Mysterous worlds opus now we begin the dance of victory

Winters Cold Lust

The Spring so far away, drowned in coldness we see,
nothing but snowflakes, and dried tubers to feed the soul,
where the plants have hardened and the land covered in white,
this palace is not a home,
and carried us not into the night,
here is the landing, here is the deck,
where ice is forming,
watch the step,
hold thy body erect,
to see into the vast open fields of frost,
my love is still burning bright, like the land out west is freezing,
pyramids of lust, fingers intertwined to keep warm, to keep hot,
desire creeping up heavier now that the land is dead, no light,
just darkness to hide the flesh.

York Shitty

Back in the dawning of my day, I had learned that the only thing against you, was the perfect breath of morning, that had reached out to you in the last of the day, and required the pleasant times to refurnish this aubade: mourning poem about the rising of the sun, this is my life, here lamenting the lugubrious affectations of the last supper of my life. 

Standing on the shoulders of giants, leaves me quite hot, here in the searing, scorching sun--of which I find to be most pleasurable in my sense of loneliness, and solace, as I find a way: always, a way to tear any pussy up I chose, and I actually do, my cock is huge, and I hate tiny inept white bums who think they are entitled to something, of which I cannot complain at all, in fact the only thing to do is have a way to see the entirety of the show, in face value with the time I have put forth in destroying the notion that I do not have the ability to take care of myself. I take honor in my ability to care for myself, and use the un-ageing intellect of this hedonism I choose to call my own. Love you, too. Feel free to hate on me, but I deserve more than you do now, so what do you have to say to that.

little morning tid bit

My love has been eroded silently ever since living here in York shitty, where people have no manners and take your cell phone the second you aren't paying attention, and then the whole thing just explodes like a giant banana of TNT. This is the way to the street, this way, via shit avenue just up the street from York college, where the kids don't learn shit, and have the ignorance established a long time ago by their fucking dumb racist parents.

20 second special

Inside the cerebral ventricles, we see nothing but empty space, where the schizophrenic time-zone has been replaced by the fortitude of a terraformed moon;--the last thing that I heard her say, was the prescience was nothing but the last location of the endocrine system, which in turn of the spacious legitimacy of the furious swelling of the last emperors belly, we see the hog-wash that we used to call a majestic nation of the last pernicious cavern of the soul.

mourning aubade

Inside the dome of the last exploration of the vast superior magnitude of the cerebral palsied languid aura of my prior breath, we see the dome of the rock unfolding like a paper mache’ swan. Here we go again, where anything you believe is manifested in truth—the last days of fiction, the plural magnitude of the forest inside the trees, where the last swan was swimming in congratulations of the opening aubade: a poem, about morning, or lamenting the mourning of the dawn.

thoughts of the fucked up morning

My best day ever is one in which I’ve got some money on my food stamp card and a little bit of weed. Fuck it, you only live forever in my world, where all is aligned with the preternatural forces associated with the last dawn of man, where the time has become the way of the world, here we go again, into the light, where all is bright, and out of the darkness, where our laminations were still seen as being the new order of the foreshadowed dawn. Here we are again, where we may believe anything.

little ditty about the daylight

I see the serpent in the night, shinning like a candle of which it cannot be extinguished, these days, these bright days under the snake, the good snake, holding the flashlight for all to see, humble and naked, hurried and sublime.

Hold That Memory, While my Machine Talks to Me

I hold on, these cold days, to redolent memories of her hair,
And the sweet smell of her breath,
As she whispered promises to me
That she would be there to hold me
For all time--yet something
Happened on life's dancefloor
That beckoned her to another man--
Perhaps our song was over, maybe it
Was time to relinquish her hand
To where it belonged, yet never
Shall i let go of memories where
We kissed, alone, under the laughing,
Inebriation of the moon,
On a deserted golden beach,
Where the innumerable grains of sand
Were in direct proportion to
The infinite ways we could love one another, as my fingers clumsily
Explored the supple terrain of her skin,
And i gazed into blue eyes with jealoua
Desperation of never being able
To fully satisfy my desire for her.

And now it seems desire has departed
From my life, but the memory of it--
Once living and vibrant in the waking
Hours of of my impassioned youth,
Has been etched upon the walls
Of my cerebral thoughts of an age
When everything nattered, for she
Was the world, and love filled the gasses with the starry nectar of adoration, that satisfied my thirst for
Such a short, yet profoundly
Influential time, i remember so very well, yet is this a healthy nostalgia
After all, when i discount all other opportunites to find love, as being
Somehow fallacious expendatures
Of energy, as i know, in my heart,
That what i had once had
In those ferosciously precious days
Of my younger life, is unreedemable,
And the immutable fact of growing
Older is becoming ever more difficult to ignore.