I

Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-****** Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.

The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.

The broken halves are fellowed in a *******,
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.

The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.

What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.

II

My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.

My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******* their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.

My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.

The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.

Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

his essence
cascades across
the grain of my frame;
as his eyes dilate,
imbibing in the beauty
of motion teasing the lull
of moonbeams as it
dabbles
against the infinity
of our minds

beholding
our reflected image
in mirrored composure,
as our delicacy of want
pushes
towards an edge
of lustiness
entwined within
warbled notes
of rock wrens
singing love songs
as they dip
their wings
on early
summer
morn's

my eyes close
as softness of
lips touch upon
mine own; sending
thoughts to lucid
stillness of serendipity
bathing our contoured
frames in dulcetness
aligned within pouted
hunger tasting one
another in unity

kaleidoscopic prisms
alight in our eyes
as the lull of the moon
pulls the ebb and flow
of the ocean's current
as our bodies move
in rhythm with its
motion of each
cresting wave
crashing against
the shores of
our soul's fluidity
burbling in ecstasy

I thought I sensed a whiff of former life
Through the tingling of my fingertips
Through the tingling of my fingertips.

                    Admiring the silhouette of your posture
                    Letting my eyes linger on your face
                    Letting my mind drift to your words.

I feel the breeze calling me to greater heights
That my eyes really cannot see
That my ears really cannot hear.

                    I see the leaves waving me good-bye
                    To the life that I do not live
                    To the moments oh, that I let go.

Chorus:
Slowly falls the sombre light when the sun offers
Its adieu to this side of humanity.
And I dare wait no longer
No, I dare waste no longer
I dare wait no longer!
To live...to live....to live.....oh, to live.....


I hear the cadence of arpeggiated chords
Being played on a guitar
Letting it lift me so far away.

                    And I realise I'd rather be the fool
                    Who dabbles in amusing tales
                    Than the sage who pretends.

I feel the magic being born when you're around
You're weaving butterflies of love
Carrying my silhouette away.

                    I touch the candles placed within my heart
                    You're the one lighting up my core
                    And my wings will not melt away.....



Star Toucher, 08 March 2013

Her eyes danced with the tiny flames that held a secret
each growing brighter when they urged to yank
the oxygen from her heart and let the sparks console
the deep holes bursting with pleasure
She dabbles in the waves of fire and brimstone
The honey dipped arms monopolize the dry neck
Squeezing harder, and harder
The metallic taste of rust shoves in front her teeth
Her eyes beg to fall out to stop witnessing the desecration
She tries not to let the secret out
but her decomposed body bows down to the forensic earth
Lying in her death bed she knows
She tasted the burnt coals
And forgot to tell Adam
She won't see him in heaven.

Topping a rise comes a knight,
armour soiled and stained;
weary yet elated
riding his black steed.

The Princess in her tower sees
and gives a delighted cry.
She leans out her window
and hails the knight:

"**!Brave knight!
Whence comest thou?
Tell me thou seeketh me
for I wait for thee."

"Truly",answered the knight
"It is for thee I am come
my fair lady
and to take thine hand."

"I've sailed the seven seas,
toiled through forests and mires,
traversed deserts and dunes
looking for thee".

"Oh the joy!"whispered the lady
and cried,"My brave knight,
glad am I to hear thee but
Didst thou slay the dragon?"

Answered the knight,
"My dearest lady,
I have fought the giants,
conquered the orcs
and tamed the lions."

"Oh brave art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the mighty dragon?"

"I have escaped from dungeons,
caverns with unnamed fears.
Scorpions and serpents
I have crushed to the earth."

"Wonderful art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the fearsome dragon?"

"I have ridden the behemoth,
subdued the depths,
searched the clouds and
fiddled with thunderbolts"

"Magnificent art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the red dragon?"

"Lady,you are besot
with the dumb worm!",he said.
"I wonder if she",he thought
"has been crazed in that tower"

Sighing forlornly,
said the princess
"I canst not leave here
till the dragon is dead."

As the knight turned away
to ride back,she asked
"Whither goest thou?
To slay the beast?"

"Nay lady,nay
I go to slay the dunce
who wrote you
into that tower."

"What meanest thou
my dear knight?!
There is another knight
who dabbles in magic?!"

"Nay lady,nay.
He is not a knight.
He uses his quill
to weave his musings."

Cried the princess
"Oh mighty sir,
Oh Weaver with the quill!
Canst  thou hear me?"

"Yes dear lady,"said I,
"What do you desire?
What can I do
that will please you?"

"My dearest Sir!
Oh my bravest hope.
Slay the dragon
and make me thine."

"But my lady
as much as I desire to,
you should know there is
No dragon in the story"

(Silence pervades)

"Oh my dear knight!!"
cried the lady to the rider,
"Slay this goon
and we shall be one."

Uh-oh...Time to put down the pen and run.

Polished nails and faint fingertips
Soothing touch, but quaint red lips
Almond-shaped eyes, hazel iris gleam
Fair skin worthy of the loveliest dream

These words on paper
The very first
Starting the rhyme and verse
With more moments
And stories
All so poetic and stoic
Bleeding ink to fresh paper
Bleeding hearts to woeful ears
Tracing the lines
Of my formative years

Ashy mist skies nestled over
Bleak sleeping mountains
Ghost wood trees likes hands
Reaching from the earth

A girl named Olivia
Sitting in my grade school class
Dark hair woven
Threads of black silk

I never knew her as she grew up
Just an illusory form of a forgotten past
Imagining her as she could be now
I could walk up to her
And say:
      
       “Hello Olivia, It’s been a while
        You changed since being a child
        Your beauty’s been enhanced
        Maybe you’ll give the chance
        To talk and reminisce
        I just can’t resist
        Everything I see and hear
        Has never been so clear
        You make me feel content
        Whole, serene and free
        I just wish this wasn’t a dream.”

All things I wish I could say
To a person I could never forget
Where you simply forgot me
Because I moved away
And you lived your life

Stupid poems of love
Stupid songs of strife
I don’t want these things in here
On here
On these new pages
These quips don’t represent me
The way I want to be recognized
These aren’t the things I want to
Talk about.

Let these crisp pages tell of mutant women
And ******-****** fiends frolicking fiercely
Distorted, cathartic characters collapsing
Rippling, regal rodents ******
And cesspools shaping  
Bubbling, contorting, boiling, simmering
Cow intestines infused with cake batter
Incestuous fairies hopping and dancing to screaming metal
Crunching, chugging riffs and thunder-booming bass lines
Frightening, fulsome, fearsome, ******-up fire starters
Worshiping, boars and their tusks and piling carcasses
Blasting kick-drums and rolls of stomping toms
Orchestra of darkness, Symphony of Hell
Masquerade of puppets and angel witch choirs
Demon women and devil men, swamping
Over bodies and pulling me into the pits
Where the pleasure my body and tear my flesh
Eradicating goodness and lights
With blood, pain, salivating mouths over hardened *****
******* **** and trusting in and out like wild men
In a lake of burning coals  
And sins

I observe these happening(s) in this modern day
So I must write them and you shall read
And in the process
You will be
Shocked, surprised, disgusted, appalled and desired
Your body reacting to these words and phases

    Ever wonder what my voice sounds like?

I do too, at least in your mind

This is my voice.
This is not your own.

Bourgeoisie dinner parties fit for cannibals
White weddings stained with septic blood
Children racing across the burning fields
Chasing the reaper and his friends
rapid heart beats
cold sweating hands
stomach pains churning and squealing
forcible labor to invisible babies
pulling back lips and gums
and retracting teeth
sinking into warm necks
******* and stretching
moans
and beauty through depravity
animistic, egregious
brutal love and subtle kisses
bleeding hearts
and
bleeding pens


This isn’t bad.

I like this

Would Olivia find this mind attractive?
Maybe
Maybe not
It doesn’t matter
These scribbles and dabbles
On these ****** pages
Are the beginnings to something more
All sprouted from the memory
Of a girl.

There's a tale that's spoken
When dawn has broken
By gateman and watchmen and guards
And it's echoed by thieves
As the night time leaves
As they shuffle their crooked cards

Of a demon disguised
And a doctor despised
So be weary of coaches at night
There's a roaming physician
Of the devils tuition
A curse and a bringer of plight

Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The butcher of Leicester
A man with a hunger for pain
With top hat and tails
And talon-like nails
There are many he's happily slain
He travels by night
And is fast out of sight
And away by the first light of day
He takes eyes and ears
As grim souvenirs
And your body is left on display

It's said he was born
With a singular horn
Which he uses to gouge his prey
And my grandmother swears
He was brought up by bears
Which he killed in a grizzly display

He's a magical voice
A remover of choice
To beguile the strongest of wills
He can tear you apart
And pull out your heart
So quickly the blood never spills

Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The gory molester
An animal dressed as a man
If you hear him approach
In his ebony coach
Then away just as fast as you can
He feeds on the weak
On souls of the bleak
And seekers of fortune and strife
He removes your afflictions
Diseases, addictions
As swiftly he cures you of life

He has eyes in his ears
So he sees what he hears
His teeth once belonged to a snake
The soles of his feet
Don't meet with the street
Not a print or a sound does he make

There are maps of strange lands
On the palms of his hands
And thick purple hair on the back
There's a bat in his hat
All sluggish and fat
For if ever he fancies a snack

Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The mayor of Chester
And prince of the circles of hell
He giggles and gloats
As he fiddles with goats
He dabbles in chickens as well
A spaceship he flies
Through Lancashire skies
He can turn you to gold with a kiss
He's a ghost driven mad
By his alien dad
And.... Are you TOTALLY sure about this?

Anyone who is so inclined is urged to check out my newest track (still a work in progress):

https://soundcloud.com/apexparadigm/thunderstorms

The song is for my lover. She loves me(tal) and I love her. :3

It's in the key of E flat, in Dropped C# tuning.
begins in 6/4 time and dabbles with 7/4,
then ultimately ends in exclusively 7/4.

6 and 7 add to 13; the day of our Anniversary.
Yay for subtle numerology!

It's sort-of Math Metal.
If you've heard much Tool, you'll recognize some stylistic similarities.
Tool is a major influence on my style of composition as well as my perceptions of Music in general.

Comments and critiques welcome.

A regal woman brushes her daughter’s hair –
waves of golden grain –
a child with eyes bright
like the sea.
A good child, ever so obedient,
she heeds her mother’s words,
though wishes for emancipation.

Womanhood come soon enough,
and the daughter breaks away
(lips pale pink).
With room to breathe
she grows, becoming brighter
and stronger with each triumph.

Swift as an eagle,
the young woman takes the world
by storm.

Others watch with
envious eyes,
smirking when
she becomes conflicted
and starts to
disfigure herself.
To their amazement,
she rises once again
(lips ruby red this time).

As years pass,
her wisdom grows,
and she becomes a woman.
Though rebellion and revolution
shall never be left behind,
peace comes twice over, for
a steep price
(now a dark, solemn crimson).

Determined to never fade
nor pass the torch,
she clings to youth and
obsess over beauty.
Now false and hollow,
she dabbles in the blood
spilt by martyrs and saints,
willing to paint herself red.

Slilently fade into the background.
A dandlylion of little significance.
A wallflower you can say.
People seem to think there's something wrong with me.
All I want is them to actively pay attention to me.
But they don't.
Instead I fade into the wallpaper.
Just another ornament or painting on the wall.
Plain grey and washed out.
A pale repensentation of what I used to be.
Every once and a while someone walks by and looks, dabbles in my faded glory.
Oh yes we have her here and then again I am forgotten.
Next to my frame is a clock...
Tick tick tick...the time goes by.
Reminding me there is none for me.
Once vibrant and full of color now dull and lifeless.
What is the point.
Cool splatters of washed out colors splattered across the torn canvas that is me.
Tick tick tick
It's still going reminding always reminding me.
Time is not on my side.
Reminding me I'm running out of the most precious peace of me my time.
Tick tick tick.
Like a bomb.
And boom there's nothing left just a blur on the canvas nothing distinguishable.
Over time nothing will be left and the canvas will just rot, fade away, and blow off like dust in the wind.
And then there's is just nothing.

how foolish can it
get, everyone dabbles
about love, about
rain,
break up like
bread

recycled, steel mill
these alloys have
broken fast
just like your
pity parties
and all the balloons of
cowardice

She tried the fiery reds
like love, hearts
and the end of cigarettes
Like the sun rising on a brand new day
But she's tried too much
and they've become a cold, sad grey

Like an elephant
who remembers acquaintances from the past
revisiting their graves
like an old iconoclast

She once tried all of the blues
Tight ripped jeans and salty rivers
for a lover, their eyes the same hue
She even tried to swim out into the ocean spray
But she's tried too much
and they've become a bleak, empty grey

Like the clouds of a storm
on the Fourth of July
******* the joy from
explosions in the sky

She confided at times in the colors brown
The pitch of her own eyes, of sand
and her old hometown
She tried to sculpt her feelings in clay
But she's tried too much
and they've become a dry, calloused grey

Like stones of a castle
built to keep others out
She's locked away in her tower
with a head full of doubt

I hear that, these days, she dabbles in black
Like emptiness, nightmares,
and crooked witch hats
Not unlike the swan in the ballet
But at least this is one color
that will never turn grey

While I was in getting my latest tattoo a week ago, I expressed an interest in the possibility of getting a line or two from one of my own poems tattooed on me somewhere.  I'm not sure that Stan (my artist) understood that I was talking about my own writing.  His answer to my expressed desire was basically a question: why words, when a picture is worth a thousand words?  

     It was an awkward moment for me because I totally agreed with what he said, but in my mind I was very upset.  I wanted to answer him with "because I can't ******* draw, so all I have is my words!", but I didn't.  So the awkward moment was inside my mind and stayed there to never come out until now.  

     Honestly, I'm not really even sure if I've written anything worthy of being permanently placed on my skin.  I'm not even sure I have written anything worthy of even having been taken out of my mind and put in plain view for anyone to see in the first place.  I've always been jealous of the traditional artist who paints and draws and sculpts.  They create life out of absolutely nothing but pigment and paper and even trash.  

     What does a novelist do, but lie about some fictitious event or group of charachters on some world based ever so lightly on reality and sell a reader on his or her ******* to escape their own.  That's pretty harsh.  I realize that.  I guess I can admit that artists are doing the exact same thing, but with much greater effort and, often times, with less environmental impact!  Maybe not.  I don't know.  

     I guess as a man who dabbles in poetry, and I don't dare call myself a poet, I'm just jealous of the attention that other art forms get from audiences.  A painter spends so much time on her canvas, puts it out for the world to see, and the effort immediately receives criticism, both good and bad.  The same thing can be said about musicians.

     Poetry is different though.  It's much more subjective.  I've both written and read topical poetry that was simple and to the point, but that writing is usually just slogans, or maybe even post card worthy crap.  I've done the same thing with poems that I've read a thousand times and I STILL couldn't figure them out!  There really is such a thing as overly clandestine.  I've learned that over the years.  You can play hide and seek, but if nobody finds you, then it's no fun right?

     All art really does is give it's creator an outlet to express himself or herself no matter the vehicle.  Maybe I'll find that perfect stanza of my own words to put on my calf.  Maybe my tattoo artist will read the words and love them.  Maybe he'll scoff, take my money, and throw them up in a hurry.  I guess it doesn't matter much.  Like anyone else who creates, I do it because I have to and not because I want to and, while it would be nice if I could connect with people over my creations, in the end I don't care.  I'm just like every other artist out there who loves what they do and ******* if you don't!

Black cotton pants
Mirrored by a black sweater
Tight at the cuffs, but soft everywhere else.

These are the beginnings of a man
Gentle in his own way
Feels and falls often
On the words of others
A melancholic poet

He goes into long tangents on his head,
One looping into another like the hair on his head
Capable of enjoying good wine, but not the
Good company of his friends.
All he wants is a quiet night alone.

There may be no end
To the verses he writes:
Literary, yet with a tinge of
Harsh bite
Criticizing the commodities encountered in life
He dabbles in drama, debates, and critiques
This poem is ending
But his words will live on.

A Poet is a High Priestess
Ordained in Mystery
Making incredible sense
From the vaults of History

She sings the song that has the words
All poised like sitting ducks
Her logic is arcane and weird
She dabbles in love's luck

Heart felt sincerity
at its core
is the sexiest things
since being humble
is highly overrated
in this world of ghosts.

Being kind and gracious
is an attractive attribute
so acute
in quiet moments
that it shakes the floorboards
when used properly.

Old Henry Vega**

Countless cantankerous, argumentative old men perennially dwell in a fog of bitterness and regret, endlessly replaying the battles of yesteryear—both on the battlefield and within the confines of their memories.

In stark contrast, Buster the dog lies sprawled comfortably on a threadbare rug, a rusty fishing rod resting in the corner like a forgotten relic. With a soft, playful flick of his ears and a wag of his tail, Buster radiates an innocence that belies the weariness of his master, who remains immobile in his rickety chair, trapped in a world of unyielding stillness. As Buster yearns for the thrill of the outside, his bright, eager eyes search for any sign of movement, desperately hoping for a romp in the sun.

Henry, burdened with creaking joints and the relentless pangs of arthritis, suffers through each day with a grimace etched on his lined face, his varicose veins becoming increasingly pronounced like the grotesque branches of a gnarled tree. In a futile attempt to reclaim his vitality, he dabbles in acupuncture, homeopathy, and osteopathy, but these remedies offer little more than a fleeting escape from his discomfort. Each morning, he reluctantly swallows an overwhelming handful of twenty antacid pills, a grim reminder of his deteriorating health and the number of days left in him.

As he stares into the distance, lost in thoughts of his fading youth, one can’t help but wonder who will inherit the remnants of his will. What would Grandma think of old Henry Vega now, as he morphs into the somber Messiah of misery, a figure encased in sorrow, overshadowed by the weight of his unfulfilled dreams?

The birds whistle away
Tweeting favourite lullabies.
The sun has transformed
Oranging,
From her brilliant yellow hue.
She vanished,
Hiding in her room.

The day
Which once posed
In bright neon shades
Of noon,
Has tasted the shadows
Of the moon.

A slice of the moon
Flaunts herself
In the naked, neutral dark skies.
The earth rages queerly.
Vomitting  a warning sign.


My mind dabbles
In its ignorant guessing
As I gaze upon
The uncertain skies.

I feel like a meteor
Might fall to the earth
Tonight.

Foreboding femurs lit bright
But individuality, Emus, on high sit alone
Dabbles for paths even pre classified, remain erudite
Thinking nothing of hapless senseless power
I've done this place a plate, a platter
But to deviate no pound to flesh, I ensue

There's a force of principle, as an admirer, bright
Then a self is less than one should consider
The first place is last, their undone, considered
That facts have some gold arbitrary and emulation
The coarsest flagrant ornation self reflection before the contrite
Am, we, though, of, them, I.... seriously faulty and a plight

The trained mind is but a strafing cordial
Thoughts arrive infinite and confused yet too strong and free
Together neither a chivalrous nor sauntering loom
This one  may never confess, a disease, nor anyone can, the doom
As perhaps a lesson with no defined regressions we fight
The distance of shores, the conformity breaks, sanity within sight

Thinking we're alone knowing justice may betray. also a crime
The winky wily prowess of our city and its core
The theories and files so thorough and devoid of cheers
Should we? Crevice in the evil abyss, astral light
No following the  heat, no cold for sealing the semi grievous
It all can't be done severely, all are still, yet astride the immediate

Rummage and water wasted principle's kiss
Chains to the pain and best of fortunes synthesis
Didn't know myself before this now however avid distance

He likes the idea of art,
maybe even dabbles in some guitar.
Even has a voice of gold,
at least that's what she told.
Just another treasure
these ears never got to behold.
He likes them petite and tiny,
carbon copy of the things never
to be found behind the eyes
he couldn't find shiny.
So why so nevers playing with a roach?
Was that all some kind of show?
But he wasn't listed off by the drama coach,
too soft for a tough edge.
Why show art your hands make
when you could just sit it in your lap,
having the best of a laugh
while sitting on a ledge,
chains choke and a useless
heart broke?

He likes to contemplate,
sitting in a computer chair.
His eyes are focused when he stares,
nothing in particular there.
He filled life with wonder just by the way he cared,
always a part of me even if
he can't feel anything.
He was the best and I was his kryptonite,
but I was always there every single night.
We spent months doing what kid's like us do,
I was his special little b o o.
I know there is nothing but dead embers,
but I hope he remembers
the good and the bad,
and the way he never made me feel fat.
Walking down this road alone,
I hope he understands that I
will laugh whenever I hear a toad.