ethereal skies

daniel james is the tides, his hair is wavy like the currents and words and thoughts change as the days pass. gentle, and can be harsh when need be. waves of change may be slow, and what promise they hold comes and goes. sometimes things are stormy, and sometimes things are calm and clear, and just about all the time the ocean is so unknown. but we are learning a little more about it every day.

phillip michael is the moon. arguably he could also be the sun, but what else could it be that pulls dan to this boy? with pale skin and eyes like the skies, he’s ethereal. never the same from day to night, calm yet shines with a smile so bright. his head and mind is up high in space; we may never know everything about what goes on up there, but we may admire from afar. luminous is he.

daniel is the tides, pulled closer by phillip, the moon. if you try hard to listen, the waves crash in an effort to reach the sky, and the stars twinkle in a soft response.

Come, they said, beckoning sweet -
beyond the edge of the known universe,
past the limited horizon of our fledgling dreams.
So we ventured out,
explorers, pioneers,
drunk on possible impossibilities,
burying deep our fears
of broken wings, of unanchored death.

Yet the dark sea propels you only so far,
star-lit and guided,
to the moon-kissed dream
of what could be.
And when the current grows still,
a hair’s breadth between
the beginning and the end,
where do you cast your gaze?
to what dawn do you affix your faith?

THE NAMELESS MONSTER (Finale)

Missing

Glorious days, shining, in journeys of finding things n’ objected dears,
on the knife’s multitudinous tongues, sweating bloody saliva, shipping,
crosshairs in eyes heading towards ethereal skies of mirages, hiding,
splashing childs’ fears and dreams of levitating to Pluto, contrariwise—
He’s called back, mentioned again with insipid passions of the dead,
wrapped in screams immerged by grasps of moralities, societal dignities:
Careless doctors are giving injections to the dyings with beating hearts,
hoping for slight commendations, merit shit, ponderous pockets in Milan,
filing things in anaesthesias n’ signing behind sighs, melancholy masks—
He’s called back, mentioned again, he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck,
he’s the collective side character in everyday suited stuffs’ wet dreams;

Feeling

Bruises incarnated in carnages of particles, slashing n’ cutting, rushed,
left on trails, nauseating n’ resting as favourite signs of monstrous him—
He’s shouting at fourth walls hoping for saviours of dangers, mindless,
jongleurs passing by sharing zoonoses of chaotic natures, pointing,
flicking paranoias in fetal positions to the said shitter of tears and blood:
Zoomings ignited, eyes popped out as cute cats’ in days of moanings,
synaeresises in pecked brains [oh man, the doctors of black deaths!],
bandages in bitten ankles, feathers in balls, angel in satirized disguise—
He’s moving forward, blocking ears and running among hesitant smears,
he’s going beyond, the representative spurted from mankinds’ comas;

Recognizing

Filths in midnight streets crawling in awes of banderoles popping hues,
wafts from funny businesses clashing against walls, whores smilling—
Temptations and ignorances in designated lines of orgastic bunches
drowning in red edges of communisms talking bullshits, high, mighty,
sides by sides hippies in jeans hiding boners of peace, utopias shit:
Said invisibleness grazing past and judging like a revoked virgin,
new eyes and minds, he’s witnessing a shambolic ball of dilemmas
full of peeps and cunts rolling in ectasies through valleys of Tokyo—
Never before, never again, gaining strengths and stepping in clubs,
governors holding dicks to brows of bodyguards, hastening laughters;

Dead-ending

Freaks with shiny nails mumbling fucktard shits, elevating, peeping down
peeps squealing in the discos of new millennia, technologized n’ copied—
With grotesque tighty thighs, chicks with fetishes for sufferings by whips
come creeping, swingin’ hips n’ breasts through monstros demarcations
for climaxes and gigs, sweats of a disdaining newbie in enclaved dumps:
Locked, cut, licked, groped, blackness n’ redness bending and swaying,
bandages into nazis’ ribbons n’ pubic hair, swallowing and shat out,
spitted, mere messes risked by drop-outs in pandemic yawns, sparse—
“Join this club, bang and banged, bring down the motherfuckers!”
“Join this cult, man, fuck and fucked, rip heads of the fucking sires!”

Ending

Throats n’ bridges of gimmicks, ontology memorized as numbahs of jails,
criminals of worlds come shaking hands, declaring fine independences—
A mind of landfills with no regrets, a ringing heart of recycled sperms,
trinkets on neck and bands on wrists he’s leaking piss into local aliens,
he’s hibernated in hugs of cool activists, degraded and favoring fleshes:
A prisoner of the sleeplessnesses in millennial tombs, tethered n’ tied
to forgotten vengeances, roaring silenced redemptions for faults of
generalities, slashing, swording, pulling hanged knaves to guillotines,
humanized and modernized acts of man in black bags, waving black flags—
Brogues on tramplines with pieces of brains, wricks on sweet punches
temporarily replaced, enduring uselessness til’ personal ends are nigh;

- The Nameless Monster

Artwork: From Naoki Urasawa’s ”MONSTER