her body spoke volumes like dusty and tired old tomes
like mist on the waters seemed his silly little poems
her creases and crevices abound with mysteries untold
ancient rites through bloody oaths from willing thighs were cajoled
lest her secrets incantations and lustful songs lie fallow
after begging and screaming crying to please bury the seeds shallow
lest the toils of time garner sweet fruits from their labours
allow them a taste some sweet nectar to savour
let them kiss the cool rains and suck the warmth of the sun
like a desperate lover whose journey begun
with lies and with hate
and with a hunger to sate
her secrets they with grace unfurl and divulge with despair
all the memories the wishes she has breathed into the air
the blue of blood mingles with that of the sky
the seas and oceans heave with each tearful sigh
when the last of her doors has finally been opened been flung and been thrown
after the vainglorious of followers of their last seeds have sown
neath trembling flesh weak bitter and unpure
only the diehard and foolhardy will certainly endure


















ae.

i heard conspicuously whispered the hushed lore of old

lying in your bed,

lying naked and cold.

my body transported,

forsaken completely, utterly forsook

left alone and to wander though my eyes dared not look.

i felt the heat, felt the cold, felt the soft touch of the butchers knife,

tasted of ambrosia, of honey, of pain and of strife.

heard the cries of the guilty and innocent alike

breathed the sweet and stale aether of cerulean midnight.

yet not once not for a moment did i happen to spy

through the haze of long lashes or tween crack of splayed fingers,

i saw not a thing yet the memory lingers.

it lies there sleeping, or at least it seems to me.

it awaits and it hopes my sleeping eyes may yet fail

to uphold their blind vigilance and at long last yet see.

ae.

oldies but goodies.










i guess it began like most of the long, drawn-out and lazy days of summer that had thus far transpired before the ambling and yet by now, less than inquisitve globes rotating fore of my skull. as a herald of the earths' unaltered and unerring orbit, the morning star once more mounted its' azure pedestal {throne}, however, on this particular day with an unrivaled reluctance and an idle glory formerly reserved for the ilk of indolent kings and emperors. casting its' {adjective} rays unto the earth like so many mystics' {divining} bones, it appeared (and not surprisingly so) to portend the slow passing of yet another day; one marked by lackluster, and laden as it were with the golden weight of the summer sun, a propensity for slothful indulgence.



...




4:35. the digits appeared a spectral harbinger, refulgent amidst the inky, thick {...thick, oozing...} darkness from which it so strikingly set itself apart...these numbers, so seemingly innocuous, had been branded onto the backs of my eyelids. [the sputter and sizzle of burnt flesh and the subsequent raised, distinct discolouration to follow, a grisly keepsake to memorialize the dissolution of my autonomy. rustled from the lush, pleasant, rolling sylvan valleys and hills of unconsciousness, i was violently and abruptly driven to a ceaseless wandering under the heavy hand and greedy, watchful eye of sleeplesness. insomnia had left its' indelible mark...]



























ae.

i have seen him. the old man. dressed to the nines in second hand comfort and hand me down shame. creased and calloused are his hands but smooth to the touch. glassy, clear as crystal grey eyes bleed out viscous and painfully slow, colouring an otherwise colourless sky. he hears the blue blood of his veins, thick and rich. he has eaten with desire, sat at her long banquet, drunk of her wine but never once filled anothers cup with his own sickly sweet and salty spirit. slyvan and seafoam creep round the edges of a pleasant countenance. half smiling sneering leering aching and bloody in the briars waiting watching hoping and hating. nary does a trace of the Sandmans sweet surrender, inky black or lulling content sully his eyes or weave its subtle spell round lashes beneath behind between lids and through endless battle for wakefulness...

(to be continued)

ae.

exhibit A: i was pondering some little inklings whilst in the shower a very few moments ago when just so happened to find its way to the fore of my conscious mind THIS gem as follows: buy a new sketchbook and start drawing on the LAST page. fill up the book one page at a time in the consecutive order in which the book was bound and meticulously date each and every item.

having noticed recently that within the last few months my drawing and writing style has changed considerably, i feel it a worthy endeavour to document and better asess this newfound phenomenon.

by beginning a sketchbook from the back to front, i can more easily go BACK in time from the current, which seems much more logical than picking an arbitrary point in the past and navigating ones way to the present.



exhibit B: by choosing differing methods of expressing through words, it seems or rather FEELS that corresponding yet altogether different portions of my brain/heart seem to be behind the wheel so to speak. it is a very odd, at times frustrating and ultimately an unique experience. after writing longhand in cursive and otherwise, typing via a computer, and now the thought of throwing a typewriter into the mix may be much too much for my mind to handle at this particular juncture.


but lets see where it may go.




















ae.

the free man craves to be led by the hand
while the slave wanders in dreams the lay of the land

i pray not for my mind for it is already lost
i ask not for forgiveness as i now know the cost
i crave not the content of a soul at ease
i will not give my heart for a brief moment of peace
i pray for those whose brains i have bent
i give apology to those from whom i took without consent
i yearn for happiness in the innermost of those near
i bleed what i can for those who are willing to hear

the man in the middle just wants to be alone
the man on the outskirts begs to be let in your home




...





sweet aroma sea foam cerulean slyvan and brine
sand wind ragged cliff mirrored sky and tortured pine




...





the sea is blind
the wind will not hear
the sky cannot feel
and earth will never fear
the heavy footfalls of fate as she climbs and corrodes in graceful endless procession, trailing in tow bleeding broken hearts, lost souls. a somber parade she leads, a curiously naive and hopeful dirge parts her lips and splits the ears of those who are willing, able and vain enough to listen, to open wide their ears eyes and hearts.
they like the rest,
like me, like you the worst and the best,
led to her wondrous ship that departs,
that leaves with no wake and no hint of crest
in its infinite onward toward forward quest.




















random goodies.
































ae.

the tarnished inbetween where time means nothing at all. i found myself there wrapped in rags scraps shreds and disparate threads that linked like knobby elbows and dirty forearms grimy fingers and ragged half bitten nails in innocent if only naive abandon. a trust betrayed and garment frayed by nervous fidgeting and ever picking pulling tearing hands of time/time again and again forever never tied to a thread thin worn and almost nothing at all to hold in the vice of strong fingers like trying to pinch a drop of water and stay its endless wanderlust so insatiable falling into onto in itself could not slake/or stall its hopeless helpless yearning for home for the sea now the sky or somewhere always in between where time means nothing at all. i found myself there w r a p p e d . . .



















ae.

i laughed and i laughed at the grand wonder of it all
i laughed and i laughed for the folly and the fall
so petty pesky pretty and gloriously gall
the nature of mine and the nature of yours
the nature of things will bring us to all fours
or perhaps perchance maybe all threes twos and ones
i laughed and i laughed for what else could i have done?




































ae.