Time being empty

Time being empty
Time being spent
As the sound of the clock
Goes tick-tock.
It echoes through the busy streets
The chatter of people
When friends they meet
The clock still goes
Tick-tock, the sound of the clock
Reverberating sound
Endless.

Waking up with a disjointed feeling

Waking up with a disjointed feeling
Lack of coherence and continuity
When "Everything is fine"
Is both illusion and reality
A choice between placebo
And the bitter medicinal pill
Yet reaching the same results
Making it all the more sick and deranged

A cruel divine joke
Or just our bodies rattling the cages
We cannot be anywhere else
But where we are
A sense of finality
With the passing of thought and time
Where all human thought
Pass off into illusion, memory, or history

It's somewhat surreal
How we stand looking at the world
Feeling the pain
From the fang of a real beast,
Or the throbbing pain
From a sword thrust
A mental wound that bites into flesh
Yet none of them seem real,
Yet they seem vividly real to me.

A cut without the blood
A prison without walls
Yet they are invincible; impregnable
Without escape
Touching the walls
Feeling only air
Seeing the horizon
The boundless sky
Yet no freedom can I find.

About words

An utterance that is made real...
Is a creature given life
We are the gods of creation
The conjurers of our own destruction.
The double-edged sword
That both protects and destroys
A invention cursed and blessed
With the magical power
To heal and malign

One may call it marvelous
An interesting condition:
How a sound can reverberate
Through the ears' cavity
Long after the sound is gone
How a word can bounce back and forth
Create an endless echo
In timeless time
Trapped inside forever
By the walls of a hollow heart
Owned by a ghostly soul

Chagrin creeps carefully

Chagrin creeps carefully
Stealthily, slinking, sneaking
In moments when the mind
Meanders in its memories
Selecting one's solitude
For a surprise visit

Words betray our loneliness

Words betray our loneliness
The voice of another
The beating of a strange heart
An existence of which we're not a part
An alien rhythm
A weird concatenation of the sound
Of a stirring beating filled with life
The audible orchestra of dark and light
Which inspires attraction
And breeds repulsion
The sound of another beating heart
Which may sing of joy
And can also wail in oain
Just as well,
Or even better than you or I can

Vice is the key to life

Vice is the key to life.
Addiction the genuine mode of being
Being absorbed from one emotion to another
From emotion to emotion
From affect to affect.
Can we define lost
As absolute lack of direction?
No.
Emotional gluttony
Is the vice that gives meaning in life.

Where is thy stillness?

Where is thy stillness?
Be as steadfast as the mountain
As peaceful as the brook
As graceful as the falling leaf

Let the wind carry you
But not scare you
Be as stern as the cliff
Facing a stormy sea
Yet let no anger possess you

Defend thy tranquility
With fierce aggressiveness.
Let no aggressor be
Themselves be oppressed
Be kind
But by no means be weak

Of Boredom, Truth, and Breasts

Boredom does breed weird thoughts.
While waiting alone with nothing to do
I was watching people as the idle would do
After a done meal in a certain fast-food
I noticed a woman equally alone
Sitting at a table across my own
And her chest I began to notice
Meaning, her breasts I tried to imagine:
Envisioning the curvature and shape;
Estimating the volume, capacity, and size;
The tenacity of the boing, the Intensity of the jiggle.
Included also the areola's diameter and color--
But sadly guesswork has its limitations

And so, there must be a decision
For the sake of accurate information:
Should one walk up to her
And request a frontal nude?
Go something like this:
"It's just that your breasts
have got me fascinated,
That said, will you let them be examined?"
Do note, dear reader, and note very well:
I am not being perverse, just curious
I care not for the woman;
Believe me, of carnal desire there's none
I have no intention to touch,
nor to squeeze, fondle, and suck.
I've seen porn enough;
Breasts I've seen and touched;
But hers, mixed with boredom
Possessed an ontological charm
That might be termed existential

The breasts are my only focus.
The breasts could be floating on air,
Attached to a wall or a hump on the floor
See if I care for the woman's absence
So let me be clear once more:
The theme is breasts and the goal is understanding--
Breasts floating or to a woman attached
It really matters not.
"So, Miss, don't get full of yourself
Just go and show me those breasts!"


Thus, so I explained myself to the lady judge
whose chest also gave my fancy a nudge
And nudged I was, even with force
From my arrest until the jail bars closed
And I did the same in-bars and got beat-up
For staring at the breasts of a man
I guess that would be natural.

Made Me Remember

She made me remember love
But not of love that's my own
I was not in love with her.
She just made my heart skip a beat
and made me nervous when we meet
Though these things did affect me
she just reminded me of love
--as a concept.
And that is all.

what could it have been?
Was it the brightness of her presence?
(which made me grin like a fool)
Or maybe the curves of her figure?
(which was quite enticing)
Perhaps it was the pudgy face?
(Which I wanted to touch with my palm)
Her beauty?
(she was just cute, actually)
Maybe it was one of those
--or perhaps all.

It's just that I learned to forget
Of love and all that foolishness
My heart has been mute for quite a while
But her vision produced a succession of beats
Which came and went with her image
It was like the giddiness of first love
--but not of my own
Just the concept.
And that is all.


There was something special about her
though it was all my imagination
It was the revival of supposed dead possibilities
Composed of roses, perhaps a dinner date
It even reached visions of a ring
But the face of the groom
was not my own
Which was absurd...
It was that she invited
such fantasies...of love
--just the concept.
And that is all.