Hollow King

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
........

Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

TS ELLIOT.

Moody Moon

timeless machines;

eye rivers

Aishiteruyo.

found a soul, left her..

utter transparent sanity, utter incoherent confidence

failure to fail

petrified

sentiment

A self sufficient soul savaging the kindness of newly bred romance.


Examining the portal of naivety concocted within the laboratory of all girl boarding halls,
Tall tales of suggestiveness passed around like camp fire fodder and folded in each palm of praise,

Prim rose complexions upon faire eyed felines’ that still mirror the reflection of an honest born universe,

Perhaps they inhale only un – recycled weightless oxygen and exhale a cloud of colour into the exhaust fumes of university attained chariots.

Do there supple chest’s beat rhythmically in tune with their forefathers fortune’s

Palpitations of future forays into hallway fairs lit with chandeliers and pools of aged wine laughter.

Un tarnished joints growling and hissing at the prospect of time,

Impatiently pleading with the universe as the only waiting they endure is that of there summer flight,
Mileage scented business class burns fuel there fathers founded.

Virginally intact waiting for an accented access found only in.
plentiful princes velvety groomed and inaudible under there sheets of gold emblazoned armour.

Amour amour,

A key to there citadels,

Whilst they arrive to marketing fields of capitalist embedded fountains in european heiroglyph.

There princes polish the shell’s of former femininity as they entwine in an athletic haste of Grecian all male competitiveness.

It is in this stairwell of nostalgic valour our imaginations glide towards vintage reality

yet I watched there chambered hearts, and wept with gilded laughter.

Lion,

I really want to see you, little lion
walking under the sun
I really like you little lion
it makes me sad, little lion
for my lonely heart
it's enough to have found you on my way
young leon, ray of the morning
captivating my look like a magnet
my heart is sun, father of all colour
when it briighten your skin
I like to see you on the sun, little lion
to see you getting into the sea
your skin, your light, your mane
I like to stay on the sun, little lion
to make wet my mane
to be next to you, and come in