MISPLACED

I Don’t  to wait for another cup of bitterness, I am numbing myself now so later all I will feel will be relief. Relief of having had escaped your brambled embrace. It pierces through my arms, my chest and blood gathers in my mouth and my face

I have escaped with my tears tonight and I have side stepped my fears and if tomorrow comes with scars of midnight I wont have any recollection. The moon remembers for it was watching but worry not I for the tongue of heavenly bodies has become foreign to me.

I am woken up by the sun stinging my forehead and exposing the dried up tears tracking down my face. My yesterdays forever laces and buried in my subconscious and the discomfort misplaced, I am alright.

Ceaser Mata

OLD FISH BOWL

Nevermind me, I’m merely rowing through in my crack ridden off green canoe, row, rowing my canoe pass them, pass you. Sluggishly across still waters of my purposefully blue and green lagoon.

Sin, secrets, excuses rest with the salt at the bottom, unfiltered from reality, yet flowing with hope as to where I am heading? That is undecided.

The waters are listening, obedient, deceptive, the waters are not of me and I am not them.

Nevermind me , I’m merely rowing, trying to find a channel back to my own. Row, rowing in my crack ridden off green canoe pass the old boats.

I took to torn and tarnished places, seen the magnificent and picturesque. All of which I remember, the sweet smell of magnolia, the air caressing my lips as I gaze into a thick mist of expectation

Nevermind me and never mind them too, row, row, I’m just rowing my crack ridden canoe in this old fish bowl

Ceaser Mata

The Chair

His hair-clipper always sets the mood

His fingers habitually maneuver around the hard machine

With one flick of a button, it growls to life

He tones the sound down and all that’s left is a soft sensual vibration

                        He places his hands on my right shoulder, a bit firmer than usual

We look at each other in the mirror

“The usual?” he asks “Yes” I reply

With yen in my eyes

His fingers caress my ear, gently tilting it backwards and forward

To get the perfect angle

His hands slowly re-mould me and call to surface a million different feelings

The tip of his hard machine makes its way down my neck

Pass the sensitive areas

His bodily hair stroking my already sensitive skin

His arms are strong beyond doubt strong

He skillfully walses around me, shaving off bits of my hair

Now and then I’ll feel him

Against my back as he stands behind the chair.

If there’s anything more masochistic

Is when he tilts my head up and slowly rubs anti-irritant around my once hairy beard area

It stings, but it’s nothing he has not done to me before                                

In my head we have made passionate love countless times in that chair

Skilled, yes he was, in making my pleasure his purpose

As he was in cutting my hair.

 CEASER MATA

Forgiving Quality

I’d swallow fire to have this glow you so seek, in a lover, I would be perfect in your eyes, less meek, and in one week I would be the other. In the hopes of being the one, your consort when you are done, I will bear the burn and I will once again wear my once rhythm less heart.

Take my everything, make it into something. Make into hat one thing, that will could make me believe that I’m needed. I want to be the song you listen to all night long. That instrument, that’s only played I

I will keep building shrines until a god hears my plea. I’ll sacrifice more of myself each time, to learn more of what it is, I have to be, in order to be with you. Hoping that you will be that sufficiency once I have been left void, I will learn, I will learn, I will burn, I will burn.


Ceaser Mata

HOUSE

This is the second night in a row I have not been able to sleep. I took pain killers hoping I would acquire some form of drowsiness that would eventually lead to slumber deep.

.Unfortunately that has not happened and here I am. I don’t feel tired or anything but I know I should be in bed. There nothing to do at this hour, or should I say there is nothing that I want to do at this hour.

Though my body has voltages of restlessness bolting up and down, I long for sleep. On more than one occasion I have had the urge to creep, out the house and listen to the calls of the night. I don’t know what frightens me more, the thought of exploring the unknown or the rather fickle state I am in.

Perhaps, this is what I was destined for, to overcome this bane. Is it a bane, or is my reluctance to give in to the calling completely that makes is seem so.

All I know is I am still in control and I don’t know how much of that control I will still have after I have explored the unknown. After I have drank from the wells of the night, ate of the flesh of this unfamiliarity and got pleasured by the surreal nature of it all.

I am alone in this house and loneliness has been but a silent companion. I harbour the scores I have not settled with the ones who left me to my own devices, uneducated.

They left me only to feel my way out this maize, and wander for all my days, the earth with the knowledge that, I should make best friends with myself, because people like me can only be known by people like me. With that said I will be known by them, but them I will never know.

Ceaser Mata

Word Poisoning

I was once told that if I had to eat my own poems that I would die of word poisoning, I won’t deny it but be that as it may, I have written more great, light hearted poems then depressing solemn ones. What I love about the written word is that it is very hard to tell if one is lying, but I can tell you now that if you thought the second line of this verse was true you are horribly mistaken.

I have spit blades out my tongue, written panic on paper, extra thick ink, with it’s intoxicating components to savour. I have captured pain, such as labour, both the birth and slavery, of thy and my neighbour. I have seen, so I have spoken and written about death, life, light the dark, the poignant and the smitten

For crying out loud, I have written about dead dogs, abuse, stolen things and those that are lost. So yes my poems are potentially poisonous. Lucky for us we do not eat poems, we read poems, we cry to poems, laugh because of poems, we wake up to poetry everyday and slumber under poetry everynight, and most of the time we do not take notice, because we cannot hear rhymes

I was once told that if I had to eat my own poems that I would die of word poisoning, I won’t deny it but be that as it may I say, I have seen more great,  poetry then mine in this world

lighted hearted poems like the stars, then depressing solemn ones like the loud noise of frustrated drivers in congested cars. What I love about the written word is that it is has become my haven,

And if you think I’m lying then read this poem again then

Oh Julia

You were given life, but you were shot down from the sky.
your wings clipped while you were in flight.
You heard the thud!, before you could feel the pain,
you had even forgotten how daytime looked like.
You said misery knew your name,
you became an easy book to read,
but hard to understand.
I guess that how you managed to slip away.
We did not know what you needed,
we could not give you a hand.

You once told me hell is one place where everyone is welcomed,
and you had yours on earth.
I don't know where you are now
but I will wait on this bench, for your rebirth.

I wonder what will you return as,
for you have lived a million lives in one life time.
I don't understand why you had to pass,
but I guess, life never tells us the whens and the whys.

I pray you were able to fight the vultures and thieves from stealing your soul,
I pray, that you make your back to us, back home.

Ceaser Mata

Haunted

Here we are, its been a long time since April.
We should have grown up a lot in the month’s in-between.
I saw you the other day, you looked Immortal.
Perfect, detailed, like no other Greek sculpture I have ever seen.

What we could have had, sure, it would have broke laws. It would have been ahead of its time, but what was mine then, remains yours. Will the ghost of you ever learn to materialize before it speaks in the night?

See last night, you walsed into my bedroom. I was asleep but you always seem to know where I am, in my dreams.

When I woke up I tried to piece this together, have you any idea how long it took?

See I was growing weary of my indirect apologies on facebook. So this my way of calming down yet another potential disaster. And I want to tell you, that, I understand, why you could not answer.

I understand, why you cut the engine off before we were even mobile. I mean you got your fair share of cuts and bruises in the first accident.

Here we are again, you're still the stubborn ghost.In my head, my dreams, my heart, and I'm pathetically hanging to the duty of being your foolish host

Ceaser Mata

Diary Entry 1

Photographic manipulation”, he says - alternative taste in music, takes longer then both your mothers to get ready for the date you might be paying for

You cannot hasten him “I’m a perfectionist” he says “this applies to all domains of my life” he adds. You excuse yourself and make your way to the rest room he expects you to locate all by yourself in his winding fortress which he shares with other men or should I say boys who are probably just as impetuous, conceited and nauseatingly gorgeous

Yes you said it “Gorgeous”, wow doesn’t that give the impression of being like a ray of light in the midst of a livid tempest.

The tempest that was once your own thoughts and opinions before you hurled yourself to the clutches of this man’s or should I said boy’s beastly talons

Never mind all the self sacrifice included in this deal, the least you can hope for and I know you’re hoping for is for him to fuck the dignity back into you that you have misplaced trying to get this boy, yes, boy to look at you, smile at you, talk to you

Ceaser Mata

Poltergeist

I wish to make my dreams more entertaining for you, I want to be dressed differently the same every night, so that you do not lose interest. I wish to be your obsession, so that even when you’re far out at sea that my songs would deafen your ears to those of the waves and that I would once again run across the troubled fields of your mind that the beauty of your surroundings would become unbearably incomparable

I know if I could I would have you on my balcony every night, so that I would not have to wonder where you are when you’re not making tea for you and me.

I dread the knocks on the door that disturb us, but periodically, I have to come into contact with these people who bring me their magic tea, but I know their tea promises to heal me supposedly of my obsession with thee but I believe I am not sick and if I drink this tea, their tea, times many you would be stolen from me forever

So I wait for you to return with your place set at the table, for you to bring me you

Ceaser Mata

Frivolous

I have never fantasized about you, yet there you were in my dreams last night

Where are you going to be tonight? Will you find another unsuspecting drifter in their dreams and will you leave them aghast?

Do you do this every night? I’m almost afraid to entertain the thought that you might have been inside my head while I slumber many nights before and I had failed to remember

I wonder whether out there somewhere there is a law that stands against this foray I wonder if it’s still consensual if I’m taking pleasure in my sleep I certainly cannot prove your presence here last night, and I will bet my granny’s geisha collection that you have alibi s

I wish you could have at least given me a heads up last night before you materialised in my stillness, leaving me with an echoing emptiness because for some reason that I cannot comprehend your presence and your absence have now become my obsession

Impetuous little boy, that’s what you are, but should you come tonight, at least I’ll be dressed the part

Ceaser Mata