thank you for that loveful time, every none of us

I shall spread through air or dirt
or waves — therefore no me to be
And the person made memory is
yours then others’ — slip
itself in others coding.

A whole life lived through
for I want to know feelings
and I knew and I felt;

but feeling is too much
for the human to know or bare.


on that gentle slope

Ascend to stars on a gentle slope, my friend
and stop for rest if you will or if you must
I’ll make a bed of my thighs and
caress your hair between my fingers

You may fall sleep then and so shall I;
into dreams of unknown softness we travel then
only to come back fully restored.

On that gentle slope we part ways waving hands
that felt warmth, from our lips shall pass but smiles
and not one word for goodbye: we either meet again
or we never unmet.

I miss being locked up

I miss being inside
Because the loneliness inside
is the loneliness of me
Whilst the loneliness out here
is inflicted by others

I miss the meds
that made me forget
what it was I left behind

I miss being locked up
and unable to scream
Because the silence then
was the silent me within
Whilst the silence out here
is that of not being heard

I miss being inside
Because out here
I hear that inner me
screaming for help
Yet find no voice
or care or hand
to help out

“America is a Gun”, by Brian Bilston

“America is a Gun”

transcript from this tweet

England is a cup of tea.
France, a wheel of ripened brie.
Greece, a short, squat olive tree.
America is a gun.

Brazil is football on the sand.
Argentina, Maradona’s hand.
Germany, an oompah band.
America is a gun.

Holland is a wooden shoe.
Hungary, a goulash stew.
Australia, a kangaroo.
America is a gun.

Japan is a thermal spring.
Scotland is a highland fling.
Oh, better to be anything
than America as a gun.”

Brian Bilston

too late

I shall not die unartistically; my body is to perish the abandoned shell of unquiet soul.

You couldn’t kill me when I bore no treat. You can’t kill me as of now for I ain’t to be harmed.

This is a construct. The soul is long spread.

Too late, too late; this treat walks live with the dead.

acoustic isolation

There’s a song that sings
what I want to hear
But my mind is deaf
it shuttles off and scream

Alarm, bell, calling, pitch,
warning buzz, adverting whistle,
a shout, a conunseling tone:

My mind screams to alert
for trouble, whether is none
or one’s to come.

And I can’t hear that song.
It sounds, I collect, yet no
signal get to where it’s at:
dopamine stays still, soundproof deaf.

a pause to prose and pause (excerpts)

“A pause to prose and pause”

And so it comes that the poet can no longer bear to verse to punctuate to divide to paragraph rhythms allegories neither embellish.

Prose becomes necessary, also the pause that follows — to think because all that was written, though still true, was badly or mildly felt.

But he feels.

“Have you seen above?”

Oh! Have I seen land!
I’ve seen land, safe coasts
and green and
swimming waters

Throughout every sea
I’ve sailed or un-
shipped to…

Yet I have not seen ocean
in its almight
Pressure too much
The feel too much to enlight

(but frightful as it is
therein spreads life!)

“Despite it all”

Life has being a ever
growing puzzle of
beautiful pieces
each itself another puzzle.

It has presented itself to me
as fractals of Beauty and Tenderness
Yet I wait and long for its end since childhood.