Part III: Treachery

January 8, 2009


Engaging conversations lack these days. I seek more than what is before me, but I fear I am not looking in a manner that is suitable. I just expect shit to fall down in front of me. Sometimes. There is more that I lack and seek, and they loom unsuitable in ways of obtaining them. It is also prevalent. I do expect others to come to me. Always. Always. The time has come to change this.


Energy conveyed,
From liquid bean to me
Resulting in revitalization
At least for now.

I squeeze this moment
For all possible momentum,
But lacking is an adequate amount of air to keep me surfaced for long.

I am set into this content,
But not of the bitter taste
Of just black in my mouth.

I almost struggle to keep in mind,
Positive perspectives keep the head held high.

Creation must commence,
But there is only restraint.
Soon enough,
The cloud will dissipate.

As of now,
A future is visible,
Although unclear.
Anticipation looms like a dangerous storm.


I am still so weak. I shudder with discontent, I shake with loneliness, and I wring my skin of desire to keep from convulsing. I rest in a state of what I fear so greatly—-Solitude, the emotion through inadequate physical comfort.


The toxins locked
Beneath the topsoil,
Can only be released
With the gliding sensation
Of your skin hovering over mine,
Warmth transferred with any personal connection.

I thirst and hunger,
But satisfaction is never quenched.
Although they never settle for less
When it comes to the learning of any lessons;

Alone and independence—
There is a difference here.


Recognizing this difference, one crucial goal of this journey, is proving difficult. I have become so uneasy, unable still to rest my eager mind. I can feel it facing off with myself, the glow of confronting unscathed depths.


My dreams fill with desperation. It shows in desire, panic, and it blinds with lust. It aches and it swells, especially after I awaken. It always seems to take me several hours to recover after each sleep. Disorientation overwhelms my mind as I struggle to adjust to conscious life.

Weave and weave, but where are the baskets I seek to create? I need somewhere to store false hopes and the desire to deceive. Perhaps it is not so much a particular desire, but the feeling of desperation of certain and a specifically sincere hope that stems desire. This is mostly because one that claims I can trust is not trustworthy in the least bit. This is always partially my undoing.

I am not happy with whom I have become here, and because of that, I fear I will not be able to become the person I seek out deep within. I need to find what I will do with this life. For this and many other reasons, I must leave where I was raised. This transition will cost much in the personal loss of many relationships, but to be brutally honest, that is the point. An insurmountable set of relationships and circumstances are the driving forces of my unhappiness. I do not seek to vanquish such conflicts from my mind, because I have learned from them and I do value them, but I feel as if I can no longer remain attached to them in any shape or form. If I were to have stayed there, I could not have remained unattached.

This longing to escape these demons has escalated to points of almost pushing me into uncontrollable frenzy. I have also noticed an increased amount of these same demons everywhere I go. They seem to toil in their works, disapproving of everything anybody has ever done for no particular reason at all. But, above all else, it is ignorance that swells here more often than not.

Assigning black and white right and wrongs is frivolous–It is all interchangeable. Either way, I must leave this life I led behind to start another. The tragedies I have held onto for far too long will not be forgotten, but removed from the weight I must continue to carry.

Demons and angels are just words, simply figureheads for an example, and what really matters is the sequence of passed events into formidable foundation for the coming days.


Mutter sensation-
Strange pace and hands over eyes-
Foul taste in mouth;
I am not sure where I am,
It is unclear if I stand.

Vague at best, this night,
Remaining stale in this state-
I jerk with a fright-
There is a light coming forth,
Faster with each second past.

Mum, II.

Riveting this pale sense of endearment is the sum of choices that make it all possible today. Cherish your and my expedients, mother dear. I hope, still as an eager child will forever wait, that the world thanks you for both your insanity and imminent grasp of reality. Perhaps, with the best of aspirations, we will both turn up and correlate on great and influential paths.

However, lucrative thoughts always set in concerning, the above all desire for comfort. This burning passion turns hope to ash, and never leaves my foresight–The winds carry it all just out of reach. And what of when I do get that comfort? I meet it merely to push it away! I am never happy with what I have, and for this, I curse our selfish ambitions for eternity!


The silky sheen of white drips through the window shades, carefully adjusted to perspire very little of each image–Inside and out, to the other, and back again. Despite, Artemis can always manage to fix Apollo’s gaze to where she pleases. Her hands are suddenly wreathing through the small slits in the window shades before me, Apollo guiding the way, to grab a desperate hold on the first vulnerable target. I squeal with delight–Oh, how I have been waiting for this moment on this hapless night! I step forward, fall to my unbearably weak knees, and crawl to her reach. I let those fair knuckled and slender fingers wrap around my neck, the proper target sought out and ceased. Artemis begins to wring my flesh as I choke on a curse, blaming my mortal persistence for staying grounded for far too long.

My mind cannot fake being well in the wake of such calamity. The sullen feeling of awake overrides all emotion of the mind. I am drunk, as if I drank a sea’s expanse of liquor. My sight of the room before me is quite literally spinning. Thoughts rapidly weave around my mind, creating dazzling effects I will never fully comprehend. I will never be able to recreate that moment in its purity, except in the current of every night when there is only gloom repetition to tediously rest in. If only every moment before slumber were as glamorous as this!

Artemis has laid waste to any enjoyment in rest, in particular–Sleeps and dreams. I wonder how I will struggle through another day of feeling utterly useless, while this stoic mind can hardly recoil from Artemis’ cruel treatment. Myself is included to blame, when boisterously I revert to memories that help not at all. I scramble between then and now, needing desperately somewhere to base myself in a harmonious way. Artemis cannot provide this place, unless she is really who I think she is–Me.

From here it moves in ellipses of fraught behavior; the paths I have taken lead to positive outcomes, but such perilous sorrow perseveres in even the most engaging of situations. I ache from shining face to wicked core. Oh, how I long for the comforting grasp from another soul!

What a fucking mess I am! Artemis, I love and curse your existence.


Pretentious pride always gets me into troubles such as this.
My dumb luck always finds me out.
Fucking sickening hope I have,
Because I think sleep will come tonight!
Instead of rest,
I expel the fury of a writer with nothing to discuss,
Except the same tortures I have always chose to bask in.


The Grove of Memory

I am hung from a noose and lashed with a crash from the whip of past—-The nights I spent suffocating at your door, the dreams that demonized all I saw. Comfort was nowhere to be found; not in bed, not in misunderstanding friends, and especially not in those who mothered one child too-many!

No regret in birth lingers these days, but in memory the idea sometimes comes to surface unexpectedly. It is terrifying each and every time—-Any child who wishes to die in their dreams, while almost succeeding, is far too disgruntling for any parent to hear-—And to bare, unspeakable and treacherous torture! I am sure you understand my peril. That is why you nearly drank yourself into endless stupor-—Anymore, and it would have been certain death. History always repeats itself, parents passing on their most prestigious traits. Fortunately the error in your ways was more translucent than glass; I steered clear of your reckless distress.

Even I am uncertain how I escaped such peril.

There are folds in the fabric of past I seldom spread out. There is just no use sleeping on tarnished sheets these days. I have given them back to the fates. Indeed, I would wish them to have back what they have handed out, so diligently, so many years ago; On this time, this year, and even this place


The plantation was left to grow alone, and has become an old growth far too soon. It was something in the soil, many think, soothing the aqua and creating a fever of augmentation behind the scenes of leaves and bark. The virus of growth seethed deep in the heart of the wood, turmoil was beyond the boiling point of any thermometer, leading to nearly perfect harmony in conditions unfit for the hassle of conventional life.

And few realize how this came to be, while even fewer conceptualized how this managed to last. Trees may grow in the most unbearable of conditions, but how much can be endured many years later? Resistance and persistence still soar off of any chart drawn to a reasonable scale.

Then, it only takes a saw to bring them all down, glittering beauties that have outlived the most grand of storms. Silly, it seems, how one life can be foiled at the carelessness of another.

Children laugh and play around these living giants, stopping on occasion to point out their glory. Legends may have once been erected to secure these creatures, immortalizing delicate lives forever in the minds of those that realized their significance.


As frail as the mind,
More sturdy than bones.
Here the past lies beneath stones marked grave-
Shredding seams of fabrics sown,
Expectations ruin the glory
Of gloom-casting souls.


A clever beast returns to play tricks as soon as being cast away. A pest at heart, the immediate reaction to consistent bother gets tiring very quickly. Trying it is–Wreathing the mind of all desire to go on, stretching all physical capabilities to the limits. Persistence looms, cowers, flocks from horizon to time, again and again.

Avians mask the sky as they approach, hiding clouds from even the curious minds of children. Terrified bodies panic, screaming and shuttering in fear of what may follow the landing of so many starving beings. The terror and turmoil bring no availing circumstance. Mother has gone away, leaving the young to starve–Compassion deprived hides wonder of how to retain what was taken so long ago. Although, before the Avians have a chance to settle down upon the land, a certain fog licks their talons–No more descent here! This is a mist that reeks of distress, and the avians yelp and flee to escape. It leaks through the cracks in the home amid the ancient grove. Such a pity it comes from one human heart.


Bargaining power runs dry, but it is not too late-—There can be no compromise. Leave it where you sit and the rest will be left unsaid. Cherish these times, but do not forget; demons lurk around every single corner.


My trousers are no longer snug,
And these gloves fall off tiny hands.
I feel a jerk, a pull from core,
Back. Again!
Spinning, a vortex of
Memory. Assorting,
Every livid thought,
Assisted memory, and
Barely breathing—
Caught up
In the momentum of
Heart to lungs,
Diaphragm screaming
For help to pull in
Enough oxygen to live.
Small feet dangle.
Head being scrubbed to baithe.
It was then-
Memory began.


Seeds were soon to sprout,
Saplings with no hesitation-
Despite the forlorn conditions,
It was not long
Before this grove of life flourished,
Day to night-
Powerful sun to gentle moon,
Bombardment by millions. The
Twinkling celestial bodies.

Then weeks.
Then to seasons.
Years and than a decade or two,
Working so diligently,
Simply to insight songs of life;
Striving to succeed,
Thriving merely off of desire,
Wishing to want anything
But treachery in lucid surroundings.
It turned out either ways.

Perhaps now,
A dozen men or so with saws
Would not be enough
To vanquish a collection
Of mighty beings and a timid shack.


I cherish this cradle-—Tips of limbs–Foliage will forever embrace the night life of celestial bodies, moving in ways that are impossible to percept with merely sight. Vague at best, many times seem to dwindle to nothing under such tremendous depths, vanishing beneath unfathomable black. NO, black is not the space in-between the stars. This space is extraordinarily clear, but goes back too far to intercept anything but the lack of light. The universe screams of mystery, the weaving of fates and mind with the continuum of the infinite.

The Orion of my sky seeks to confine concepts of treachery, condense as much as emotionally possible, and hurling it in my direction. My defense must hold or I will fail all I have been sent to confront. This guardian of my rear, he seeks nothing more than my enduring of all obstacles, harming me with the best of long-term intentions. Tedious work, some may call it, but forever his soul and mine will be brethren of a certain faith.

Certainly, Scorpio and Orion are not alternate sources of sensation. Although they reside in opposite sides of our sky, they by no means share a dualistic nature. This relation has no good or evil—-Only alternative points of view, use of tactics, and sense of allurement. Jove must endure their torments…

Heart Sect

Sickly nerves lust for silky skin desires—-
Sweet, gentle passion.
Fresh, but not new to this fountain of youth.

The body’s unrivaled aesthetic toils onward-
Uncharted territories await my arrival;
Of mind and body bound by time,
Materialistic stipulations of one’s God and law,
Scenes of saw-
Cutting to raw.

The child’s desire is wrecked,
Raped rivers designated to carry tortured souls to their untimely fate.
Maternal instincts left behind,
The body is separated from will,
And the sound of this mill churns air to chill wind.

And yet what I seek to regain
Was separated from here,
So long ago.
Indentured servant no longer-
Live by day to day standards
As they stand on the surface,
Pervading all who come to close to-
See a dying son’s demise.
Redirection is not desired-
Necessary is Rebirth through reprisal.

Desire does not sleep as sight begins to fade.
And a certain lust waits when this particular body wakes.

Echoing through these halls looms a voice.
Creation surrogates the will of fate,
Simply by forgetting the steps after birth.
Screeching outward!
Seeking a response!
It is not returned.

Garbage suffocates growth,
But this beat manages to surpass the discrete path of discourse beyond the corridor.
As with all enlightened things,
Bonds long time lost and forgotten will never be conveyed to meaning.

Ghosts move from place to pace,
The transitions of tracks traveled by those who wish to hear.
The pacifier on ears?

Displace this taste and pleasure as one another converse,
And relate experience.
Featured and displeased will the speculators be.
The time has come for us to leave.


The feeling of miscommunication is always hard to bear. It will be as eternal as the struggle of tangles in unwashed hair, triumphing over human will for several millennia now. And then there is her sappy fucking delight. It is torture. His banal sight is merely raw hunger striving to become something that has been lost. Let me explain:

Ravished beauties are queens of the night, but this simple fact does not entitle them as heirs of any throne they want. Artemis’ throne is not fit to reign over Marcello’s keen sense of sensual tragedy. He is trapped and unable to call for any help, but finally alone for but a moment, to reflect upon this passing life.

Here is the pit of lions, many starving weeks they have endured for this single moment to feed! Marcello is to be ripped to shreds of flesh, but in a positive trend of thought, he is lead by sincere perseverance—-Certainly he has managed to make it this far with his uncanny wits. How, after all those nights last summer, when all prestige and ambition was quashed in the matter of four measly days, could he give up now? Living through those circumstances have only fortified his already nearly unshakable will.

Marcello lays back and lets the felines have him. His sulky flesh will surely nourishing these desperate creatures in unimaginable ways. He gives in. It is as simple as that. Relief? Eternal slumber? Not for now, there is so much left to cover.

Forsaken Flesh

Face of forsaken flesh,
I, who knows so little,
Deserves no recognition-
Nothing at all,
For things I both have and have not yet done.

I who have become a sum of so little,
Will have more added as the future comes-
Present to past at future costs.


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