Sonnet for Alice II

to slaughter this lamb
by woman's hand
none gladder I am
than be the man

to be so damned
as love does stand
I utter not a hem
let the dagger land

the tongue out
thy kiss does blow
my heart devout
the neck below
on thou holy shroud
i thus bestow

Sonnet for Alice I

to not know to love
to know not to see
a blind horse move
unable to move thee

flutter wingless dove
jumping to flee
the cliff beneath follows
the path of destiny

like orpheus below
reaching your hand
to ensure you follow
my lovers band
like the cry of crows
death is a lonely man

The Angel's Shadow

The cast of her wings thrusts him on his knees
In veneration and blind fear he turns
She stirs the motions of the wind like breath
By the dust she moves blows into his eyes
To say but once he recognizes her words
No more needs be spoken to hear her speak
By darkness as a cast of light is blown
Like a shadow in the cave sightless soul
There stands the mad angel that destroys man
Unbreakable duende in his heart
That takes possession of a different life
He cannot preserve her self but take it
Indulging into the air by every breath
She so remote and yet appears so clear
That remains so distant yet and unseen
The child that destroys a man

Faces (53)

The short stubbles of his scruffy goatee blended like a brightly colored motion of a pointillist painting into the detailed foam of ginger waves and the freckled splashes of his reddish face under an orange sky lit by a spiky haircut. His light blue eyes looked gloomy.

Faces (52)

The tip of her nose was powdered thickly, round like a ripe plumb. She owned a pair of glazing, dark brown eyes, circumligned by a crisp, black border, like burnt pits hanging from a tree, above her pointy, white chin, cleaved by the sharp, blazingly red stripes of her thin lips.

Faces (51)

With a pair of black, fleece ear warmers clipped onto his ears, closely fitting around his small head, his shiny, black haired skull topped by a wool, camel, flat cap, his large, falling nose mounted by metal rimmed, aviator glasses and his face colored by a dark brown, Indian tan, and the collar of his winter jacket pulled up high around his neck against the icy cold, the man appeared diminished to a suppressed, reprieved expression.

Silhouettes (1)

A tall, heavy, black man joggles his black fedora hat on top of his round head in a daringly slow motion from his left shoulder to his right shoulder, both bearing the heavy weight of a dark gray, woolen, long coat, balancing his total resistant gait by the wide sling of his right hand swinging a worn, black leather briefcase in a regular radius around his broad hip, propelling him forward in an un-hasted pace.

Angels in Despair

(Prometheus)

Les anges de la inhabitation urbaine
S'appellent la bonne
Mais il n'y pas nous qui crions
dans la nuit noire
et qui dancons comme des enfants
sans savoir at qui oublions?
Mon dieux, pourquoi vous avez me depardu
pour trouve ca que n'existe pas
ca que nous voisons seul parce ce que
toujours encore nous espérons

Peter Paul Rubens, Prometheus Bound (1618)

Rivers of the Underground: Styx

This promise that leads to our death, is to desire life. We are so faithful and stand at the side of the father like a flock of children. Zeus is grateful and tragically obliges our wishes without much thought. Yet what is happiness but the absence of unhappiness, what is pleasure but the absence of pain. To avoid our suffering, we desire to live. To fulfill my yearning, all I crave for is to avoid unhappiness. So I seek more pleasure, I must fulfill this desire, even if it means my certain death. So I enter this underworld of the subway at Grand Army Plaza, and every morning, dutifully, to avoid discomfort, I repeat this same, civic ritual, I descend, I wait. Then I see the head lights approaching, growing larger as they roll near. There I see the shadow of the driver of souls, appearing on the dreary side of the traced, yellow line on the platform. I step back at the roaring proximity of the flashing eyes. I get on, and am shaken silently, tens of meters under the East river to the island of Manhattan, where rivers are split, bordering the marshes of Jersey. Who is immersed here, finds eternity, invulnerable to the suffering of life, but lost of all human measure.

Rivers of the Underground: Lethe

Of all the evil my eyes have seen, oblivion was the most unforgiving. Who escaped it, never spoke of it again. Of all sins, to forget the wrongs committed, the most cruel is, more gruesome than the wrong that suffers of it, to forget. The closest to death in deed, oh she is not sleep, for even sleep will be forgotten. Here I sink into this hole of liquid, here I am washed clean of myself, and so not only drowned into this river of the living dead, also to know nothing of it. Three times crows the rooster, three times I disown, three times disowned, so I deny the love I loved, so I deny the friend I once knew. Is there greater sin than to stop loving, than to forget. Man, I do not know what you are talking about! and the Lord turns and looks straight at us. Oh Lethe, who washes with your waters my love. Oh Lethe, don't leave me denied. As I sink I feel her sense of great, calm soothing. There is no deeper river in the mind, there is no broader realm in the soul of man. To forget is the devil's water, and more than death, Matilda's hand I fear. Matilda, most beautiful woman, most gracious and fair, it is her who makes me forget what in my dreams I longed. She is covered in her veil, and by the spell of magic in her eyes, the breath of her soft breasts in her tender voice, the Siren draws me onto her clips. Here it is I strand, on the shore of Lethe, while on my long sea way home.