" cruel, cruel, how he destroyed those little children of his. for they have not sin, they have not sin by loving the love that transcends beyond his name. i cannot help but help, for those pity souls need a new home after their homes were destroyed. women, children, men and everything, in between. i held them in my palms and brought them back to Nod, so they became my children and they call me father..." - The Wandering Years of Qyn.

solar

A tapestry we learn
is perfect in
every angle.

Somehow the legend
goes that we'll
all find it.

I don't know who
painted that pretty
picture.

But I sure know that
I haven't found my
solar yet.

I didn't know angels
can sing hymns of
lamentation.

Nor do I find that
nice sweet smile a
joyous sparkle.

I'm soaked in my tears
for a truth in
stories today.

Whether or not I
can really find my
mythical solar 

Consuming Qualities

Each morning is the 
influx of papers on my
coffee/fax machine

Which I read with
trepidation of the
consuming qualities

Each mind is liken
to the tableaux of his
wanton paintings

Which I curse a
torrent night when
we part a period

Each smile is with
an affirmation seething
through purple days

Which I wake from
my little cry to
hear only his voice

faggot dust portfolio

I heard that in sodom
just before destruction
cain stole a handful of
multi-coloured seeds

he sow them back at nod
under lilith's throne
she sang to them nightly
she kiss them to life

her forbidden blossoms
resurrected in secrecy
only the red eyes know
where they came from

about those strange boys
with an eye and razor
shaving opportunity
in the deep emerald sea

Presumed Dead-Faeries Talkies

Faintly and nostalgic
your presence fades
into the background
reticently reminiscing
the black and white

Who you are must be
flickering through
thundering rolls of
hand turned records
animating the screen

I'm tired of reviewing
each week the antics
of your comedic bathos
who you are disappears
when i switch on the lights

liliya

knowing the pearls
did shimmer for her
positioned on shrine

knowing that one
was once loved and
the story perpetuating
all forbidden blossom

I ask you to give me Liliya,
oh you with the red-stocking
sitting by Starbucks glaring
at all the pretty boys sashaying
down the side-walk in style

remember you came 
from mars with nothing
and I filled you with
something called love

knowing it endures
possibly forever 
even when we die

let us make love

interlocking eyes
chasing the builds and bodies
lascivious thighs
binding the fruits and bellies

when the worship is over
let us make love

Womb/Tomb

He provides and takes
like a tomb in my poem
that stood quietly by
an oak tree.

Flocks of ravens whirl
around my decay as
I lay in a black dress
by my husband's death

His sleep is a return
resurrecting me from
the shackles of my past
and brings tomorrow.

seasons

each spring, we grew
on each other
and summer heat will
rend us apart

while autumn folds us
to another heart
and winter will rape
us from love

i cannot sleep warm

it's long ago, yet it remains fresh,
like childhood and the birthday
where you had no friends over
or after rain where you feel
stifled and renewed all at once.

you make no sense, please severe.

i've scars writhing your lick, and
the picture of how i fell into
the dungeon of your secretions,
into the deep pole of worship,
as i should've just died there

you want me dead? just go, fucker.

you should've given me directions,
at least allow my scream to come
through the dangerous attic game,
but i don't want to be beaten,
to be your idol for another century

you will be excused, leave me intact.

it doesn't make sense how i fell,
i will come again to feed on you,
on this misery and on this pain
as much anger i have for you,
this will fall on your bed, on your bed.

you must love me, i will ensnare.

written by simon soon © 2002

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