He draws a number on my page he colours in the numbers four and nine between white and black he draws my face his pen his hand taking a picture of me. I observe I see Me he draws lower what I watch and lingers at a place, you cannot see to gaze through out of me the words are impossible for what explodes in my navel from the string of what he draws pulling me towards him he touches he draws the shape of a part of me, or of what I wish him to see.
This place, this reader, my desire to be,
found and lost in me.
How to speak in poetry the non-poetry that ignites me?
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 08, 2011
hysteria or Female?
This, ob-session is not one to look after. It is a course which must be dissected to its no-thing.
Enjoy it and not, are both pleasurable for my terre of phantasy. Where, it withers, the leaves speak with hope.
When you forget to water it, its presence reminds you it is still alive, waiting or not waiting. In spite of you.
In spite of I, the Other's voices darken my wings of walking on the ground, I love to hover and the solitary ecstasy of the air
touching cheeks and lips through a yellow -leave impressed park at dark, the liberation de la livre, a script of my own.
The numbers of "my" are dangerous in signifying the chances of the Death of the Author. But I, remain here away from I, she
is beautiful, etherial, true and unbound by the black symbols that surround me. Forever alive, beyond the Real that I pretend to speak.
Enjoy it and not, are both pleasurable for my terre of phantasy. Where, it withers, the leaves speak with hope.
When you forget to water it, its presence reminds you it is still alive, waiting or not waiting. In spite of you.
In spite of I, the Other's voices darken my wings of walking on the ground, I love to hover and the solitary ecstasy of the air
touching cheeks and lips through a yellow -leave impressed park at dark, the liberation de la livre, a script of my own.
The numbers of "my" are dangerous in signifying the chances of the Death of the Author. But I, remain here away from I, she
is beautiful, etherial, true and unbound by the black symbols that surround me. Forever alive, beyond the Real that I pretend to speak.
Thursday, November 03, 2011
Window Pain
Window Pain
Placed at the end of a linear line, the destination,
beyond which there is a windowpane,
which must be broken if you claim to be a seeker.
“Whereafter” is not the word you will be told reading
the song that aligns itself with no soul, broken circle
Of glass, attempt, attempt, fail, fail, fall in waves
of non-elocution, the blood mechanism reverberates the waves
of knives scraping at the porous membrane, the destination
In and out, in and out, we violated the circle.
Where will you look at us now? Look through the window, Pain.
Do not let the steam follow the heart, dear reading.
Do not write on the “Oh”. Sin remain a silent thinker.
They will after you come, the outside of demons voices reading.
You are afraid fear can make those waves
splash in a mind that is not yours breeding
Bleeding in the nest of sparrows protected in foil in hibernation.
Birds of blue curves and smudges knock on the window pane.
Around the larynx what is seeking to enter the circle
that was undone reversing the exit of the text circle.
The story that became extinct only the reading
Lingers in its illness opening its window crane:
A cradle of mesmerizing blood waves
The opposites take over their adjectives for revelation
comes feeding slow into the wings of reading.
To spell the “in-yoke” that will pierce the deadening
ellipsis of telling, I do not wish to circle
around the emptied nest, I wish to dive in the dissolution.
If only the lines could transform the linear seeker
into an believer. Then. He waves.
I am Narrating the lack of unmoving the widow in pain.
A struggle, not of ink, not of skin, of the image on the window pane.
Upon it, over it, touching with a wet reading
Drops of liquid excuses running up and down waves
Of a sea that bewilders those who are not in the circle
Of Eros, some light through holes of bullets by the seeker
Opens up the beak of darkness into the vacuum of elevation.
Wherefore art thou Destinator of the circle?
Torturing a writer stealing her bond to exception
To err means to rid one Self from the pain of a closed window
That drowns waves of my wedding to myself.
Placed at the end of a linear line, the destination,
beyond which there is a windowpane,
which must be broken if you claim to be a seeker.
“Whereafter” is not the word you will be told reading
the song that aligns itself with no soul, broken circle
Of glass, attempt, attempt, fail, fail, fall in waves
of non-elocution, the blood mechanism reverberates the waves
of knives scraping at the porous membrane, the destination
In and out, in and out, we violated the circle.
Where will you look at us now? Look through the window, Pain.
Do not let the steam follow the heart, dear reading.
Do not write on the “Oh”. Sin remain a silent thinker.
They will after you come, the outside of demons voices reading.
You are afraid fear can make those waves
splash in a mind that is not yours breeding
Bleeding in the nest of sparrows protected in foil in hibernation.
Birds of blue curves and smudges knock on the window pane.
Around the larynx what is seeking to enter the circle
that was undone reversing the exit of the text circle.
The story that became extinct only the reading
Lingers in its illness opening its window crane:
A cradle of mesmerizing blood waves
The opposites take over their adjectives for revelation
comes feeding slow into the wings of reading.
To spell the “in-yoke” that will pierce the deadening
ellipsis of telling, I do not wish to circle
around the emptied nest, I wish to dive in the dissolution.
If only the lines could transform the linear seeker
into an believer. Then. He waves.
I am Narrating the lack of unmoving the widow in pain.
A struggle, not of ink, not of skin, of the image on the window pane.
Upon it, over it, touching with a wet reading
Drops of liquid excuses running up and down waves
Of a sea that bewilders those who are not in the circle
Of Eros, some light through holes of bullets by the seeker
Opens up the beak of darkness into the vacuum of elevation.
Wherefore art thou Destinator of the circle?
Torturing a writer stealing her bond to exception
To err means to rid one Self from the pain of a closed window
That drowns waves of my wedding to myself.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
missing the example
I am a stranger to myself I am told.
This other steam of a spirit rushes through my fingers
unravelling a blank page of an Ego, I, you, them, there who what finds hears thinks perceives
verbs moving the e-motion of the person-leaves withering, angel-water rushes down my being.
the abstractness must must be illustrated with an example: can you see the angel-water?
What if these forms of being that you are reading appeared in my writing?
Another question inserted here would be a note of poetics to pull the veil of anaesthesia
over my unconscious etiquette to communicate with the trembling of wander.
In daring I am alone, although some stand by this sentence in faith.
In leaping I am alone, while repetition explodes my fear.
A question is missing, here.
This other steam of a spirit rushes through my fingers
unravelling a blank page of an Ego, I, you, them, there who what finds hears thinks perceives
verbs moving the e-motion of the person-leaves withering, angel-water rushes down my being.
the abstractness must must be illustrated with an example: can you see the angel-water?
What if these forms of being that you are reading appeared in my writing?
Another question inserted here would be a note of poetics to pull the veil of anaesthesia
over my unconscious etiquette to communicate with the trembling of wander.
In daring I am alone, although some stand by this sentence in faith.
In leaping I am alone, while repetition explodes my fear.
A question is missing, here.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Hello
My Other Self. Broke. I have no currency to pay. I have some to say.
Blend. Extend the freckle of the paint. Mine make it believable and Enjoy the lure of the white whine.
Dry, I prefer it, the bleach which whitens my esoteric skin of blush. Brush the hairs of your tenticles.
Breathe then out towards the outwards of the Forward despite these pities you once felt. Abstract.
Do not become what he wants, rather make it his waning become lost in the want.
foreclosure feeble trick of mind to be unfaithful to. To the operation of the union.
whereby, and yesterday became wilder than you had imagined.
It is okay. Tell your Other self that. and the other one can say I do not know.
But. But what does the but butt in.
Bad word. Do not use that in poetry do not use that in poetry.
Make it sound, the operative word being Poeisis.
I smile, I laugh, I am happy.
Monday, July 25, 2011
open sky
eruption
of the repressed. Those who know the words but not their relationship with the beach.
Illusion of the white cloud is true for you to be true and be fake and be blue and be open.
You. You cannot forget or erase the melody of your own shell. It signs the tune of sea salt down your skin.
Dried up, now will it crack or blend in?
Will you perform the paradox or will nature take the course for you?
Learn a new skill. To excavate. Sea-shells from the bottom of the sea.
The bottom of the sea, the bottom of the sea is closer to your legs you see.
The knife is handled by another to crack it open and what
What
What
what
of the repressed. Those who know the words but not their relationship with the beach.
Illusion of the white cloud is true for you to be true and be fake and be blue and be open.
You. You cannot forget or erase the melody of your own shell. It signs the tune of sea salt down your skin.
Dried up, now will it crack or blend in?
Will you perform the paradox or will nature take the course for you?
Learn a new skill. To excavate. Sea-shells from the bottom of the sea.
The bottom of the sea, the bottom of the sea is closer to your legs you see.
The knife is handled by another to crack it open and what
What
What
what
Saturday, July 02, 2011
and the music doesnt
and the language disjuncts the necessity of meaning
spelling the touch is possible when I am not writing.
you, you must live a simple life sometimes.
Some times the simple life is possible when the rest is possible.
And the meanings become entangled with lips and hair and hands.
The union brings about fragments of a deep break, one never wished
but not resisted, the union desired desired desired through a word
that will always lack not the size, but the openness of the want.
The want liberates, the want then restrains, the want liberates, the want restrains
and only through its repetition in moments can you realize its purpose.
There, there, here and here, where, where can I find you again?
No. I do not want to find you again. There, here, here where, there cannot
be exalted, the disjunction brings so much pleasure that it is not possible to know.
To really know the object of the object of desire.
Now, there is only my subjectivity undoing itself.
spelling the touch is possible when I am not writing.
you, you must live a simple life sometimes.
Some times the simple life is possible when the rest is possible.
And the meanings become entangled with lips and hair and hands.
The union brings about fragments of a deep break, one never wished
but not resisted, the union desired desired desired through a word
that will always lack not the size, but the openness of the want.
The want liberates, the want then restrains, the want liberates, the want restrains
and only through its repetition in moments can you realize its purpose.
There, there, here and here, where, where can I find you again?
No. I do not want to find you again. There, here, here where, there cannot
be exalted, the disjunction brings so much pleasure that it is not possible to know.
To really know the object of the object of desire.
Now, there is only my subjectivity undoing itself.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
ThePerfect Love
To envelop or not to envelop... to elope to another address... of love
lava of topos to burn into what... the question maintains the wonder
of life to elope, elope, into a slope of unregretted desire
desire question one and the same and the movement makes you even more
hot with charge to attribute or untouch the death of the altitude to be
un less triggered for the line wonders above in surprise
To be the selff you do not know
caught off guard with yourself... hello did you know
that all you are is the anti-thesis put yourself into NOT
well come and well go and remain within because you never can tangibly leave
who you are
are is the non-event of what you will discover
Won- Der and dare dear dar and cling to the non-safety net of believing
the non-existence of what you thought was your desire...
De-tect, de- fect and de-rive
the article of absolute thesis of
story mould into out of pathos
the lathos that breaks your ineffable pure essence
which you inscribed upon yourself insistently.
You still are pure ... even
when you decide to hurt your one and only ideal in life...
THe Perfect Love.
lava of topos to burn into what... the question maintains the wonder
of life to elope, elope, into a slope of unregretted desire
desire question one and the same and the movement makes you even more
hot with charge to attribute or untouch the death of the altitude to be
un less triggered for the line wonders above in surprise
To be the selff you do not know
caught off guard with yourself... hello did you know
that all you are is the anti-thesis put yourself into NOT
well come and well go and remain within because you never can tangibly leave
who you are
are is the non-event of what you will discover
Won- Der and dare dear dar and cling to the non-safety net of believing
the non-existence of what you thought was your desire...
De-tect, de- fect and de-rive
the article of absolute thesis of
story mould into out of pathos
the lathos that breaks your ineffable pure essence
which you inscribed upon yourself insistently.
You still are pure ... even
when you decide to hurt your one and only ideal in life...
THe Perfect Love.
Monday, June 13, 2011
creative poetry
The making of another thread of wonder.
To ask for the single unique respect of a train of thought
is to think there is one side to a mirror.
Feeling separated or not, the binaries have becomes particles
to the puzzle of the view.
The breeze turned wind of storm is brushing the heart with strokes of freedom.
The mind agrees, the intellect disagrees and the unconscious revels in the scenario of craze.
Wake up and smell the summer deep within thy bossom will you find the liberation from
chains you strained yourself with.
You, and only you must read the secret of the escape and regroup and review and relive
fight of the matter.
It is not matter, it is not a fight: a bespoken suit borne upon
a fuel of skin and eyes that do not meet.
When the mouth speaks through desire she destroys the shrine of her shell
cracking it open and closed only to turn into more
blooms of choices of water.
embrace and caress me for I need to tell myself that nothing.
Nothing can explain I, only you can caress what you see.
If you do.
but I am free at least, in this present moment.
To ask for the single unique respect of a train of thought
is to think there is one side to a mirror.
Feeling separated or not, the binaries have becomes particles
to the puzzle of the view.
The breeze turned wind of storm is brushing the heart with strokes of freedom.
The mind agrees, the intellect disagrees and the unconscious revels in the scenario of craze.
Wake up and smell the summer deep within thy bossom will you find the liberation from
chains you strained yourself with.
You, and only you must read the secret of the escape and regroup and review and relive
fight of the matter.
It is not matter, it is not a fight: a bespoken suit borne upon
a fuel of skin and eyes that do not meet.
When the mouth speaks through desire she destroys the shrine of her shell
cracking it open and closed only to turn into more
blooms of choices of water.
embrace and caress me for I need to tell myself that nothing.
Nothing can explain I, only you can caress what you see.
If you do.
but I am free at least, in this present moment.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Mantras written for Zoe
The muse has returned my lover. Welcome I am powerful.
I am powerfuel through the pink orchid. She has stolen my obsession.
Virtuous,Fecund staring, her fleshy leaves framing her height of open buds,
like a fountain.
She needs no one. no more or less than once a week.
The sunshine delayed by cottons of water fixed with pins on her yellow aura.
She came after I opened my eyes.
My company grows stronger as the day moves away from the night.
Be warned myself. Breathe. Be warned.
The deepest of the night, the fathomless depths of the black cannot. Cannot.
Wake up or stay awake your fuel is you. wake up your fuel is your Deter-Emanation.
wake up your fuel is your love for life, for true virtuous life that blossoms like your lexis
made of logos first other than others.
Other come, other leave, embrace and elevate to the sublime List of Dreams
when awake.
I am powerfuel through the pink orchid. She has stolen my obsession.
Virtuous,Fecund staring, her fleshy leaves framing her height of open buds,
like a fountain.
She needs no one. no more or less than once a week.
The sunshine delayed by cottons of water fixed with pins on her yellow aura.
She came after I opened my eyes.
My company grows stronger as the day moves away from the night.
Be warned myself. Breathe. Be warned.
The deepest of the night, the fathomless depths of the black cannot. Cannot.
Wake up or stay awake your fuel is you. wake up your fuel is your Deter-Emanation.
wake up your fuel is your love for life, for true virtuous life that blossoms like your lexis
made of logos first other than others.
Other come, other leave, embrace and elevate to the sublime List of Dreams
when awake.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Questions
You love to lose, you love you lose
what does it mean other than my pink flower's gaze at me
Means no more of what I envision it to be seeing
though through itself can it only stare through I
Therefore overlap the flower's lap with mine calculate plus
minus; Zero wrong or right to add or subtract in love?
To withdraw words or to extend a lip of faith?
Quest- and Ions of energy push but do not pull the bud falls
according to some OTHER science of Affect.
It affects me. Deeply. I admit.
It hurts. It hurts more than these words of mine can say.
what does it mean other than my pink flower's gaze at me
Means no more of what I envision it to be seeing
though through itself can it only stare through I
Therefore overlap the flower's lap with mine calculate plus
minus; Zero wrong or right to add or subtract in love?
To withdraw words or to extend a lip of faith?
Quest- and Ions of energy push but do not pull the bud falls
according to some OTHER science of Affect.
It affects me. Deeply. I admit.
It hurts. It hurts more than these words of mine can say.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
but then you must dare to live
Everyone has to learn and to unlearn.
On the edge of the colour you contemplate
about the tree within the forest
the one forgotten about the one always remembered.
Where does the one path go and not if not anywhere?
The ellipses of coma precludes its presence, welcome consider this.
If we learn to unlearn then can we claim we forgot?
To forget means you once got it, no longer do, but has its existence been annihilated
between the poetry of your feeling and knowing?
Open then and close you will find it hard to disclose in a space that does not exist,
only in metaphor.
Come and go, leave and live, be grateful for the words they ease the pain of not knowing.
ever.
Unconscious, take a break.
On the edge of the colour you contemplate
about the tree within the forest
the one forgotten about the one always remembered.
Where does the one path go and not if not anywhere?
The ellipses of coma precludes its presence, welcome consider this.
If we learn to unlearn then can we claim we forgot?
To forget means you once got it, no longer do, but has its existence been annihilated
between the poetry of your feeling and knowing?
Open then and close you will find it hard to disclose in a space that does not exist,
only in metaphor.
Come and go, leave and live, be grateful for the words they ease the pain of not knowing.
ever.
Unconscious, take a break.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
load ing
it turns out the load is heavier than expected.
it turns out the turns are unexpected.
Inside it is all worn out from tearing itself inside.
loveliness is finished.
pure shores have disappeared when the heart has learnt to love and to attach itself
onto a boat that has taken it around the world of gravity
to float is rare, to sink is common.
when stars are so far away and are already dead when their light reaches me, where else can I look to
to believe that love can do wonders
I wonder I wonder I wonder
other than you
it turns out the turns are unexpected.
Inside it is all worn out from tearing itself inside.
loveliness is finished.
pure shores have disappeared when the heart has learnt to love and to attach itself
onto a boat that has taken it around the world of gravity
to float is rare, to sink is common.
when stars are so far away and are already dead when their light reaches me, where else can I look to
to believe that love can do wonders
I wonder I wonder I wonder
other than you
Saturday, February 05, 2011
Good and gone
I became friends with
myself again
yesterday.
Ignored the clicks, the cracks
and the spasms
of furniture
molecules breathing,
of the window pane reacting
to Celsius' drop.
I dropped the dice
and threw myself out of
myself
to become me
in search for a wonder
that can heal wounds of ghosts.
Those who are dead
I can but do not dare
speak to.
Those alive, I believe,
are unable to under
stand
me and myself
in conflict for voice
or in love with silence.
The anti-enactment I procure
turns on as noise
verbing or unverbing
the ping pong of nothing..
Explain what you cannot explain.
Done. Now where can I find liberation?
On a snow flake, maybe.
myself again
yesterday.
Ignored the clicks, the cracks
and the spasms
of furniture
molecules breathing,
of the window pane reacting
to Celsius' drop.
I dropped the dice
and threw myself out of
myself
to become me
in search for a wonder
that can heal wounds of ghosts.
Those who are dead
I can but do not dare
speak to.
Those alive, I believe,
are unable to under
stand
me and myself
in conflict for voice
or in love with silence.
The anti-enactment I procure
turns on as noise
verbing or unverbing
the ping pong of nothing..
Explain what you cannot explain.
Done. Now where can I find liberation?
On a snow flake, maybe.
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