Mother serpent, slumbering deep, my will,
Upon my breast she rests and watches still
The thoughts and actions of my life's display,
Judging which ones might offend her sway.
With exquisite Apollonian sounds, I lull her sleep,
Lest she by chance catch Dionysus' scent so deep,
For after, I shall need assistance fine and slight,
Since the base one, when enraged with all her might,
However painfully and raw I pay the price,
With venom, she will sacrifice my heart in vice.
Bent over existence's abyss, profound,
A blind, irreverent little man, unbound,
I grope for you, bitter goddess of the deathless sound.
You, unnaturally cold and finely sleek,
Absolute truth, utterly nude and meek,
Small sister of pleasure, elegant Melancholy's peak.
Hidden eternal patroness of nature's art,
Faithful enemy of the faint of heart,
Yet my redemption and heaven's finest part.
As a companion, I worshipped you in snow,
Sweet nectar of death, a lethal, gentle flow,
Libations, sacrifices, all my years bestow.
You, forever chthonic, queen of a palace unheard,
Eternally beautiful, beyond any word,
Olympian priestess of nightmare's descent, absurd.
In a dream, spasms found me, deep and dread,
They woke in me a thirst for calm instead.
I rose with tears of terror, stark and wild,
Various voices in a meter, anxious, riled.
I searched for them but felt a blindness grow,
An employee in a circus of crippled woe,
Grieving for clown-lovers, lost in their art,
A philosopher in houses set apart.
I built them as another's stern command,
And measured a defeat across the land.
A bleeding silence struck me, sharp and clear,
As I stood stunned by irony divine and sheer.
You cunning and bereft of grace,
In epochs ere the Titans' race,
You schemed to bring a god to earth,
Adorned with paeans, gave Love birth.
Your power craved to be sustained,
And you hunted ambrosia, unrestrained,
But you did not foresee the turn so stark,
That fed and fortified your own dark arc.
Now you lament with feminine tears,
Forgetting the womb that quelled your fears,
You yourself added chains anew,
A tragic shape of childhood's view.
I leave to the void a legacy, a rod,
As I depart with a bowed head, unshod—
To this alone, I owe a gift, a grace,
(A muddled mind in a sealed bottle's space).
Three luckless colors, a waxen caress,
A heart of embankments, few tears' oil to bless,
The deeds of ink in abundant darkness.
When I saw light, I leapt up high,
From the small burrow where I used to lie.
Adorned with dewdrops, I began to race,
Rotten flowers in a hidden place.
Bloodied hands gathered near,
A wretched Golgotha I brought to bear.
As I polished distant stars so bright,
I clad them in black tears of night.
And I moved toward the rosy dawn,
There a strange cross gazed upon,
With an underground breath, drawn and worn,
Upon a head that turned forlorn.
I fed ash to the stomach's core,
And spat profane bile, bitter and sore.
An unlucky Muse amid the fray,
Felled by a wild, unruly spray.
A thrice-suspicious summoner,
Lifted me to the ridge's spur.
And there I laid fate's flowers, due,
On marble in love's tomb, so true.
One final gleam, a last faint spark,
My Ares owes me, stark and dark.
So many times I've watched, dismayed,
The defenses of my tired life betrayed,
Cowardly shattered, frail and frayed.
One final gleam, a last faint light,
My Ares owes me, fierce and bright.
Though he has left abundant silence deep,
To chew upon the words I weep,
From my blood-soaked cry, my anguish steep.
One final gleam, a last respite,
My Ares owes me, in the night.
My enemies around me, loathed and vile,
A stinking pack, corrupt with guile,
Of half a race, untaught, base-born the while.
One final gleam, in battle's fevered chase,
May all the lambs be crucified in space,
That you may have just slaughters to embrace.
A heap of voices crowds and drinks the air,
petty tyrants claiming the cosmos' share,
demanding rights to turn all life into a sphere
of private feelings they exchanged so dear.
In vain I try to find some unity,
as all my hopes limp on tragically.
I want to shield the wooded lands with glass,
enclose my rightful homelands, hold them fast.
All modern "gentlemen" speak of abundance,
yet I suckle at the breast of paranoia's substance,
seeing around me ugly, rushed distress—
a vulgar dance of new, absolute ignorance.
My feet are severed, sharp and bare,
Buried in the sandy lair,
Myriads within the bone,
Thin, faint pinches, coldly known
From unknown, gnawing things that creep,
Inner candles burning deep.
A black hum echoes all around,
Everywhere, the light is bound
In a sickly, fading gleam
On our unknowing faces' dream.
Hermetically deaf and blind,
The landscape wraps us, unkind—
A constant hallucination
Grows upon your mind's creation,
A satanic hill, a dark plantation.
Seeking to escape the chill
Of frozen, weary, bleak despair,
We burned too soon, against our will,
On a waterless shore, stripped bare.
Each wretched dawn, I see you rise,
You stand erect 'midst all that dies,
In cells of luckless human forms,
You thrive among the trees in storms.
You seize the moment by its hair,
Becoming queen of all things fair,
You build the steps of conscious thought,
With strides of elephants, vast-wrought.
I find you in me from the start,
Eternal, divine Comic Art,
An effluence of our decline,
Also called Truth, by right divine.
Empty, with a head so light,
Open, terribly hollow and bare,
Distant in the music's air,
They pose like bottles void and white.
Pale white pieces of the foam,
Prey to every wind that flies,
Smoke from a broken train that dies,
Dead plants in the field they roam.
False the wrapping of the flesh,
Baked in life's weariness and pain,
Garment of a soul in vain,
A patch on every boat's torn mesh.
Incapable of every rite,
Clerks in a tear-drenched office space,
They pile up at the building's base,
To draw a virtue's pension, slight.
Tonight at nine, we lay to rest,
My youngest brother, Fear, now blessed.
He did not live long, but he was raised right,
So brave, he took one breath before the night...
Together we passed many a test,
In my youth's morning, east to west.
Together we would go to school,
Together learned each worldly rule.
Only when I played, he would withdraw,
And keep a quiet distance from it all.
Discreet he was—by my side, I’d forget,
Yet strong in presence, never upset.
Many times I wronged his gentle grace,
For in the end, he guarded every space.
But as time passed, and I grew mature,
He met with age, less strong, less sure.
To some, he grew a bother, a weary sigh,
And less and less I spoke, passed slowly by.
Now I wither as I stand in view
Of his cold marble, gleaming, true—
I think that I, too, bear the blame,
For his early parting, his fading flame.
For I grew tired of living bound,
Carrying his cross on haunted ground.
All things speak in absolute silence deep,
You hear voices anxious, thick and steep.
Within the waxy hush, all is smooth and plain,
All is analyzed in strict lines' domain.
So many unknown voices hide and wait,
That ripen secretly behind walls' state.
As they were kneaded, they emerge like saws,
Singing all their deathly sounds and laws.
The wood can hear as if the glass now speaks,
The light cries out for all things to draw near.
And fabrics drink the voice that sound bespeaks,
Which they then attach to colors, sharp and clear.
But in the black silence, as the truest part,
Your self draws near, it limps out of oblivion's art.
It formally presents itself as body's lord,
And for straight dialogue, it urges you toward.
You dance, pale, fragile little man,
With colors and love, in passion's span,
Equal and different, deep below,
As for you, all disorders I forego.
All together, even more in sight,
Subjects in a dance solo's light,
A black artist with hair so bright,
Fated in our democratic dome to alight.
And if needed, romantically stern,
We'll eternalize with freedom's turn,
Like a ruthless, thick frost's spread,
To cover the eye of the earth widespread,
Each one a professional sound,
A mistake where silence should be found.
With lovely hair and teeth so white,
Lots of money and human rights...
Pure thought stirs the body, deep and slow,
Amidst the silken sheets where precious dreams may grow.
Outside, ionized winds caress with gentle breath,
In an ethereal solitude, untouched by death.
Outside, an acid rain begins to fall,
I built a shell of amber, strong and small.
Some see a prison, profane and confined,
I scent it like wild thyme, untamed and kind.
Here, the atmosphere is ideal, divine,
No clerks, no luckless soldiers in the line.
Here, eloquence wears a royal crown,
Here, we gild the final beacons, shining down.
Step, oh world, upon the palm-woven floor,
Just leave your rational shoes outside the door.
In the land of the unfulfilled "why," we reside,
As we nourish precious sediments deep inside.
Something I wished to write—
a drop of wisdom's light,
a shared and common sorrow,
signed with tears I'll borrow.
Something I thought to touch,
a feeling delicate, as such,
but before the thought could grow,
the scent of struggle I would know.
Something I longed to say—
a colossal, boundless way,
but in cold irony's command,
I’ll be enslaved, purely unmanned.
Something slipped into my mind,
like a multicolored, frantic kind,
a god-like sin, divinely designed,
but even that was left behind.
Somehow I wanted to live,
as a child, small and sensitive,
I dared to dream a dream so vast,
but took it back as though it passed—
and held it like a die once cast.
I fled one twilight, frail and incomplete,
across the black-red field of my defeat,
hoping in vain upon some fickle god—
unethical the beam on which I trod.
I tiptoe without shelter, loosely spun,
toward the monstrous cry my streets have won:
a wingless society, stripped of grace,
fugitive at the edge of my hair’s space—
a smile for the dead, entirely in place.
I must become more bloody, drenched in strife,
mad butcher carving “good” and “wrong” from life,
fatal, yet fashioned in transcendent form,
too-flexible dancer at the cliff’s sheer storm;
a worshipper of mediocrity’s lie,
uninvited, in seismic waves I fly—
proudly vulgar, I amplify
within the silken conduit of the human cry,
dying with every taming of the beast’s sharp sigh.
I seek not much, in humble strides I go,
With frantic beats, in undertones, I flow.
I statically demand to stretch my frame,
Impose myself on truth, and stake my claim.
Ask me not what I desire to see,
I seek the absolute: to always be
Above all things, in every time and space,
The Alpha and Omega's sovereign grace.
To profit from the life of all that breathes,
For me, the suns of every system wreathe.
I raise the dawn up from its sleep,
I speak to night, before the morning's deep.
Let me command the thoughts within your mind,
And in all others, too, let me be signed.
Let me divert your place with cymbal's chime,
In waves of sound, disrupting space and time.
Let me be sovereign in feeling and in way,
Accepting only those who grateful pray.
Let me be the I, the one and only core,
And like me, let there be no other, more.
I’ll feed upon the essence of your soul,
Stand where you stood, and take unending toll—
An abyss vast, where endless depths unroll.
There are some people desperate to speak,
To speak to someone, since to themselves they’re weak.
Some thoughts of theirs are shallow, some suspect,
Suspect because their small world won’t neglect.
Theatrical exhales of discomfort, systematic, slip past their lips,
Their lips stand arbitrary, parched by anxiety’s eclipse,
Beneath their empty eyes, in rigid, dry mouths.
Drowned in the routine of creativity’s decline,
Creativity they couldn’t touch, not even in a childhood sign.
Confused in all, victims of zealotry and prophecies of cheap design,
Prophecies sold off in bulk, in books and magazines they line.
Desperation that can’t be redeemed by meager creeds,
Religions—cheap, expired cultural products, preserved to serve their needs,
Fear has compromised the totality of their state,
Of this existence that continues to dominate.
Hearing them, you wonder how much alteration, delusion, fits
Within the collective unconscious now, in scattered bits,
This unconscious, which instead of clearing with science’s advance,
Has clouded to extremes, lost in a trance.
Complaints and regrets have carved their face,
Their face, which forever will marvel at the unknown, the unembraced,
Yet responsible for their choice to face it with faith’s deceit,
Instead of knowledge’s path, steady and complete.
Knowledge they ultimately learn to hate and fear,
Struggling with instincts of reproduction, unclear,
To understand what now—when any awareness would shatter them sheer?
Insecurity galloping, weakening mind and frame,
A body they’ve neglected for years, and subconsciously maim.
Moments of despair make up their daily routine,
A routine of decay and TV’s consumeristic screen.
A celebration and a hope, like all, consumerist and vain,
A storm of half-learned knowledge, in existence's stifling chain.
I had the time and I beheld you, like a curse in fleeting flight,
I feel the cosmos as my homeland, yet its essence void and slight.
I seek a Human, desperately, I often yield to despair's night,
I succumb and tremble, as I strike the shallow waters in my plight.
The soul I cannot digest, if you seek it low and base,
In the head, I lord it over, claiming it has found its resting place.
In all things, something lingers—do not call it God, though,
It is memories from anguish, in time's most ancient flow.
Do you see in all a battle? You have a sacred woe,
Only dust and ash are gentle, soothing in the world below.
Motion is eternal, for you, it does not ask or plead,
Lest you take, throughout the years, your self with solemn greed.
Live like swallows, crude and arid, more coarsely than the air,
The pawns are slowly rusting, little humans in despair.
