The Clown

Sprayed all over walls
Scribbled, like rich and creamy
Whips of salad dressing

His looks empty, but his smile wide
With obnoxious intent
A kid on a sunday outfit

Sat erect, dormant like black coffee
His sister with eyes fixated  to oblivion
And counting vultures along the way

The rest became splattered raggedy  dolls
More empty faces, and sunday outfits
Thus the joke started

With each line, a laceration
Each hum, a slash
There's no rhyme in his desecration

As he continued  painting like Picasso
On steroids, costumed colorfully 
His canvass, everywhere

His paintbrush, a kitchen knife
With Mozart playing rigid and funny
But nobody's laughing anymore



Knee Bone Love

I am cold
Like dying mist
At the tail end
Of a stale rainbow

With trembling hands
I reach for something
Real in the depth
Of your pristine limbo

I found one
With truth
As crooked as
My laughing sorrow

So sweet between
Fatigued hope
And a broken
Halo

With dust gathering
Swirling, dancing
In those
Grieving eyes

The hushed
Promises now
Looking more sinful
Than a fatal vice

These midnight
Dreams, under
Covers of flames
From inferno

Are as cold
As the dying mist
At the tail end
Of a stale rainbow

©e.reamico 2014

Clueless lagoon

There are landscapes
Then, they were gone
Only timid moons and
A midnight sun

Between lucid goodbyes
Sad laughters
There maybe hope
Or maybe, none

Up there, clouds
Of bluest skies
Deep, longing like

vague smiles

On hills tepid with
Abandonement
Lullabies echo,
Swayed, bent

Between sparkles 

Of stolen whispers

Promises broken

Shattered hearts

Your sad kiss

Rushed, empty

My dying love 

In a death valley

Loops of Desperation

nay,
between redundancies
of eccentric boredom

flowing with ease
some perfect discrepancies
weaving distortions of
vagueness clarity

fleeting emotions trapped
in shallow disarray of
hope/lesness

how generous is
your pain from
continual
cravings for a
narrow escape

escaping from escaping
thus
the redundancies.

elements of missing

ah
sweet despondent sighs
between hiccups of gracious delirium
sorts of 'air painting'
her
yes, where she, the origin of nights
tarnished of blades of promiscuous
longing

she, my sweet rain on a dry land
I tremble as my protruded
imaginings
of her touch, running through the
lengths of my arm
or her lips gently touching
my burning cheeks

despite the miles or the
blurred waves of humbled ways
the many constellations
point
to her direction

to her simple smile
to her gentle laughter
to 'everything' her
that fills my soul with
unbridled joy

time, becomes such  a sweet torture
an escapade beyond what
is logical or
practical even

when seconds come gasping
for air, then the
elements of missing her
(perplexed as this may sound)
become unbearable.

m

there's not a day that passes by
that I don't think about YOU.
no two ideas where
you don't come in between
no two letters where your
initials don't sprout
no two words where
your laughter doesn't resound
no two steps where 
I don't want to run to
YOU.

there's not an hour that travels
that I don't crave for YOU.
no two clicks where
your face doesn't come alive
no two breaths where
I don't whisper your name in between
no two heartbeats where
I don't die missing YOU.

there's not a second that walks by
that I don't dream about YOU,
no two songs where
I don't hear your soft humming
no two sighs
where I don't long for YOU


in truth
there are no two great moments that
would best out that one...
(among the many ones)
that I shared with
YOU.

for YOU are not the
many YOU's,
or the consecutive YOU's
that come and go like drops of butterflies
but my
one.
true.
CONSTANT. YOU.


--to the owner of my infinite joy, breaker of my heart.

...

i fail,

at the feet of titans bludgeoning within

despised, 

my relative peace, fake and confused

then, she goes within hiccups of 

electro signals

my actions - neither exalted or doomed 

at the press of a

:)

- sold. 

. 

the reasoning fixated upon fantasia

somewhere the beats never grow old

lunacy is a residue of love

and so is

art.