Do you mind the friendly gaze of direction? I would sure like to talk about whatever comes to mind. Or how about a look of acceptance, in this world that never seems to rest? I do have a secret place in mind, where none will find comfort–except for these restless bones. In this alcove above, after evening falls, the heavens are masqueraded by light-pollution. It is here that i confide in the city.

Things have been steadily moving forward; days cease to begin as soon as they end, some have passed relentlessly disgusting, while others move on more painfully annoying. Others now drift by carelessly in the sun. Regardless of the bitter contrast between then and now, the reflection of my stay in this place has awakened a sense of sheer optimism. This is my ‘First Breath After Coma’. Although i took some time to recluse not too long ago, the days are now warm and the nights are brisk. I believe simplicity may provide some very interesting devices for the future.

I choose to live among such luxurious vices for a few simple reasons; I believe it may grant a chance for digestion in between thoughts or states of mind, it allows acquaintances to set aside their differences and bond for friendship’s sake, it also creates a medium in which strangers may come together and share the trials they have endured. But really, it is to understand the complexities of the world and to share simple experiences. It is for black coffee, never over ice to know that my teeth are still alive. It is for this i live, the deep breath of freshly roasted seeds as beans. And luxury can even be for the evenly spread tobacco, with the thin paper in between my fingers guided by lush cotton into my lungs; a lowly cigarette, simply to understand how satisfying a fresh breath of air is.

Although this late night has brought quiet, Madison is hardly ready for slumber. In a haze, this city moves stumbling before the capitol of the state. And in an increasing sobriety i wander to places left unforeseen–why null experience with expectations of the future?

But i can identify the difference between a future and a stumbling repeat of the past–There are taxis that pass with blurry passengers, and cause me to reminisce on the lonely city i left behind. It is this new city that has the potential for both ambitious defeat and an ambiguous success. It is here that lies can be defeated by a sense of propriety.

Sobriety may be left behind until class begins again.


I came out of a doze slowly, just as the fourth track comes to a resounding crecendo. The guitar melodically bleeds dry until the double bass-drum revives the entire band into a distorted and ambient pace. And i can feel slobber all across my face. I open my eyes to find it has cascaded down my pillow, soaking the bed sheets below. My internal clock believes it is time to wake up, and the digital clock agrees. With the stereo off and my shoes tied, I escape to my secret place once again. Out the window i climb. As i make my way to the top of the make-shift ladder, i am greeted by gleeful hornets and the late-afternoon sun. It is here where masterpieces will be contrived; among the vents, wisping treetops, and a great view of Madison’s favorites. This is ‘The Only Moment We Are Alone’.

Consider this city my new home. I have almost nothing left behind me and have been storing a momentum inside for these past years. Through all of the words jotted, hearts broken, and tires popped; it was all for this time and the opportunities of a breathing city. The ambition is truly swelling, and it fills my vessel faster than i can bail it out. Already i am running myself ragged with tasks. My mind is full from the words consumed and the lack of sleep, as my body is sore from the constant motion of limbs. But there are no complaints from bailing vessels so hard because it only means i have to learn how to live faster.


My life in Appleton lacked a tremendous amount of sustenance. I was stumbling through my mornings in a sharpe distaste for life. My hope and ambition had left me somewhere in autumn, among the leaves and the fresh scent of rain and subtle decay. That room i occupied for rent was a cell of inaccuracy, with the bleak walls and a raging furnace. And although the winter was a trying time, the transition to spring was most bleak of all. The life around seemed to regenerate while i withered away. Slowly spring became summer’s sticky inferno, and the inaccuracy was replaced by a silently submerged cavern beneath the surface of the sea called life. It is in these underwater caverns that I replaced one residual smoke for another.

This cavern was essentially a large carpet square in my mother’s basement. I had sworn to myself that i would never live again under any circumstances under a common roof with my mother, but circumstances had stripped me of my savings; i had a very limited set of sensible decisions. One of which was to move back in with my mother so i could afford tuition, books, and rent in my home-to-come. But it was here i discovered the potential momentum. It was here i actualized what was going to happen ahead of me in my new home of Madison. More so, i could finally see the end of my life in Appleton, the epitome of my empathy. I subdued my angst and trudged through what little time i had remaining. It would only be a short time before i proved to myself that “The World Is Not a Cold Dead Place’.


After those last ‘Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean’, the morning came when a vessel took my comrade and me to the golden opportunities of Madison. I am sure we both have our own reasons for this change in place, but Appleton was detrimental to my well-being and i could feel the world slowly crumbling around me. Now that we have arrived, a passive elasticity has erupted and the happy medium of spontaneous and routine has set in. After finishing my first assignments for the semester, i reward myself with the first cigarette of the day.


The old routines of living with my mother set in with one significant difference; instead of her always being out for the alcohol, she has been trapped inside her home sober. She is now living up to her past mistakes and is trying to make up for lost time. I have to give her plenty of credit because she has overcome momentous demons to achieve her status of remaining in sobriety. This significant change in mood still has work to do, and is marked most significantly by our clash in perspective.

Although this is always how i wanted things to be growing up, during times when i held more responsibility than a child should expect, it had become tedious dealing with her motherly instincts and i could seek nothing but a sense of coma. This was not a time for rest, but yet i longed for it each and every evening after work. The problem was that i felt as if i didn’t have a home to return to. My previous inconsistency was more appealing than the cavern of unfortunate rewards for responsibility.

The coma i set myself in was just one way to minimize the time i came into contact with her. But the late, sometimes intoxicating nights, often resulted in an ever increased irritability on top of my usual struggle to roll out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately my mother would rise with the sun; so there the clashes began every single morning in suburbia.


As I wake this morning, my head is swelling and my breath seethes parched. I groan over the motions to stand and begin the day. “Ride the Drive” met my expectations for a morning smothered in dehydration. Riding down John Nolen Drive while automobiles have been replaced with bikes and kites beside shimmering lake Monona is enough to put all physical fatigue aside and simply enjoy life.

This ride is granting me an opportunity to sort out recent emotional drift; even things put to rest work their way back to shore. It is simply the way of the world. Patterns emerge and cycles continue, and this always directs the current of life. And it is this current here i relate with; the rhythm of pedaling allows me to glide across such a metaphorical water with ease. The rhythm is almost hypnotic at times, as it is pulling a trance out of the cerebellum to the frontal lobe where the sea of mind meets sight.

Things are never quite as they seem, but i believe this is my time for retribution. I am sure things will be trying, and as restless as always, but my sense of judgement indicates that life is finally coming together. This city is the fresh starting point for the rest of my life. The abyss is behind me and will never hold my soul or feast on my heart again. it is here that i may look forward to ‘Your Hand in Mine’.


May 4, 2009

Dreams pervade and do not convey
What they initially seem to say!
There is much more depth in the debts
Owed to the self,
Not concerning the return to miserable stakes
Relating to perishing states,
But the subconscious metaphor
Must be devoured
and digested before
These feet will consider straying
from the designated course.
Sincerely speaking,
the times shall continue forward
As the search hardly commences.
(although, it began so long ago)


The dream screamed of that presence, and my first thoughts were worry. It was just another dream, merely a subconscious crafting of a feeling and the person connected to such bliss. The aching passion has torture and doubts; they are no longer present. Remaining is the acceptance of the situation and the general direction of my life.

January 10, 2009

These winter days are not so terrible, especially when the sun warms eyes so worn. But there is little to enjoy when trapped indoors as a slave to wages not quite being seen.


The righteous are hardly worth spending time on, and rightly so, for they place themselves on iron perches above you and i. From time to time they meander down to assimilate themselves among the land of the living–But how foolish they are because those surviving see right through their guises. Why would the holy righteous even try? it is no surprise, really?

Those with vision too clouded or worn are sometimes fooled, and a self-glorifying righteous leaks out to meet holy sin–Do not fall to their pressure to assure their position! Warn your peers of this sullen hypocrisy, avoid the employment of treacherous hierarchy!

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.