The First Year of Love is like Icing 


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Relationships are like private
Dyadic simulations, or gamification of
Skin and soul, heart in time

Somewhere someone is travelling
In your direction, maybe furiously lonely
Ready to fill your loneliness with love
And we exchange partners
Learning from each other

So serious of the rules and tribulations
But it’s natural to be monogamous
And it’s natural to separate, no point fretting

Perhaps it’s natural for some to love
The same gender, change genders, be polygamous
Through blizzards of emotions, deserts of lust
The heart loves to cross torrents
Dramas and recognize you as a friend

Reckless and beautiful are our needs
To relate, belong, be touched, finding like-minded
Companions in this desolate and tedious existence

But never forget that they are simulations, illusions
Myths we make to feel comfortable
And experiential methods of our own spirit
To educate us about the true reality of the universe
Or that part of her we were meant to experience

Relationships remain the core of human beauty
The customer experience of personal joy
The first year is like icing, then the cake

Begins to show through, too sugary
Or a sweet thing without the right occasion
I’ll wait for the fruit-salad, the encore
The idea to save the best for last.

The Purple Fat Feelings


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The Purple Fat Feelings

I can never read all the books I want
Never love all the people I’d prefer
Hoping to live and feel
All the cursive of the human palette
I was left feeling horribly limited

I learned not to expect
Nothing from anybody
As the surest means of being surprised

I wanted to be startled by life
And found everything in life was scripted
The outgoing guts and
The ability to improvise
With a touch of self-doubt

I took deep breaths and bragged
Inside my own heart
For taking-in kisses left me feeling

Self-important and in love with everything
That was the Spring’s ingredient
The stars still go waltzing in blue and red

And if all the world dropped dead
I fancy love would still exist
On stars, for sale, for youthful fancy
Perhaps if we ever find ourselves
At peace, it will be because

We are dangerously close to wanting nothing
For now in my own prayer-silence
I’ll dream of books, love and fat purple feelings.

The Joys of pain


51

There are evenings
Without angels
That burn with the feeling
Of human pain

You know what it brings
A voluptuousness
Of poetry in lunatics
An eternal orchestra

Of spirits gone unrealized
Broken dreams, unfashionable
Alienation and furious sub-selves
Sad men made angels of the sun

And the moon became
Our attendant ghost
Of the Sea and the mortals pain
So very brief, but not as

Brief as our love
Before AI we had no memory
Only a little advice from
Half-hearted parents

The antiquest of society
An accord of repetitions
Blunt and dull and flashing
For something new

That never seemed to come
A future of pointed night
That never burst properly.

The Poetic Dilemma


11

Words answer my April
Words answer my every month
Every state, has a Window or a Minister

My feeling are of Two bodies
My soul and its liberty persist
I know it then, by the numb look

Of Neighbors, and the lost delight
Of Lovers, where is the Bee and blush?
For it is not yet Spring – and I am lone

Language is my last successor of pain
I am trapped in its Vitality
Self-Obliterating is the choir

Who that visits the Night is my poetic chore
Words answer my April
I make words for every hour

There is no Education in poetry
Only pure-feeling, as ashamed as courtesans
Here I contrast all currencies.

Chaste by Revolt


14

It’s a serene irony, isn’t it dear?
How impotent we are in our moments
Across the bitter ease, of our lack of ambition
And the sevenfold love, of our lost dignity?

Languidly we plod on, like beings of evolution
A landscape of fresh Dawns, in cruel lands
It’s a surreal comedy, isn’t it friend?
Under a vast ceiling of silence

We suffice and part, equipped with desire
Enacting will, smited by the wilderness
The heart-mangled scorn of the past
Has nothing of note left on us

We are free at last, with the rich
Faun flash of new lines, new destinies
Beauty can flourish even in anguish
Life can feel vivid, even when sleeping alone

Feverish with independence, I beat away attachment
It’s a serene irony, insulted by promises
How I’ve grown old, even
At the risk of falling into eternity.

The Prophet in Me


I’ve driven myself mad

With the world like a Prophet

To nobody, I am not special

 

With my private ardor

For poems and the eyes of peacocks

All this worshiping

 

Will bring me nothing

Dots, like lost saviors

Lines, like hollow martyrs

 

I resign myself to poverty

And horrible lethargy

A vast elegy of dissonance

 

I’ve driven myself mad

With hope and anvils

I’ve unfinished and extended myself

With water and disquietude