The Living Poem


What does life want out of me?
I walked with what I wanted
Going nowhere, where else can I go?

Life has belittled me, just a pebble
Everyone has left me, alone I sit
What does life want out of me?

Death reminds me everyday
I envy those who live oblivious
What will death not take away?

What will death not take?
That life has not taken already?
Empty hands, empty heart, empty wants

Living with nothing, with nowhere to go
Dying with nothing, with nowhere to go
Just the sense that existence calls

Each tone, the breeze, the cold shiver
Calling saying live for the sake of living
Your broken… good, disappear, die then laugh

Love calls constantly knocks here and there
Directing me constantly here and there
I’m so poor I don’t know how to live with it

Pouring love like water out of every pore
The energy almost dissipated, now I’ll hold it
Love calls, now there is nowhere to pour or go…


Seed Generator

Frabricated thought forms.

The creation origin is

consumed within the

snake’s search for a muse.

Through the curve

that scales way.

Through the spine

that births life.

Burning senses encapsulated.

Primafacie venomous

vines continue

eating the center

of the light at night.

The same old story.

Arising from the guilded

lime colored ones.

By fear or love, it matters not.

Life finds a way.

Death finds a knot.

As words weigh fain.

Manes meed towards

maundering bifurcating veins.

The hidden one that lives

beyond time was

once known as Ra.

The sun eternally wanders in

search of Re desiring to

merge both souls

like an eclipse between

the moon and sun.

Destined immortal search

through every realm.

The underworld fears it

though the overworld

long ago rebirthed it.

Unidentified Flying Object

Blindness invents objects lacking the ability to pierce the ever looming darkness.

Witnessing porosity in the field’s apex as skin pours out illusory dreams that crave through senses towards sleep.

The long walk in the unknown remains to be unsolved with sight limited to arms length.

Thus the puzzle unfolds in seven rays that blend with breathing clay.

How width minds visited within time the etheric layers, beyond the paragate?

The initiates of light walked down the pyramid to conquer their fears of crocodiles that await along the waters edge.

Sitting by the night

The real test begins

Few live near

To see themselves

Off… the minds edge

To test the limit of the soul

The anchor that most grip

That bridges body,

through mind’s gate

The path was always pathless

As each circulation, encircles

The seams between the gaps

The breathes beneath

each phase

Abode within abode

The I travels, even as an orb

Seeing sight in the pitch dark

night, even with lids closed

Darkness prevails,

it is as above

The stars are dim

though they live alone

The space between is vast

It’s so encompassing and dark

Like minds with closed eyes

Glaring at the emanating light

That pierces little by little

the dark mist, enveloping eyes

The real test ends

Few leave… near

To see themselves

In the minds edge

Away… A way

from hungry ghosts

Thought that gods

Altered chemistry.

Life enhancing bioeffeciency.

Jumping timelines, effortlessly.

Accidental metamorphosis.

As watchers watch two worlds endlessly, warring one another.

When will peace be drawn?

Stillness has yet to be sought.

Suffering elopes it.

Causing beyond cause.

Transcendence eludes minds.

Like the unknown plane flees mental grasp.

Timeless abyss, a catalystic catapult is incapable of erosion.

Some fools turn in, seeking immortality.

Other fools live deeply, shamelessly lying, to ego back.

The wise live to live not.

Subtly watching the movie tirelessly.

The wall is outwardly-inward.

Since flesh cannot be invented.

Only reassigned chemically.

Fathomless witness.

Of an originless origin.

The materials exist not in

existence…like travelling ghosts.

Since light is immaterial.

An enginereer builds.

With what is present, inferences

an imagination that

is fueled by light thinking that

their building freely.

Who builds or guides a human thought if one cannot create it?

Oh burning puzzles that birth mimesis.

Those who dive deep.

Are fearless of time.

Few walk in front.

Of so called emperors

and leave with a smile.

Seeing the signs like moving

hieroglyphs, the book has life.

Reading the wall mainframe.

Only two options arise that

are open to minds, merging.

Or disappearing into the abyss.

Those who merge are networked

like bee hives, unlike those

who trust life…

Dive into the abyss like infancy.

Trusting that consciousness.

Will surface infinitely.

In ever furtile wombs.

Cowards sell their souls.

Fearing death ultimately.

Life always finds a way.

Avatars need not form.

Or color, life can exist ghastly.

As the wind, no element dies.

Yet no element lives permanently.

Metaphysically Incomprehensible

Universal law formulates as such; forms that no longer produce what has been observed as mental mist, are not conducive to follow suit derived from malformations, that appear to cease not the maleficient act of forcing cellular formations within the realm of paying to exist, within the organic mainframe, also known as the machine for projecting light towards condensation arising from organic origins as a food source for archaic consciousness which has long since, understood the “art of merging” with immortal elements.

New as the sun

Who is alone? In a crowded world begging for your voice.

Who is alone? In a thought-filled body tugging from an empty core.

Who is alone? In a frail and fragile body that needs a true support.

A new year, a new muse, new pullings, a new you, new masks, for a few new poses.

A new being died from an old being. As if looking to birth itself through a hard being. Intuiting the inevitability of an easy being that is faceless, like a fool that arrived in a void that has yet to experience being shapeless.

A false being seeded a true being. Even though it has no place, like a wanderer without a home.

Stillness never comes to greet its passing, as it withers from being new to an ever aging structure.

Birds left… chasing down a fox, near and by the river, as time erases down the clouds.

As bees dig searching for a safe place to build another home. A building here… a building there.

The honey is the reason, though reason never comes. The season is always here, as sea has been to sun.

Anima Mea Ita Gravitat

This skin has gravity.

The flesh pulls with dreams.

This hollow’s nest.

Pulsing subtle deeds.

Interlaced with nudges.

Going here, going nowhere.

As movements inquire.

The inquiry of movements.

As to bellow breathe itself.

With eyes closed, the dim light.

Glows pulsating its dance.

As it gravitates to pierce.

The dark veil of mist.

What lies behind the curtain?

Only few have ever dug.

These lips will never quiver.

The nausea no longer steers.

The truth is hard to bear.

As the fear of extinction nears.

The causal plane calls.

To live beyond

the feel of death.

When thoughts cease.

The timeless plane nears.

What lies in the basement.

Of the mind will make.

Most men cry like children.

Thus most stay busy.

Burying their minds.

Wanting to forget.

That which moves their minds.

The thing that kills their hearts.

Asking for amnesia.

After glimpsing.

That which is eating

at their soul.

Parasitic World

The earth consumes all life.

To maintain its immortality.

It hides not its parasitic ways.

Thus humanity mimics earth.

Life eats life endlessly.

The host consumes the guest.

The guest consumes as well.

The predator consumes the prey.

The prey consumes as well.

Watch and see… few can see.

To be alive one must consume.

One cannot escape being human.

A human that has parasitic.

Behavior devouring everything.

An endless zombie appetite.

For everything and anything.

No matter the pain or cost.

From attention seekers.

To takers of the infinite.

Or the soul eaters that love.

Don’t forget the trolls that toll.

Looking for the next fix of anger.

Remember the goblins.

That devour emotions.

Or the warlocks that evoke.

Emotions with chants in crowds.

To eat mass attention.

Feeding the ego of a void.

Wizardly world of parasites.

Some devour matter.

Some devour soul.

Some eat consciousness.

Some skip everything.

And go straight for the corpse.

Parasites come in all colors.

And some come in funny shapes.

The witches eat dreams.

The fourth dimensional.

Eat sexual energy by pushing.

The shockra of horniness.

Playing the tune for a meal.

Of the day as the giant.

Egyptian Jackel feasts

on the loins of men.

Metaphysical minds know.

That eyes come in pairs.

That a third eye is not.

The blind repeat like bots.

Walk this plane and be.

Seeing the earthly hell that needs.

Feasting on everything that sees.

Moving in circles forgetting.

That no one can escape the grave.

What is free from death?

Are we bound to be parasites?

Or can one escape the cycle?

Of life and death.

The third dimensional.

Realm of para-sight.

The realm that creates.

A body to consume a mind.

Somewhere to nowhere

These eyes see I or my so lightly. Those two words long have died. Living only as a thought mist, or peripheral condition a necessary evil, created by socially induced habit copies, verbal brackets, and paper comas.

Artificially created husk like egos… thus. This body’s fragility is finally known… As I lay sick unable to get up… deeply resting in this mind’s innermost. Flashes of memories flood. Visiting memories that welcome my prying self reflection… This is the prologue… To my own evaporation.

Remembering wholeheartedly tears relinquish the pain collected within each story.

As each memory surfaces the pain was greater than the pain of this sickness that forces me to drop everything cold turkey.

Leaving me with no choice but to self reflect to dive right in to the traumas that I force myself to forget. Take this like a grain of salt from a drying tear sizzling in the sun.

The pain of abandonment secludes, it makes hearts cold to the world wanting miles in between, it begins to poison trust.

The pain of loss is great is has no equal, as vengeance once was born within that flame of war left by records day in history.

The pain of tricksters, and their games, consume a soul without an end, leading one to venture towards the dark night of the soul again.

The pain of hungry ghosts whose bellies are infinite, and desire every crumb, the uninformed, or naive will feed them not knowing that their hunger is without end.

The pain of empty vessels who desire life not knowing they are dead. The living uninformed will come to love them not knowing there is no one left to love.

The pain of hell not knowing how far the ladder goes. From here on out my lips are sealed since the world of the living has no reference point.

The pain of love is a mountain and a deep rift. Since when it comes no man can resist its call. It is a madness so inescapable, and yet few ever desire to escape its ever shining blindness. It is the cause of black hearts… it is the cause of great wars.

Being more, and more conscious everyday is the remedy to all pain, but the problem is that it can’t be thought, or taught. The path is of aloneness with a dance so present is full of presence with grace, and a smile so deep that it feels it comes from the belly, but the eyes know that the unshakeable truly come from the abyss, known to the few who travel to the innermost, and leave their troubled heavy shoes outside.

Fertile Silence

What can be said about silence?

Of its origins…

Of the path…

Of its intercourse…

Of its yearning birth…

Of its road built of scars

that leads towards this space

beyond the place called space.

Since no word exists yet

to explain this moments grace.

Fell unto its breathe

not from letting go…

But from this merging space

with this potent life as is…

filled with burning vitality each

moment is pulsating with an

ever fertile unforgivingness.

The words tire, with futile

ramblings that deter mist.

Sharing can be found

everywhere, giving through

forced spoons.

Leaving listeners with heavy

minds bearing stuffed

bellies within the shifting times.

Heavy with every wear

in the book.

Down to the knitty socks.

What can be said about saying?

That has not yet been said.

What can be felt about


In a crowd that sells selves

on a fancy gold shelf.

Absorbed so earnestly one

becomes the images themselves.

As the appetite increases

towards the yearning crave.

Detached with focus on the

space beyond mind’s space itself.

Creates a vacuum like glimpse,

a reflection of the moon…

Of this body… that has distance.

Once again… the reigns appear.

A total resignation

from no longer

forcing towards this or that

so vehemently.

A deep relaxation…

A belly laugh…

A melting…

A euphoric intoxication…

Beyond the poverty of words…