Can I be grateful…truly?
Can I open my heart…fully?
Can I connect…deeply?
Can I be me…absolutely?
Daily life, daily life, daily life
Dawn and dusk
Sunrise, sunset
Sun and rain
Waking and sleeping
Making and unmaking
Ever turning
In a sea of change

I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour
In being the last of one's kind: a topmost moment as one watched
The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge
Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning.
Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity
Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time,
Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story. There won't be.

Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already
There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry,
For devils are unmaking language. We must let that alone forever.
Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future,
And trusting to no future, receive the massive ******
And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging
On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all.

Do you ever think
about becoming
someone new?
About unmaking,
Recreating,
Partaking,
In the life of someone -anyone-
Who isn’t you?

Hours and hours and days and weeks and months and years
I perfected, rejected, resurrected the art
of becoming someone new.

In mere moments,
a new me.
a new world.
a new dream.

A world to be anyone
or go anywhere
Or be anything.
When I just
Don’t want
To be
Me.

New demons and angels,
New shadows and suns,
New curves and new angles,
New characters
to become.

A world not like
my own.
The trees are paper.
The people move with a blink.
Grass is woven from knowledge and
Leaves are sprouting from ink.

There I go
at a moment’s notice.
Diving, delving, digging.
Revealing
an impossible time.
Where the improbable, inconceivable, unimaginable, unthinkable
occurs every
Other
Line.

I am disappearing into the books.
Invisible to the world.
Unmaking myself,
Recreating myself,
And becoming someone new.

I fall for her crab passions.

Her embracing chelae
Even when unhug
Surround me when she’s away
It breathes in me poetry
It makes me feel
What I want to be
Unmaking the dull and drab
Setting a mood
That this world is good
Still worth living
And the leaving
Will just be the frame
And the reward
That one word’s
most beautiful emotions!

I fall for her crab passions.

We are big.
Like mountains.
If I am the mountain side, you were the wild fire.
Hot. Piercing.
Rendering my solid flesh to molten liquid and then to dust.
But only that I might grow again.
And more beautiful than before.

We face our compulsion. Spinning like mad children, in a ring of rosies, dangling dolls in the infinite black of space.
My binary star. My coupled light spinning my opposite.
Twice as bright.
Twice as beautiful.
But from a distance, we seem as one.

Perhaps this soft light I imagine surrounding you are our gods. Mouths open. Shamed by your beauty, that they could not have created you. Only dreamed you into being. They seem like fate, don't they?

And I am consumed with the constant reminder
of your absence. It plays on my tongue like bitter wine.
Leaving me drunk with want and yearning.
And so much more.

And this madness. Like a force undefined. Hurling our bodies. Like freight trains destined to collide. We can be bigger than mountains. We can be the trees and the sky and the pulse and the moon. All lit by twin stars spinning.

Your lack of light is desperate. A quiet void.
If I were a black-hole. You would be the event horizon
of my unmaking.
A voiceless abyss.
Incomplete.
And slowly growing.


If my eyes were moons. You would be my eclipse.

And this pulse. This landscape caught by rhythm. This thump. Like beating bodies. In carnal rhythm. Remembering each caress like history.

You are my legend. Your touch has written confession on my body, that I read like litany. Cuneiform.
Your fingerprint, an ancient code, written on my eyelids. Spoken on the tip of my tongue that I eat like Eucharist. That I drink like communion.

And my morning prayer is a mourning dirge.
Sung like a sailor for your return.
That you might find the wind of my breathlessness
And return to me
once more.
For I am motionless without you.

Yet.
I am mighty. Like wild beasts. I am stronger then before. I grow wise. I expand my eyes to encompass the horizon, that I may see every curve of your landscape. That I may feel every burn of your wild fire.

My longing is armor, that I wear. To conceal my beast. Like desire. Hungry. Waiting.

Tame me.

I miss your mane.
I miss your smell.
I miss your pulse, beating opposite mine.
I miss your light.

My shadow was massive. Stretching to the corner of maps.
My arms, a wingspan, that crossed time. Waiting to encircle you to me.

I have no light to cast a shadow.
I have no reason to fly.
My heart is barren.
Kept vacant for your return.
If not for you then always.
A singular place that once held your step.
A precious palace that you once danced in.

Spin.
Spin, Wildfire.
Devour my skin again with your hungry touch with your wanting kiss.
I wish to be reborn as yours.
Again.

Circle me that we may light the sky again.
And grow our horizons to outstretch the corner of our eyes.
Until we are blind.

Give me sight.
Let me see.
Let me see you.

That we might see our own light.

As one.

As yours.

Burn brighter than before.

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

. (Mythology Re-Imagined As Fairy-Tale & Deconstructed) .

No one recalls when he arrived.
He was already there, in the corners of high rooms.
Carried in on wind or instinct.
Too composed to belong, too still to be ignored.

He wasn't from the sea, though he stared at it often.
Stared like a man who missed something he never touched.
He lived above things—above feeling, above endings.
He wore distance like other men wear charm.

And she—well.
She wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

---

They said she’d been sealed beneath water before time had a name.
Not drowned. Not sleeping.
Just paused.

A beauty left half-sketched.
A song trapped on the bridge, never reaching the chorus.
She existed in the almost.
The kind of presence that ruins men who believe in silence.

No one put her there.
But something had.
Something old and silver-lipped, a clockmaker with no face.

---

When he found out, he didn’t shout.
Didn’t storm.
Storms are for men who want to be heard.

He simply started unmaking himself.

Small things, at first:

Giving away secrets he never told.

Letting starlight fall from his shoulders like ash.

Standing in rooms long enough for people to forget he was tall.

Eventually, he gave away the last thing he had—
the part of him that never wanted anything.

And that was enough.

---

She came back like foam curling over marble.
Not as a lover. Not as a reward.
As weather.

She passed him by.

Looked at the space he’d vacated inside himself
and nodded, as if to say: “Yes. That will do.”

---

After that, things changed.

She walked through the city like someone who could end it.
Touched doorframes and left them trembling.
Spoke only when the sentence would shatter something.

He, on the other hand,
was seen less and less.
Not gone—just thinned out, like smoke after a gunshot.

---

Some say he became the silence in her laugh.
Others claim he left, unfinished, like a poem crumpled in a lover’s pocket.
No one’s sure.

But if you ask the sea just right—
after midnight, after mirrors—
you’ll hear it whisper:

“He let go of the sky, so she could walk through it.”

{fin}

Prime Architect,  the absurdity of your art
fills me up like a riddle, bends the bars of
reason I'm forged within. A Byzantine
world - every fold and layer gyro'd in
astronomical administration, the scheming
of cogs clicking perfectly into place:
vast machinations leaving me windless,
birdsong squeezed entirely from bellows. Up
a lonesome trail; steep and narrow,
knowing faith is a sword too heavy to hold.

HAVE FAITH, they told me; prodded me
to constancy as a mother in S. Carolina backed
her station wagon into a lake with locked
doors and two sons inside. Evil has no horns
after all - it's a lozenge the flavor of a kiss,
there but not there, some puff of violet smoke
unraveling from a dancing brass censer.
The lance of Longinus pierces fleece;
the snake encircling the world swallows
its tail once more.

Jesus, be gentle. Come into me,
pop my doubt like an oozing fruit,
harness me to the light so I might saddle
and swing to the sound of your breath as it
sighs amongst the reeds. Test the
limits of my body as I have chewed and
swallowed yours. Communion makes
a cathedral of me, etches shadow
amongst the stars of the vaulted clerestory
as the nave shimmers with the swords
of flaming prayer.

HAVE FAITH, they told me, massage the
qualms from your dark marbles. Drop coins
down the wishing hole, let the godhead flow
through, like ink, to the parchment of you.
Alexandria burns again in the distance,
books yet unwritten exploding within us all
like the floral horror of a supernova.
Arcana lost, arcana found. Meanwhile, reason
and faith explode through the doors of the
friary, grappling like shadows draped upon
the thirsty Earth.

Iscariot, lay me in your bed of thorns and
mandrake, foxglove and myrrh; call me love,
drink blood from me as the moon sets over
Gethsemane. Let the light darken for a bag of
silver, let the bush burn down like a candle
smoldering cold. I've traced upon my bedsheets
maps of the world in its unmaking, lined shelves
with complete skeletons of extinct animals,
their hopelessness; the guts of this 7-day
world, veined with ribbons of gold, starred
by rubies and amethysts of the
deep-down. All of this, man's
betrayal of man.

HAVE FAITH, I tell myself; within the *****
of this bouncy ball clockworked amongst
the spheres, there's a place: vault
of the Animus, where God melts
away in your mouth, where Lady Macbeth
is still wringing her hands beneath
the font and the horses feast upon the
Eucharist of each other's bodies
like they were Easter hams, like their
blood were sweet wine. Where Abraham's
blade still shadows Isaac's binding;
where death has no power over us.

this country
America
has a lot to learn
from those that have survived
the making
and unmaking
of whiteness
this existential
exponential
build up
of advocacy
for noticing humanity
when it steps out of line

(imagine and picture your FAVOURITE THEATRE
remember that the SETTING tonight is
the stage you built)

first, i went to air my ***** laundry out
cautiously and deftly peel off the skin
from all the places touched and fold it up neatly
away, to be put into drawers
and brought out to wallow
on nights like these

the unmaking of a person is violent, yes
but it dully smells, too.
it is ***** and reeking with sharp dried sweat
wicked away in the cold
i go to fold away the memory of that cold
of my - huh, what’s the word -
b-b-b-bravery braced bent back breaking
on the side of a road that gritted its teeth

and i go to put the loneliness away too
in a suffocating airing cupboard
to not let it draw breath while it
watches the world go by
through a faltering crack in the door

INTERLUDE

(what did you do, those of you sat in the wings
and those of you pulling the strings
you washed your hands, reflexively.
you washed your hands again and again.
so nobody would think this dirt rubbed off)

now i am expected to empty the dishwasher
in front of a yawning kitchen window that
lets in not a chill but a blizzard and i am
unclothed unloading the dishes
i try to cover myself with a plate but there are
accusing eyes at the window here
to gawp at nakedness whilst i stacked bowls
into the teetering towers of a tiring told tale
i drop a misplaced cup and step on it
fall over -
doing a jig of pain, red hot embarrassing
feet dribbling lazy scarlet on the wet floor
what a spectacle, what a show, encore?

(and for those of you in the front row
i am deeply sorry.
proximity is pricier and more painful
and what i regret about this graceless fall
is that you had to witness it at all)

but all that’s left is to sweep the floor
so then i kneel down and sit there legs in dust,
inhaling until my bones are sandpaper and
chafing against the inside of my skin.
draw the curtain and

let me sit a while, please. in this dirt.
let me sit a while in this dirt.
oh, i know. i know my knees are white and
it is settling into my hair and inside my eyes
but i just want to sit here and be *****.
i have the broom - i am holding it, see?
to sweep away and brush apart and
pack it all up into a breathlessly shiny sack
but not just yet

(bored now, you make to leave)

unfinished i step underwater
but the shower is scalding and yes -
yes the ash falls off and the hollow thud
becomes a wet sludge
eking itself through the drain
leaving a grand total of nothing behind.

(SPOTLIGHT: and suddenly! the airing cupboard bursts open and reveals that the piles of laundry still reek, stinking sharply of sweat and ***! and it seems my dishes are still *****, lines of grease splattering down the clay! oh and the floor is just as gritty, smudging oil into the creases!

you in the wings, tired of this PLOT TWIST
you pulling the strings - wishing to cut them
you in front, i am sorry again but -

i can’t bear to try and clean again so -
let me sit and pretend, please
yes, yes, in this dirt with the curtain drawn
just a little bit more and i will get over it and
go through another spring of cleaning onstage so
please, let me -
let me sit here just a little while longer.)

Yes, she stole my thoughts*

devoured, digested and made her own
in the shortest possible time one could imagine,
made her imprint to make it a through job.
all between a stuporous sleep of my unmaking
after that frenzied mating instigated by
her  cheating instinct at its acme.

she did it quietly in the dim light
of the zero watt bulb,
after we slept together
for the first time;
it was eerie
my romanticized thoughts
were the first to
get drawn out,
a tree full of wild red blossoms,
the name of which slipped
from memory to oblivion,
migratory birds of different feathers
sitting on that tree chirping in love's sweet passion.

i woke up
when the thoughts circling
like blood in my veins were touched,
she was there prowling
with the look of a witch,
a happy one at that
how victorious she looked!
my angst has no place in her scheme of things
after that, she coughed and spat
and pretended ,IPR never was violated
When you get bitten by the
serpent called  lust,
and two ***** conjoin,
thoughts go down and hide,
one become unreasonable
and glide through moonlit sky,
stars wink, thoughts wink back,
and the stupor takes over.

yes, she stole my thoughts
how could one complain?
You need to be one or the other at a time.

​Roses and ashes- a world is awaiting.
a mistake and you fall,
but you won’t be regretting
all the screams and the cries,
the unholy you’re creating.
Rome is falling
or burning-
there’s no difference in unmaking.

Where might I be
in my last breath?

When the ongoing sunset fades into darkness
where absent stars twinkle, ignorantly,
and the oceans drink and ruins crumble
in eternal, perfunct serenity,
for there will be no dawn,
where might I be?

At the unmaking of history when origins die
and the land masses curdle and cover the sea,
when Poseidon emerges to reclaim his rites
while Hades laughs gaily, where might I be?

When time falters truly over caesura
-If "when" it can truly be considered to be-
And the void calmly beckons for matter's fair soul;
when the ellipse quietly loops, without warning,
and darkness pervades over freedom and truth
that cannot exist ingenuinely
for nothing remains except nobody,
if 'be' I can be, where might I be?


At the end of the pages, where the margins dissolve
live creatures of forethought creation who choose
to acknowledge the limits of what they control,
or not, says their God, says the author, says I.


For every soul, a collective demise.
And a needless debate o'er if preconceived.
But the truths I create are the truths that will stand.
And so, at the end, here is where I am.

It won't be easy and you won't get it straight
When the sun goes on you in agony
You be ready to go to madness to the great

I might been sad and broken and jammed
But kept your love in very tremble way
Once I'm done, I really am
I'll plead you leave and not to stay

You see Paris crying above your head
And gothic wind is to come to blow your heart away
October the fifth you wake up in your bed
Perchance you'll see it coming through the rays

You moved to Venice to obtain any good
But as for me I chose freedom
To lie and sleep and brood
Upon the past, and I still see 'em

The visions of you and me in flames
Burning down to the ashes
Our love which's unmaking to the frames
Now falling down with the smashes

Of the feelings in my chest
Goodbye I tell you at that fest
Of all the heart-broken ones
Never thought of joining the club

I never expect love to lie thus
And the fate that way to fool around
Is there anything that left for us?
Or we have nothing to be bound (to)?

A living ball of white plastic twine
its bulb of body conscious
slim head pointed down towards the floor
chaos of legs whirling
knees bend inwards and go slack
like a flower opening and closing
a shimmering life
the size of my kneecap

hanging from a thread of silk
spider as a puppet
marionette legs
flailing as they play empty notes in space
haggling without gravity

mused into waking they paw at the air
smoothing the surface
of imagination

making and unmaking
an invisible tapestry

all these careless maids
whatever their purpose might be
whatever heartbreak is
the encroaching ends of their creations
meticulous in movement only
when the sewing
commences

In the morning
all the magic has worn off
the spider is a tiny brownish
common cellar spider
a miniature Daddy Longlegs
just the hull of what
was massive
and sentient
in the night

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR
is what your eyes are screaming at me,
pencil scratching across page as
fingers stampede, stationary upon
your desk. don't you
know what you're doing to me,
with your Catholic faith and
artesian frame?? I swear
to your god (for I am
Protestant and yes they are different)
that you will ruin me and I swear
to my god that I would

love nothing better for in
your unmaking of me there is
a subtle art,
not an artifice, and it is
this which I adore, possibly
even more than I adore thee.

THE UNMAKING

Time, that thief
had broken in

to my head
as I slept

and stolen
not a thing

or rather removed
everything and then

put it back again
exactly but not-exactly

in the same place
so that I felt violated

and could not live
in my self again.

It was as if even
my ghost had died

and my ghost's ghost
had arrived

and taken the place
of who I was.

I
no longer
I.

Your death still
un-making me

I am a craftsman. My hands are made of clay.
They're soft and wet and mould silhouette.
The last I made were without shadow,
The next will be more musical.
They will be spin around me -
Chimes in a western wind. Chimes of a different figuring
perhaps to hang in branches, simply as decoration.

If I rest, there will be no forming.
I fear this.
I fear the unmaking and forever sleep.
The chimes will awaken me with their shadow-music.

*
Squalls and storm clouds move inside me.
I hear thunder. Some say
they see change coming.
I see constant weather. There
is purpose in their forecast,
no in-decision and in a precise moment
the exact snap of thin ice.

*
I awaken before a bridge - reaching far across a rocky canyon.
Going to the edge and leaning over I see
the darkness of endless sleep. I hope to hear
water song and the expanse of rain-dreaming.
I wait at the bridge for a traveller like me to pass -
I will ask him to describe his journey and
The way ahead which I have not yet seen.

She stepped into the wall of steam,
Allowing the shower to unmake her
From her neck to her ankles.

Never her head, never her feet.

Her head was an exploding star
Full of simultaneous destruction and creation.
Constantly making, unmaking, and remaking.
Impossible to unmake something while it's being made and unmade and remade.

It's all chaos and kairos.

Her feet cannot be allowed to be unmade.
Even in the sanctuary of sweet oblivion,
There are miles to go yet.

Chaos and Kairos. That's all there is.

My grandfather was not a boxer
but he loved to fight, throwing
punches at the faces of hard men,
left and right hooks, uppercuts
in barroom brawls and alleyways,
with hands the size of iron trivets,
forearms cut with ropes of muscle.

Eventually, after decades of stitches
and bruised knuckles, after his hair
turned white and his eyes clouded,
he would shadowbox in the garden
behind the dilapidated potting shed,
swinging slower, less light on his feet,
but safe in that manicured square
ringed by boxwoods and evergreens,
the bees in spring buzzing applause.

My grandmother would watch
him from the kitchen window,
in a sweater she always wore
regardless of the weather,
and wonder what he was fighting
against, or, perhaps, fighting for.

And that’s how my grandfather died:
throwing a final right cross in the air
before dropping to his knees at last,
knocked out on a mat of green grass,
washed by an unexpected downpour,
water collecting in opened red tulips,
loving cups in full bloom, the first
ten drops of rain counting him out.

Standing in that garden decades later,
I know I am no fighter.
Approaching old age, hands in pockets,
I watch for signs of unexpected weather,
worry about things beyond my control:
car crashes, cancer, electromagnetic pulses,
the minutiae of a thousand apocalypses.

Is the future drawing back
a left hook I will never see
coming? Will a haymaker
hit me like a hammer,
unmaking my family
before the final bell?

And suddenly I realize:
maybe I should have
learned to throw
a ******* punch.

A KISS OF RAIN

written inside him
with wild calligraphy
the littlest of her smiles

it was raining hard
the kiss hardly a kiss
unmaking making the world

the kiss
making him all at once
aware of his existence

the kiss now
making them oblivious
of a world turned to rain

rain & laughter rain&laughter
he kisses her like a happy
ever after