This Glass Design


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Poetry is dead in a world with no head,

A world with one body that plucks at its bread,

A hunger or thirst, no intellect to quench,

Terrorizing the world while we sit from the bench,

Is there a light at the end of the tunnel,

Or are we foolishly tracing the fence,

All along a prairie of ignorance,

With all the more to keep our thoughts dense.

Hence, they have arrived,

At last to convey,

What message do you have to deliver today?

I peer out my window only to find,

A mob of white horses holding up signs,

In a world of apocalyptic political conjecture,

The distinction between propaganda and lectures,

Becomes that much harder to unwind,

But really who is at at fault for this crime,

This hidden agenda of fascist swine,

As though unhidden, the past its prime,

A catalyst to destruction, at last, divine,

And so we are left, where Nietzche wept,

Only looking half as fine, as we remain desperately,

Knocking on wood for good fortune in this glass design.

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The Fall


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There are thieves in the night,
Who ponder and scheme,
Strike deals within sight,
Offer a dream,
What season is right,
to walk from this team?

The world is not falling,
but it is not rising.
Things are not in chaos,
but they are neither in harmony.
The world is not falling,
but it is not rising.

For Whom The Bell Tolls


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What dawns on us but truth,
If not to convince the youth,
Like water from a fountain,
Whatever happens no excuse,
This is conversations with glory,
Face to face with time,
They hold banners of revolution
If the clock ticks past nine,
But after twelve its all hell,
though walls still stand like eyes through veil,
looking for salvation through a peephole in a cell,
like a priest and a king,
having dinner over bells.

The World to Come


A young immigrant child in Orlando,
I came to the Far West from the Persian Gulf,,
To the Gulf from the Levant,
and to the Levant from the highlands of Armenia.
Now, here I am,
In the strong hold of modern imperium, America,
Seeking my own freedom,
from the dual extremes of ignorance,
and the societal pressure against solitude.
Music, art and philosophy are my realms of expression,
and sustenance.
I offer excellence to you,
and pray for justice.

the happenings of last week – new album coming from the overworld


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Excerpts from the Red Journal


My heart’s tremors are there to remind me,
Of the realization I perhaps once knew,
Was I not sure just yesterday,
Of which direction the wind blew?

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free as a whore


to those who are ungrateful I hold a dagger,

to their backs when they see not for they deserve,

nothing but to see their toils spilled like blood.

this is anger at its finest,

perhaps better yet contained,

into words, rather than anything more,

for words are free, free as a whore.

you are not ignorant because I know more. you are ignorant because you don’t know that I know more.