//me
//manderre
//elendor
//Poems
Newest first.
Rust.
Flash blue
bird.
Tiny and seeking those
delights,
tiny unsettled whispers
I have
Hidden them so long.
So long fair love and anxious I
hoped and
wished
it
would
be
So, here we are and I
feeling so lost and uninspired
do wonder
often
why it is never your turn
To speak, or dream- ah...
here we are, safer places.
next
it
shall
be deserts.
Medicine- I taste my own this
vanishing act, yes,
some magician you,
to pry these rusted
locks,
and return with tiny
twigs of secrets.
Is this code, love?
Do you find it
filled with tone and
words
hiding
beneath words?
Where have I gone
wrong, it seems so long
since we played in
moonlight-
where have we gone?
You will not share your words
-I have given you
a thousand.
Bitter.
I am grey ocean.
This part calm
but furious elsewhere.
broken elsewhere.
unloved in all my loving
? why does this resemble betrayal?
that I was not enough,
I am not enough;
It is still not enough.
No, carry on.
And remarking on how I
seem like hiding.
Invisible lasers cast creeping
nets
beneath skin.
they burn us up.
eat us up whole.
These lasers cut careless across
man-made roads.
I dreamt a summer
not these dangled dreams
of northern nowheres,
steeped in red and gold
and memory
uncalled for.
Instead tasting bitter of
Coconut and mango
That one memory calls
a thousand.
I am grey ocean
without words.
All these
are without.
word-pond encased by snow
and lights and ink that
three years past whispers
still of salt and trees,
these same songs, same
words, same old.. .
But we
are changed
? I seem to have strayed from
my desert.
Flooded these plains in shades of
Grey.
I wait on a post on the borderline.
we
are
only
black and white.
Crescendo
One by one
we have travelled here
to steal muttered lines
from strangled music.
the third the third
never the third.
where will this story
take us?
Confined to chairs and
hazy glances,
where whispers make putrid
this subtle mood.
We look out on a
granite flavoured sky
and wonder
(casually)
Is this the Last?
Second last?
Third. The third.
Nevermind the third.
Imagine a story
accompanied by cello,
a quiet pond with
dragonfly.
Hearbeat.
this moment.
this is the moment.
We are not real,
imaginary flowers in
hair made of words.
He has been waiting...
She has waited...
Where is my golden morning?
this bewitchment,
soul and heart and
whatever else I have to give?
Where, my crescendo?
Imagine a story of these two
By a pond made of words.
Where will this road lead us?
To the north, and there,
a desert in high-summer.
A river snakes about the
banks of here and there
while a current runs
to or fro, and we concern
ourselves
with great falling boughs.
Where am I now, that
my life and love was
born and named?
"Red Ink".
It's not enough,
no.
These violent and heavy-handed
Accusations
continue.
Where?
where is always the question
or with mention of here
or
there
or
anywhere but right now.
Red ink.
I linger on the edge of wonder
I will not make that leap
I will wait
I will feel what I am
expected
to feel.
I will stay in shadows
writing lines to
borrowed music
remarking on how my
"b"s look like my father's,
and moments of brilliance
are overtaken by
The Mundane.
It has been too long.
I am forgetting the language.
"Excuse-moi monsieur,
Mes sentiments sont où?"
I seem to have left them
behind,
trapped in a dream of
dirt and salt and trees.
I cannot see this dream
In you.
this song conjures a smile.
I did not feel alone,
only me in the room,
waiting.
I have waited too long.
there is no perfection,
no secret tree to twist
and wend its branches
skyward
to draw darker places from my
searching eye.
no mud or earth or sand to
sink and breathe
when breath seems
Wasted on those left
breathing.
no desire here so unknown.
too long.
Itisnot Enough.
You cannot be this person now,
So others talk with glancing
gazes, ashamed of what they've
seen or heard.
This is too hurried,
Too absurd,
this borrowed song nears its
Ending-
Quickly now.
I cannot remain in secret loathing,
If you stay this followed road.
Where are you?
Where have you gone?
When you are here,
I feel alone.
Same Old.
Where are we?
Where are we my
love
I
wish we could.
Be someone other.
somewhere other
than words and
black and
blue,
black and
white.
I struggle
against
a current is drawing me
Down.
Why are my words lost
with you
without you?
I cannot see it.
Lost again on my desert,
stretching beyong this
suffocation.
A cool wind makes goosebumps,
You smoothe them over;
Selfconscious.
same old songs
played in these old
memories, paint
peels in old corridors.
same old halls
same old walls.
where are we
My
Love?
How far must I travel?
Snow and Lights.
Reflection on a highway
at
half-past two.
You’d never seen the snow before
I played like secret crystals
Among a hidden alcove.
You
Cannot
Find
Me.
Comefindme.
You would touch the snow
With him.
I am light and evaporating a
Thousand
Times.
We are angels burned into grubby snow,
Melting to reflect concealed
Exasperations.
What am I?
Snow and lights.
I melt, I fade away.
Will you know me in
Sixty years?
;
Am I so careless and unassuming
That I’ll never understand?
I wish my heart was
A box of ice.
I could hide this all away
So it didn’t matter,
Like it matters for you.
What am I now?
Snow and lights and
a heart of ice,
Resonating with deeper sonnets
of words untold.
Adagio.
Andante, now
I feel blind, floating among a
Sea of spectators who
Secretly know my plight.
They await the big finish.
I am drowning on a sea of specters.
Cantabile,
snow and lights
sinking further from
what we thought
we loved,
and closer still
to that midnight highway.
I see the lights;
I wait on the snow.
"October 5th (4.30-5am)"
I stray
Far from a path that
I had created for
Myself
Long
Ago.
I have found another jungle,
For the jungle: not my heart;
My head.
I weavesincerelybetweenweeping
Willowtreesthat
Bend.and.melt
to
Reflectmysorrow.
Where is my path?
The trees are black,
The dirt is mud
And it is black,
The leaves, branches, twigs, shrubs,
black black black.
This is a dense and unwavering forest,
I can see no light.
A murmur is carried by subtle
Breeze and asks,
"Why are you led by these
Paths- your past?"
Ah.
The jungle breathes.
Iamforoncelost without words.
It is all I haveeverknown,
Likethesemonstersandquicksand
And
Waiting
Darkness
-I will not go there again.
This skin is not silk,
I plant no tree that would
Feed on blood and salt and earth,
I am stifled by a jungle
Which devours
All
Logical
Thought.
I wish the jungle was my soul.
I could write it out,
burn it up, take the hatchets
To it.
You have made me this jungle,
I am far from my path
But it is always
With me.
"An Appointment"
I dream of a desert.
At night when all is
Still and small and dark,
The sand, black and shining
Silver in hostile moonlight,
Erupts in tendrils and trees.
These fingers of red and
Parrot shades stretch higher-
I am enveloped, but
Here
is cool and safe.
In the distance I hear a
Lion.
I once told him I loved him-
This lion,
"Je t'aime," I said
(But in a Lion's voice.)
And he threw sand at my face,
And would never let it lie.
It was a weakness. This forest
Is too dark
-I am too pale to
Hide.
If I sit you in a doctor's chair,
Tell me
Tell me
TELL ME
Where does it hurt?
The lion chews up my heart.
I am looking for a knight in armour,
A night in arms or
Tucked safe away...
My brain is a checkerboard,
The pieces are scattered
And lost amongst the rubble.
This dreaming needs a new
Character.
Another lion? But this one
Dark and secret and from
Different jungle places.
He takes his time to chew
His meal.
(And does not realise it
Is my heart.)
Doctor, where does it hurt?
Iamafraifofthesemonsters
Andlions which
devourmyinsideswithno
consideration
for.my.well.being.
Doctor,
why
does
it
hurt?
"Scales"
I have no free will.
I am manipulated,
A pale-skinned puppet,
My puppet-master; pupeteer; puppet-man
Is a devious being.
I am locked up, stolen away,
Kept in a cage at the
Top Of A Tower.
I thought you would have known.
By the way I was acting,
Doesn't the cold make it clear?
Sorry, was that too heartless?
Am I talking about you?
Or him? Or both of them?
Or none of you at all.
Something rotten has grown,
Flourished and Spread-
It eats my veins, devours
My Heart.
It has left no Love for you
Or any of these actions.
But this is too Muller-
.... Let's continue.
I like your assumptions,
These puppet-dreamings are
Strung Too Taut.
I like how your assumptions
Shift the blame.
It was the puppet boy all along!
I am certain of it.
He wears a top-hat and
Points ponies around a ring.
It is ridiculous satire.
I see a trail of skin
And filthy puppet scales.
Devour my will,
Spit up my heart.
"Surgery"
Surgery.
Open heart surgery;
They rip you up-
Tinker with your insides,
Prod you if you bruise,
Cut you if you bleed.
Operations table,
Papers scattered;
Organisedd chaos. Nail
Table, which serves to
Twist and bend flesh-
Aggrivate gentle skin.
I missed you.
I miss you
Passing amongst those unknown faces,
It did not follow me here.
Operations table,
These papers scattered with
No end in sight.
Now straying from wishful
Dreaming,
To more and most deserving topics,
Where my pen is busy scrawling.
Frozen still in smiling photos
I saw you.
I had forgotten.
You were young, with flowers in
Your hair.
Or hair that was not your own.
These finaly days, hours, tick-tock
Away.
malicious tendrils of creeping
memory gently wrap around
like fingers closing warmly
on my throat.
there is no End in sight.
"Les Elephants"
(written in response by a piece of art by Salvador Dali.)
Les elephants walk on stilts.
Such simple things as limbs and joints
Fall away with the passing of
Time.
They carry boulders on their backs,
Stretched and pinned against a
Blood-orange sky.
They have waited so long.
So long, pretty elephants.
You could almost be swans.
Almost like swans.
Mossy tusks and trunks
Flare and breathe,
Grateful for this citrus-day.
Les elephant on spider legs,
Cannot move, nor sleep nor
Live or die.
Mud (of the Earth series)
A whale has swallowed my insides.
Don’t laugh.
No laughing matter.
… No matter.
Great and gaping there are teeth,
Dear,
Precious and unforgiving they wait to
Taste what blood I bleed.
It draws me down.
I have been here before.
I can hear him breathing in my ear.
I missed him and all the
More simple truths he promised.
I know why he brought me.
Here, a grassy lawn bathed in
Troubled moonlight. The air is cold,
The ground is damp under my
Bare
Feet.
I would cry, but do not-
I am not supposed to.
There is no skin here to touch
With silken fingers bathed in milk,
No tree from restless earth grows
And thrives on salt and blood and pain,
But writhes and twists in its regret,
Or wonders of questions yet unasked.
If there is such good and love and joy and light…
Why do I see only night, with muddy earth
Beneath my toes?
Would you tell me if there was some
Grotesque thing that grows from my face,
That has made me now
So alone?
White
Mother,
This flesh rots in
Wretched welts of poisoned skin,
Decaying in the memory of
Bone-white surgery.
This flesh torn apart in
Red-tinged fits of rage.
Mother,
Toss your horrid words deep
Into the throat of a monster,
With seven arms and razor claws
and all those things that
rise from nightmares.
You Are The Monster.
Do not ask of the flesh-
You would not.
Do not care of the wounds-
You would not.
such need to feel and hurt and
crack often this black wondering,
not for several years.
mother,
this flesh rots and burns and bleeds
in your name.
Appropriate
Hello.
..... As if there were no
.....Anxious wanderings- my
.....Hand could not
.....Form the words that seem
Appropriate.
.....But darker shadows
..gather in places unseen
..and speak through tongues and
..Electric, eclectic rhythm.
I thought I saw butterflies
Among a field of violent
Flowers- they had lost their legs,
Or wing, or sight
In war.
.....Like this- that I cannot
Fight, or, if I could, win.
My toes are cold-
butterflies lack in toes.
If I closed it all off-
took it away,
would I remain as I do now?
If everything changed,
would I change?
.....My throat feels dry,
.....but I am drowning.
Float.
There is some dark thing,
Which worries at the edge of
Sheets and sleaves.
A haunting thing with
Lips to laugh and jeer.
.....I found an ocean.
The water made of oil
Caresses at ankles once
White and lilly in their forgetting.
How did I come by here?
And why?
... There is smog that loves my
Lungs; invading every deep and
Private part where even breath
Cannot reach. Or, if it can,
Does not.
There are some smiling,
Some laughing, dancing, dying.
But I am not- I watch only,
And sometimes wish that I
Could join.
Now she's standing here beside me-
I fall.
Silence closes on waves and chaos,
A song once heard inside a
Dream, fades.
Washes away with salt and sand.
Where I am floating
I see pink flowers,
And the sun, with light that
Gives them strength to grow.
Pink flowers turn to butterflies,
And in a flash take to the skies;
And leave me on my own to die.
I dislike the float of those
Empty shells.
The way ice grows in secret and
Emerges in anxious tones.
I dislike this feeling; "All alone",
But cannot stand the closeness of
These floating things.
Where mist clings to fractured waves
I fall and drown.
Those pink flower butterflies
Have all taken to the skies
And left me on my own.
Earth I
The black place calls,
My feet
Want to follow.
Touch silk with pale
Milk fingers.
Skin to skin- softer
Than skins before.
Where dark shadows rest there are no answers,
The questions are not asked.
Dreams of lips
And mouths that bubble
Obscenities, all the while
The care of that black place
Is not there. It is not,
But questions its meaning.
Why? The lark calls from
The belfry.
Some pictures paint far
Away;
To pretend is understanding.
To us the lark does not sing.
In the black place we
Do not smile, but make
Happiness.
There is no sun.
From the earth that drinks
Tiny droplets mixed with dirt
Grows a little tree.
It has known the place I
Want.
Something keeps me.
Not the tree, but skin.
Softer skin than silk,
Touched by ever loving fingers.
The skin does not love
The fingers that touch.
Earth II
The black place beckons;
I want to leave
This place where one
Mask becomes a day face.
The skin-lust does
Not hold. Too firm the lips;
Too shallow.
Once, I was there,
I wished to stay: simplicity the answer,
Though grasping air I
Craved it.
No day-face worn, but
A book without pages.
No skin here to tempt
Those who do not.
The temptless; all eyes shine
Elsewhere, on the otherskin;
The skin so required.
Desired by others;
Desire returned, but not
To I: most desiring of all.
She smiles, parts her
Lips to speak, touches
Skin to mine with “Be
Safe”, but no lust as I feel.
Desire hides safe in secrecy:
A seed waits to grow.
They do not, she will not
Know.
Earth III
The black place calls,
Some younger part wants
To follow.
A ruby cut from finer stone could not
Hear my sorrow.
So safely lies; a golden prison-
Where beauty
Is not beauty known.
There was a tiny bird
Whose name I did not know and
Scratched at dirt to find
Less
Precious things.
Still dreams of skin and
Trees itch where scratches mend-
Beneath skin! As thoughts unseen
Do lie to pool,
And burn when thoughts no longer
Rest,
But plague those who dare to
Wake the sleepless from their
Slumber.
The black place breathes.
His breath is dying, and life
Renewed.
He whispers songs in my ear,
Then turns to ice.
When skin calls
To touch,
And sweeter lips, mouths of
Senses do hurt a
Timid soul,
I search the black place.
When my ever-hungry fingers
Touch skin alike to milk,
And breathe and taste her
Heavy scent.
When in darker places there
Grows a tree that feeds
On ever-loving silk,
And drinks the droplets
When they fall, mixed with
Dirt, salt and blood.
When desire hides along
With knowledge,
When skin loves not
Ever-loving fingers,
I find the black place.
Two Girls
Have you left to
Return again?
Hold our breaths
With frightened fingers?
Through mist things
Seem clearer;
Where you walk,
I will walk,
But if you leave
I cannot follow,
But will love you still.
You are my sister.
You are my friend.
You were as a sister.
You were a friend.
If a heart could open to
Tell its pain,
Let yours speak a
Thousand.
When your lips smile
And carry on:
A strength I’ve
Never known;
Absence of understanding.
Something pretend.
Two girls sit,
Boxes of clothes or horses nearby.
The air smells of grass and
Innocence.
Games of schools and families and lives too old.
I knew, but
Did not know.
How could we know
What was to come?
If you die before
You wake,
This place will be
Sadder for it.
Too young to leave,
But life: too difficult to stay?
Where blood speaks in different tongues,
And the heart bleeds
Its sorrow;
Si un Coeur casse tu prends,
Je t’aimerai pour toujours:
Tu es ma sœur
Et amie toujours.
copyright/credits
Graphics and layout designed and copyrighted © 2004 Yelitza M. Velez of ymvdesigns.com.Graphics created from scratch using Adobe Photoshop, Illustrator, personal photographs and some brushes created by nice people. If you wish to know which brushes I used specifically, feel free to send a nice e-mail my way.
---> Layout obtained from Appassionato
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