Horrid horns in repetitive crescendos start blaring in section-Q.
Planetary fissions have been happening frequently at The Acrux
Rotary Sphere’s. I run to the gravitation ships located at the Heart
Sector of Spiral Headquarters, racing down the steps at the helix
Guard railings, fervently sliding down towards the atrium, now
Congested with silhouettes in lines, practicing each blasting hex
Gained during the last virtual-motion training simulation at HQ.
Weaving variant pulses in flaming arcs of formations inside Isogriv
Visual Optics from implanted chips. Swiftly, in order, they shrunk
Quarantined debris in conjured tangerine electric laser cages. Ting:
Eradicated masses within a blink. Garrulous cries chatter at marvels;
Neglecting the death count. Tainted brigades of a fleeting aberration.
Morose rebuttals of abhorrences inside this forgotten spaceship,

Used –End.


Icy iris’ drawn
In ball pointed pens
In the blues of knowing.
Azure spite filled eyes
Filed in failed attempts
Of how my feet barely
Lifted off the unkempt,
Of how I kept rolling in
This same narrow lament.

Accusations that freeze and burn
When what I wanted was
To be free to run.
These watchful eyes, they burden
And forcefully surge; I swell. Feebly feeling
My make-believe golden wings warping,
Bending from the slightest bit of pressure
As they tell me how I had promised
Those naive fickle numbers.

I know what I said.

But while these eyes,
They bite and blister,
I know that I need them.

I’d stop



They’d read fine lined movements,
They’d hear thoughtless pitches,
They’d dissect words and phrases,
While I desperately tried
To keep them hidden,
While freed exposures
Were covertly covered
Up by explanations.

They’d find ways
To play viola variations
Of indifferent violations
In violent slashing motions
In muted flesh tones
Of proprietorial renderings.

In dreary wires
Of profferings
Across this mire


This Nectar

Immersed in lukewarm
Strawberry nectar waves
Of a cadenced eudaimonic
Voice rapt in superfluous
Cantabiles, pour fluctuating
Language in romantic surges,
Pulling heart strings suavely
In rapidly paced tremolos.
I sit agog in ardor,
Basking in sweet fragrances.
Tasting the sourness
As the brain
Slowly makes the realisation
This nectar is poisoned.



Swirl and Flatter

Seraphs glide down from capes
In the forefront of our vision
As auburn violet hues
Paint the background.
Floating, soaring, rising
In slow motion,
Wings rise and fall,
They swirl and flatter
Their performance.

They goad us
With their perfumed hair;
Scents that taint
The purified oxygen.
They beam
Their sun ray smiles
That wash over
In searing
Thermal waves.
Their radiant
Bejeweled eyes
Sparkle and twinkle
Within the reluctant,
Buffeting mine.

“Play hide and seek with us.”
Lasciviously they laugh;
Sounds the heavens
Once knew;
Now covet;
Rhythmic honeyed voices
Thump in tympanic chambers
Softly caressing
Spiral labyrinths
Sending soothing,
Melting shivers,

Actually, they’re everywhere,
On every god forsaken landscape,
In every sphere of the spectrum air.

Sentence them to purgatory
Or to eternal damnation.
Separate them
From the rest of us;
Those with weak wills,
Who misplace our wits
Constantly falling
Into pits of lava.


At Least it Lives

I dream of his soulful music,
Of him still creating,
Piano concertos,
Violin and piano duets,
Suites for a quartet.
A fugue for harpsichords,
Or partias for clarinets.
Variations, fusions, mixes,
New age, Classical,
Visions into probability.

Even if
They are not
Made by his hand,
At least it lives,
Possessed in figures
Behind keyboards
Pressed by fingers
Of various writers.

Ones less flashy
Others more.
Some bleeding
Like he had before.
Some healing.

But their knowledge
Of worlds connected by inseams
In their quest for cathartic release
Pulsating, gyrating
Convecting, transmuting
The quest in knowing
The adventure in living
The thirst for inspiring
The desire for change
The yearning of love
The warmth of encouragement
They have it
They read
They write it
With derelict duty.

So many words.
So many bodies.
Worlds colliding.

Isn’t it amazing
Isn’t it disgusting.

A different soul,
A different style,
The seemingly infinite stimuli that are encountered,
How many of them were pretty much the same,
In what ways did they differ,
What lesson was taught or learned,
In which order?
What observations were made,
What was something one held close,
While another thought made no difference?
What words hold semantic significance
So many variables spinning, spiraling,
So many variations,
But somehow,
Not so different.

But it simply
Isn’t the same.

They aren’t him.