Long Unfulfillment Poems
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Tax on Life
From the mute ones' silence rise the dregs of dying light,
like bottomless voids — voices swallowed whole by nameless night,
folk garments on bare skin, emptiness dressed up in ache —
a kiss is life's tax, paid so gently, half-awake.
Borrowed rut — the routine of memory drops like frozen rain,
serial suicide, matter that passes and can't remain,
a fledgling of nothing floating above the unborn hour —
the executioner of ideas cuts them all before they flower.
The monastery's perfume-ash still burns and calls me in,
monkey rosaries, devil-horned priests — a holy discipline,
perverted monks strip-tease your eyelids down to snow and prayer,
cigarette smoke drifting lost through aching, hollow air.
Ballast of your languid heart, petals of a man who cries,
building unfulfillment deep into the subtle nights,
the coming beast howls from the shadow of an extinguished year —
the dead hour's man seeks harbor in himself, untouched, unclear.
Infirm crime on the firmness of thighs — your secret heaven weeps,
the satanic apple drops its darkened flower, bleeds and seeps,
the paranoerotic of all loves burns me like desire detained —
everything: an unpaid kiss, an endless void, a void unnamed.
If everyone were to disappear, but everything remained unchanged,
The world would be a vast cathedral of the echo of regret,
Where empty streets silently carry the ghosts of choices,
Those fragile threads that bound us in the dance of life.
The masters we chose—greed, apathy, comfort—
Would be shadow sculptures in the architecture of our absence,
And you, like a wandering specter, would be the invisible witness
To a landscape breathing our deeply ingrained indifference.
The sky, shrouded in flames of memories over lost cities,
Would burn not just with fire but with memory clinging to time,
Whispering in the merciless silence of the wind through abandoned homes,
The creaking of rusted gates becoming a chorus of unfulfillment.
The smoke from the chimney, once a symbol of warmth, now spits bitterness,
Dry leaves, like torn pages from forgotten stories, dance alone,
Scratching the earth with whispers sounding like a hidden confession,
Asking in every echo: where were you when it truly mattered?
What if this were the end, not with a cataclysm of fire,
But with a slow unraveling, a silent disappearance into the night,
Where humanity slips into the abyss, leaving the world empty,
And in that silence, you feel absence in the marrow of your being.
Would you feel contempt for the chosen masters in those fractured moments?
Or self-betrayal, a deep and constant pain,
For the soul you abandoned in the pursuit of desires?
In this end, there are no heroes, only the relentless truth,
Reflected in the lifeless eyes of the world left behind.
The most dreadful part is not the disappearance, but the drifting,
The watching, the knowing. It’s not just the world that’s empty—you are too,
And in the haunting silence of the place once called home,
You finally realize: absence is not just a void. It is a mirror.
Dragons, Monsters, Daemons, Ghosts.
OH ! to be the slayer of your world, of Dragons,
to be allowed, to be able to extinguish the fires,
the fires that light the way for the Monsters, the Daemons,
the Ghosts that haunt, who’s claws hold back all that could be.
Could this ethereal world I envision, be an illusion?,
A figment of my imagination?, a perception blinded by,
unfulfillment of a dream, a desire, a need for more?
Do these apparitions?, these mythical images?, legendary
phantoms of the mind come on wings of doubt?
Walking on clouds seems to be what I do.
Rays of Sunshine dissipate, melt away my path.
I am left floating on the winds of uncertainty.
Carried away on the wings of fear?, indifference?
B. J. “A” 2
November 13th 2006
In the palm of the universe, only the mad ones dare to tread,
Mad to live, to speak, to be saved from the relentless currents of time,
Craving everything at once, like a blazing sun at its zenith,
They never yawn, nor utter the mundane, but burn with the brilliance of fallen stars,
Like fabulous yellow roman candles bursting into webs among the stars,
Their light dances upon the walls of my soul, weaving dreams I can never touch,
While sandcastles rise in my wandering mind, without foundations to hold them.
Marble staircases and crystal chandeliers waltz in the echoes of forgotten dreams,
Through the labyrinth of unwritten memories, I roam, lost and searching,
Unaware of the source of this sweet poison that floods my senses,
Oh cruel universe, why do you show me only shadows of happiness?
Let me glimpse the light that dances, yet remains untouched by any hand,
In the merciless universe, why reveal mere shadows of joy,
When my prayer is an echo of unfulfillment, a melody without end,
That is lost in the infinity of the universe, untouched and unheard by anyone.
The Tumbling from Thought as Inverted Ascension
from a shore of thought chipped sculpted in the memory of clear forgetting,
I tumbled upward toward memory that forgets remembering everything,
and at dawn of smile too labored rested in its cheerful weariness,
a longing overshadowed me illuminating ghosts of fulfilled unfulfillment!
through that chasm unexpected awaited the incantation of talkative silence,
I drugged myself lucidly with a word of sincere deception and mendacious truth,
it was only the dark radiant one of my chance missed with success,
eternal mortal kin just as often I rarely happened upon it in dream.
built in the non-beginning continuous end interrupted by a hasty idyll,
in the delight of shameless bashful immodest and chaste modesty heavily,
and now curse blessing so may you die living in dead life,
in your mind heavily sick healthy with the grave full emptiness of the body.
of glory humility and your lips will be stiffened loosely mobile,
struck in waves by the stillness of solid water that flows fixedly,
journey galactic earthly sun manifestly hidden of our first love,
to the immortal ephemeral cult of our living statue in soft stone!
to the wink of an eternal kiss that lasts an eternity of a second,
the shore of chipped thought tumbles me upward climbing into the tall abyss,
the dawns of labored idleness overshadow me with their opaque light,
ghost of fulfilled unfulfillment in the full emptiness of our glory!
Compulsions to create governed by fear and perpetual query,
Where affirmations are fossil fuels, scarce and costly.
Approval? Qualified? I Dangle upside-down, tethered to a rope questions.
Hovering over a pit of acceptance with a bloated cranium.
A pause in their scroll…
The press of a gesture nibbles away the rejuvenating thread.
How can a dozen feel worse than none?
These little thumbs, those filled-in hearts, these perverted numbers.
The lack of something accumulates, forming a dam even beavers would envy.
Obstructing a river of creative juices that quench the thirst of unfulfillment.
To overcome, to not care. These two rarely coexist.
Perhaps shifting the care could break the levy.
Not what they think, but I, and what laser could separate the two?
The strategy brings hope to a mind battered by rejection.
That’s right, Destroyer of Motives! Disguiser of Truths!
I will get up and press that power button, double-click that software, and create.
Not for whoever they are, but for me.
So, blast the damns and let it flow!
Who knows, maybe they like it..
In the long shadows of the evening, when the light withdraws into a silent corner of the world,
I extend my hand toward the unknown, a white, cold, and empty hand,
A hand seeking to grasp the fragile meanings of existence,
Which become like violets, delicate, lost in the wind.
Oh, my eyes, your sparks have been extinguished in the darkness,
In the pale light of forgotten memories,
You open bare, without brilliance,
Wondering, what are the jasmines for, what sweet words can they still say?
Suns set over the cold silence of my heart,
Leaves rustle in the wind of memories, candles flicker out,
Harp strings move slowly, crystal dreams cracking,
Arms raised in despair, teeth clenched with lost desire.
The cries of the soul echo in the silence of the night,
And tears flow from veins that have known lost love,
I don’t know, I don’t know what purpose all these feelings serve,
I have burned my forehead on the pyre of unfulfillment, I have burned my innocence in the flames of betrayed hope.
The deepest intimacy, the highest hope,
Everything has turned to ash, my bread is ash, my yields are the wind,
I have burned my soil that once bore life, and I have burned my life-giving water,
And now, what remains for my weary soul?
Yes... these pages,
These empty pages await to weep silently before the universe,
In them, perhaps I could recount the story of my burnings,
In them, perhaps I will find the peace I seek in vain among the stars.
Snapchat
Blue Dot
Message from you
Heart beats fast
Anticipation
What are you contacting me after so long
The moment you've waited for
Now you dread, why are you waiting
Open it
I miss you
I love you
It should be us
You should be here with me
We'd be having a hell of a time
I'm making myself busy finding other passions because you are not here
I'd be making love
I'd feel safe
I long for your touch
I want to bury my head in your chest and smell you
Only unfulfillment here
You've been waiting for this
Months for this
Pour your heart out
tell her all the lovely thoughts
regarding her
tell her what you need her to hear the most
I love you too
Typed and typed
heart and soul exploded into
digital text
then
waited
weeks
now months
But........
The blue dot never came