The following entries are the five sections of a manuscript i put together last summer, and have been working on here and there throughout the fall and early winter. this is the second draft, and there are plans for at least one more revision. This next revision will come out of criticism from my peers. This is why i am posting this work of mine here.

I am not posting this as some holy masterpiece. this is a very personal piece of work marking a detrimental part of my life.

There are various themes and subjects, which i will leave the reader to dissolve. this piece is divided simply; there are five sections, and individual pieces within the sections (bold). but within the individual pieces, there may be several breaks signifying some importance(the reasons vary).

I ask that all criticism be very precise, constructive, and critical. All comments not meeting these criteria will not be approved. Comments may be made by individual sections, but overall critiques are encouraged under this post.

The sections go as such:

Contemplation of Sincerity-Certainty: A Memoir of Prose and Poetry
By Billly Fomenter.

Part I: Demon, Destroyer of Bonds
Part II: Desolation
Part III: Treachery
Part IV: Renascence
Part V: Absolution; Sense of Sincerity-Certainty

**note: all italics have been removed via the copy/paste process. I lack the ambition to go back and italicize everything.
***note: if you’d like a printed copy to critique, just contact me; facebook, email, and the phone are all adequate means.


Brown-Eyed Devil, Catalyst of Dreams

And yet, she robs me in my time of sleep. I leave all weight in the past, and still she plagues this man. To no ends is she ever satisfied to leave me be! Why did we connect in such a way? I thought that ship’s hull was blasted and what we had now rests at the bottom of the deepest and darkest of seas. But when I wake at night from her company, my suspicion states otherwise. I have had desire, in more times than once for others, but nothing has struck this heart quite like this menace has! Forevermore, will I be entrapped by her iron grip of heart?


Misery is unabiding.
It grows and shrinks,
Twists and stretches-
Reforms to contortion
With no visible reserve
For these plunders of heart.

She has no soul at all!
Still, I only want those
Self-confident fingers
Sailing up and down my spine,
The wake of warming nerves, and
Limbs, and soul with the
Careful movement of the
And winds,
Commanding the sea;

Burning smiles,
They would light a deep groan,
Dry sand becoming moist,
Once again;
I have shared with you
All that my sea and lands contain-
But now, only ice
Meets the glass shore of a dying land.
After the flames
Ran out of fuel to burn,
Storms from the north
Created a frigid wasteland.


Please, oh God-Almighty and powerful, release me from these stakes, I can take the restraint no longer! I pray to the devils to take her back to wherever she came. Please oh please, just let me be! The weight from this anguish is more unbearable than any fruitlessness from any existing tree! It is more mistaking than any misdeed to date, and even more forthcoming than any pain that I have yet to face.

Catalyst–I wonder constantly of what I could not offer you, and have come to a stalemate with thought every single time. Wasn’t this pretty face enough for those delicate hands of yours to touch? Was my body not enough to swirl your womanhood into a blissful rush? A perdurable forge, I thought we were, all too powerfully demanding for energy, endlessly! we became too molten hot for the likes of coals!

Was this mind’s unconditional compassion and comfort not enough for your tortured soul? Those nights I found you desperately whimpering on the floor, an agonized clump of human flesh; I nursed and tended your every possible need and wish. I would have given every ounce of my being to lessen your pain to any degree, and now here I ache with only myself. At least I have that–I am not yet without feeling.

But now, I am sinking deep, setting everything in a backwards motion.

So how did our endearment really work? If my efforts were not in vain, than why do I feel so divided all the time? My boyhood dream actualized in physical limits, shattered into a fable of the mind! And in this irony I laugh in my face–I would never even dream or contemplate sharing the likes of this mind with you, not ever again! Your insolence perspires from me even now, still, and I feel sick from spinning around this insecurity of mind.

Why are you still here? Why do these dreams linger on?


Why did I let you,
Take residence in this soul?
You know the code,
Can gain access to any port,
And it matters not how many firewalls are up!

Fucking wretched beast!
Putrid decaying mess!
Fleeting and wrecking rest,
Forbearer of all that is reeking of distress—

Alone, without you.
Forlorn without your arms
Wrapped around my;
Chest to chest so close;
One torso with eight limbs;
So tightly,
Four legs intertwined into one.
And your head and mine submerged;
Eyes meet murky through lips.

Happiness becomes illusive—
Whenever my attention is diverged
To the likes of you!
Curse this impossible mess!

Dear of past-devil that is lasting;
I am before you on my knees again.
All I ask is for you, to
Return what is rightfully mine—
Please give back what is frightfully divine—

I do not ask for my precious time spent on you,
It is far too late to return,
And far too great to restrain.
I simply wish for closure—

Once again,
I would like to sleep at night.


When Orion departed this season, I feel as though he pointed me in an interesting direction–Treachery. This is a direct challenge, a test of my good faith and optimistic will. It is a direct warning to stray not at all, not in the least-—A very minuscule amount, from the edge of a knife. On this open field of life before me, there are infinite paths to take, but Orion has direct faith to offer me only one way.

Excellent–This challenge is mine to take. Accepted. Now Orion lowers the tide; temptation and distractions having more places to reside and a multitude of diverse angles for approach. Friend, skilled hunter from above, you are a dangerous fellow, and this is why I choose you above all to watch out for those who would attack from behind.

The seasons change, but no desire flees. Indignation of mind sets in, and it becomes ever more trying to breathe. Orion wishes that I do not suffocate, and has taught me how to command the skin to take in more oxygen–Breathe. There will be no death here tonight. Relax. There is supposed to be struggle during this time.


And then what he seeks cannot be found—
Not here
And not in this time.
The will of the forsaken,
Despite the plight of momentous barriers,
Carries onward.

The silk of skin and hands
Intertwined is only a resting place,
Because the real work—
All desire in all forms,
Comes from a certain aspect of approach.

The nature of seeking is to discover
And to uncover new ideas—
From these,
Thoughts of change.

What he seeks will be found soon enough,
But only a small portion ahead
Of the knife’s edge will be revealed.
Step back
As carefully as possible dear friend,
But then move quickly and do not even hesitate to look back.
Everything you need is upon you,
At all times and places,
With the exception of this pen—
Even then,
We all knew you were not
Meant to write what you thought then onto paper.




Here is the consumption of mind, unable to stop:

Euphoria in its most desirable state.
Fists rise up and touch the branches,
The time is coming and it approaches quickly.
Squander through the forest;
Move quickly
As to not be seen on the floor’s clearing!

But then despite prestigious efforts of stealth,
The python will strike in the tropical sun.
Destiny and desire disintegrate once again:
All that is left is futility,
The feeling consuming most of this life all the time.


My friend,
As an egg he waits.
He waits to hatch.
He waits.
When the time and place are just right,
He will thrust his beak at the perfect angle,
More precise than any missile.
Then, with the shell cracked,
Pecking life will be exposed—


Will sleep come? Inevitably.
Will I wake? Undoubtedly.
Will She be there…? One may hope not.


Listen now folly heart, heed now to my demands: Open your pitiful eyes and see the cloudless sky cover suddenly and splice in half. Directly down the middle, a sick sort of catalyst will emerge as some Supreme Being. Noontime will follow the Moses-wrecking split in clouds with a hellish glow from beyond Earth, and absolutely no shadows will be cast. Dust and dirt will fall from above, a frenzy seemingly from nowhere, and heaps of grime and death will scatter to cover all in existence upon this land.

From sleep, in dreams you will heed to such commands–Freeze yourself and watch what comes forth from the oblivion above! Emergence of these forsaken fire starters will bring the world of dreams much toil, torching settlements and eradicating forms of development. The people of this land will panic, babies will wail to no end, and the sea will ultimately prevail; all bodies of water will comfort the fall of devils who fail to fly. No shadows will be cast. Humanity is doomed.

Oh Father,
Dear Mother,
When will the chance to rest finally come again? Orange-azure fuck to grey; the petulant need for air follows immediately. The sky churns in…

“Can’t you ever be serious? People are suffering and dying here!”

Simply, move on and forth. I am seriously sincere, consistently certain with constant thought; dwell in these dreams I have laid out, and you will meet my fate. I had no idea it was coming—-Unexpected devils draped in heavenly disguises. The wings and horns were covered by her clothes, and when I stripped them from that most perfect of bodies, those brown eyes glazed my mind—-Now rotting to fucking nothing, a time consumed mass controlled by the strings of a puppeteer. On you beast, the comfort I gave you and the passion I received. I thought I could help–This pure mind of mine not to be effected by devilish schemes! Why me? Why lock that gaze onto the likes of me? Innocence is being repaid in the most devastating way.

I thought I made you feel finally at home, you fucking priss–I thought you loved as I did.

Wrong again.
Shoulder sink to chest-
Taste that sensual warmth,
Shudder to no end!
Feel perspiring flesh.
Using my body to subdue the mind-
Moan; scream from heart and lungs,
Scratch the membranes behind your tongue to
Pierce everything that I have!
Sink your teeth into my porous skin, my neck,
Suck me dry tonight.



Orion sleeps again, leaving me to contest with this head–Mind, ego, and soul; all as one, with or without this body and heart to direct physical motion and circulation of blood and thought.

The cycles never sleep–Forever moving, forever changing. Persistence leads on. In one year I have seen so much but have not felt enough.

So here I am.

This body strains from a virus I care nothing of. Besides physical limitations, I feel it not at all. The cavernous dark and wet wipe all doubt from my mind. The heart can do miraculous things when in it resides bats, eyeless fish, and various layers of stratum and sediment. All that can find no other place to run off like water resides here–Unseen, swelling with anguish, and waiting.

She will have time to show her face, and I will vanquish her. No hesitation. Her earthy eyes will plead and her smooth arms will swarm her circumference with protest.

And I will be rid of her.

And I will smirk.

Then I may return. I can once again meet the beauty of cerulean. The cellaret of my heart may soon truly contain worthy intoxicating vices, and I will welcome the comfort of mother moon and sister stars–For a time.

I swear, by the time of next Orion-rise, I will be rid of that Brown-Eyed Devil, catalyst from the cavern’s hearth of heart.

Part II: Desolation

January 8, 2009


I return on occasion, in the vaults of a feverous fortress, to the secret gloom that leaks beneath bolted doors. The leaking mists consume the entire space that is the existence I now occupy. But it is behind this one particular door that the gloom has been cultivating within what memories remain; of an uneventful, horrifying, and blatant banality called childhood. Here is where I wreak the most of bitter intentions to slay a beast and make something of my future self.

And it is in these days that I try.

The sky cackles and the lands flood, flashing–Water here to gone and back again. My thoughts follow the seemingly sporadic route the storms have been favoring these days. Crop fields are being converted to wastelands, and I wonder how comparable my state of mind is to these desperate circumstances.

Fountain of Ignorance

Cordial amounts of stammering commence, and this destination is as unclear as a late and laborious harbor day fading into the horizon. The lighthouse toils to bring the small ships to home safely and provokes the tankers from spilling immense death.

This wandering
Results indirectly to certainly painful events.
Being recorded in blurring fury,
The ink runs dry.
Wandering thins out and struggles,
But onward wondering treks.

The socket containing the mind
Unleashes nervously at first,
But as the warming begins
To awaken from a brief slumber,
More and more begin to pass
From the side to sincere.

It is back and forth,
As if old men gathered and chattered for hours—-
Expelling from their breath
Sensuous ideas for how to die after
All the spare time gathered throughout their years.

The difference in circumstance here is that I do not have a lifetime of seasons to browse through. Their catalogue of character-building looms behind feeble eyes, while I only have this marauded youth. I have considerably less then a decade of useful experience to process and convey. Here in my body rests the most sincere fountain of ignorance. It has been cast into an unknown sea.

The Eternal Sea

My chest overflows with sorrow, ribs bulging and heart throbbing for something seemingly unattainable. My dreams are constantly contradicting what desire maintains as my conscious. I am blindfolded, gagged, and my hands are tied behind my back. I am plunged into water, submerged into the depths of some eternal black. I wrestle with panic and delirium, the chance of gulping for air never present. The currant is pulling me. I am tossed and shredded like a leaf in a ravaging storm, limbs and coverings sporadically shredding.

My hands are then suddenly free, this struggle and turmoil stressed the dreadful bounds to their breaking point.

Peel the blindfold from my brow and what do I see? Tell me. It is not azure to orange fucking grey!, that is for sure. I see nothing. I see everything only on the vivid canvas of the mind, painted in precious memories and penciled-in beginnings. But here, outside, I can see nothing. I merely sense with my eyes the absence of light. Black would be too kind of a pigment to assign to this blasphemous and empty vulgarity. And yet, the sea shuffles me with layers of discomfort and strain.

The escape must come. The sea cannot continue forever, and eventually this torso will be supported by hips to legs and feet on firm ground. This is by no means a once again situation. Let me make this clear, pristine as the waters wake I uneasily tread in: I will finally have something, somewhere, eventually, to plant my feet down and call home. This journey may kill me, but certain sects must separate—-Aspects of this self need to die. In the very least, I can say that I tried.

And I am so tired.

My ears have never popped with the relief of pressure. This leaves a senseless residue; strategies of recovery to supply demand for movement. Only minor shifts in substantial pressure have passed from this skull to other parts of the body, but the sum has always maintained its own sort of equilibrium. The result has always been overwhelming stress, until now. This is the time to be out and to finally live.


Most of the time, living is superficial. Meaningless things comfort the self just so it can eat during the waking hours and to sleep at night–Motivation to wake and rise and toil at senseless tasks for hours. And these pitiful Americans have it so easy! The people on the hierarchy below them suffer so much more, the overwhelming majority! Yes, I am too one of this culture, but as one I observe a certain right. I denounce my faith in the putrid desires most call lives! I spit in the face of constitutional and industrial rights.

Fuck off. This mind numbing sense of serenity is not enough! It has never been and it never will be. I will steal it back. Drifting to the shores from an endless ocean, unable to see, is not enough to stop this ragged doll. Merely as a patched up child, that is the sight I need to steal everything–To begin a process of taking back what belongs to a people, a world, and all life as we know it. You can dump all of these bodies into this sea of sunken desires; some will break their bindings and still find shore, while others will sprout wings from their backs and rise as angels.

Horns made from shell or bone, there will be a call to rally, and the feeling of alone will not have any prerogatives, it can only perish.

Love is revolutionary. Love will drag corpses from immortality so that they can lead one happy and mortal life. Love will strike the hearts of the young, the most vulnerable of all ragged minds.

Just please, take the empty away. One ray of light is all we need to find shore…


Facing certain cords of distress,
Be careful-
Do not pull so hard,
Or my heart and guts will flush-
Flesh will flail onto the pavement, beneath
And once again,
Humpty Dumpty will need to be put back together again.
But then,

If you just so happen to pull the cord in just a certain way,
I will reveal to you-
All loves of the world-
And the blemishes covered,
They will be unveiled in a dignified glory.
Diagnosis will be set,
And recovery must then begin.

One must prevail
So another may proceed.
Take the chance of the cords,
And one just might succeed.
Mechanical Heartbeat

The ticking of clocks late in the sleeping hours of night–Well before sunrise, have a way of making the world reverberate the desires of few at an overwhelmingly consistent pace. The floorboards shake, in a sullen way, and do not gripe from their obligation to pulse. The veins of sturdy foundations swell, as the ticking of artificial hearts transfer the beat of ambiguity to the living. It seems so alive at times, planted to help assure the arrival of these wasted lives at specific predetermined times. It is in this that life is sucked out of shaken limbs and blistering core and racking mind. It is here, in fake bodies conveyed as home, life is wasted in the most elegant way—-Traumatic, at times it seems, when awakening at night and finding nothing but silence around.

”I swear it was just here…”

But then again, leave it to this mind to play such bane tricks time and time again.

So late now–This pumping heart has no soul, and no purpose when it comes to anything involving, most importantly, comfort.

Mum, I.

Dearest of Women, but only for my accidental conception–And later, joyous birth; your bosom should never have been trusted for the comfort of a child’s head that needed such desperate support. Oh, how your fleeting self wrecked that damaged head for all of his years to come! Your dependability needs not to be under attack, because your reckless intentions ensured your path to destruction, already cemented in place from previous engagements.

Now his resources run thin. He was thoroughly convinced what was deserved exponentially, there was no desire to give. Trapped now in a self-perpetuated sense of uncertainty, it is a dry and collapsed well. He devours his will down in the dark, and soon the maggots will dig through the soil and have his sulking flesh! He plans not on death, but if he does not escape this state of self-destruction soon, it will be over, the journey, before it had even begun.

Hopeful Discrepancy

I do not believe a sense of peace has ever allowed me rest.
There, now.
Here I reside,
Misfortunate fugitive in the cell of
Desperate, hunger, desire.
Solitary confinement.
Bless me with those cool chains of attachment.
Now I must dissuade comfort to leave me be.

I do not Believe…

Finding Alone

People, faces;
Absorb this time and place,
And the words they speak-
Set the pace,
Wreck on discourse,
Wreck what holds them up.
It is in what they seek.
Take on what comes forth:
Be this cunning—
As weak at the knees as this might be.
Watch us pass.
Watch them pass.
There they pass, watch-
One after another.
This time will not last.
Inevitable fact will pervade the at hand task.


Do not flatter me with such scorn!
Just put me to rest at once:
Waiting on,
And patience leaks through
These spaces in between my fingers-
The delicate fragments of heart!

I am reluctant to say
There are many things of importance;
These ties are alarming—
In which ways will bonds,
The connections we make and break,
Weave this back together
And apart,

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.

Part IV: Renascence

January 8, 2009


The degradation continues, breaking down the sediment of my entire life. This body is composed of opaque waters, but soon I hope this silt will settle with newly added contents, and my essence will resurge. Fortified and refreshed, I will be capable of certain triumphs over sincere demons that have consumed me for far too long. I will be more prepared to shed what has held me back for this entire life.
Surface Tension

We must communicate in ways to remain unheard–Uninterpreted. The poet seeks to contain all pertaining to feeling–Of feeling, of passion, of thought; all resting behind a cascade of words that will mean nothing to those who do not deserve understanding. Concealment; the taxing flask of imminent struggle tucked into the boot between the lines provided, a sense of alluring confusion rooted deep in the soil of the eyes.

A poet seeks to wretch words hardly worth what glows deep in the soul, although the goal is to capture experience in a sincere certainty. And these desperate times wail for epic measures; the decisions erected waste little if nothing is contrived from the muse, for the muse, by the muse. This is how scenes of life are captured in the closest entirety possible. This, I know is certainly fact.

Bread is manageable, but the heart pumps blood–Finickly set, yet the yeast sets in. Toiling slowly at first, they move unnoticed to the untrained cerebellum, eventually festering to the point of no return. Demons disperse but the stress sets in, the moisture of winter licking the cracks of pavement—EXPAND, and fissures appear, splitting lands of various priests, governors of qualms and vice. Spring is near.

Liquid of the flask fills the cracks, as spring requires a timely distress to regress, when a quake shakes the flakes of change, sullen memories overcome the hearts of the young. A special instance when bread is most suitable; feed them, and they will come! Rejoice in haphazardly constructed institutions of recovery; reality, it starts and sets again.

Forget the bitter taste of distain! Forget the enticing brace of lace! For heavens fucking sake, forget all you’ve been taught, for it will mean everything to so few so soon. Little do these letters know, they know much more than most. They say perspective says it all, but retro speaks of style. Fantastic shadows cast down on wind sills, the streetlight pervades the space provided – the barricade. The barricade. The sane are nowhere to be found in this resting silence that follows nourishing wet.

I seek much more than what is read in between lines; nouns, the verbs, the adjectives adding to the momentum–The Sun. The rays ensure certain elements of enlightenment, required to embrace what words these pages cannot convey.

Misery has no struggle to overtake so much, but still, somehow, we seem to find a sense of happiness. Feeling alive is sometimes enough. Pushing through, just to get by, day by day– today? The smell of wet wool and polyester saturates the fabric into a blissful state of decay.

I require certain expectations; satisfaction far under-weighs distress, as I seek more sleep than this body has time for. So strange, surreal even, as if feeling the same amounts to any difference in rest…

We cry now, her and I. But her eyes cast a blessing on the spring. Oh how spring soil seeks to be marshland once again. She thrives; wails and wretches floods upon the land. Irrigation and city sewers will be no match for them. Soon enough. Soon so soon. Enough. Is it enough? Rest now to overcome then, the time will come. Soon enough.

Dispense–Disperse many dimensions of change. Diverge from the machines; digress from their will and their words; cavalry of faith and of death. There is no God to master these shackles; it is simply a man in a dress. Fool made me a man no longer, I only rest this head on her bosom of clouds.

Mum, III.

Dear mother, as sickening as it may feel to me, I desire to help you heal your deepest of wounds and learn to live with scars of old and new. I wish to someday travel with you to show more of the world and to help you find who you really are. You have led a sheltered life, living in a haze of poisons and vices, and now that you can clearly see what is before you; it is finally possible for you to interpret events and other people in a reasonable manner.

Thankfully I resisted you, and escaped your grasp while I had the chance, so now I am even closer to returning to you fully equipped for what our futures have savored. It is only a matter of time. You and I have potential to rise and to become something unique; inspire and teach to learn and love and heal. Now, I consider you my mother only by birth, but do not be hurt. I tell you with all of my sincere certainty that the healed wounds you dealt have scarred and will never fully forgive our past experiences. But with this heart of mine, there will be in every possible future ample opportunity to create something new and refreshing. I would love to someday soon call you my friend, so that we may both enjoy our excrementous life changes.

I believe that the time for us has come; the stars have lined up in such a way for this recent past. Our lives have fallen apart, in substantially different ways, to enhance our ambitious aspirations for unmarked starts in the world. This is our grand opportunity to reach out and to take back what should have been ours so long ago. Like mentioned before, it is inevitable that our paths will cross again, and we will soar–Together, for a time.

Not a day passes that I do not think of you. Thankfully, these thoughts are not the bitter contempt I held onto to keep me safe for such an extended era. I have now come to terms, healed, and have advanced in the forgiving process as far as presently possible.

I do worry about you. Not so much worry of the choices you are making, because you tell me of them on a regular basis; you are finally beginning to think with a clear mind, are learning to sufficiently deal with your social anxieties, and have sincerely given up the toxins that consumed far too much of your precious life. What I do worry about is two-fold; the decisions you make that will set your new lifestyle and the way that you deal with this undoubtedly catastrophic change.

Mother dear, your body is going to start breaking down, and with all of the harm you consumed emotionally and physically, I worry of your potential collapse. I fear if you do not make certain changes, you may succeed in a mental rehabilitation–Quite a success in these days of this age, but it will mean nothing if you fail physically. Both mental and physical health is critical for your overall wellbeing.

Resurgence of the Thief

Silhouettes in the moon consume the view of hidden creatures that scurry about below the line of unscathed forest, so rare to eyes indeed, but even more so to speak of! Unseen and preferred unheard, in civilized life these creatures would be considered the most dangerous of thieves, under lords of questionable origins.


Grimy delight,
Sullen thoughts.
And an angry night.
Fury boils beneath-
Blood surging.
Petulance brims,
Wringing the skin-
Sweating, perspire,
Desire fumes with sin!
Misdeeds are wrought
As thoughts swell.
This skull becomes cramped,
Sinking down,
Seething in
Calm. Relief.
Sensation now takes a neutral state.
There is no need for wrath
In the presence of such a pretty grin.


An owl, she peers down on her prey with such trained eyes-—She must feed her young at this time, every night. With skill such as hers, she eats and feeds when she pleases, but still only takes what she needs. Brilliantly, her kind has been both worshipped and feared in all cultures across the sphere of Earth. The lessons civilized peoples could learn from such distant kin…


It is here I wrest in sullen rest, recovering–No! Fallen in, back into a rotting stupor of mind. Once again. Oh, and how I loathe this all so common and bitter state, yellow grin and grimy face tarring out this poison of eyes.

This silly grin of my childhood has been washed away many times over; leaving now endless stubble as perversion that collects more dirt than can be removed. It seems what little did remain of a child by this girth has fallen into a cascading oblivion, out of desperation, desperately now seeking lighter hearts to restore the vanished potential.

This body has forgotten childhood! losing what little did remain somewhere in the abyss, but yet without feeling adulthood. Not yet meeting the proper criteria for civilized adulthood; There is no desire to absorb, obtain, or maintain such silly expedients! I have surpassed such lugubrious places in life! Pushed to take a parent’s place, I have lived too much of that adult life from a child’s mind–Now, I will never understand the eagerness of children seeking to take their parent’s roles. That is not bearable living! in this culture of death. In the least bit, it is slavery. I refuse to ever again take such unwilling roles! I will stagger and suffer on and off of streets and roofs and rooms of fellow friends, although I feel more and more like I fit nowhere at all.

My friends and my family, we seem to be more and further apart. No. Many more times I feel as if I have pushed my self away. I choose solitude for myself. Solitude. I choose vagrancy for myself. Vagrant living, the bohemian’s life!

I take comfort in the exhilaration of music, degradation from vices, and the companionship of unique minds. Monotonous conversation bores me. Imagery and sensation in character and word, in use, enlighten the mind, and these are the folks I surround around this self. It is a shame, pitiful disaster, as this child’s rearing into servitude, that there are so few who think so clearly.


There are sensations that linger more easily recognized and filling each and every moment with plentiful experience. Still this body aches, and a place to rest this soul is nowhere in sight. I can now confide and seek momentary comfort in others, but any long-term commitments are merely delirious. Any thoughts of something consistent for me, especially with settling down, are ludicrous! So here I reside in limbo–Neither in Heaven or Hell, but containing the worst qualities of both; unbearable servitude, the searing flames of loneliness and uncertain desperation overriding fluctuating desires.

Seemingly there never was childhood. Instead of growing into a cultural set of mores and a sense of self, the sense of self took place too soon and a pace was set too quickly for any cultural chains to clasp very tight. I have broken free in many senses of the word, but despite and beside such make-believe chains, I have barred myself in and swallowed the only key.


I have always been quiet,
And creativity has taken deathly blows
For such ignorance.
I do not daze often,
But I take far too long
Seeking which words to speak.

My actions are impulsive,
Selfish, or even selfless;
All dependent on where my mind resides at any given particular place in time.

Friendly, yes.
Happy, at times.
Bitter relationships with only loves:
Fine coffees, brewed beers, lovely wines,
Distilled liquors, and premium tobacco.
What’s the ratio?

I come quickly to conclusions and assume,
More often than not,
That people develop boredom
Or become hapless around me—
Or perhaps, it is I with them.

Either way,
I have a strong distaste for both
And do not want my precious hours wasted.

I am vain and self-centered,
And therefore,
Believe I am great.
I have transcended conventional thought and belief,
But yet I am struggling to convey it in all so many pages—-
Conceive sentences to volumes of absolutely nothing,
But yet I am so protective of these pages.
This is my sacred text.
Reminding me constantly of
Love, vices, torturous and bitter sensations,
Tedious fleeing doubt,
Momentous reeling thoughts,
Seething villages of memory—-

What wrongs or rights?
The purging that is ruining
My former life and bearing
The most glorious embryo
Of what has yet to come!

I may not be truly happy—-
But satisfaction and a writer’s duty has taken priority.
Hail this life!
Capture lucid thoughts and convert them all,
Passing through the cerebellums net,
And strained to fall into certain strains of sincere placement!

I await an awakening! This ego has tired long ago of such everlasting slumber!


The momentum building here is growing restless to discomforting limits. Tedious? Not. Overwhelmingly frustrating at most, but not ever without reason or purpose. Everything is quite lucid, but I seem unable to react to anything–At all, ever. Stale—-All sensations grew, until hours ago–Over a dozen as of now. I have seen and conceptualized why the shell is reaching the breaking point. Incubation has very little preparation remaining.


Mature. Reaching limits.
Dream, of something beyond.
Grow. Exceed all limitations.
Seek. Discover the fabrications,
Admire or destroy the seams.
Enhance the way life seems.
Re-order. Fit any desired purpose.
The mediums at disposal are infinite.
Disposal? No.
Create discreet amounts of waste.
Displace all bodies that get in the way.
Meaningless ambitions are to be tossed,
Let them dissipate and accept no loss.
Gains meant for further insightful gloss,
A protecting layer dispatched from heart.
A moss they are,
Grow always facing North,
Guide and direct in unheard of ways. But,
Silence can be just as effective if given the chance to-
A sacred message,
Meant to convey the best of intentions-
Maintaining sensations,
But keeping it from view-
Depending on
The blind sight of those who know not what to seek.
To keep a secret. Shush. Lull.
Resolve will meet all that is sought.


Comfort is found, in a sullen way, in the rabid sense of the electrified heart. The overbearing stimulation forces this body to shutter. I ache from sky to thighs, knees shaking with desperation, and I wish this ego were no so large. Maybe then, the swelling of my head would go down from time to time.

I burn my lips, if slightly, on purposeful bliss. I wipe the perspiration with the bandana on my neck–Symbology of everything I stand with or against.

Searching in All the Wrong Places

I have always known I would some day leave that place. It is an innate feeling in me, an instinct to flee and find more suitable alternatives. This is true in all areas of life. I fled the confines of Christian prisons, ideals of Imperialist Demoncracy, and many coordinating sects of domination spiraling down the throat of Patriarchy. I aspire to flee the entire asylum of tedious beings and toiling factory slaves. And some call them free, call this freedom–How dare they insult those on their knees, but it compares not at all to the disrespect they serve even themselves!

I have fled both surly and soothing lovers! I have left behind dear friends and feared enemies, strangely for the same tiresome reasons. I have fled from rotten lust and lurking souls, and I have replaced many of them, except for the ideology of home. My family has been left, if all of these only for temporary. But, most importantly of all, I sought to flee dangerous ambitions. Leaving behind many ideals and institutions is no challenging feature, but not even courageous expeditions to the end of the world can free one from memory. My childhood and adolescent years lurk around each and every single corner. There is this mist that devours the air I seek to breathe.

Seemingly hopeless, onward I travel, seeking what remains to be eternally shifting.

I seek those who can be inspired, those who heal and need help themselves. I want to share compassion, a feeling that requires effort from both sides to efficiently soothe hearts in disrepair. Up to this point, I have struggled with loneliness, but I believe I am looking for solutions in all of the wrong places. I can delve my mind for eternity, but others hold the answer. Loneliness is not to be overcome as an expedient for independence. I know this now.

I had it all wrong, this entire time I have been toiling onward towards nothing.

Loneliness inspires the purpose to push creation of new ideas and spaces by inviting new concepts into the mind. Loneliness is a cog on the hub of change. Creation can incubate in the fragile fertility of soil. But, as always, loneliness has the capacity to create or destroy with no remorse. By allowing indiction of self to set in, the mind, especially that cog of loneliness, will stimulate decay immediately and disintegrate to the point of no regeneration. This is the moment of drowning in that eternal sea.

Rid the self of doubt

Dispatch lies for better hopes.
Return the sulking for simple roles-
Fleeting sensations,
And bitter words sown
In the mind.
Benevolent tides will remain restless
Until the objective is met.
For this, revolving moons must converge-
Become closer to relative thought-
Kindly surreal,
With crying reels spinning spans-
The deep blue sky. Weaving,
Words will never be enough,
Not to sustain certain selections
Mirrored in the sea-
Perfect spread of crystal clear haze,
The uncertain gaps between;
Truth. Doubt.
Minimize this space that I can do without.

The Hourglass

Sometimes when viewing the hourglass, the fallen sand on the edges can trigger memories, covered many years gone past. When the view is secured to falling sand in moments such as this, what is past and future are easy to converge.

Sincerity slips easily from the banks, drifting through sand and rocks, heading seaward. The undercurrent pulls sincerity out of sight, past memories vanished, and when the time comes for return, specific questions must be probed to understand; how serious is this? Where did dedication fit? To what degree can you defend this stance? Can you really, honestly from the depths of your cavernous heart, believe what spills from your lips!?

“Your subtle lips reek of lies and deceit; I can not take the sense of your presence any longer! Get out! Vanish from this place, this time, this life!”

Sincerity needs to be anchored in the heart, as to maintain feelings of memories passed on, whether to other souls or to the back of the mind. To let go of the ambivalence of a memory, sorrow or glee, is to lose the memory’s primary purpose, indefinitely. Equally as important to holding on, is attaching a sense of certainty before passing a memory into the banks of correlative times—-It is to sort everyday experience from that of the surreal. Relevance will recall certainly sincere before shallow and vain discreet–I have seen it happen far too many times before.

The importance of memory to survival as a person and a community is unequivocal, except to basic needs of all life forms. Memory is the basis of human ingenuity, and experience can only be recalled on the basis of certainty and sincerity. Without these, memories are vainly hollow, remarkably discreet, and will devour our sense of self—-The mind would become a fallacy; machines taught to determine a black and white right from wrong.

Pain and sorrow maintain the well-being of this person as much as sensual passion and gleeful experience—-One can be weighed or valued without proper mental attachment. Comfort is found, in the most sullen way, in the rabid sense of this heart being electrified from vice. Overbearing stimulation forces this body to shutter—-I ache from sky to thighs, knees shaking—shaking with desperation. I wish this ego were not so large at times. Perhaps then the swelling of my head would go down.

I burn my lips, if even the slightest bit, on purposeful bliss. This summer night reeks with torpor as I whisk away the moisture, perspiration with…


This light shines through the mist of a cool night’s breath,
Breathing in consignment of wrath-
This is my pain,
I sustain this endurance.

The waxing moon adds to the glow of this hearth-
I am so tired,
But I am alive.
Despite the faith that crosses my fate-
I fall, fail, and tire-
But yet I strive.

Circulation loses momentum in these hands,
But yet on I write-
Desperation thrives.
Overcast of the week vanishes,
With but a trace of fog-
But the day will come in,
With a menacing storm.
Onward I wait,
Forward I drive.


Fury bursts and cannot be nulled!
Ambition swells and refuses the lull of this people,
Most particularly on such a captivating day as this,
Provoked by sensuous swells settling about-
We are spellbound,
In such ways that will never become atrophied by the
Broken overcast of facades,
Overriding the cityscape’s cement slates.

Fury bursts and will not be nulled,
Ambitions swell once again!
Provoked by sensuous swells on streets.
The clouds move in,
Reflection of waves on two separate lakes,
As one,
Take it in with all five senses.
Two fronts swelling overhead and around.
Clashing—-The flooding!
There are no trite correspondences here, there, or anywhere!
The momentum sporadically straggles the encompassed streets

Break down collections of introspection-
Seek the paradigm,
The scene underlying and surrounding this Earth of faith.
A repugnant pace of desire set between-
Upon, isthmus—Instance;
Recollect all thoughts frozen in this sliver of distance the sun has covered,
Just before.
Restore memory.
Absorb pure and abstract stations set-
Discourage the toxins!
Ablation will cure and rest lasting effects on outlook.
Settling wet condensation on dust
And dirt for precipitating sights.

Requiring, at most, a certain reverie with a sincere store of experience.
One that seeks nothing more than to transverse
The globe into spoken words-
Crashing thunder strikes overhead, see it! Hear it!
Trust in this dismal sort of dismay-
Rocks of mountainside will crumble,
Rot on to sandy dreams-
A beautiful tree grows through a road-
Calling desperately out-
Reaching sky to distant ears.

It requires a certain mind with a sincere store of experience,
One that seeks nothing more than to transverse
The music of world into spoken words-
Crashing thunder overhead, Unheard! Unseen!
Trusting any sort of doubt,
What will be capable in the coming days…?
Watch the shores slowly rot-
In sky, off sea, out ears.


This high burns my veins with ambition, as treachery lies around every corner. I move forth, dodging the past, progressively passing the shackles. Wrath of the upper-class, monstrous momentum behind their claws. Ruling. Abiding. Ever watching…

Step before myself, and teeter on this edge. The undertow lies below, but I must not fall in unless sheepishly I choose to taste and waste until the end of my days. I need no drink of dismay.

Forlorn, I feel as if it is, was, necessary for me to dump a large portion of what was left of seasons past over the despairing edge before me. Yes. Now I may complete myself. Now I may erect my potential, hold against the many towering divinities that encompass all that surrounds. They are possessed with my dismantle and complete removal from this place of rest. But it is here, for now I remain, consciously profound.

Left the unneeded baggage, soon to physically embark on a mental journey. The only taxes to be paid will be those of enforcing charms of charisma and endurance.

Volumes of verse will pay respected dues, well worth and owed. I owe so few and expect my best.

Pretty memories-
Subsequent stout.
Hazy frenzies,
Of laughter and doubt.

I will be hailed delirious before a dire genius.