sylvia in her flight II: I am not bored.

I am not angry.
I am not angry at you for your dismissal nor him for his disapproval
I am not angry
not at a world
nor a society
not at books that disappoints
not at a stifled pen.
I am only brored.
I am not sad.
not at all
and sulking in bathtubs
smudged with the ashes
of over grown cigarets
is not a sadness
not my sadness manifesting its self.
when I read your and her
and his and their
and all of you
ALL of your
poetry
and I tear
then cry
then weep
then clutter
then end.
I am not sad
I am just bored.
when I leap
off
offf
offff
when I am pushed ever so gently
by an oncoming wind
that burnes my very loins
and catalysis my blood flow
and end and danger cluster my mind
and my skull makes
the most melodic
poetic
 sound
against an old stale pavement
I am not bored
not in the slightest sense.

author note:
here is the first sylvia in her flight:
http://mybrushandpen.blogspot.com/2011/11/sylvia-in-her-flight.html

lost

to learn
that loss
is inevitable.
is to accept
the possibility of end
is to walk down the street
fluttering the tunes
so unleashed
and to believe
to meticulously believe
that that very toon
maybe lost.
you
the over pour of rain
you
the apple pies and morning overcoats and freshly painted windows and poetry that bares no fear and newly sharpened pencils
you
and clean bedsheets and my pain morphing to glory
too
may be lost.

Joy to the world.

Joy to the world.
When you are smaller then ever.
Joy to the world.
While nude and exposed.
Joy to the world whilst ridiculed.
I once had a lover,
Who was not a lover at all.
But still
Joy to the world
I once had a man
Whom in the middle of parties 
And friends 
And end
Less
Dancing
Snatched my heart and clustered it.
Non the less, joy to the world.
Joy to the world 
That scatters you 
Like you were quivering spores
In shuttering wind
But still joy 
And joy to a world
The world.
Joy to you
You whom are 
Seductive and distrusted
In ways
I crumble for
Who in tern
abolish me
Joy
To the world

Rhyming.

It is tragic.
But non the less, don't go around scraping
All ells's existence.
You and I
And all our peers
Whom are scattered
Flickering their pens and camras
And oil paintings and guitars
All of them think
Such wonderful thoughts
About themselves.
Trash poetry
That missiles them
To great summits.
Maybe,
Maybe
I don't want ANY of this
Maybe I just want to cry into the world
Rhyming all the while.

I am yours

what does it
what does it matter
I am sunken in mad love
with whims
and days
and tunes
that break me
I let fall
all that once were
here are ceasless
chronic
mornings
and goddamn afternoons
cigaret bathtubs
that soon
poke holes
and flutter
stale mockery.
I,
lack a revolution
I,
am the sulk of tragedy.
but what does it
what does it matter
my pen doesn't oblige
once the seep of night
enfolds it's self,
and morning come.
I will look
at my stationary words
they will be cold, and
they will be stark, and
they will be naked.
and they will not,
content a soul.
I am yours
take me
I am yours.

Naomi and mark, a few minuits after dark.

I do not want to walk home.
not again.
not to see the narrow
dead flower infested streets
that carry children belittling everyone.
I do not want to face, the lurking memories
of the sweaty, lightly shaking warmth, of your palms.
I do not want the stifling
 utter, unconquered shame
of them
on me.
I dont want this skinny cigarett
trapped in my mouth
my man, wondering where I am.
you'r woman, wondering where you are.
I do not want these flowers,
looking at us.
like we were the reason behind
every rape, of every murder, of every goddamn genocide.
every censor of every thought and every feeling.
I do not want,
this leaking sealing
and you fixing it
and us playing
man and wife
I don't want a pretend life
of you and I
in dimly lit
narrow streets.

magnolia.

here are
over simplified verses.
to the hardly loved.
us sitting
in the exposure of a white porch.
my polca dot dress
to impress
you into stutters
of utter
digress.
filling the vastness
of a monday afternoon
with fumes
of cheep cigars
sitting quietly ,so far
"say it aint so"
here and there
now a worn out
darker
intoxicated air.
"say it aint so"
and we
dispatch.
almost lovers.
here are
over glamorized
verses
to the hardly loves
and the hardly lovers
to the ones
sitting on side benches
in december
afternoons
or nights
of a stifled moon
who pretend
not to sense
an end.
"say it aint so"
pouring
like boiling honey
more coco
more fume
and days less sunny
heres to the ragged ones
listening to "say it aint so"
like the cluster of magnolia
enable to bloom.

days of nothing.

I get days
of absolute nothing.
days
when I do nothing
days
when I feel nothing
days when I am
laying still
upon my
poorly
overly
decorated bed
stifled with the weight
of nothing
thinking
nothing.
I get days
when my books
that are
otherwise
in other days
stuffed with
deep
locomotion
are splattered
with nothing.
when my poetry
drains
the nothingness.
the nothingness of sun rays
the nothingness
of drips
 of rain
the nothingness
of coffee
stains.
the nothing
of my bathtub
that stand in shame.
days:
when wallace
and ann
and ezra
and william
and walt
and maya
collaboratly
with their little
nothingness
fluttering
poetry
whisper to me:
"nothing
trumps
everything."

you mediocrely intelligent artist.

let it
tumble
let fall
anarchy,
doomed
reeking of end,
I am
an "artist"
an imbecile
of small
grand
comprehension
a fool,
at times.
the fool,
at times.
yes,
let me clutter
in my cluster
of sorrows.
let me
uncoil
untangle.
let me
pour
my hardly
stability
my declining
abilities
onto
supposedly
artistic
poetry.
hardly.
let your sheets
and tex books
and ecological
mathematical
quantum physical
powerful
existence
flood mine
I only
only I
provide
the wretched
down falling]universe
condensed with auras
of darkened depression
with glimpses
of aesthetics.

under the sea.

it is most undeniably terrifing.
I sit side by side
to the worlds most magistic nights
and I could do so little
with my scatterd  kelp
and my little might.
underneath
I am
underneath
so very close
to an end.
and I could see so little
the farther you go in
the less you see.
I am
 here,
so little
 are,
get to be,
here
it is dark
engulfing
unconqured
untaimed
and helplessly
overwhealming
in its wounder.
but now
i think
maybe
I am just a copy
I am just another
carbon
stuck upon another paper
then drafted
so quickly
and carelessly
and once more
it all terrifies me.
here is my aesthetics
here are my ideas
here is I
RAW
and havely
unwanted.
unpopulaited
here is me
crippled
with the weight of attempts
to be ,
beyond
a thing:
mesmerized by living
-as most are-
under the sea.

eclipse.

there is pleasure
in utter
uncommunable
failure.
there is pleasure
in lonesomeness
and quietness
and pitch, stale
uninterrupted solitude
there is pleasure
in loss
loss of possibility
intellect
self appreciation
loss of love
that hardly was their
there is pleasure
in my bleeding words
purged out
unappreciatedly
there is pleasure
in solar
lunar
eclipse
in comprehension
of never again
mattering.
but life
is biotic
and displeasuring
and it is not
made up
of patched up
failure
every now
and every then
I will taste
the deceptive taste
of hope and success
then fall again
onto an eclipse.

content.

I am smart enough
and sweet enough
and cute enough
I am funny enough and
to an extent creative enough.
I am content
yet not
I am not
to all these
air headed
pseudo-existing
individuals
painting themselves
the colores of whatever
eccentric enough.
they rather
them air headed
breast inflated
bimbos
and I judge mercilessly.
 I come to my senses.
they're all just as angry as me
just as useless as me.
they're only more
pressured into the center of it all.
I am an outcast,
yes.
I am drowning in my preferred solitude,
yes.
but hardly
hardly do I have proof
that I am in more pain
then them all
empty extroverts
longing for attention.

12 days

I  had a lover

and there was an awefully

childlike thinness 

to her ankels

but everything within her

burned of pure, untameable 

rage.

I havent seen her

in centuries 

I havent shaved

in 12 days

almost 13

my beard is growing

and it somehow feels

as if every hair embarking

elongating, through my pours 

lets out, a silent fire

that evacuates my

internal flames.

surely I am a poet.

surly, I am a poet.
 do I not reek of the stale smell of absolute misery?
surely. I am a poet.
do I not wistfully dream of the hidden ground world beneath the earth.
of the wholes I could call in to beseech.
surly, I am a poet.
do I not drowned my self in gloom, a captive of the written word.
surly, I am a poet.
do I not make the most simplistic of things complex?
do I not stir upon and flex?
do I not see beauty in all that is abandoned and cast away?
surely, I am a poet.
 as surely as the fiery colors of autumn leaves.

in the backs of suv`s

 And crushing out dreams

In the backs of SUVs

Creating lives

Conceived to cruelly die

Thrown in dumpsters

Or swamped in toilets

He sets the mood

 And you coldly spoil it

Exploding in your tears

Exploding in your laughter

Fishnets and sky high heals

All to be "sought after"

Old age hits, unexpectedly

While your sitting by the window

Gently sipping tea

Children died

One after the other

Children hide

Within the heart of a broken mother