I Went to Heaven with Suffering, but I Lived

Photo courtesy of Thon94rt

A little madness for the end of Summer
Is wholesome even for a beggar
The start of the end of climaxes

Where experiments felt like a dream
And life had no soft distinctions
Only dramas that became less fashionable

Fashioned by these candid hands
Where I blush in solitude for my losses
A little crazier than before

A moment lost on the edges of lifetimes
The soul condemned to be a guest
With undisputed rights to be nobody

And fame for the fickle food of anonymity
There’s no scrutiny like self-judgement
No following like bleak humility

No embarrassment like the obliteration of need
When you as a person begin to dissolve
Remember what madness taught you

The hosts depart, the friends depart, the lovers too
But some things can be treasured

In the adventure of the self
In the bleak individualism of perishing
To passion, a broken mathematics of faith.

The ghost writers

Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Salzburg-s-unicorn-499959719

But as for me, the smell of books
Is perhaps enough, my bride
The gracious literature

Who does not threaten to leave
Or say I do not make enough gold
The holy emblem of this art

Whose pen is its own reward
A kind of artistic altruism
That plunges itself without restraint

On a canvas, spelling “freedom”
Over and over until
My heart might warm divinity

From the cold world’s touch
But ah, the libraries are lonely places
And the authors must fight

Lofty ghosts, that swim in the brain
For to write is to sacrifice, I know
It well, so find delight, go

In cheaper things, more easy investments
For this is a passion not for the meek
And this is a love that is not
As fickle as the illiterate barbarians out there.

After Journaling

There is no burnt paper anymore
My age of confessions is over
I have nothing to hide from myself
My journals are just filled

With spiritual musings
The drama has gone
And angst is dead
No saxophone haunting

From my bedroom
No squalor beneath my
Guitar-fingers, only
The meditation of poems

The slapping phantom of laundry
An old apartment, beaten up
While my screen paints silversmithing
Of this unusual alchemy

The beating of blackberry wisdom
Into ripe aphorisms, it’s enough
For procrastination and myth
We all have to cross those waters

One day, astounded souls
Leaving games of chess and flirting behind
And filter flowers for golden messages
And live in a quiet place in Canada

Where the stars are not so cold
And all dark advice of shame is gone
Open to the wilderness, ready
To learn how to be free.

The Worthiness to Die

I know loneliness one dare
Not sound, so grave that friends depart
The alarm that leads to inner scrutiny
And horrors not be surveyed

The gloom of youth with no resolve
Skirted in the dark, under lock
Of our brief taste of tragedy
That does not depart so easily

I fear that loneliness is one of my
Prime emotions, that illuminates
My caverns and corridors
But am I alone in this?

I do not know, I suffer
As best I can, with brief wisdom
And hampered forgiveness
For cowardice or weakness I am not sure

And friends too few, and charity
Only given, and lovers
That leave before they truly know
I know loneliness one day

Not watched, that poverty expounds
The hardship of living a minority
Without but a wave of gold
I know loneliness like a jewel

With so much weight, and worthiness
And a strange hunger to die
Before one truly knows how to live.

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THE PLATH DIARIES

i

I have lived through a dynasty of blindfolds
With blue currents in my veins
The feeling of being ‘different’
What I to make of these contradictions?
I learn mandarin, I wear white cuffs

ii

I learn to bow low, my heart
Filled with disorganized unlocalized prayers
O Soul, and such disorganization!
My stars are flashing like
Terrible numerals of my intuition

iii

The choices I have made, unmade
The spirit of valedictory pangs
Must follow us all, like memory
Memory’s stiff formality of failed prophecies
Her bandages to self-image, her mockeries
And the terrible breathing of ill-health
Some things could not have been predicted

iv

I have lived through a dynasty of rareness, then?
Being myself, an ordinary creator in littleness
I feel as if I’ve trespassed stupidly
Across my fate, like an unwelcome guest
Or colonized a new form of ignorance
Settled in neurological patterns of
The most dire selfishness, until I am
Terrified of what I have become

vi

I learn to accept malignancy slower than others?
Swimming with angels in apprehension
I struggle at the limits of language
Ready to bleed light again into my
Self-sufficient darkness, her unidentifiable calls

vii

Here there is an immortality
In the self-talk that loves to suffer
I move away from dampening vibrations in a hurry
For such salt-sweetness of surrealism
Leads nowhere, but to some sport of doom.

As Can No Other Mouth

The Worthiness of Suffering
Is ascertained by tasting –
As can no other Mouth, but ours
That grief would be our Savior?

We banquet as if it meant
The meaning of our lives
The Worthiness of Death
Is ascertained by inevitability –

As can no other Body, but ours
That health would be our mate
Across such lonesome years
We banquet on ill-health as if

Affliction makes us feel palpable
Better to feel something, than nothing
The Worthiness of Depression
Is ascertained by our unique subjectivity

As our soul is used by nature
On islands of Earth, until even us
We are struck by what we felt
Were the burdens of others, remote.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/L-enfant-des-trois-chenes-411750522

A Brief Definition of Longing

My longings died for the youth
beautiful bodies aged and with
roses by the head, jasmine at the feet

time did not save anyone, longing passed
like the words of the dead, who lived
in the presence of sensual pleasures

so fleeting, temporary, the vivid aches
but radiant mornings drove us on
the timid imaginations of a lifetime

in blood flesh and hot striving for survival
exalted young sensualists have to become
something else, mystical longings

that have a difficulty defining the goal
a forbidden ecstasy of meditation otherworldly
where synapse kisses the universe

my longings died past mid-life
the beautiful angels did not age
the spirit would never die

love’s height lifted above a person
we would become separated forever

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/autumn-408633691

on Being Other Centered

I scarce esteem the business of a name
Time and being, too closely knelt –
To be somebody is surely
A bondage, as a play, the debts

Of somebody else’s keeping
In some spaces, imprisonment
With other co-conspirators, sweet
I scarce esteem my time on the Earth

Less with my comrades
Few and far-between though they call –
Bring my past despair, those
Bands of spice, talks or reckoning

So I may take flight from these
Boundaries of sense-in-pain
For consciousness is thus sandwiched
Between Eternity and time, and others

I can do without time and Eternity
Enough to be at heart with beloveds.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/In-The-Pouring-Rain-403324988

Battered by Words of Sad Gold

Often, as I awake in my room
I am the first person holding a candle
To myself, the one that murmurs
In his dreams, weeping

These are the days, I wake up to
Empty fountains, ringing bells
For a world that falters
Nearly as much as I do

My lips taste timid metals
My mouth raw with hunger
To enter the capital of the opposite of indifference
I am sick with solitude

My eyes are lost to the nights
I end up staying home, too late alone
I see another solemn evening pass
There goes my life, it weighs upon me

I am the first and last person, I talk to
Each day, the mouth that cries
No water from these eyes at noon
When the world expects my strength

Summer sheds her petals in soft agonies
It’s only in Spring, I stare and stand before
The large white house, and ponder
The clarity of extinguished things

Like memory, like the angels of the soul
Beneath the slow martyrdom of strain
I spread my heart thin in massive words
Letters, poems, that don’t amount to much.