Endlessly of freezing mazes,
taxing of amazement,
and the future creative,
and what of past exploitative,
Frequently of a corp's lasers
Clicking of a beat of pew, pew
That could have been funny,
but not my point of view.
We'll be dead before the dew.
And rain down the causalities
of anything describing people,
but in the enemy's eye
A monster indescribable.
Insects, just to terminate,
how do humans despise
the fact we **** this planet,
and no other so such species
and we think we are special.
We were born as cave men,
We will die as cave men,
Only dogs can hear the whistle.
We are worth all but nothing,
to how we destroyed our Planet.

I'm sorry about my past,
and any wounds that lasts,
The burial of a clown,
stepping ladder,
and I fell,
into a well,
and a day of mass,
I couldn't take
the body of Christ,
I'm not destined
for the high heavens,
not boiled of fried rice,
Undeveloped,
lacking feelings,
and reeling,
of my soul sinking,
Now believing.....
The cleanse of oceans,
wipe me of sins,
and I wish for twin
to escape failing.....
as he represents
all my breaking
I can't deal with.
Mirror imaging
of a silent me.

The Phantom awakens.


Truth is nothing more than a cooked brothel
We live in times and we have no veil,
Voices un-said are always the ones heard
Leaves unkempt gets sweep up in my gale

I'm flying above this cold opposition
Truth they say, stranger than fiction,
Are my competition simply a symptom,
of my madness and my addictions?

Every little bite of  black and white,
diner scene, a phantom of anxiety,
a monster of yellow eyes heretically
Bounces after  in a scenario hellishly,
splashes colour this scene so lively.

Its too late, as my organs are piercing,
in a caught up design of complexity.
And what I thought figurative,
I'm dying and still am lively.
My enemies emerge from the hives
and yet, I breath, I'm still alive.
The wasps, stamped on until they die.

The phantom of the Blinded : Part One

Intro/ Part One of Two


I see the broken of skin of open cuts
The wide of a slide that cuts the hide,
with razors of the black worn dishevel,
On sides, rigged demon, bleed to Devil.

I find it easier,
to drink further
and I sleep
I don't need to eat.

All of keen kept of a dusty room,
long abandoned pathing, paving.
The nothing of books baked on mushrooms
and the LSD of my dying tomb.

There's a path that leads to the reaper
of the anxious and unsettled sleep walker.

I'll float up like blood in red balloons,
bursting in the face of the lively.
Please don't try to wake me up,
once I take the pills in poisoned cup.

Mother : Part 2

You don't truly get desensitized
until you fight with your teeth,
Sharper than a butcher's sharpened
Wires are breaking me down, I'm tired.

When eyes turn from green to black,
and scream-ish anger is an iceberg,
that no-one notices like railway tracks,
long abandoned red dust to the seas,
No forgive-ness to sins of my worse.

What once was an abandoned old tire,
The logs and twigs now extinguished,
I dived through caves and abandoned
of the birthday eyes now smoking

All of the demons that wrap up my soul,
the kicking and screaming of the known,
where's a safe space from the ones you love,
A special colour is between the ceiling coves.

The Serpent's number.
The number of man.

I run in forests with no dice,
of ever hoping to escape,
Eyes that sliver on branches,
stirring and of avalanches
wishing me to be buried.

I hope for a watery finish,
if it comes down to all of this,
a slip of a shake of the bliss,
and tumbling as I miss
the pit-hole of snakes hissing.

The torture of maggots & the flies,
The serpent's word is so concise,
A purgatory of false ridged smiles
avoiding a sentence for their crimes
and I look finally from dirt to the skies

I wish I could feel that saintly grace,
to put an end to all that makes haste
I'll never be the glue sticking like paste
and borders of this image shall go to waste.
They mean more than the dead centred
of a soul let alight and not so warmly seared,
The winter wind is welcomed and not feared
I sleep well to chills and the thunderstorms
It'll all be destroyed before the second born.

I know how hesitantly
a silent of a spree
can lead to avoidance,
and the debris
floats like a river,
in the sky,
and guilt of my liver,
is no surprise.
Intoxication.

I'm alone.
And I prefer,
it this way,
No phone,
its on silently
cowardly.

I had the godly complex,
which chilled
and the dark doll
of the rearing hexes,
I hate myself,
more you could ever know.

Godly Eyes : Part 3 of 10

My dreams,
are followed
by nightmares,
after realms
of silently
the peace,
is swallowed
Mark is bared,
And believed
is my fantasy
of  consciously
the stale bread,
the memories
My refusion,
How they taught
not my belief,
shaken salt
into the sea
negatively,
It needed
none of thirst,
scars bleeding
and the wisdom
to come is worse,
A blister bursts.
Oh me, oh fear,
into the ocean,
and rusted gears
and now and here,
a gravely near,
a stuck machine,
of water bubbles,
near buried
of such tunnels.

Endless heat of short skirts,
in a boiling lust-ful summer,
One piece and the bikinis
are a woman's right to flirt
and I lap it up, softened hammer,
Conversation starter, teases.

Here comes the side-walks
where we laughed and talked
and you grew on me with lagoon
eyes, passionately shootout saloon.
but yours were gentle, kind,
and the peace can't unwind
so fast forward,
to a toy that can be winded
and memories fed & heard.

Young love wrapped up
like a present and fought
to entertain and surprise
from dusk to daylight.

I can no longer inhale
and exhale my breath,
Facing last moments
of hands trembling
and then my death.
I wanted and shall
receive my own
golden ceiling hall,
but it wasn't worth it
to eternalize a legacy.

I'm like a glove
that is inside out,
Rasping last call,
for sparkling ale
and upon,
shores of violence.
My spirit shall rise
and leave Burdon alone.

Don't leave me like this.

Creaking of wooden boards,
before a car shall take its fall
into a river with such warm of lights,
and extinguished upon the coldly night,
and trapped are the souls of freezing,
Snap comes a crackle and the pop
and before you know it, a bookshop
sells how you died in a disaster,
A family of sons and daughters
Into the rapid flows of water.

Dreams are like cobbled old stones,
The same but varies in these old bones,
I twisted the bulb but the street lamps,
won't come alive like skateboard ramps
in the local of this community
and I leave so pale my adversities
will fade in the rain as the sun comes out.

This is the first poem I wrote after a long break of around 16 years.
Written around 3 years ago.
I'm going to re-write it, soon.

Every bridge I walk alone
I always hear the ghostly moan
Whenever I'm sound sleeping
Experiencing lucid dreaming
The memories that drain
will eventually turn me insane

Why are my dreams nightmares
Of lost family and friends?
Do nothing to ease my pain
Not even a soaking through the rain
I wish that I could remain
But my drinking stays the same

I always enjoy the dark
It is more than just a lark
I take it very seriously
Love the unseen reaping
Shadows that make me alive
Sick of feeling dead inside

The ones we love the most
Losing them has a cost
Our eyes turn blind to sight
and eventually, sight to blind

Awful noises always in my head
No relief from this **** dread
I don't react to certain things
Don't care what the future brings

Its all the same to me
No optimism, keep losing
And yet I still cling onto hope
How else am I to cope?

Mother (2)

The catholic priests,
my mother left me with,
spared me,
as I was the quiet angel,
and not the bad kids
they disciplined.
I saw them whipped.

They would smile at me,
and I hesitantly,
upon sway and shadows,
hid myself away,
until mother again,
held me by the hands.

Mother  (1)

Bless this portrait as it calms me,
as my demonic form can wonder,
why they bullied and teased
until you're at my side.
Now, I only have dreams
that have long stopped
to bring me tears,
Years after your heart stopped.

All I conceal is the good and the bad,
massive explosions before we may fly,
black swans cannot take to the skies
and the white swans in their harmony
are just reminiscing before skies went dark.

The heavens won't spoil the skies,
unlike the hell that boils beneath us,
and unwrapped is the spoil of the prize
and head-on we walk into a bus.

I praise but could never had wished her
and her godly eyes and flesh perfection
is dreamy of a tanned and wonder colour
as my chest is like an athlete running.

I wish I could see her inner spirit,
and how she can pull back the tides
of those dreaming so desperately,
to corrupt the shores open so wide.

The beautiful up on black & white screen,
dress flies up and the world shall acclaim
Controversy follows as it's seen,
troubled minds come to deal with shame.
as lust has unleased as its been,
in our minds blackened for the decades
She was exploited by evil of man's way
and faded away from pristine.

"I was sitting on the bleacher staring at the speaker
Reading his lips but I could not understand
So I opened up my ears and clearly I could hear
This detailed story all about a grain of sand"

"I'm in love with someone who's as pretty as a flower
Her life gives me power so i'm buying her a ring
She makes hats with her hands
She is such an artist
I'm her biggest fan and I'm teaching her to sing"

Ben Kweller - On My Way.

https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?q=ben+kweller+on+my+way&mid=3F2FDADBF42B1D56FE603F2FDADBF42B1D56FE60&FORM=VIRE&ajaxhist=0&ajaxserp=0

The secret to writing to music is to pick a song that has the right beat. Fast songs = rap. Love/pain songs, pick a song of a slow or moderate beat and separate yourself from the actual Lyrics and focus on the beat of the Lyrics/music which will be in time with each other. Its hard to evade the influence of the Lyrics but you will get to grasps with it, eventually.

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There's this pretty little thing
with  a burst of Rosey cheeks,
Angelic in the light and whispers in the dark,
Fluttering bird as she sings
graceful slow flow of fleets,
and the white roses in my local Park.

Ted.

How does being the best matter,
when you're so filled with loneliness
and the marbles that kiss shatter
and up-flies a chance of glassy bless

frozen pea pack on my forehead,
won't ease the migraine I have,
of losing a lady of all the colours
and the two shades of opposites,
which come together as one.
Nothing ever happens in my mid-age
but memories of an old rocking chair
that still sits in a lonely white-filled attic.

I can't leave it a four-teen,
as its a number unlucky
though alcohol intoxication
has escaped my driven,
and has forwarded over me.
So I will write my 14th poem
after a bottle of high end gin
and a few milks & Baileys,  
to help me sleep,
So this is my 15th.
**** it, I'm going to bed.

The only thing I find comforting,
is the constant of rain and hopefully
the little tap upon windows of hail.
It reminds me, I will be alive again.

When moons and co-ordination fakes
a cookie that pretends to have been baked
So cold is a lake in the summertime
Why so warm in the Winter-land?
I do not know.
All I know is when you swim
in such a snuggly of an ocean,
you'll trust the sting-rays,
until they'll zap you shockingly.

What's pretentiously
is often socio-pathic

What began is a life-time ago,
and when we die, it all re-starts,
and I bet this is what you didn't know.

We worry about this current life,
not knowing we live thousands
This one has no children or wife
& yet it serves no brevity

What stains and what is beautiful,
Its one we live or the other,
I'm either or so in love in full
I'm either your sister or your brother
and yet I'm ugly or eyes upon.
and the cars will pay their toll.

No point in suiciding,
it doesn't even matter,
Your next life,
may be so wonderful,
or it could be worse.
Best to live with regrets
and make the most of it.

You lit me up when dried like sardines
and I forgot and hopped it completely
There's this ocean where I forget,
a beaming and the cruelty,
And a smashing of my mind,
against sadistic of the rocks.
I bled to death and became alive.

What's specific,
and anachronistic
doesn't belong,
in my song,
though the influence
is so, so long.

Wisdom is our aged,
until the brains smack,
and becomes so soft,
like junkies in the cold
scoring with no luck.

There's this street,
that still be-littles,
A little sweet corner
once of child-hood feat,
and the visions,
scatters little marbles
and waffles chocolatey
contrasts & hide illusions.

You can put my scars in boxes,
but in moves this family
and of course their children
will open me up like toys,
undiscovered like tombs,
in dusty old rooms.

Prettily are the saintly,
innocent to the history
of such an old mansion,
red with such suspicion.

Demons are not in hi-ways,
they belong in the temples
of pre-existing and our days
Only God helps them trembling.

Too many wraiths exist,
in such historic buildings,
They need to be bull-dozed
not kept like a museum.

What's been, is a shadow display,
that can curse or be exotic of play,
and wishes are often in the moon-shine,
and believing in rushes of the blind,
thinking a morning, can open eyes.

The dream of the incestualized,
a child once vividly opening presents,
And is that the wish of the memory,
terrible act of one of his parents?
Or the dying one-day blooming Xmas.
No-one knows what I'm on about here.

And the flares in his eyes were shining
like the stars above his bedroom ceiling.

And a broth to a sloth comes a modern,
and a finger snaps and there's no sudden,
Just looks at you coldly, and so off
and he won't mind a warm/cold coffin.

They don't exist until they do.
There was the haunted mirror
of my lady who I loved,
and we shared a bed,
in this gothic old house.

I watched her comb her hair
and move her silkily soft arms.
But the demon on the other side,
could not mimic the movements,
of my angel but tried in vain.

It was a pathetic attempt
to claim her soul,
and we bailed out of there
and smashed the glass
into a thousand little shards.

What's written,
isn't smitten,
with love as
a timely bus,
and the lust,
is sitting,
on an eye,
of denial,
like a flannel,
in the bath-room.

What's my beef,
its the golden reef,
of all this pretending
how does it help the kids?
Their so and of Loneliness,
"Hey, you're one tough kid."

It doesn't pass the swings,
wishing for a friendly voice,
but the nearby trains
and the subtle of the rain,
Its denial and impressionist
and yet she is your exploitative

Undeniably, she stands and falls,
like a crumbling of no tall,
and none of this is sincerely
like a fake of considering them.

What once stood,
is killing them.
And the media
is killing them,
The internet
Is killing them
Pretenders
are killing them.

I stand before the wolves and the creeps
and I declare myself unable to weep,
No, I won't be a victim and exploitative
and swaying as storms amongst the fleet.

I can make just one promise,
I'll never feel so guilty,
for others' trespassing sins
I can only swear on this,
but ****** are the children,
that need our protection.
History of abuse of this,
cannot excuse repeatedly
or even for one second.

Silently the leaves,
scatter in breezes,
and the cowardly,
try to sleep.
I'm alone,

Wisdom of creases,
as no co-existence,
Predators and prey,
peacefully belong?

The prescient shall poison,
apple core blackened
and eyes once brown,
in pitfalls that drown,

Green, splashes in the sea,
transparently wavery,
and with no fierce-ful rivalry
and peace I wish off my leash
Just let me go and make a wish
back in time as the child takes time,
to blow out and the smoke rises up,
and we end the day with little cups.

A bundle of contradictions,
so we look forward to birthdays.

What's a fling
presented ring
storms bring,
An  incisal
tooth ache,
A reprisal?
Doors opening
and closing
blue and grey,
of the dying
Hospitalized,
A granting wish?
Sobs and ashes
and comes death,
and forgetting,
you existed,
except brief thoughts
of a fish caught,
in this scheme,
Never asked for this.

Dusty of window fly protection,
keeps out the mosquitos
after my blood and left of me,
and yet they bring on the *******,
of what's left
of the shallows that are breathing,
the flowing of red fountain bleeding.
Black marks on sheets of unrest resting
carpet's ***** as my mind can be,
showers and walks back into black,
my feet will never be clean like Jesus's.

I am but the demon God brought
into a dying and corrupted world.
My aim is to ******* destroy it
so we can all be free of him...

I don't desire results,
just the small movements,
of my father's mouth,
as you see with elderly,
but with eyes not discarded
of shame and grunt-ful
but with a sparkle,
of pride and proud-ness.
If only for the time,
it takes for a flame
of a lit match
to burn out,
on a still day.

I need to uproot that tree,
the weeds are burning fire,
and there's this belief,
and barbed red cold wire.

And passion's aghast the wall,
whose fist is fighting for,
and bricks are smashed
in like wild demolition.

And a grain is worthy,
of only one poured glass,
and I bet its filthy
unlike this lovely lass.

Demons are salty spice,
contains shaky rice,
a pack of mi goreng
eases pain of dark sing.

A lover lies in my bed,
savoury and the wine,
like freshly baked bread
and a scent so fine.

Its considered a lie
when un-able
to look another
in the eye.
Unless its shame
that the tide roars in
of a contrast of
black and white
that your father decrees
is a crime,
upon narrow-minded
perspective,
when two bellies collide.
Two shades meant
for each other.

Lets go dancing in the moonlight of  the sky
take in all the sights and cosmic sounds,
What's beneath as the blast hits the Earth,
is now over to us dear.

Oh, we could fly to the moon for crater scones
and to the Mars for some red hot volcanic pleasures,
Emerge down to where Jupiter's lost its moon.
Oh, we could fly around like the Angels
lucky to be in heaven......