Film


I can recall a time where
things were not the same as they are now-
in every aspect.

That time lies here,
in this shiny film.
Look inside of it, and you will find me.

There I am, full of blind life,
and stuffed with naive joy-
oh how the irony comes and goes.

Time is a leaf in the evening breeze,
but never returns for greeting.
It goes on, forever and ever.

That time lies here,
in this shiny film.
Look within, and you will find my arm with another.

Here and now,
I am with new skin- with arms untwined,
and the skin of old is here- in this shiny film.

Music

MUSIC
by: Charles Baudelaire

USIC doth uplift me like a sea

Towards my planet pale,

Then through dark fogs or heaven's infinity

I lift my wandering sail.

 

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,

And through the cordage wail,

I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me

Beneath her sombre veil.

 

I feel the tremblings of all passions known

To ships before the breeze;

Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

 

I pass the abysmal seas

That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair

Of my despair!

A Moth in the Garden

A Moth in the Garden



It is only noon
when the moth
makes its way in here.
The Garden of mind
is this garden here.

I wake from my nap
when I hear its wings.
I hear paradise,
when I hear its wings.
Like angel voices,
when I hear its wings.

I look toward it
and it taunts right back.
Its eyes soon meet mine.
It is a crystal
on a garden leaf.
I want to catch it.

With strain and void strife,
I leap for that moth.
An aura of fear,
surrounds the creature.
I feel its laced wings
on my finger tips,
as it flies away.

My pupils follow
the path that it takes.
And painful droplets
slide right down my cheek.
It one past noon.

The Life of A Man


Weaving and waving,
the life of a man.
It is tied like a knot,
tied and then untied
as if an attempt
to torture meaning
right out of its mouth.


You cannot hear cries
from falling flowers,
because all flowers
are not heard inside
the presense of kings.


Lurking late below,
a southern village.
With no phones to talk
to kings of the world.


Because us flowers
are only flowers,
and flowers bloom deep
in the fertile earth.
Whilst kings sing false songs
on the shaky clouds.


Weaving and waving,
the life of a man.
It is tied like a knot,
tied and then untied
as if an attempt
to torture meaning
right out of life's mouth.