Dona Galore's voice

 Gardening your voice
I plane it out with every syllable
I utter the correction
I overflow over it

Sound is my dragon my keeper
I aspire to become duke of the mountain where it lives
The early Earl of these graceful rocks and voice
provocative forests that are colored just the right shade

I ask for your echo to ring out through this very valley
So I can capture that voice on the breeze
Bouncing back to me directly
I'll be gardening that voice

Planting your words in a line
Cultivating them until they reluctantly flower
In my own scarred hands
For the privilege of their scent

Unashamedly their taste Dona Galore

Back on the rail with gramps

 Curiously enough my reddish skinned grandfather Eric appeared as I wandered up the rusty lines of the railway willows and pines on either side, giving me the option of avoiding the fake sun.
The fake sun wasn't fake because it was cold or not present.
It was fake because like the world I found myself in, it is all simulation.
Something built to ferment the soul, so that our giant afterlife God may drink us down.

Digest us as we transform into the energy it needs to shit out the next galaxy.
Or piss a supernova, or if it's like some of you vomit backholes.
Curiously my grandfather doesn't buy that story.
He says God wouldn't be subject to mere bodily functions.

That the supposition is highly ridiculous.
Is that wisdom or a slowly distilled bucket of doctrine the prune of man has been drinking.
I'd call it wisdom. There's something spirit numbing about walking these train tracks with the presence of Eric right next to me. He told me his cat interpreted God as a successful hunt. A carpenter would translate God as the concept of construction itself.

Again the trees thinned and there were but shrubs beside us. I could smell the fake fragrance of meadows. Like the overperfumed dress of the promdate you failed to cajole.
Was I too interested words old man? Is that where my notion of God went?
Into vocabulary. Am I the last poet In this rugged old purgatory.

never before have i been so frustrated as I looked at my grandfather's face and he slowly uttered the words that would bother me more than the swinging seedheads.
"ohhhh, well... Sort of."

Bandit in the gym

 The smell of steel and sweat
The ghost of the morning
melting the frost
breaking into the day

First I'm a bandit
Then I'm a king
An interloper
Then the only native

I smell sunlight
Breaking through
Heating the day
lurking like a bandit

I feel like a weight
the one I'm lifting
One exhausting me
breaking through to failure

Sun hits my face accusingly
It's warmth makes me reinvest
I admit I am not halfway there
My bandit energy accumulating

Phil and Eric on their way

 Like I said these two had left the yellow trainstation.
When I say trainstation there were no real trains. It was the ruin of an old trainstation.
From a time that never was here in this place that is not supposed to exist. But it does.
They headed off after years and years of deliberating in this silly little railway shack.
I can only guess they followed the rail lines.

There used to be a town here too.
When I had my vision back in 2022 I saw my father cross the town.
There were other souls there, traffic and houses. A sense of the familiar.
He had a rucksack and crossed the railway line out of town.
He didn't talk to anyone or stop for anything. It was like he was pulled to the yellow shack.
The one on the edge of this town that no longer exists. Weeds and the most aggressive seedlings have taken it over. Obscuring any sign of the once quaint village.

Old man Eric started getting his hair back. His leg had grown back. But my father was sill impatient.
I saw them only in dream, I could not join them, I was flung into some bigger spiritual scandal. probably because something I wrote.
But I saw them and followed their journey
The trees became shrubs and shrubs just tall weeds.
The seedheads on the weeds were incredible fat. it suddenly made sense that the countryside was riddled with it.
Those seed heads slapped against their cordoroy jeans in places where the plant had embedded itself closer to the tracks.

My grandfather grinned. he grinned a grin that could grace his face for an hour, as if an epiphany had rippled out of him. But there was actually no great insight or idea whatsoever. The man was just happy to have the limited heat of the fake sun and the company of my father walking beside him.

School in the ruins

 The class was outdoors because all of the structures were destroyed.
The woman teaching us was a warm bubbly 42 year old pale skinned brunnete.
She would cut or mix something on the big table infront of the class.
And her curly brown hair would kick up to and fro.

I thought she was very smart and charismatic.
The idiots sitting next to me distracted me from her class.
But i paid attention evenso.
After the class she invited me to speak to her.
I was hardly 19 years old and I was nervous in her presence.
Of course I wouldn't admit that to anyone.

She invited me to sit in the front row the next day.
She would make room for me.
I thanked her.
Then her younger and even more beautiful women friends came.
They would go cross country to the next village over to press grapes.
Hopefully they would bring some wine back from last years squeeze.

Exits, aggression and an empty shop

 I entered the shop carefully because it was also an alley away from the stinking church ruins. I thought ther might be someone there to mug me. Something almost as bad was waiting in there.
I must have looked a mess because the man's face became harsh and an accusatory frown formed on his face. He pulled a dagger and locked eyes with me.
"I don't want anything from you, I am just passing through your shop to get out of the courtyard, the barbarians have brought down the walls and gates. There is no other exit." I pleaded with the man.

"Don't I know it." The man said gritting his teeth.
Looked like he really thought I might try to rob him. He held the culter out from his body as if it was a threat not just to me but to his own body.
I put my palms up in a gesture of non aggression. It made no difference, the man followed me closely until I had left his shop. 

The desperate clenched face was still as aggressive and tight as it had been when I entered the shop.
As I turned back to look at the man and tell him that obviously he hadn't needed to be so aggressive, it struck me that his shop was absolutely empty.
Everything was already stolen.
The defensiveness had become his default response.

Carinae church

 The bombed out church had been converted to a shelter for old fat sixty and seventy year olds.
Some of them in reasonable health, others lepers who could hardly rise form the pew.
They lay there in the church chamber the entire eastern wall missing.
Letting the sun light up the place up as there was no candles.
I saw one of the younger of the lot unsuccessfully attempt to turn, cursing under his heaves.

Infact, Most of the old men were squirming having spent days lying on the pews.
Others had started up long conversations mostly nostalgic in nature.
The church might still collapse I worried as I stood on the outside, looking in.
A begger looked up from his sitting place on the street and told me he knew what I was thinking.
"You think the whole building will collapse, don't you?"

I said nothing to the begger as his face showed sadistic amusement.
Instead I looked on as another overweight man adjusted himself on the pew.
His skin blotchy and yellow his face contorted in pain.
The day was hot, there were no one to fan them anymore, and absolutely no wind.
So the lot of them lay in their states pouring with sweat.

Onlookers wouldn't stay long. The stench put them off it.
In one corner facing each other two of the oldest sat at a small table.
They were playing Ludus a perfect line of sun lighting up their board.
Satisfaction on their faces, they were not at all bothered by their surroundings.
I desperately wanted to reach out to know their secret.
But they were too entrenched in their game.

Solitude is nurture

 I stumbled upon the yellow trainstation of purgatory.
My Grandfather and father took a train from here.
Severing an entire leg
Severing a sanity

It must be two centuries since they painted these panels
Seems fresh to me
Somewhere corner of my eye a fox
No a ghost, no the breeze

And no train to come for another decade of these years
The solitude seems like nurture
This lonliness seems to sustain the hungry nothings that make up me
The millenia behind the veil and where are all the other souls?

I guess they all paired up and danced their way to heaven
All I have is this old yellow train station
My grandfather's appartion pops by to roll himself a cigarette
To eat a sweet and state the obvious

There's no hope for me but take a drag and chew the sugar
I check my pack and everything i need is lacking
I'd stick it out on these rusty tracks
In the fake sun

Out of the corner of my eye a wolf
No a ghost of myself, looking back blaming
This solitude seems like nurture
The minds stirrs inside my head as if it were a...
separate creature

Even in the dullness of purgatory where they built me up new
What has remained are these traumas and this burning sensation
That the lesser known truth of purgatory
eternity passes much slower here

Unlovable writer

 The Price of Becoming.
Why do still see nothing here?

That's why I almost laughed when you said:
You wanted someone to love you for you.

Where I'm from,
love always came with conditions.
Invisible contracts.
Outlined expectations.
You earned it or watched it disappear.

No one told me,
I could simply exist.
So I learned another language.
Journeyed the world alone.

Alone felt more real,
than conditional friends and family.

Achievement.
Performance who am I?
Seek applause, search spotlight.
Perfection no illusion as destructive.
Choreography that I criticize 

They dance imitating the fool I am!

A little desperate to grow,
A child.
Of becoming whatever earned another glance.

Hunger for recognition.
Why your attention feels
like water after years of drought.
Every compliment,
patches a sore but...
bleeding insists by morning.

I'm not more
than an empty shape,
Ghost on a yo-yo string,
rising with praise,
plunging with silence.

Mistaking encouragement
for good meaning.

You may hate me
because I seem impossible to love.

I was a child.

Some days I get that myself vibe.

Other days I'm just reflecting my style of ugly.

Producing weather

 The ball of fire lifts up from the snow
It grows despite the cold
the snow on the pines falls
Thumb over the fire

But the fireball doesn't go out
It just reformed and burned still
That fire is my heart
the snow is melting

the heart beats the veins obey
The cold strangles but no effect
The land is quiet bandits hide
Waiting for gossip and their graves

My heart is the fireball
The frozen sky doesn't injure it
Infact as it burns I'll make it rain

The depths and the shallows

 Then don't you worry.
You look so good almost everyday.
And on those days you don't...
You look quite dangerous.

My eyes have lives of their own.
People want me to control myself.
But there's nothing that can hold me back.
Then I go forward like a blind shark.

I bite down and take out a chunk from a larger predator.
I must try every kind of flesh there is.
I eat the strongest and the helpless with the same voracity.
I dive deep then surface into the shallows.

I am one of those unknown creatures.
My mind is one big ocean.
Don't fall in now.

Seicht und tief

 Denn mach dir keine Sorgen
Du siehst gut aus fast jeden Tag
Und an den Tagen, an denen du das nicht tust
Siehst du umso gefährlicher aus

Meine Augen haben ein Eigenleben
Du willst, dass ich mich kontrolliere
Es gibt nichts, was mich zurückhält
Dann gehe ich vorwärts wie ein blinder Hai

Ich beiße zu, reiße Stücke aus einem größeren Raubtier
Ich muss alles probieren
Ich fresse das Kräftige und Hilflose gleichermaßen
Ich tauche tief und tauche wieder auf

Ich bin eine dem Menschen unbekannte Kreatur
Meine Vorstellungskraft ist ein großer Ozean,
Fall nicht hinein.

Sky's alive with music

 The music rushed down from the rolling clouds
Flush out the ones we love onto roadway
Bakery cleaner sweeps and smiles
street hobo speaks to himself

Poser poses tries his macho best
Noone is impressed yet noone is out
The music rushed everyone
But they all stayed in

Afraid of their emotions
The way the rhythm attack the spine
Sends the legs kicking and dancing
Foreign music

Hitting the tower first
Percussion fashioning through
I smell belief and I thought caught a glimpse
Of a face trading places with a curtain

Could have been a ghost
But I sent the music
I jumped all the way from dull
Into a mystical state

Just to help extract the music
Pusht the clouds away
Send the sun with this electric numb
Center of me neverending battery

Spark, no original fire

 How could you like someone without knowing them?
Without understanding their beliefs and habits.
Just by the attractiveness of their face.
The way they walk.

Have they even earned your appreciation?
If you don't know if there is even rapport.
Is this admiration the most ridiculous?
beauty curses men's eyes?

Like curtains it doesn't let us see.
What is on the other side of the girl.
Protective walls, only allow them to see
How we fumble in their presence.

Too many pickles

 At the end of the journey we sat on huge cutting boards.
Everything I ever ignored manifested into a body.
That body became a person and started grilling burgers.
The person flipped the burgers on the grill.

I lended a hand cutting lettuce on the board.
The person wasn't humble and kept bragging about his burgers.
It made me want to ignore this person even more.
The person handed me the bread -Do you want me to prepare it.

I said -Let me do it myself.
The bread sat open and he handed over the burger
I tried to organize everything I wanted to put in
There were just oo mnay pickles at this funeral

Just a morning walk

 We exited the gate
Heart on the sidewalk
brain middle of the road
Street empty

low weeds carling up from last rainfall
Gutter murmurs under moss
doors and gates remain closed
tarmac tongue silent

The dog wants to walk 
His eyes are the dark wood
ears the leaves
To get a piece of the forest

And yes the sun subdues the wind
The clouds and blinded my little dog
We walked toward it like proving a point
all dry and clumsy we ambled over concrete

Mirrors and politeness(updated)

 "Leading you on?", "I was just being polite!"

She manifests...
Her ego is a stomach, her self esteem a neglected child.
As each man continues to ask her out,
she leaves it open like a box of makeup on her dresser.

She reluctantly smiles and makes some comment about another time another life.
That man tucks his tail between his legs and exits flustered.
I could see the appeal, I was also taken.
The tone of her voice, the tan on her beautiful legs.
That radiant smile, and the subtle playfulness.
Often in the bathroom just to check that mirror.

She wore the shorter skirt that day, used all of those gestures that drew the male eye like art.
Extended that smile that triggered dimples and subdimples that emblematized sensuality.
That sort of thing left me breathless, then One day I would gain the courage to ask her.
"Girl I have feelings for you."
"Oh I'm so sorry I'm dating someone right now."
Word got back pretty quick that she had been single.

The way she would attract harness and manipulate men's attention was incredible.
Karma and age's natural conspiracy against hypergamy urged her to get in touch years later.
Was I sadistic to make her squirm? Maybe.
All I can say is, I was polite.

Storage and empty swimming pools

The pool was empty
it was one day supposed to be a status symbol
to tell the rest of the family she was doing better
For Brazilians avoiding envy was as important as attracting it
 
She preferred stripes
she preferred sudden excitement
Toward anger or joy
In the rain she would become a racoon
unpredictable and hostile

Her mother was a passive creature
Who could also whirl into a sudden rage
Who would overload the plates of food
Overload her front garden

Spoil the drunkard brother
But worship her bottle blond daughter
Dust and untended corners made hiding places
Where insects and small rodents would hide
Between their gutter origins to the kitchen

Or storage areas where bags of food bought at discount sat
Waiting to be torn open by the front teeth of resident rats
Then to sustain those surreptitious fiends
While stripes and her mother murmured gossip

They were blessed and cursed
The annual flood would force the mother to clean out her damp house
The privations of the street would send her brother back
And stripes her daughter was there for every chapter

Lost sons

 The two went ahead to their school
far far away
we traveled over gray cities
block structures
abandoned train stations
Many soldiers stopped us from getting to the school
So we found alternatives
We got into the school by sneaking into a cargo container
We arrived inside the school
There they were two boys
The younger and the older
Marching back and forth
In the middle of a field closely shaded by overbearing oaks
Mid conconformity mid summer
We convinced the boys to walk away from the march
To escape the school of conformity
And find sustenance in the journey

Admission to a apoetseye

 Your eyes are here again
On this page you think safe and sane
To celebrate what? I don't know.
retrace your steps real slow.

What did you come here to find?
Hope to capture a fragment of this mind?
Good luck and welcome inside.

Inside the labrynth I've built.
Where gravity sniggers and surfaces tilt
Where the things that hide are hideous
And the things that connive are carnivorous

There's a drop of me in every little bit of it
Even in slight suspicion you're losing your shit
Come deeper you say you want to experience  the arcane
Get your head around these words, sweet walls and chains

That the dead ends have made you apathetic
Sense of no return vibrates through your kinetic
Claustrophobic so why do you delve further
Write myself into you like psychological warfare

Not to destroy you or out of derision, but hammer you into submission
For deeper down in these esoteric lines, I've got a stunning dungeon rhymed
If I really was merciful I'd warn you to turn back
My realm wants your soul, I implore your onward trek

But the further you go, the more lost you seem
It's wonderful to find someone who can feel like me
Someone to decorate the inside of this expanding domain
As my words reach inside you, unfurl
Invade your eyes and paint your outside world