I know I got nothing right
I know I have nothing left
I can take all the right roads
and still be left spinning.
I can take all the left roads
and end up at the right kind of ocean
but not the right state of mind:
I have left you behind and
this is the right kind of leaving.
sometimes when I write
I use the left pen instead of the right one-
that is to say
the wrong one instead of the real one.
the one I have left you
it lays in our bed face down
so the pillow gets the ink smear.
that is to say that I am the ink smear.
I am never the right path to follow
I am left handed always wrong always right
I am the engineer with the right tools
but stuttering left behind
I am the constant
I run into walls that have been left unattended
and I leave you stranded when I make the right choice
to climb them or smash them.
baby I am twelve lights always left on
and never the right thing cooked for dinner
when you have left work and woke me from
the only time I have closed my eyes today.
so I write right
I write long
I write chapped
I write bold
I write shivering
I write lonely
I write small and messy
I write left handed
and hope it comes out-
left.
sometimes I am more
human than being.
a car crash heart
on a freeway
having all my best breakdowns
when time goes missing
and I can’t feel my
skin cage anymore
my atoms are reverse explosions
and I don’t have a countdown
just wait for the
tick tick
boom that doesn’t end
hold me close like
something breaking
sometimes I am more
being than human.
stillest statue
drawing in all the colors
sit here with a face full of fists ready to swing
but I can’t stop existing to do it
so I will hold them until
the human sets in,
midnight launchpad ready to set me
all the way free
I can reach the rope
to touch the skylines
holding someone and
I won’t let go
I can dive so deep
you won’t find me
sitting in this Be
in the darkest sand
and then when my breath
catches at day’s end
make it to the surface
just in time to curl
into the smallest ball
you’ve ever seen
empty all of me
trembling
onto shore
so you can’t pull me apart
Le jour on la trouve drôle, adroite
La nuit elle frotte ses pieds blessés de ses mains moites.
Le jour on l'entend chanter, on danse
La nuit vers la lune elle pleure en silence.
Un masque noir, un chapeau bizzarre
Au cirque on la voit jongler les soirs
Sur la scène en équilibre sur un ballon
Dans la vie chancelante sous le baton.
Elle a des ballerines à carreaux, des collants bleus
Dans ses rêves une robe, une couronne
Et des jolis souliers mousseux
Dans ses rêves c'est à elle qu'on donne.
Non celle à qui l'on prend tout
Celle qui craint l'effrayant loup
Qui brandit le baton, donne les coups
Brise la jeunesse pour trois sous
Du rose sur les paupières, des ailes dans la tête
Elle est acrobate et magicienne
Elle est belle, adroite, experte
Mais rêve parfois d'un pull en laine
On l'appelle "idiote" la journée dans l'arène
Mais la nuit dans ses rêves on l'appelle ma reine
De jour dans l'estrade on la trouve grandiose
La nuit dans ses rêves poussent les roses
Un masque noir, des souliers bizzarres
Des bijoux en or, un diadème d'ivoir
Des coups, juste un peu d'affection
On retrouva un soir de pleine lune
Dans une ruelle une paire de collants
Et sur les chemins des forêts, en écoutant,
On put entendre un chant.
C'est une petite forêt tranquille
Epargnée par l'hiver, baignant dans l'été
Le soleil inonde une clairière, petite île
Ou s'achève sombrement une épopée
A l'endroit ou se croisent les chemins
Les regards haineux se croisent
Et pour un joyau rouge, l'un y perdit sa main
Ainsi que la source de son extase.
C'est une petite clairière silencieuse
Où l'on pu ce jour la apercevoir,
Scintillant sur des cailloux d'ivoir
Des milliers de petits rubis
Tombés de celui, qui, tantôt
Perdit l'un de ceux-ci, ainsi que sa vie.
Il naquit un beau soir de novembre
Et l'on cru voir le rejeton de lucifer
Il n'eut dans sa vie de sa mère
Qu'un petitarbre taillé dans la cendre.
On lui interdit l'accès à l'église.
Au marché, on hurlait:"file, sale bête !"
Au cirque, on hurlait: "quelle tête !"
Il n'avait de plaisir que de sentir la brise
Il fascinait les biches prudentes
Charmait les papillons craintifs
Et cueuillait parfois les fleurs des ifs
On lui arrachait avant qu'il ne les sente.
La nuit il comptait les étoiles
Le jour fuyait la foule comme la gale
Un matin on retrouva dans une ruelle
Une petite silhouette toute frêle
En silence, recroquevillée dans le noir
Comme il fut abandonné un beau soir.
Have you ever thought the reason why volcanoes exist on the earth?
They say that he would warm us from the bottom of our heart
And push out our faltering courage to outside the world.
A broken glass
pointed angles all over
giving off its light dimly
Waiting for a trigger.
The broken glass may be a piece of Diamond
Creating Aura from its universe
Strength from its nucleus
Fragility in shadow
Silence in clearness
Words in color
Beauty in balance
Passion in calm
Reflection from darkness
See all these sincerities appear on his surface
just exists for someone to find
From the coals of sacred texts, brought fouth from ancient whispers of a circle of unbroken time, dipping and acendinding its change state, as the one constant in unending continuity. Therein lies a simple truth, corrupted with gentle persuasion.
The state of being, the being of state and status of beings.
There are three main laws for us to purview and avail here and now, or in past and future possibility. There is one rule that seperates, yet, reconsiles and is master of all truth; ugly or beautiful it renders life in death, death into life and life into death.
to live evil live to - live.d.evil
to Evo L ovE to
The cycle that never alters its identity making Its mood known in all forms and states; the All as in the We collective; and as the I; AGAPI, the known mystery of presiding over both and the first of the third.
Go.d and evil.
Live with the hidden truth in plain sight. Felt with intense realness, hidden in semantics of languages long lost and forgotten, but none is needed to unless seeking to corrupt the incorruptible what is known and fails in explanation.
For this very reason, the logic of AGAPI (love) in all its moods, colours, ugliness and beauty fail to be described. And still, the poets' pride tries in vain to capture the whole. Ever so often though, glimpses resonate and we can see a temporal portal with the promise of the indescribable known.
Blessingss
I just want to be
With the night.
Quietly write.
Just float in space,
And feel misplaced.
Weightlessly fly.
Gather letters and words,
Sounds that taste like rain.
Voicelessly sing.
Carefully calculate
Senselessness.
Condense the expansion.
Melt it into an ice cube
And swallow it whole.
Shut in the out.
Turn on the dark,
Greet each subtle whimsy,
As I dangle from the edge
Of a crescent moon.
...and swoon
I want to be with the night.
Alright?