Mystery Market

Wearing the black of a sea traversing merchant,

I stand in a square with nothing but sums on my mind,

Beyond the spent fortunes of days as a servant,

One eye cast low and long for those riches men can’t hide,

My wares an assortment to enchant the purest beasts,

Of a grade to quench even the swelling thirsting of the earth,

From that place where the Moon’s Shadow sleeps,

Back to the sharpened edge of the unfinished dream I prefer,

Customers with strange customs oblige with desire,

Without which their manner would be most uncommon,

A need in any world comes full circle and never expires,

Just as life takes every drop of blood without ever stopping,

I offer them not only what they want but what their made for,

Something in the abstract a taste that leaves a quaking tingle,

Never a handshake or deep embrace while there is a world to explore,

A trade at fair price with the devil in the details,

A mark on the soul is a game target for the burning third eye,

When beating hearts clash with swords honour pales,

Blackened hammers with dull minds grace surely dies,

Quick fingers change destinies and flatter with humour,

A trick not acknowledged is still a lesson even far from the seas,

What you now have will eternally hold you in stupor,

What I now have you will one day beg for on your knees…

 

Black Mist Woods

The hood of my long cloak casts a shadow on my face,

My eyes down cast, staring at the ground as if wishing it away,

But the carpet of dead leaves, insect bones, and moist earth,

Are as real as the dreams I didn’t ask to be there,

This side of the world is mine by design,

I pray to it with silence and it hears me through the torment,

The paths from here are many, tangled and inviting,

In the same way that a ghost’s hand might be said to be welcoming,

I’m coming some time just give me one more chance,

The first step like crossing a starving chasm with a black hunger,

My still roots burn holes through hell,

I cannot leave until I understand the face of danger,

Looked upon it as if in anticipation of a noncommittal kiss,

But how am I to know what is so far from the why,

Forever will one day see me bleed through my bark,

Will it be here amongst others that would be like me,

Or will it be beyond these woods where misty entanglement leads,

I go against my very nature by allowing thoughts to wander,

They may never return,

Leaving me to be what I think I am,

But without them I can only feel I am,

Feel I am here,

And that is all that matters,

For even over there,

If I feel,

Then I know I’m still here…

tr-igg-ere-d

smudged thumb print on the second last petal

imprint of a feeling that hungered

snap back with the stinging as the red shows

a wounded flower so pretty in its pose

still pretty with only one hope left

clinging to the base of its blossom with cloying grandeur

at least it thinks

at least it continues to define the whole

apart from the stem

the others sigh green

why always this one

always the last one born

so pretty can’t you see

its edges catch reflecting raindrops

with swirling smiles from the sun

moon

and stars

it could command the galaxies this one

leaving four fingered prints on their lenses

making them so giddy they’d spill their soil

exposing all routes

there would be truth in that

a way at the very least

to make its detachment

seem

alright

Dead Volcano

That sound is amazing: the sound of freedom is a muted scream

Falling ashes suspended in a dream, where tear drops are rain drops

And life is still.

The heart is still blazing: the heart that gives blood

Black red like burning oil fields, the love, an obsidian flow

Hissing on the surface and simmering on the inside.

 The memory, that memory, is seared: the memory now void of truth

In a vacuum I age back to my youth, blinded by miscomprehension

I see a rigid future.

The sight is a beauty: sight is a cruelty when taken as it is

Dilated pupils floating in their sockets like dead fish, in the sea

 Tired of tasting salt.

Old bones turn to ash: aching bones make that music

In my wake shadows dance looking foolish, with gaping mouths

Like swallowed reflections.

Time is travel: there’s no time like now to go nowhere

The speed of life is a living nightmare, death is the pit lane

The past just a deserted wasteland.

The meaning is lost: the meaning which means nothing to any other

My mouth filled with molten lava, the world is populated with spies

Sabotaging self.

No outcome is fixed: so out come the mixed messages

Every effort effortless, until

We die.

Dead Volcano

Sea Me

Backwards and forwards in crashing circles, motions all day
and night without reason, except maybe to agree to universal law, a chaotic
purpose given to create order, ever changing with a nature still always
certain, still always clear, still always mysterious, still…yet always full
of life, of itself, with itself and providing a whole majestically wet world
for many, symbolically representing the inner worlds of those that cannot dwell
in her turbulent depths, the ocean, so mercilessly green at times, hypnotically
blue at others, inclined to the occasional complete hue of grey, when the sky
frowns down with the weight of its fears, up close I realise you are actually
see through, open, void of pretence, inviting me into your world, into your subconscious
where you hold many secrets, a wealth of the unknown…

People Eaters

Docile Memories
in an unassuming world, Living the life of those untold

Visions of
mastery wisdom unlearned, Glimpses of jagged battle worn souls

Tales of the
fallen tests of glory, Moments unkind at best are gory

Nights spent
poorly devastate destinies, Hurt felt sorely invigorates Memories.

º

 Sounds from wombs travel in liquid silence, Heard
by none the meaning is clear

Nascent findings
unregistered cerebral mileage, Immaculate tidings sins appear

Faith of the
damned remorse of the blessed, Repent for the sake of the comatose message

Naked without
dressing falling from the clouds, Hoping confessions have no Sounds.

º

Searching Merchants
lost in turbulent seas, Oblivious to heights of the natural order

Mysteriously dangerous
danger is a mystery, Who knows what lies across the border?

A truth so evil
it reads like a face, Or a lie so lovely it leaves a saccharine taste

Brimming base
desires unwind like serpents, Fake dreams sold by decadent Merchants.

º

The macabre Details
on tombstones encrypted, Tell nothing of a living man’s delights

Endlessly sought
perversions are shifted, The re-embodiment of incalculable insights

Pave the way for
the sorrows of ghosts, The foes of the merry cannot boast

At most the fabric of humour remains, The sincerity lost within the fundamental Details.

º

The price of a
Lesson is paid in bone and flesh, Forget your change when you don’t own time

Coming or going
you get what you get, Welcome to the now what’s yours is mine

Demand with no
supply is a black market woe, But only if you learn how to let go

The ears on the
wall have only one question, Have you learned your worldly Lesson?

The Fire Breathing Nun Who Stepped In Dog Doodoo

“Learn to
control your feelings or else they will control you. Learn to still your
thoughts or else you will be stilled by your thoughts.”

Imagine the typical imagine of a nun dressed
in the commonly known black and white outfit with a veil. Imagine a nun dressed
in such a way with the most angelic of faces representing everything pure,
devote and serene. Such a nun would be the epitome of discipline, reserve, self
control and worship. Nuns are so respected in many societies, even ones where Christianity
is not popular, simply because they represent something holy whether the
observer identifies with them or not.

Now imagine that same nun having the most
beastly and vivacious desires contained deep within under the holy garments,
behind the mystifying veil, deep within her very being. Imagine the most
intense human feelings, colourful memories and dreams that must be suppressed
deep down inside within her being. There is no human being that escapes these
most basic and subconscious needs otherwise I doubt there would be need for a
person to be born if not to learn how to deal with the challenges presented by the
fulfilment of these needs.

The symbol of a nun can also be a metaphor
for life for life at times seems like a battle between the force of the needs
and the application of discipline. Indeed it seems that when a person finally
decides to do something about the challenges in their life and instil a bit of
discipline to achieve these aims that is exactly when the temptations become more
intense. Think about it. When was the last time you tried to give up anything
whether it was chocolate, coffee, cigarettes, sex with shallow men or loose
women, drinking, gambling, social networking or whatever? Chances are the
second you made that decision to quit and apply discipline there was suddenly
an abundance of opportunities to do the very thing you had decided to give up.

It almost seems like the more serious you are
about your convictions and the more effort you exert in trying to follow your
aims the stronger the temptations and the more ubiquitous the undesirable. It almost
seems like the harder you try the harder the universe tries to teach you a
lesson or at least to prove you wrong. You strive, you give it your all and you
actually do quite well until you make a small mistake and then you come down
hard on yourself, forgetting the effort you have put into getting to where you
are. Then you start again and keep at it and chances are you will fall again
but the challenge is in getting up again and again and again.

At times this cycle can be so infuriating
that it makes you want to scream like a tormented banshee until you burst into
white and crimson flames that burn until there’s nothing left of you except
charred cinders. It leaves you feeling insanely incredulous like when you step
in dog doodoo. Most people know this feeling of being disturbingly wronged, embarrassed
and literally soiled all at once, which comes with stepping in dog doodoo.

It has been many years since I stepped in dog
doodoo and in fact I do not actually remember. What I do remember is how when
it happens it leaves you reeling in disgust and fury that all you want to do is
get a double edged blade, chainsaw or sulphuric acid and use it to cut off the unfortunate
appendage that happened to land in the brown matter. I don’t know if it is
worse to actually see yourself stepping into the dog doodoo or to realise after
a while that there is a putrid smell that has been following you for a while
only to discover the sordid mess under your own shoe.

Either way the smell is acrid enough to bring
horror to your face, contorting your mouth into a miserable ‘U’ shape, violently
flaring your nostrils like excited sea creatures in a coral reef, and bringing
tears to your eyes. I do not believe that people after a certain age have any
business stepping in dog doodoo, it just seems like such a child like thing to
do. There was once a time in my childhood when stepping in dog doodoo seemed as
natural and mandatory as grazed knees and not eating your vegetables. When the
days ended that I played frivolously with silly friends in the grass my dog
doodoo stepping days were officially over.

Maybe the fact that my dog doodoo stepping
days are over is a good portent for my chances in understanding the great
cycles of this life. Maybe I am becoming a great nun – metaphorically speaking
of course. Maybe, just maybe, I am growing and understanding that it is
necessary to feel like exploding when I have made an error or slipped with my
discipline, if only it is to make me more determined the next time I try. The truth
is I will never give up trying…