HEAVEN'S IN HELL

This is your God speaking

the reason you are blinking

want to know why you're sinking

. . . . . .  your thinking . . . . . .

blank your mind

forget the time

its all mine

mow fucking feel fine

there is no peak

so let me speak

this is no joke

your God I have spoke

you want to

fuck

suck 

BIG

cock 

but 

you duck

get 

up

Taiste heaven waiste

embrace my face

find me in every place

this beyond the human race

Heaven's in hell

so death is a

painful beautiful

spell

I WISH . . . . .

See what I will do…….

Among the chenille petals in the pimpernel of your love

Let me add my own among them

So that when you caress the chervil bouquet

The chartreuse will break the silence

And then my heart will be one with your estoteric fragrance

This is what I wish…….

In the cosmogony of the numberless stars

I want to be the lantern of ethereal light

The dazzling one among the brightest

So that, in the dance of the festival of lights

My heart will swing with enrapturous delight

And my life will be one, with your intoxicated smile.

I WAS NEVER THAT BEAUTIFUL

The morning mist kissed the
green pasture, as it spoke of autumn dew.
Dripping a coat of frozen foot-prints,
leaking memories of only you.

I decided the sun was use-less that day. A point-less
picture of misplaced energies. It left me stranded.
abandoned, with frost bitten emotions, a hypothermic
ache.

And I remembered he romanced me blind with
a thorn not a rose. Reciting verses of you’s and I’s.
labeled poetry but not a poem. only virtue(al)
reality. A linear brutality of a love spoken upon deaf ears.

A heart home-less, hope-less.
a melancholy space. a trace
of Venus and spun sugar. He
still evolves. Revolving around the sun.

though "we" no longer have "that" gravitation(al) pull.
He told me I never was that beautiful.

So I engraved a picture of a sand-dollar
against the crease of his forehead. Today
I would find the shell whole. A beautiful score
of an oceans floor. Artistry that would last forever.

Then I realized my imagination got the best of me…
Sadly, so did he.

 

 

THE DARKEST LAND ON VALENTINE'S DAY

Days of old, in rainy shires of heathen disorder
I look out beyond, beyond my window and I see the blooms of earth into a disaster

I seek to sky, to cry, to writhe out of nothing, to seek the blasphemed border
Of all recklessness, and fakened poise; graceful hearts blackened, from white to gray

Not one soul, not one has stepped forth from Earth’s garden, not one has flowered
To behold in my light a sweet Azalea of perfected candor and blithe
I have read, I have sought, but none have ever taken me to be sapphire showered

Sweet music, so soft and delighted, like drifting thoughts filled with elegance of soul
Melancholy thoughts, truth of the heart, death of the art, my heart it does pull
I wish not to contend, but I wish to know him who weaves this whole
Into my heart, a whole from beauty, a whole wanting to fill with beauty
To behold that face with splendor quietness

So likest the poems with tassels of romance and frightened city

I wish to conjure your presence upon the sad sky
I wish to serenade your heart with hopes of love
It is Valentine, It is of you I do address, to seek of my
Hand in friendship, in love, in peace, in something, to only touch your eyes

The eyes that turns the orchid to blush with embarrassment
The sky to turn bright with creation
The flowers to waltz and the Seasons spread wild
Do not~ on my knees, on my hands~ do not shun
And cast out my plea which is brought forth so riled

It begins with the sound of jazz
It is wonder, it is a drink of a fountain in distress for immortality
It is a way soft, It is prelude to the warm rain in reverse
Leaves twirl in the wind, fall back to the branches of which have disgraced
Storms turn to die, Apollo pulls down the sun with his halo
The ground sheds tears, it falls, smeared paint, it is erased

There is nothing.
Then there is Valentine. A dance upon a sky of purple, a single of hope
It is like the Fur Elise, so melancholy in search of hope
Fur Elise, the old cliché, but new to my heart, pulling with golden rope
Made strong with lush stems of Orchids and stardust entwined
~Of violet skies and rainy tears of bliss do you remind

Will you have this dance?
There goes that warm eyes once again, to touch or to leave
I only wish to see, to know of your beautified cadence
I have fallen through all plunder, through earth’s sieve
It is Fantasia, it is Cannon in D, take your pick,
Hands around your waist, smooth float across the clouds
One turn, one burn of my heart, my soul is speaking loud

I can serenade, your hand in mine, what shall it be?
The dripping tears of the Appasionata
To flower your heart, and open your eyes to my crimson tea
I can pour forth of my own, a deep purpled sonata
Make it like the flowing sea and foamy shores of bree

Happy Valentine's day, sweetheart.

　

　

Watching The Sun Rise With 504 Buddhas IN Borobudur.

.

 

 

When in Yogyakarta, you don’t want to miss Java’s Buddhist treasures — Borobudur. Four a.m. is a terrible time of day, too late for night owls, too early for early risers. The exception is 4 a.m. at Borobudur, waiting for the sun to rise over the Kedu Plain in central Java with 504 figures of Buddha. The heavens really opened up, and water, the equivalent of Niagara Falls, Victoria Falls and probably a few hundred other waterfalls combined, fell upon the earth. Or to be less dramatic about the whole thing – it rained like there was no tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

But I told Arthur and the crew to took comfort from an old Indian belief that says if it rains, you are being blessed by the gods. And after all, we were heading towards a majestic temple complex built in the 9th century. This 9th century Mahayana Buddhist monument has six square platforms topped by three circular platforms, and is decorated with 2,672 relief panels and 504 Buddha statues. The main dome located at the centre of the top platform is surrounded by 72 Buddhas. Borobudur was restored between 1975 and 1982. The temple is 40km northwest of Jogja, and the view you get from the top is incredible. The whole valley sprawls below it as you take in the fantastic 360° view. There were many visitors when we were there but not too many. We still got that sense of calm and peace at the top. The largest Buddhist temple in the world is Borobudur, near Yogyakarta, Central Java, Indonesia, built between AD 750 and 842.”

It says the 60,000-cubic-meter stone structure stands 47 meters tall, with its base measuring 123 by 123 meters.
The temple is one of three great religious sites in Southeast asia but it's older and more esoteric than Bagan in Myanmar and Angkor Wat in Cambodia. It was begun in the 8th century by the Sailendras, a dynasty of Buddhist kings who ruled central Java for almost 200 years until their power waned and the temple was abandoned.

The stepped pyramid rises in nine levels to a single bell-shaped stupa surrounded by galleries. The pilgrims walk around them, meditating on stone reliefs that tell the life story of Siddhartha Gautama, an Indian prince who transcended life's pain and became the Lord Buddha.

Buddhist use water as an offering to symbolically represent giving up some worldly things, and water is chosen because even the most poor person can obtain water to carry out the ceremony.
A lot of restoration work has gone into Borobudur which suffered extensive damage after the May 2006 earthquake in Java. In fact, many of the inner temples are still out of bounds to visitors because they are not structurally safe.

As we came within sight of the imposing peaks of the temple, it started to rain again. We took shelter at the very small security post that already had three security guards squeezed inside. Soon, many laughing and drenched kids from a school tour, as well as tourists, also tried to cram their bedraggled selves in there.

When the rain eased off, we decided to make the best of our time there. The weather did not distract us from the magnificent surroundings. It was quite awesome to see the black clouds hovering over the tiered temple, which rose to 47m at the highest point. It took our breath away. The shooting started from here.

You can circle the monument with them or climb to the top, but only by looking at a diagram can you tell that the temple is shaped like a mandala, a mystical scheme of the Buddhist cosmos. The three levels denote states of consciousness, from human suffering to enlightenment. Little is known beyond that, leaving the cosmos locked shut while Borobudur reigns, silent and solitary, over the volcano-ringed garden of Java.

The arched staircases from level to level are treacherously steep, overlooked by gaping-mouthed gargoyle water spouts, nymphs (or apsaras), dancing arms akimbo, and niches enshrining Buddha figures, each with hands in different symbolic poses (or mudras). His life story unfolds on the middle level, starting at the left side of the eastern entrance with stone panels of great vividness, recalling the medieval Bayeux tapestry in France. I ran my hand over a carving of Queen Maya in a carriage headed for Lumbini Park, where she gave birth to the Buddha.

 

 

This time, we climbed to the top levels, which are round, not rectangular, and bare except for their forest of stupas, perforated to allow peeks at Buddha statues inside. Experts say that Borobudur's more abstract upper precincts, especially its empty central stupa, reflect nirvana, a state of being beyond human consciousness.

But how could they know? How could anyone know, even sitting atop the temple watching the pinkness of sunrise pool in a halo around soon-to-erupt Mt. Merapi, where the mystery of the cosmos remains secure? But if there is a keyhole to it anywhere, I'd wager it's at Borobudur.

Just then a clap of thunder thwacked à la Macbeth, and guards began herding visitors to a gate far from the one I'd entered.

It was a good thing that it only started pouring again after we had reached the top. Either we were plain lucky or we were now protected by one of the gods!

And the helicopters are already waiting for us to take us back to Yogya and waiting for our next journey. . . .

BEHIND ENEMY LINES : A Photojournalist.

Photography has brought a lot of truth to the people. Before photography, war was presented to the public as being romantic; you can see this in old paintings of war heroes in museums. Photography made an early great impression during the Civil War, as an early example, as it brought home to many people the gruesome realities of war.

Photography "set painting free." Prior to photography, paintings usually attempted to show reality as well as the could. When photography took over that job during the late 1800s, painters started to express their inner feelings rather than show scenes realistically. The first painters to successfully express themselves in this way were the "Expressionists."

I believe that even today there as been a similar artistic change in photography; it was predicted that the digital camera would eliminate the film camera, but I have been learning that many people prefer the effects of film images over digital images because they can be made to be more expressive.

I personally support openness in information and expression, so I don't feel that there are too many ethical issues surrounding photography. If a person is in a public place where he can be seen by many, I feel that he should not be upset if he gets photographed. In today's world with its many dangers there are many security cameras pointing at us in public places so the ethical issue has become moot in a sense.

Photojournalists bring us many images of suffering, and many people feel that these images are an intrusions. In fact the great war photographer Don McCullin felt great guilt for taking pictures of people who were dying or about to be killed.

He wrote: "I have been manipulated, and I have in turn manipulated others, by recording their response to suffering and misery. So there is guilt in every direction: guilt because I don't practice religion, guilt because I was able to walk away, while this man was dying of starvation or being murdered by another man with a gun. And I am tired of guilt, tired of saying to myself: "I didn't kill that man on that photograph, I didn't starve that child." That's why I want to photograph landscapes and flowers. I am sentencing myself to peace."

SEX DESIRE & I

 

So maybe I like spending most of my time
with my hands between my legs
maybe I like a little kink with my love
maybe I'm happiest when i'm in bed
with someone feeling them
slam into me hard, rough,fierce
cum and emotions flow with it
sticky sweet and tender

call me a slut
if it'll make you understand
or say
I'm a free spirit

wanna know
why I am such a slut ?
why I succumb
to slavery to being sacrificed
over and again?

because I don't allow myself
to express feelings
in the canned soup
we call life

I let myself
go bland

but in sex in pure
unadulterated fucking
I can be me I can cry and scream
and let my feelings go
I can be helpless and needy
and vulnerable and loved

and the sweet relief of orgasm
tires me out so that I can recover
from the intensity of feeling everything
I left bottled
on forgotten dusty inner shelves

the comfort of a warm body next to me
makes me realize I'm not alone
and Iam at last untroubled at peace
safe

so yes I love sex
and I could be a kinky little minx
I like my pleasure with a touch of pain

I won't apologize
and this is why sex allows me
to be the person I am within
I can fight I can lose and it's all right
I can be frail weak and it makes me more desirable

Idon't want to be an equal
I want to be fucked
I want to be forced to enjoy myself
to let go

i want my hair pulled as my cunt
is filled with thick hot humanity
I want to be slammed into
I want to be an animal who is just driven
by primal desires reasonable fears
and never ever doubt
I want to be able to struggle and weep
and cry out and yet have my emotions
pour out
in spite
of
me

sex allows me to be myself without
having to justify

in the buckled restraints
that I strain against
in the floggings that burn my skin
in the feral way I am fucked

there is
salvation