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Bernhard - all messages by user

9/21/2012 4:36:11 PM
Untitled #412 This bed was never meant for conquest

or desire.

Just for the voice of the humble Sunday rain;

watching every exquisite drop bubble and scatter across the sun-chiseled paint

of the window seal.

A vision as comfortable as laughter.

A moment as humble as regret.

Each echo sighs across the weeping glass with a panegyrical glow of cream

and juniper

that melts through the ecru reflection of light onto the cool

silence of our room.

Where your voice of the evening phainopepla

would choir

your golden flamenco,

and saturate our every touch with a moonlight cavatina.

A voice that saturates my memories; begging to be re-created.

Only the air would quietly witness our thoughts unloosen

and nestle to the floor,


like a memory.

Like your auburn hair...



my body.

And as your eyes condone to their slumber,

I lie watching each hollow whisper leave a kiss to the soaking

wind chime;

leaving a shadow to grace the window,

leaving an army of veils and serpents.

We sink into the sheets and a cocoon of blankets

melt over my simple legs,

my furious feet.

Even at rest they never stop searching for the world.

My mammoth toes

dancing with the lazy bronze strings of my grandmother's quilt

and its frontier of wool;

dangling like the

drowsy willow from its heavenly mast.

My poor exhausted pillows.

So many evenings holding my thoughts,

my heavy dreams.

I stack them like sorrows,

like a tower of clouds,

dressed in horizontal streams and soft avenues of teal.

My timid face

buried in their aching cushion

while my mouth stumbles open,

revealing the poem sleeping under my bottom lip.

And the dry wind churns through each room,

throughout the rattled ingredients of night

to rise in the warm pastry of morning.

Crowded with memories,

flaked with shadows.

This bed was never meant for conquest or desire,

but for the drowsy sunrise

that stemmed through the fragile wooden blinds.

The cool spring mist that smuggled through the open window

and hushed in the smell of chrysanthemums and the evening fireplace.

You were still wearing my arms and a red blanket,

as the day married your ivory face

with a boquet of light.

My hands slowly navigating

down your golden spine,


your fingers were nibbling behind my silly ears.

And as your eyes began to harvest,

your greet me with an immeasurable kiss.

A kiss that crumbles cities.

A kiss that evaporates the moon.

A kiss that turns men into hummingbirds.
9/22/2012 10:10:20 PM
On Coltrane's "Meditations" Love stumbles in slowly,
with a gypsy stanza of wounded shadows pouring the
faded light off a checkerboard stage...
the echoed command of the flagships golden oval banner.

An unburied mask of cymbals decorates the plum vibration
in a slender gasp..
...staring frightlessly
as the sagebrush meddles the squalling night
exploding into a ribbon of fangs

The soft piano ganders into the starving air
with a chattered glance
to the genesis of a sonic wind.

A neon breath begins to rattle over the atomic altar.

Jazz: The chaotic apparatus of a soul's bewildered chimera

A bankrupt eyed woman carrying the memory of her newly perished son screams the mad shiver of jazz.

A lazy blade hazardously gashed through the gentle cloak of innocence weeps the color of jazz.

A love scorched moon blushed in apathy sinks into the violent dawn of jazz

All of this sorrow shatters through a blistered ghost of slaughtered hymns; pushing the ache of blood through a shell of magnificent bronze that shelters the agony of jazz....

Jazz: The cold fever of death


Here lives the consequences:
a mad wave of pianos
a mad howl of golden phantoms
a mad march of chords draining the stars
a mad echo dining on the sweat of lost anguish
A mad prophet howls into a chalice of sound and burns a hollow deity into the ears of men

How consequences always shiver a typhoon of green exhales
without a wand of Serenity.

a luscious tangerine dagger
melting over the sleeping Earth.

...Flares of reverberated wings burst into the cherry drums
when the negro flames spill
As memories are raped in the drenched afterglow
of the dirty sunshine now soaking
in your broken pupils.
Letting the world
drink the tainted anguish
through the shrieks of a strangled horn.

The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost cry a cosmic blast of radiance.
collapsing into a continent of




This is why my eyes are a whirlpool of serpents..

This is why I wear my tongue as a sword.
3/8/2013 7:44:34 PM
We are all Nameless We are all Nameless

What else is there to do

but to tell you who I am,

but most of all,

what I wish to find.

I am not the cavalier of the sun,

but the caveat of phantasm.

I do not wish to live in the whispers of light,

nor to smuggle my aching mind in the vagrant rain.

I am nothing more than a plastered vibration

of miscalculated dream.

An ancient misery,

buffeted by the whims

of whatever fate or the long-winded sword of Tyrs

will convey.

I am not a poet,

not even a wandering wind.

Just a rag of symbols;

a puzzle on an endless stretch

of corner-less ideas.

I am not sad

like I used to be.

Yet my eyes do not breathe

with sacred intimacy,

they do not smile like they used to.

I'm right where I belong, wandering and exhausted.

I play with my various definitives

and massacred spectrums.

I untangle the

used synopsis of

my fellow paradigms.

Like them,

I too,

try to peal over the masks.

I too,

attempt the humble grazing for the necessity of skylight.

What I want is for it all to slow down.

What I want is to stop making it spin.

What I want is to acquiesce with the lords of atonement.

What I want is to spill my psalms to the mist of desire.

As you see me,

unmistakable and frail,

a tan light twirls over my body;

washing waves of gladden semblance

and forbidden musings.

In your eyes, I unlock the doors of my indifference.

But most of all,

in this timid dwelling, my sour bed,

in all honesty, a domicile that shadows

only a microcosm of my true possibilities,

I know as the world sweeps away the ashes of her former self, the world is essentially mine.

I always know the red button does exist.

It was my choice.

Was that my excuse?

Is it my choice?

Was that my weakness?

Inside of a choice,

was there a command?

I talk to myself

as the world folds

its arms behind me.

With every breath,

a new light opens,

with every stone,

she closes her auburn, savage eyes

and remorses for the lost sound of the evening waves.

I talk to myself

because God carries too many faces.

A face with no eyes,

A wordless companion,

A dream constantly dreaming;

making a new face;

patching together old shadows.

Why do I grow so tired?

Why, when I let go of my open windows

am I alone?

Why do I forget to make the question?

Why do questions mark?

Actually, what do questions mark?

What do they expose?

What do they leave stranded?

Where do they leave me,

but in their territory.

Phonetically this is just a symbol.

A line streamed over feathered stone.

It has no destiny or consequence,

but it creates one.

It begs to be known.

Like the arbitrary wind to the loathing night,

the page begs to be turned.

A new pattern to be read,















Whether we give an evening space to breathe

leaves no real speculation.

It does not change the fact

that the dreams of our past

and the misguided avenues of our future

serve as a bathsodic form

of time travel.

A word too broad in its meaning.

(Whether it determines its measurement is pointless)

We are always here.

You are always gone.

I am dying,

no matter what the schematics of man

or the mausoleum of dogmatic regalia expatiate,

I know the night is disappearing.


there is so much missing.
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