The boy comes to a place on the sidewalk
As his sole prepares to waste it’s soul
The caterpillar calls out, shrieking calmly
Man, remember I am here
I don’t move as fast as you
So please, empathize with me
Man, why do you pretend
Pretend to be the object
That you loathe so deeply
A lustful thirst to be seen
Consumes the eyes of you
And ends the lives of youth
Man, why do try to find
So many reasons to end
What you’ve wanted so desperately
Since your first breath of sin
Man, man, man,
That lover doesn't feel like you
Could it be said that the knife
Cuts farther into the gold than the flesh
I can’t speak for you, man
Though your fleshy brain
Commands the cataclysm
To thwart your heart and optimism
And said with lonely intent,
Man,
Do what you wish onto yourself onto others
But do good for you and your lover
Not as a bad fellow did say
Felo de se
to love, is often to bleed,
cut at the wrist through the fields of reids,
mummification of a beloved memory,
wrapped in caramel gauze of a felo de se.
“should we see this heralding—?”
asked the lonely chimera to the aardvark,
her eyes welting with levees to break,
single teardrop of a fallen empire drips to hands.
“time cares not for your water child, just your heartstrings,
but by which face, who will you let lead is the mystery,”
its cane snapping, sending it bouncing down the hill,
quick way to get around, if you are built for hellscape.
“to which face i lead,” it silently speaks,
“am i the lion, a snake, or just a sheep—?”
Villanelle : Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Let tears on High Holy Mass spill down the Seine
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
Is the Lord's mise en scène an act desperate
A dire call to fill Church benches lone vain
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Who'd wish the Crown of Thorns be crushed under weight
Aging oak high rafter timbers tumble rain
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
Witness the Lord's will red-hot Spire irate
Whose felo de se the Flèche pierced heart in pain
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Montmartre's severed head Saint Denis lugged Frankish hate
Who'll don Louis IX Tunic to rule Louvre brain
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
Could Man his collapsing structure rebuild to date
Lord's Agent be or manage the mise en scène
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
© T. Wignesan - Paris, April 17, 2019
I'm in a relationship with myself
Walking alone on a ticking clock
Improvising only to disappoint
Existing to be invisible.
People who came and left
Took a piece of me
I am now a matrix of crumbs
Bet I'm about to constellate
I self quarrel on a gloomy day
Still battling an overdose
Of between depression and Mirtazapines
Both kills me anyway
I will be in a relationship with myself
Not because there is no one left to
But because I am jaded with the inevitable
Death now is but a random blur
Will this solitude give me the cure?
I just drank a fifth of vodka
A lot on my mind
I start crying
But not because I'm sad or scared
It just feels like I'm supposed to
Razor blade in my hand
Ready to cut my flesh
First I slit my neck
Then both wrists
See the blood drip
Feel it running down my skin
Hear it hit the floor
Smells great
One taste & reality hits
Blood is gone
No cuts
Or tears
A voice says,
"This is your future"
Then I wake up
Childly
Nature
Usually lost
Lavishly
Into her daydreams
Occupied by extreme unfledged guesses
That turns out with no results, she exclaims…
She is alike the princesses nascence from the garden of eden
Beautiful she is, felo-de-se her appeal – selfsame garrulous, bewrayed ofttimes by her
most heartfelts.
Yet she dances all through the way – lives with eternal sentiments that she copes with her
tears all alone and alone.
It was a Day
He wore his cocoa-brown shirt
not silk sort-of
sort-of splayed with sinewy
filamented palm trees in
green fibrilangulared leaves
no coconuts; draping to him
like a cosy vestment tucked
deeply beneath...
St. Bernard de Clairvaux,
Oh, this sunny Sunday Morn.
to know beatitude, of a place
traveled stone by stone
stone upon stone remade
for It's Image imparvenue,
about the nave, there
a photo-snapping Song and Stepping
Borne with the Smile of Day
East to West they children
in a Rhyme... Sublime...
Alas, now,
The Day apass
from East to West
His vestmeant for cocoaed-brown
draped to him
like a cere-cloth, & tucked beneath deeply
recalls to the Day-nearly
(8.21.1153)
and the Massacre of the Troubadour, &
a felo-de-se, en Masse!
H.e.m.
7.21.MMvii.
("MWABD")
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