Read’ Headed Riding Hood

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He was such a hopeless romantic

that she called him a hopeful one.

He would never say the words

‘I lov-‘

And She’d cry or slap him

He’d ask

‘Do You want me to say and

not mean it or just Love You?’

It’s difficult to believe

that was ten years ago

And We were only

ten years old.

Now We sit at

twenty, and know

less than We

did back then

With even deeper romantic

tendencies

We keep reservations

At The Abyss

So We can vacate

our own heads and

find solitude in

simple sonnets and

symphonic solaces.

In the days when scars and bruises were mistakes

Grazed knees & elbows and the

Red red ranger

Ten years since,

and all of this

makes less

sense.

Now it’s red wine, red vines, red lines, red lace, red laces, red Rizla, mad-sad red-heads, with great bloody minds, red cheeks and red eyes.

…And I found

that answer,

the colour’s called

carmine.

…And my thesis

is on Love,

50,000 words

I would have

never said to You.

…Because We

were too closely tied

and We probably tied our shoes

a little too tight

Ten years

until We’re

thirty

We probably

would’ve changed

Yet remained,

quintessentially the same.

Maybe We wont change

Another decade

and the things

We are best at,

We will still be

moderately mediocre.

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Something A Little Better

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abstracts from a stranger

Passing years

As one

tires of

counting words

 

A something

a little better

And more

absurd.

 

So long adjourned

On existence’s

beating beach

So long

we must

adjourn.

 

abstracts from a stranger

St’ Andrew’s Cross

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An embrace of splendour

Amorous blends of strapping

synthetic leather bent

Ne’er across mine streaming

thoughts

Have matters of it crossed

Futile all thoughts, all dreams

At this point all fantasies cease

A mere part of this material stock

Moist orifices in peripheral

matters

Eyes ne’er lock

I ask not

I insert my lot

Dare You leave a bloody spot…

This home for stock

In passing drawn

and brought to the brink

of quartered

Or rather cleft in twain

I care not for Your writhing

or cries or tiers of tears

A flagon after flogging

A brief discard

A pause

A preference to entertain this insignificant

thought

As lesser equals

Share these dregs

Then a single hope that pestering

point

That I am yet to seed

Gaia’s scorched earth

Upon this bound carcass

I’m briefly sated

Time far better spent

This cover without content

Bothering not to judge a blank page

This ink now spilt and none

reserved

Discord, then discard, no discourse,

dare not drip even one

This a bestowal, undeserved,

Brief colour change and pace,

Then to what is of import

I’ll make my return.

Afterimage

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I still have afterimages

Seeing You standing naked

dancing, reignited as we

were becoming half-baked

I wrote You an anthology

while looking into Your

cerulean and verdigris

irises, and now I

can no longer remember

Your face

The superimposition of

afterimages as I try to remember

I’m still searching for my-self

As I peel away my ego’s layers

I can feel the afterimage

imprint of You in arms

This impressed on my consciousness

As my arms now only

understand the cold and

numbness

Yet that hearty furnace

self-bellowing ignites

All these painted symbols

I often mistaken for words

Only the afterimage opaquely

transparent feelings remain

Incarnated divinity to

the complementary piece

to this two part puzzle

Afterimages of the incomparable

Without simile nor metaphor

I need You from the

outside working inward

As I, outward, from

within

Who am ‘I’?

or

Whom am ‘I’ ?

At least we can remain

loving friends

In-trust, I wonder if I

could bear never becoming

in-love

As we have agreed upon

our definition

Perpetual vulnerability

At least

We can keep each others

company

In this meaninglessness

And take refills from my

abysmal love and passion

The sadomasochistic bliss

of overabundant life and emotion

I can affirm Everything!

A religious level aesthete

There’s no risk of me committing

succulent suicide

It would be cardiac

implosion

As my love of everything, everyone

Fuses with its equal

my passion

And that , metaphysical

reaction

Became endothermic in

all its five dimensions

This authentic suicide,

Its incompleteness compounds

as it fluctuates between

the in-itself and for-itself

Betwixt pour-soi and en-soi

The Wandering Existential Aengus

Ever searching for Him-‘self’

As that divine journey

The layers would become infinite

My-‘self’ always deferred

At least this superimposition

of the imprinted impressions

You carved and crafted with

Your presence shall be the afterimages, the never dimming

lanterns

And the eternal everchanging muse

As I paint in literary forms

the memory, some Lenore

the memory

of cerulean and verdigris

And refills my glass of

velveteen and scarlet pills

To make that taste of

absence, bound in vermillion absinthe

As stardust is a flavour

so distinct

In afterimages, I shall savour.

The Birth of Meaning

Flash Fiction

He drowned in a vat of acid

This was the birth of majick

He surpassed the ascended

masters

This was the best batch

The journey was endless

The cosmic unity was a joke

for You and Me

Even in death

The trip never reached its end

Their four forebrains became

triads

Their pineal glands overactive

Their hearts became

their centers of consciousness

The birth of art, love, dreams, wisdom and majick

The inarticulable articulations

became incomparable

They created and their

creations created creatures

that created interpretation

As they ate petals from

the flower of life

We shared them with our

galactic culdesac

For some space and time

ceased

It was replaced by presence

The others didn’t believe

And their ending began

And their beginnings never ended

We don’t want them to become like us

An excerpt from Genesis

We want them to surpass us

That’s why none of this makes

senseless meaning

We caste You out

Into existential freedom

And we turned time into

a 4-D flat circle

And all the guides, cheats

and walkthroughs to this

existence

Are within You

All exists

And remember not to narrow

Your consciousness

For the open mind is

merely the beginning to

the open heart

They forget the point of

the game and became blinded

by their interpretation

Eternally some will

recur, respawn, or reset

Misinterpreted interpretations

we became lost in translation

Because that fact that we’re

all different

Is what makes us all the same

We’re in the same game

tested by our selves, our values, and our sense

Yet we have forgotten that

majick mushrooms make

us giants in our world-views

The coins are just a few

extra points

But not the point

As that too we’ve forgotten

that the coins never saved the

princess

And She trusted You

and loves You

And imbued with existence

You’ve tried to place a price

on what is invaluable

And those coins…

Will never save You.

Perceptive Porous Veil

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Parapatetic in

effervescent cadence

Discord and benevolent

chaos

Cauterizing the jaded

wounds

A virdigris scars, traces

the cerulean veins

This river, down

and down and once more

These crossing streams

Seeping through the porous

veil

Roars of vagrant laughter

Cords and chords of

vocal concord

Crossing countries

In an un-fit essence

This delicacy of void impulses

Hedonistic headstrong

waves thrown into

the palace pales

wailing walls of water

They lay sleeping as

the stranger passes in the

evening twilight dawn.

This Morrow Shade

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The morrow lays in

wait

In the wake of a

sad sedated shade

the awakening hours

the dormant seconds

Splitting

Ceaseless, incessant

in their ease

In their tears teasing

as they fall from tier

to tier

Below the shallow waters

The breathless depth

of these and those

Such friendly foes

Resting the mourneful head

each chest down burdened

The yolk of freedom

Such bliss is dauntless

These thoughtless depths

To contemplate nothing

in this meaning

that is

That may be

To contemplate the meaning

of the meaningless.

Shaded Waves

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Narrow tides

Upon the hollow shades

Wading through the waves

of light

Scattered upon each brow

Cheeks beaten to a plum

rose

Sprinklers splatting like

liquid freckles briefly

upon passing bare

arms

To connect these dots that

are framed by mahogany blonde

frills

Teasing each cheek

I pause

Chanting, Chanting

The mantra of time

Each mocking ticking

Although the tocks

may cease

Time and these grains

from soil to glass crystals

Melting beneath and with-in

The Divine Void

– A Mediocre Paradise(By The Emptiness Inside)

Ascension

The wreaths withering with

the light embrace of the Summer’s night

Their silent sounds echoing

from within the coddled void

The enlightenment of darkness, as the morning, the day, the afternoon, post and pre-evening begin to burn

the flame’s un-quenched blaze

above and below the cosmos

the twisting tides of time

tied in a helical loop

a Winter’s day with frozen arms it shuns the beckoning vines continuosly convoluted in growth

Dejected, the solitude noise singular,

in its mantra and chant

the light bathes with ignorance, all self-thought wisdom stripped, and a mediocre paradise sought and found

The waters washing over all that lies within,

expressing a truth most personal

the unfurled strected out waiting, in linear patience

Cease-less in each instant

Goddess As Temptress

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The crashing upon the

shores of my eardrums.

The music of sweetly sung

songs of songs and love

fade into obscure absurd sounds.

I sit unmoved, in thought,

in body, merely writing, writing, writing.

The sentimental ceremony is an ambling ambiance

to the un-shifting delta wave heart.

Their cheers and tears

and laughs and ‘utterings

of ululation become in-different and in-distinct

un-perceived just sensed but the sound of nature’s mother

whispering softly upon me.

The predictions of the un-expected Summer rains

In the voice of ‘men

She speaks to thee

To those whose thoughts

float upon her breath

For those whose heart’s

turn slowly; in sync

with her orbit

Upon and with-in her breast, bosom and chest.

I lay without dismay

Thus meaning is found.

Bliss in this – Her – entirety, eternal transience.

An Image Of ‘I’

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The photos from years past

A captured instant

A captured moment of rest

and presence

Now absence replaces

Now a fiction from what is

of what was

A tale of boy

A tale of childhood

Now a tale of an inner-child

A tale of contact, to con-tact

the former, the creator of the edifice

This praxis

An apex , an axis to access

the excess of the cultivation of ‘I’

That which is mind is the

essence of the spark divine

Alternate Streams

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The streams of alterity from deep greens

and vapid blondes

They line the plains

over hills and over the

expansive valleys

One’s who feed the

land and thus are fed

Nature’s nurturing

bosom holding still

The toothless inner

children gnashing and

gnawing their aimless

gums

All pressure and love and need

Soon turn and shall return

A recurrence of a new

bosom now sought

in self-conscious; mind and thought

Of Manic Descent

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O’ Mania You seductive siren song-ing

Succubus

Suck You?

Because I too am bi

Sliding shifting twisting flipping gear

Not a single scent not a single slipping hear

A growling depth of metal and doom and death

Such melodies he doth spake the overture of over-human ability doth quoth he a melody a symphony of electric

Upon these harpy strung strings and now the crescendo and sting

XIII. What Then? (Then What?)(Just This…)

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To feel so utterly, so deeply, so completely, to experience moments in their brief eternity entirely. Yet, the acknowledgement remains lingering ever evidently that this; this existence is entirely and utterly meaningless. It is un-deniably insignificant. Yet, there’s a praxis we are driven to and must entertain, because in this meaninglessness and in-significance that if we continue there is a certain subtle mirage a fragment of the figment which is paradise.

The idea of suicide as an alternative is equally reasonable as it is absurd. As existence, being, becoming is parallel to the absurdity, suicide as an in-complete expression of escapism and a negation of meaninglessness is that if meaninglessness is void, is nothing, and in our negation and expression of how we are exasperated by the absurdity and meaninglessness, a significant in-significance is made present in the induction of absence. Thus, the act or the expression of the negation of meaninglessness shows an internalized meaning and thus inversely the act of suicide of negation equally has significant in-significance.

What Then? Then What? This praxis, this project, this striving, this pursuit in significance, this pursuit giving purpose this passion project, this pursuit in and of the meaning-less…Just This, and these moments in their brief eternity are entirely meaning-ful as their significance and their meaning is yet to be obtained, it is in its states of flux –its states of differing- that it is deferred.