Irises

CHECK THAT OUT

I'll drive over the tarmac
reflecting, following
the ribbon of running road
through the vast darkness, beneath the empty sky.

I'll go shivering among these sorrowful
streets, by the yellow lights, the crimson lights-
followed by severe faces
behind devout masks.

And then, as if I could ever forget,
I'll repeatedly ponder
the infinite depths of the heart
where you will forever reside.

Effervescent, caring:
how is it possible that you love me?
In this mad brutal World, when will
I ever find another woman with such beautiful doe brown eyes!

Foolishly, I brag to my friends,
I kid them, a little,
when the rains descend with evening
from clouds so low they brush the tops of the trees.

And, turning form T.V. they all grimace
to each other. One says, "Check that out,
if you read a bunch of junk
see what you start to sound like.".

PROPAGANDA IS THE FOUNDATION

Propaganda is the foundation of everything.
Westward wanders the dawning night
melting into obscurities,
no one plucks the night flying bird.

Sorrow dwells in
the shadows, where the stones all know my name;
here, where great verdured walls whisper
and the restless seas are repeatedly ravaged.

There have been evil signs
the enigmas stream bloody tails from the back of comets,
monsters are manufactured
in assembly line deaths.
Great excursions
speed souls from this vile planet immersed in darkness.

Strange,
how picturesque the mountain lakes
and tree blossoming valleys,
but the human worm writhes over immense pits of despair
and God created microbes feed on our hearts and brains.

Cities wake with a tempestuous roar
commuters hurry through desert days
cluttered with material things;
they search for life's meaning
in religions that sanctify
the righteous who are wicked
and justice that is evil.

Black is the caldron that boils our blood,
the laughing crow hops across and asphault sea
to its waiting carrion. It is
touched by the madness of the city.

God, I pity you
your tears that fall
in the diamond drops of rain.

THESE EYES

These eyes, twin seas where my sweet intoxication is resurrected
besides an audience hissing with displeasure,
as through the computer the disgraceful grime of grim light
illuminates the dark room,
I draw the drapes disclosing bricked over windows.

Flowing by, on strong unseen currents, nacreous neophytes,
in innumerable nets, recant the traitorous
Egmont- its as if, in the rocking, I deliberately make
a million graves gape, in which to disappear disgraced.

Happy pearls of percussion vexatious to rusting mauls,
the rain under a bevy of blows pummels naked longings
exhaled pure from the unplummeted depths of my heart,

foulness of night the scars you tattooed on me,
sadistically knowing, tyrant! that it is my only antidote
this soft caressing cloud cleansing me from the baptism in icy
waters of perfidy.

IN THE WIND

In the wound that is today
the rains have temporarily stopped,
making the wrinkled puddles
look just like smooth mirrors- Beware!

As it was written by Bayazid al-Bistami,
when you strive to hurt another,
be it saint, sinner or any other,
the wounds scar your soul.

If the victim is ugly,
it is a reflection of yourself;
and, if the victim is evil,
it is a projection from within you;

just as the little puddles
reflect the sky and every thing
that happens by, so too,
do you.

I AM IN LOVE

I am in love, and I am loved:
I fly high happy among the clouds.
Devout, I fervently thank God.
And drive down the street.
I have an analytical mind
that synthetically absorbs all it sees,
and a longing soul for the bliss of intoxication.
The alleys in the garden are gaily carpeted
with flower petals. If the World
spins isolated in its misery- so what?
I am in love, and, if she should
fall out of love with me- so what.
I am filled like an antique shop
with bric-a-brac and rainbows of emotion,
life is a library bursting with wonders.
I am in love and that is enough.

EVENING....THE CLOUDS

Evening.... the clouds that have been gathering together
in clusters all day now completely cover the sky, a dense fog
has risen from the river and walks silently up the streets.
Lights caste pitiful pools of light.

Evening....the air is filled with the city's stale exhalations.
Out of the shroud of mist a pigeon coos, from some distance its
immediately answered. Another coo is heard, this time quite close,
suddenly two pigeons appear, and, then depart together, devoured
by the opacity of night.

THE NECKLACE

During nights filled with white mist
death seems to unravel everything,
the barren nomansland of screams
rips open red stained bandages
covering the black gaping wound.

Outside Lafyette, the choking under great green tree banks,
there lies the slaughter of the sacrificial lamb
Abraham's scream for the child of his heart,
where history has regressed to the Bible's bloody beginnings.

The strope of throttled screams
that sear the entrance to death.
What is that onyx and perodite and amethyst necklace
coiled around your neck?

The silenced wood winds.
Piteous hands with forced tendrils of hate
hideously driven
into a subliminally generated rage,
to quench the Saturnine thirst for sacrificial blood.

Screams choked off with the crab's pincer claws,
sorrowful decapitated pieces;
pity the poor children
herded into barren pastures for safety,
cells of future prisoners and victims, sinners and saints,
a self-perpetuating horror-
the compulsive paradise of a never arriving tomorrow.

Jewelry with the nightmare adorned throat
boiling cauldron made of mad darkness
of manacled steps:

this the foggy nomansland of screams!
Floating melodies of muffled screams
and red frothing gurgles,
see them haunting the forest shadows.

Christ's dying wail
echoing through crystalized time
and the four cornered room
where Lady McBeth wanders
distractedly rubbing her hands
muttering, "It wont come off.".

Crushed throat more colorful than the flaming sunset,
where trees rear up from their nocturnal feast,
and observes man's ancient art of setting traps,
no presumptuous illusions here
to shield the seeker of truth's stricken eye.

Poor bleeding Iris
in the torn eclipse
of the midnight sun-
God has seen fit
to observe you placed on a metal table in the morgue,
flag tag attached to your toe,
before merging you
with the great cosmos.