The Lacklustre Prince Dulling

Grazing through a field of family forgot
his mummy fed him scorn and pride
and left him there to rot

Without a kingdom to begot,
a throne of self-entitled shame,
and no one but his Lady Fortune
oh, Miss Fortune was her name

Locked away up in his tower
refusing to come down
he was safe within his head
and well guarded by his crown

Prince Dulling, on his hands and knees
ate shillings from the floor
by which, he swore his people would
adore their new king even more

For if he jingled as he walked
and clanked around the hips
they might not hear those silly words
that stumbled from his pretty lips

They called him mad, though he was sure
his frugal practice made him wiser
for when he needed legal aid
he'd be both bank and his advisor

A Face Like Yehuda's

It really is something to see a face like Yehuda's, whose appeal, like so many of his kind, reaches beyond the realm of physical attraction. For the soul of a face like this is special, in that it is ever-expanding, boiling up and out of the eyes, and becoming something like a great fountain of youth.

This particular face is said to want, more so than any other, and carries with it an enormous thirst for life. It has that twinkle you'll see in the eye of every odd stranger out; one that locks you in a lengthy gaze, during which, you find yourself wandering the void of human perplexity. There is a grace that moves beneath the skin of this face like a current, an ease with which, these strangers approach life.

I remember him smiling at me knowingly, "Don't pretend it doesn't matter to you. Of all professions, a designer should understand the importance of practicing aesthetics."

A pretty face is the perfect packaging to the product we all crave: the soul. In fact, the face is merely an interface, with which we interact to experience the being behind it. This other worldly energy we all are so drawn to though, cannot be attributed solely to one's bone structure.

It is a presence that they carry, or that follows them. Essentially, it is a spirit, magnified almost, and growing like a black hole, consuming what it can until it cannot.

This is a face like Yehuda's.

the worst of us is truest

our shortcomings propel us

the loathsome find the love they don't deserve

and the innocent die first

this world is on its head, but I don't mind

can you find the filling?

by nature, words are evanescent

intangible and fleeting

so I sometimes ponder the morality

of tethering them to a page

lately,

I've been trying to understand

my relationship with words

what it means to write them down

from a to b, my mind to mouth

something in translation must be lost

I like to think it's

something divine

but if the best is missing

if these words have lost their meaning

are they not

like some empty Oreo,

futile?

I took a walk tonight

for the first time

without the intent

to alter my perception

the silence was unsettling

words were difficult enough

in theory, inside

let alone trying to

speak aloud

they attacked me

for not being around

for ignoring them

they swarmed my mind

and fought toward my tongue

they knew I had no smoke

to stop them now

though, with a cunning plan

I managed to

to cull the incessant savaging

I began to sing

I sang "I can sing this song so blue

that you will cry in spite of you. . ."

my mouth and mind occupied

by someone else's words

written to a sad,

someone else's rhythm

I was safe

from the stillness of night

with a mouthful of distraction

from sobriety

so I suppose I'll settle

for two chocolate halves

if I cannot find the filling

speak no evil

It's been so long since I'd the urge to do it

I've forgotten where to go

when so suddenly these

weeks of silence overflow

But where are words to go?

(John Cleese): In the Box!

shut up John Cleese, I'm trying to be poetic.

Where does it all come from?

I haven't been writing, only editing aging posts, with no intention of actually posting. I sometimes think there is a build, and then a crescendo, or beer-head, and everything spills over, and into this white box.

My thoughts come out in bursts, characterized by short spurts of clicks and pops of keys. My fingers swoop over lines and squiggles I've come to understand, like something I don't have a poetic analogy for. But still, I find it amusing. Between machine gun duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duhs, I'm thinking. Most times it isn't of what's next.

where I live, but not so literally

* * *

I stare off too often, at places far away, in the sky and ground that don't exist. I stare at people who aren't there, undressing or kneeling in prayer; people mumbling things I know that I can hear, but never remember. These words that spill from faces I don't know are like the ones in dreams; the text you strain to read, some unimaginable truth, which slips away before we take it with us to the surface, awake. It settles by the lids of our eyes, to meet us on another night in another dream, maybe. But still, I remember the beat.

your life is my pastime

I told you I don't finish stuff often

Sometimes I think that where I am, when my eyes are open, these kinds of words run backwards, or not at all. But still, a beat is a beat, by which we dance regardless of its direction. The words of books in dreams always mean more than what they seem, when what they seem are nothing in the light of day, awake; it is the feeling of certainty that satisfies the solar plexus, trickles up toward the tongue, vibrating in the teeth. You hear the pitter patter and the rat tat tatter, and you know you're in the presence of something, but you couldn't say exactly what.

* * *

I miss you more than you think

So often I find myself wishing

you never became such a cunt

Because what you are now,

is harder to swallow

And I know that you're still human

because you walk and breathe, like me

But you try, with a bitch stick and some Prada glasses

to hide it

I know they're real,

the price tag says so

but you aren't anymore

And maybe it was I never really knew you

maybe we were never friends

Honestly, I can't remember anymore

but like so much of my past

you're nothing more than the bitter aftermath

of what, at some point tasted sweet

So now you understand

why I can't help but spit