The Goth’s: They scream.

The songs of bards kiss your lips

With spicy ambiance and good tips;

That guide your steps,

That guide your senses,

Until you’re nought but handy hints.

Why did your heart groom its wits?

To watch you learn it to these whims?

Of woven conventions long eclipsed;

In scrolls so old,

In words archaic,

You speak their wisdom with great lisp.

Yet let my words not lose their way,

 I break my verse on habit.

I break my verse on my own whim;

To speak my wisdom,

To scream it in glee:

My heart has life!

To feel and fight!

Your scripts do help

Yet I make my lines!

I take my leads !

I hold my part!

So enjoy the songs 

In myth and ore,

They inspire 

They fire the heart to war.

But arts and combats

Were not aided by bards.

But by the hearts that sired and live their own arts.




Lingering Frustration

​When the mind cannot grasp proprieties,

When answers are beyond reach,

Conscience ordains it dwell in depravity,

In a closed space housing a fragile body.

Weak in spirit, and of frustration,

Throwing rocks at unseen hangmen. 

While fleeing the rope;

It climbs on a boat,

With its fiddling cargo,

And stays afloat.

Its consciousness shakes,

Its senses struggle,

And it’s thoughts labour while appeasing Poseidon.

Yet nothing becomes no thing, nothing changes from null

Like repackaging blank faith, in virgin’s foil.

Repetition becomes a failure of causes,

Like earthquakes result in violent lurches.

Lifeless bystanders are unwilling victims,

Of the tempest that kills paying stowaways.

No is he; the last man who ran from memories.

Yes I am; the last man who ran to possibility.

To chase a haven; with an order of holy transgression.

While pausing to sway,

While pausing to gloat,

At the herd and the waves 

Who notice and moan.

While pushing,

While fading,

In a nauseating mist of vanity.
And when the fog disperses

The self; wills calm.

Yet only for while;

Now the wind sleeps a while.

Sonnet 1

I hear the thumping sounds of magic,

Witchcraft; in my perfect language,

And as I draw toward the aching attic

The voices gnash and wail in bondage.

But I would not use Cogito in vain,

My sire would rise and shriek in shame.

Mon Dieu! Where art thy righteous chain?

To bellow from breasts that would be tame!

Open, you door where broomsticks slave,

Show who hide, you chanting druid

From shadows, in vices, from a homestead cave,

To demons in valleys, and with gasping fluid.

Show me and hold my Bible back,

Show me and wield my handy hack.



Darkened Cynic

I have been touched by Satan

Or a Cretan leaving a mark.

And I have been shunned, broken,

And barely cared for, till Darkened

Cynic becomes my title lyric.

It will not be stopped,

When the spot takes its cue

The demon will speak in whispers,

For evil to jump at transgressions,

And Forgiveness be forgotten,

Because it is ill begotten.

The man I love is watching

And biding his own restriction

While the devil cares for his creatures.

Hail to the father, Hail.

What a man we face at the altar

To have and behold forever

To obey in unending health.

Hail to the father, Hail,

And death’s will never reach us.

Hail to the father, Hail.