Beautiful, tragical faces—
Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;
And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,
That are so sodden and drunken,
        Who hath forgotten you?

O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!

The crass, the coarse, the brazen,
God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do;
But oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,
        Who hath forgotten you?

Come prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,—
Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre
Blazed with momentous memorable fire;—
Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these?
Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease
Tragical shadow’s realm of sound and sight
Conjectured in the lamentable night?…
Lo! the soul’s sphere of infinite images!

What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast
The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van
Of Love’s unquestioning unreveale’d span,—
Visions of golden futures: or that last
Wild pageant of the accumulated past
That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.

With my windows tenderly open,
the moonlight, a pale marble phantom I admire
The dark light rests beside me,
unveiling a vivid urban gleam

A jet black silhouette transpires
He whispers in the dark
Porcelain lies, radiant yet feeble.
His words achingly deceive
the lights that disdain me;
belittling my affectionate delusion

Pitch dark silence, I weep as I grieve
My tears filling in everlasting secrecy of
this tragical devotion blurring out the stars

You speak with a passionless passion
Yet my world doesn't fall apart-
It makes the whole universe perish.

That night, the stars seemed to blemish.

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
Great minds have sought you- lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind- with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that’s quite your own.
Yet this is you.

Southampton Docks: October 1899

Here, where Vespasian’s legions struck the sands,
And Cendric with the Saxons entered in,
And Henry’s army lept afloat to win
Convincing triumphs over neighboring lands,

Vaster battalions press for further strands,
To argue in the selfsame ****** mode
Which this late age of thought, and pact, and code,
Still fails to mend.—Now deckward ***** the bands,

Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring;
And as each host draws out upon the sea
Beyond which lies the tragical To-be,
None dubious of the cause, none murmuring,

Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile,
As if they knew not that they weep the while.

enchanted was he for her eyes were seemingly like a dream paradise.
he drew himself closer and closer till their lips touched
then viciously bit and filled her with tragical lies.

tormented was she for her eyes were seemingly like a fiery inferno.
it were once flourished with ravishing and unwavering beauty
and all that was left in her was the bitterness of his memories.

Portrait d'une Femme**

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
      London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
      Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
      Great minds have sought you — lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
      No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
      One average mind —   with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
      Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one.   Yes, you richly pay.
      You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
      Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
      Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
      That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
      The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
      These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
      Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
      No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that's quite your own.
                  Yet this is you.

When I go, they'll say how they knew me. That they knew my passion. She'll say she pursued me. The only thing they show is nothing but cruelty. Neglect me, and vexed me, filled me with regret. I expect the fake tears, you've been practicing for years.

You'll say that you knew me, when you were never here. You were never there for me, but I cleaned up your fears. You'll say that you were down for me. Well you were never near. You could've saved me, from the wine and the beer.

You'll tell them they don't know me, when you don't know me too. You left me for some ha-ppiness, the pun's intended too. They'll tell you I was magical. I smithed my words with ease. They'll tell you it was tragical, the pain I pushed on me.

They'll say I was a saint. They'll say I was a sinner. they'll say I enjoyed being the center. They'll call me a hero. They will call me a winner. But I haven't won, I never entered. They'll say was arrogant. I needed anger management. They'll call me a villain, because I lost my feeling. I started talking killing.

Me myself and I have watched you all go by living on in your lives, I don't even get a hi. You never say goodbye, when you walk out of my life. You just keep on walking by I'm not even on your minds. Even though I find the time to sit here and dry your eyes, you'd think you could return the favor sometime. I'd tell you I see through you.

But really, are you surprised? I'm taking the time out for you before my demise. Sometimes I despise all of you guys. So I wonder why, I just wonder why. I wonder why they say they know me? I'm a ghost of their past. I'm losing color fast and I'm fading to the contrast.

sometimes I̲ wish I could
go back to the time of late childhood & youth
not that that tI̲me was real good (overall)
but those days bY̲gone were some—
—what pleasura[—]ble years
less stress, bother, more fun
while the last several years
have been, like a vengeance by a psychically mU̲cked up per-son
[for example: Jennifer Hills; Beatrix Kiddo; Arthur Fleck]
a mental nightmA̲re (kind of)
[adult life is burdensome & this world is terrible, for the most part]
it's been felt like being stuck inside a **** loop
not the tY̲pe some would choose
there's been some deli̲ght, but the blues
and other negatives have been piling up tO̲
a qua[ɑ]ntum that you'd find somewhat tough to consume
as far as p[ɑ]ossible, you try to rU̲n from the gloom
but, in the end, the dismals hunt ya
down, like you're Beatrix Kiddo fro[ʌ]m the
respective vengeful drama
targeted by the Deadly Viper hit crew
["The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad"]
[the 6th chapter of the "**** Bill" drama called "Massacre at Two Pines"]
and the main thought that I̲'ve been pursued
of late by reminds me of
tragical vigila[ɛ]nte-turned guys, because
it says "nigh on nothing to lose" (nigh on nothing to lose)
besides, it seems li̲ke I have a sick psychopath inside me that
could use a punching bag, like a guy who has
to get prepped for a fighting match
that devil'd be satisfied to have
a mean au[ɑ]tocrat or another black
hat as a hostage to get the spleen dU̲mped on at
times when I'm ******, like sO̲meone af—
—ter having an alco binge; but, in fact
I'd be sO̲mewhat glad
if I̲ just smack or fling sO̲mething frac—
—turable so that the thing wI̲nds up smashed
it'd be nice to have a long-lasting bout of that
as far as possible, I satisfy this app—
—etite for demolition with vicious-sounding tracks
and rhyme-heavy lyrics with evil-minded crap
try to keep that sick **** sE̲rved with
so to speak, loco motifs (loco)
like rail vehicles; I've gotten a mI̲te sidetracked
["locomotives"; "like rail vehicles [,] I've gotten a mite sidetracked"]
let me rewind a tad
the thought that I've been pursued
by saying "nigh on nothing to lose"
as for saved-up money, I would
say there ain't much someone li̲ke me can do
with it; since we can't buy different realities to
live in, I've been thinking... (thinking) of buying a new
PC (for a long while)
[not "new" in the sense of "recently developed"]
as if I were some ****** tycoon
dealing with private military company bull—sh#t
["PC" stands for a number of things, one of which is "personnel carrier"]
[hence "tycoon dealing with private military company bullsh#t"]
a PC, for games are something I'm used
to & that can make hI̲gh someone who's
got pro[ɑ]blems with mood (problems with mood)
neither drown so[ɑ]rrows in *****
nor get high on dO̲pe when I'm low
get lifted up by music listened to by me bO̲th when I'm home
and when I'm outdO̲O̲rs for a stroll
and as someone sometimes
spending some time on O̲U̲tdoor strolling, I'd note
one downright downside
regarding U̲rbanized zones
which is go[ɑ]ddamn mO̲torized road
vehicles: much noise evoken by those
started; that's so much provoking you hope
to find a grenade launcher with a whole lO̲t of
respective rounds to throw a fine show (hell yeah!)
what about drivers &, maybe, passengers present
inside? well, those are so-ca[ɔ]lled
"collateral da[ɛ]mage"
[just in case, I'm joking]
[I just hate motorized road transport for annoying noise it generates]
that's like a GTA-like game come
to life; music ain't one, but the main love
on this dark track to nO̲where I go (track to nowhere)
we're together till the moment I croak
(unless, of course, I̲ end up placed)
(into a mental asylum someday)
————————————————————————————————
since I've brO̲U̲[ɑ]ght up this subject (music)
what should've been dO̲ne's to place mo'
lines with cO̲[ɑ]ntent regarding
it inside this O̲ne; mid-paced so
called "dark clubbing" & dA̲rk synth
some slowed phonk, complextro
trap & hip-**̲[ɑ]p beats, & ro[ɑ]ckish
electronic stuff from Zardo[ɑ]nic
or I can use some lines from a prior-writ pro[ɑ]ject
of mine; went from somewhat generic electro[ɑ]nic
sh#t, both ba[ɛ]ngers & melo[ɑ]dic
ones, to heavier & dA̲rk sh#t, however, I, regardless
still dig some graves, like a fellow with boneY̲A̲rd shifts
[Christian Mochizuki, better known as graves]
[the last 4 lines are from "a depressive rhymefall"]

Before I die,
I want to live
Loudly.

Before I die,
I want to travel
The unknown.

Before I die,
I want to host more
Students from
Not-here.

Before I die, I want to
"Perform something
Bold, tragical and austere."

Before I die:

Lava flows.

Norway fiords

Northern lights.

A car driving me or

Hyperloop SF->LA

Sub-orbital flight to see
Earth from space
(aim high before I die!)

Proof we aren't alone.
That would be a big one.

And while we are alive,
LET'S DO THIS!!!
Before we die.

Word.

never been one whO̲ contains much
faith in the human race, but
now it's just about bo[ɑ]ttom-low
which reminds of a squa[ɑ]tting pose (bottom low)
sometimes, it's like I̲'m on a ride that goes
down the dark misanthro[ɑ]pic road
I̲'m not the driver, though
[but I guess I sort of chose the "vehicle" & keep staying in it]
and to descrI̲be humankI̲nd, I'd go
with the following cO̲[ɑ]mment: "inside a post
apo[ɑ]calypse truck that rolls mindlessly, like it's no
tomorrow, down the dysto[ɑ]pic road"
sometimes, I'd li̲ke to be one in rose
tinted glasses, like some pretty lA̲ss dis—
—played in some fashion-oriented mA̲g piece
but the mind of mine is wired otherwise
but forget it, for rI̲ght now, I would like
to continue the dystopy theme fro[ʌ]m the prior lines
autocracy, AI̲, with both
on the rise, it's like into the dark we go
do you know why it's ca[ɔ]lled
"high classes"? 'cause an archetypal soul
belonging to a high class is all 'bout
self-indulgence, dough (power, high on power)
[since, according to Ted Kaczynski, the power process is the process of satisfying needs]
[having power in its different forms makes living humans delighted (high)]
[just like mood-elevating narcotics called "uppers"]
[what I imply with those lines is high social class[-es] is/are called "high" due to]
[its/their members being under the influence of their power acting as uppers for them]
and for the mass to throw down
the system, there's a lack of civil drive & know[ɑ]ledge, so
it seems like no way of sto[ɑ]pping those
two, except for legislation that prescribes
development, usage, & spread limitations to[—]ward AI
[should be worldwide]
and (with regard to autocracy) an armed overthrow
by antiauthoritarian-minded folks
who, at some point, would pro[ɑ]b'ly grow
corrupt like wrong ones dethroned (dead end)
tragical, but at the same time, it's kind of co[ɑ]mical
[the way humankind is throughout its history]
humankind is like an utter dolt
who keeps stepping on a frO̲nt end of a ****** ***
like a ****** getting her tyrant-minded clients croaked (****** ***)
but AI, which is obvi' gon' be utilized to exercise control
[in fact, that's already the case]
["RoskomNAZIor" with its **** "Oculus"]
or even have the might to exercise control
and autocracy itself are no[ɑ]t the sole
pro[ɑ]blems known; humanitarian plights provoked
by warfares (look at Africa); with enviro holes
being dug since Brit's industrial
[the "dig oneself in(to) a hole" expression]
revolution & the people number growth
someday, there'll be a time the globe
won't be the sentient species' lovesome home
but environment
is among stuff chI̲ng-corrupt jerks
that rU̲n or get
investment I̲ncome fro[ʌ]m firms
speciali̲zing in
fossil fuels gI̲ve not co[ɑ]ncern
toward, hence the climate change denI̲A̲l them
filthy rI̲ch schmucks support
[as if they don't have or aren't gonna have offsprings]
but there's always an abrupt turn
to take to end this f#cked world (sort of end)
I mean, do no[ɑ]t for—
—get about dA̲[ɛ]mn nuke bo[ɑ]mbs stored
both in the "eastern world" with authoritarian govs (madness)
[China; North Korea; Pakistan; India; Russia, with Belarus as its nuke base]
and in the "western world" with somewhat liberal ones (lesser evil)
[USA, with some NATO states as its nuke bases; France; UK; Israel]
what I imply's the sapiens kind
is doomed; even if the final chapter's not nigh
it's still just a matter of time
[doomed to be a dystopian civilization with: constant control & oppression]
[by the powers that be; violent crimes, incl. warfares]
[starvation (in some regions); worsening environment]

RECORD: WHAT'S THE ALTITUDE
FROGMAN: CrUsT al-CHEMIST

I will show you something different from either
Your selfse at mourning striding behind you
Or your selfse at even-ing rising to beet you;
I will show you freedom in a fistful of data!
-- T.S. Eliot, Frogman'a'thought

STOP: TRAGICal THOUGHT

Everytime that the lustrous moon's visage apply
as how the stars that glimmering divided in the sky
waiting to perceive a new chapter of tragical book,
that she always utter while descending her tears—
When she's sensing at the antiquated photographs,
titled by their names with date and sugary caption
especially those blessed-satisfactory representation.

She poisoned her mind that he's a gentle saviour
as how he grasps her hands when she fell before,
She reminiscence when he enunciate the word hello,
that gave color to her life but he just left her alone.
She severed her wrist to release her poorly feelings
and filled a pen with her blood that she use to write
her unheard emotions and questions into a paper;

Is it bad if I look to our immemorial representation?
Is it bad if I believe that you're a good-hearted person?
Is it bad if I verbalize your splendiferous sanction?
Is it bad if I cut my wrist to impoverish my emotion?
Is it bad if I wear happy mask to hide my impression?
Is it bad if I didn't fight our love for your satisfaction?
Is it bad if I still love you without any hesitation?
Is it bad if I want you to be yours without limitation?

She asked using literary art from her fragile heart—
as a glass that downward-sloping from the paradise,
Moving swiftly with air, think through being escaped
but directly goes to the pits and broke into pieces.
Sunlights reverberate his faded shades of love for her
make her to reckon his spoken metaphors anywhere,
that slowly killing her willingness to symphathize life,
due of his falsity phrases that stabbed her as a knife.

I exist to change this world.
I exist to change myself.
I exist to show the world
That it is much more than itself.

I exist to find the one,
The one I'll know in an instant.
I exist to make people understand
That pure feeling can still be distant.

I exist to prove to myself that love is real,
That love is not tragical.
I exist to make myself believe
That love is really magical.

I Exist

what a sad slip of a boy
who wears grey jumpers and hats
sitting in the dark of his bedroom
writing stories of the past

a haze clouds his eyes
for the future he cannot see
grief-stricken and dissociated
he does not realise all he could be

the solitude comforts him
as he's pumulled by history, the sundrenched kisses
wearily typing
imaging all of his tragical wishes

The cruel voice echoes across the crowded room
The naked prisoners, their ankles and wrists tied
Are shown to the masses, quite aware of their doom
And not a single soul is staying on her side

A black marble statue watches them from afar
But the queen fairly knows they won't escape so far
She wishes and awaits to sip their strong sour bloods
To bathe and to bask in those red furious floods.

Look at her, o pagans, ****** by the universe
Fallen from the heavens yet still as glorious
As the twisted tarnished despised and devious
Feelings shaped, created in this tragical verse.


August, 31, 2013

A touch, A laugh, A smile.
That’s how love starts.
A love so magical
that it can be tragical.
I get the warm, fuzzy feeling.
I start revealing
who I am.
I feel stable,
Putting my thoughts on the table.
The love will never fade
at least,
that’s what they say.
A push, A cry, A tear.
Love will never reappear.
Crying on the bathroom
f l o o r,
overcame by my doom.
Hurt makes me shiver to the
c o r e
Heart's should be on a chain.
Maybe that way,
I’ll use my brain.

It was another dewy morning in  June;

the grass outside the apartment block was damp with promise
in the early morning sun

light streamed through the
***** glass of my bathroom window, highlighting my face as I lay stirring on the floor, my limbs bruised and heavy

an empty pill bottle, a couple of escaped tranquillisers, littered the black/grey slate floor

It was cold to the touch, and I

Frozen

memories came pouring back, before my head had a chance to catch up. My mind racing at the speed of a thousand cheetahs.

last night, my heart had been ripped open, left in ribbons for a child to come and play with. It was bleeding into my chest, I was drowning in my own blood.

Drowning. Drowning.

I had thought of it.

Ophelia had become something of a role model. A beautiful, tragical, wailing girl who had tied flowers in her hair and skipped off into the lake, pockets heavy with rocks

But no, there would be no ceremony for me, no bittersweet beauty.

The bottle was in my hand, like a grenade, and all I had to do was pull the pin

I.

I’ve always formed an instant bond
with eccentric people
the ones scorned for being weird
by a society focused on coloring between the lines
but I love the unconventional
the oddballs the misfits
minds that are bottomless wells
of inspiration, innovation, creativity
of dreams turned into reality
it doesn’t surprise me
why misunderstood people
prefer to live as hermits
ain’t no use playing piano to cows

II.

take my girl, ms. emily d.
an introvert poet who lived in isolation
she probably preferred
the friendships of her ghosts
the companionship of her thoughts
than to waste time with people
who underestimated her because she was quiet
no use convincing them QUIET doesn’t mean SHY
but then I wonder
if she ever regretted
not falling in love?
did she even try?
or was she so afraid of falling
of failing
she never let herself jump

III.

stop dwelling on the negative
be positive, they say
like you can control your feelings
an on off switch
so I try not to bother them with my emotions
because they’re always annoyed if I’m not smiling
not pretending to be the light giving energy others need
but last summer I visited the moors
following the footsteps of the Brontes
it rained all day
the land shrouded in ghosts of gray
so contrary to my California Sun
and being quarantined now
I empathize
how one can lose sight of hope
it’s hard to keep smiling
when day and night intermingle
until you lose sense of time and meaning
and you get lost in loneliness
lost in your thoughts
lost in their fascination of turbulent men
so lost
it’s terrifying
will I ever see the sunlight again?
will I ever feel love on my skin?
did they wonder if they could tame
the rochesters and the heathcliffs
of unrequited love
did charlotte finally panic?
was that why she settled for something less?
what if I die loveless and unhappy at 38?

IV.

in fourth grade I read
the works of a Canadian darling
dear Maud
so began my love
for Anne and her imagination and romantic
lyrical prose
and the longing to find kindred spirits
who understand
my brand of weird
on my 31st birthday I traveled to the island
for a chance to breathe her air
Maud Montgomery also gave up
on romantic love eventually
his name’s not important but I believe she loved
a man her family deemed not good enough
and he died soon after
no wonder she deemed love tragical
she settled too
when she finally married
at 37
I’m getting there
dearest Heavenly Father, you do realize I’m getting there, don’t you?
but nothing could live up to the ideals of a romantic dreamer
I’m afraid

V.

I’m afraid
falling could mean failure
all my creative heroes died depressed and alone
never discovering the love they craved
the touch they desired
logic says if p then q
or something like that
I’ve never been good with math and logic and that rational ****
but if
they are my kindred spirits
then
am I doomed to share the same fate?