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In That Japanese Town Again

I was there, too.
Sipping on a medium mug

of American-bought green tea.

(But it's been steeped in for so long.)

But if you try to question
how bitter it tasted,
well, it is not that bitter
—in the greater scheme of things

(Tho', screaming, in my dreams:

"If the Japanese withstood

bombings from the skies
like no other,
then why can't they
go through this one?")

Theirs, once again,
are framed signatures,
like household items
in Kyoto; after funerals that
were faced with protests in the state;

Preservation at its best,
equally interinvolved with caveats

—a newer testament in the Eastern front?

So long, cultural values.

So long, moral values.

Farewell, spiritual values!

Unconventional Breakfast Rituals (American Norms)

Coffee

that's just so freshly
brewed—

none other than

by
yourself,

once you stood up—
self-driven

American
morns—or

silver afternoons,

a nice mug for it..

(or some type of vessel)

accompanied by one's favorite 90s

music lineup & something for

the ears,

(like determining unduly cast away earworms)

during

the last week of September
and for the months after—

..could be an enjoyable sip

(farther, once more, in our roundabouts)

—could be a nice start

A fornication of roses, a tearing down of the walls of innocence...

in unity we present ourselves before the goddess in this divine lust,

this marriage of sin and pleasure...

as separate flesh and separate souls we stand before the holy flame of the sacred of candle,

before the moon and heaven,

and the living and the dead, in this blood ritual, we become one.

As fast as the sun seems to come up, and go down,
Integument lost, now bones becoming exposed,
Heart slows down, sniffing dust and dirt up your nose,
Tears have dried, and life fading fast,
A drink of warm water might help you get past
This execution delivered by thoughtless tradition.

We cry your tears for you child,
But we bow to our own submission,
The price love is asking,
Seems won't come to fruition.

Sweet, sweet baby your prison cell you found,
Mama's at work, Daddy's nowhere to be found,
We know you were starving for love when you lost your mind,
We never meant this for you...to be left behind,
Everyone's making their own stories about you,
How you shot up the school, and left only a few,
This other hunger goes unnoticed when a belly is full,
The love that you needed, we see now, had grown dull.

We cry your tears for you child,
But we bow to our own submission,
The price love is asking,
Seems won't come to fruition.

We're starving the children,
We're starving ourselves,
All along on this road, have we paved this pathway to hell?
How do we change it? A penny at a time?
Is the tithe not enough? Perhaps we've created this crime?
Where did we falter along the righteous way?
Can we ever correct our mistakes? Can we say?

We cry your tears for you child,
But we bow to our own submission,
The price love is asking,
Seems won't come to fruition.

Beautiful minds frought with beautiful dreams,
Beautiful failures that tear at the seams,
In the midst of discoveries, this age of lament,
Maybe it's time we see clear, and repent?
Maybe if we all looked on the inside,
We could turn this around and not run, fight, or hide?
Some lack nutrition so long that it's foreign to their eyes,
Others lack understanding...and when it's given, do not even recognise,
One child bears a smile from a small morsel of food,
The other can't smile, unless he's being rude.

Sweet little babies, made from heaven above,
Perhaps the step missing

When we climbed 'Maslow's Scale' is... love.

10:07 PM 4/20/2013 ©

The madness of man will increase 100 fold;
into the chaotic and savage void, the souls of this realm will be devoured,
leaving behind, a mindless animal to tear itself apart,
as the shadow of the darkness beyond darkness will cover the face of the earth.
The window of time and space, opened by those who worship the child from beyond the stars,
will come on the dawn of the age of transference.

From the dimension where the faceless demon resides,
from far beyond the stars, it has been traveling for billions of years;
the one known as the end of worlds, the devourer of stars;
the darkness beyond darkness.
Many names it is called, and on the eve of the new age of transference,
the followers of the realm await its coming; on roof tops they pray
in trance, they cry out in awe of its power
and in faith, they indulge in ritual, bleeding and making sacrifice
seeking to open the gate to the realm; seeking to appease the one
of many names.