The lanes were strewn with mud
and spattered in fury,
a flurry of blood. Home
he could not reach, in his hurricane
Land Rover he was lost;
lost in the bitten blue
of a windshield blown
with shrieking and sinew.

Only his lover laid a hand
on his arm, softening
the steering, breathing out calm. Sighing
she spoke, voiced a lie
of the night; to which he hissed
and laughed
and callously cried.

Suddenly shouts
shot through the gloom, the shaky
seats, the engine vroom;
flashed out
in streets slithered
with rain, she saw
the point, the place again

and touched the cracks
that marred his face, and felt
the heat of his disgrace. Sirens
melting reality. Wait,
wait, wait for me.

Sometimes I'm over and often inside
My crying jail
Like two spiritual hands
Encompassing a corporate body,
Both belonging
To that irreversible sadness.
An inflexible realness
Forces my eyes
To speak
Against that malignant silence,
Situated upon your lower lip.
Moreover, it forces my bloodcurdling
Inner scream to be
An outer space song,
When it's pushed through fractured teeth
Into a totally weird reality
Like a shadow of
An incomprehensible dream
With inlaid hopes.
This reality is slipping out,
When I awake alone
To nurture my love
In my painful freedom.

The defined and undefined truth,
Endowed with knowledge or without knowledge,
Sometimes real or unreal,
Certainly including being and non-being,

Accepting that being is true,
Accepting the non-existence of being,

When the absence of existence means the negation of being,

Accepting that truth did not exist,
And it would have been true that it did not exist, at the same time,
Understanding that truth is eternal,

Imagining the idea of a non-existing world,
Before its own existence,

Accepting the universal and immortal truth,
So interchangeable with being,
While the universal never ceases of itself,

Recognizing the truth always existing in an eternal intellect,
While the created truth is not existing,

Understanding the created truth as not existing,
Remaining truth, when the true things have been destroyed,
Or remaining truth, when all true things can be destroyed,
Or remaining truth, when our minds can not see the truth itself,


Truth, being in sense, always as a consequence of its act.
Truth, not being in sense because
The sense does not know the truth it truly judges,
Even it judges truly about things,

The existent and non-existent truth.......

Behind closed doors the thing,
       My lovely chirpy dolly,
    You and I have wrought
    Is now being openly seen
    In thine protruding belly.

Using spirits to drown demons,
using every excuse in the book to avoid eyes in the mirror.
A surreal, septic,
self-destructive narcissicism.

I want to be saved or see the dream
played backwards,
like antichrist orchestra, like
outside-inned extraordinary,
exploring your heart, veins,
no more pains;
held to your face
by your guiding hands.