.
That salty smell of froth and starfish
Evokes a longing I cannot accurately recall.
Instead, I’m filled with the usual trepidations
Of being.

The sea does not seem a worthy cure for my woes,
Or, perhaps, I am not worthy of the sea.
In here I feel like a second grain, or perhaps a fourth,
Just like in real life.
The sea cannot save me;
Perhaps the rain can.

Afterimage -
The roll of the waves
And its vast thunder
Shall remain with me
Even ere I am torn asunder.

General Update

So, I've noticed it's been quite a while since I've last written something here (that isn't a poem) and I think it's time for an update. Besides, I'm sort of experiencing a creative crisis, among other things, so I'm not sure when the next poem will find its way into this world.

Why a crisis? In a way I think it's also a symbol for what's going on with my life right now, namely nothing. No that that's new or anything, it's just bugs me more than usual, I guess. Take work for example (if this was a movie you'd have a fade and a cross to my work area :-) ). Work is much more chaotic in some ways than I thought it would be. Despite my lack of experience in this field, I cannot ignore my own sensations, instincts and past memories (mostly from my time at the Navy, something I may have under-appreciated at the time).

In short, there are no ordered, coherent, announced and generally accepted work flows and habits that I'm aware of (and more importantly, it seems my immediate boss is also in the dark). As for this guy, while a really nice man and a technical genius, I can't help but feel his managerial skills needs improvement. Of course, his recent confession to me (in a rather awkward conversation on my part and heated on his) that he wishes to quit, did not improve my general mood or desire to stay. I do feel anxious about the future of the company and even started to skim through some wanted ads but I think it's premature.

These events and feelings, which I barely hinted on these past paragraphs, do not improve my mood and motivation at work, and in general. I do have friends there though, and that make a world of difference for me.

I know my writing here isn't all that clear and organized but I do feel rather tired now. I do hope to write something soon; a poem, a story, anything. I really need to. I feel large parts of me are already dying and some have died through recent years. But I must try, while I can.

Writer's Block II

Working long hours has its toll... :-)

I try to write;
I am numb and my mind
Is filled with empty metaphors
Unable to withstand their own
Weight, exploding and
Imploding interchangeably
By the bubbles of void.

Interrupted, I turn angrily
Towards myself, pausing only
To catch a passing glance
At the undying monitor
Across.

The blinking lights
Seem to form a pattern
Hiding unknown mysteries,
No doubt. And yet,
I cannot wonder why
I felt this way before.

At least I have Wes here,
Live. The jazz fills the air,
Healing the stubborn bugs
Plaguing my soul, if only
For a little while. Play!

Writer's Block I

Just scribbled it. Very tired now. Had an awful night and I can't get rid of this smell of cigarettes. Vile things :-( Anyway, here it is...

So I looked at it amazed,
Wondering at what had just
Passed down before my eyes,
Trying to ignore the smell of cigarettes.

The music is loud
But even that cannot deafen my silence.
I look at it amazed and quiet.

The empty spaces between the lines
Are filled with poetic grains of sand
I longer know will come or bring
Or... I don't know anymore.

I am scared. Saying that
Will surely make it go away? Silence!
I am confused, my head hurts
At the broken lines, bleeding
Uneven sentences and paragraphs
That wish they knew better days, better languages,
Better dirty computer screens to be displayed upon helplessly
Like unwanted slaves in a roman market buried just over there,
The other neighborhood; yes, past those tracks.

I am amazed, somehow, still. My head hurts. No.

Silence.

I am afraid.
Help.

Rest; yes.
Rest.