I cannot imagine a world where there is no light
and moments pass too quick to gather.
Spinning in the churning waves are vapid hopes that break apart like sea foam.

Do I have the faith?
Will the spirit ever reside in my soiled temple?
Might I pass the test of life and slumber no longer in the dark waters that baptize me?

Even as I fall through this lonely life and words fill me up,
I cannot force these questions out. It was a love that did this to me.

I learned of this new love through scripture and it is that love that anchors these questions in my frightful reality.

I cannot rationalize religion into obscurity nor might I peace myself together after it has been exorcised.

So death is my river of cleansing and sin the ink that make the waters black.

I wept so often as a child and watched my tears add to the waters that would come to sweep me into the deep.
Slowly I came to realize even at such a young age that I would be the one to condemn myself.
One moment will come to decide my world, my faith, and my life.

I would wield the scythe against myself.

My words will strike out my soul and all that is of me will wither and perish.
My words will scatter and swallow me into a pit from which I cannot rise.

So much I wept for myself.
I wept, prayed, and begged nightly for a death of white that would keep me from my condemnation.

I dreamt of death as my one true salvation. I dream of death still.

This is what I learned lay beneath every sermon, each Sunday I fought to hear the word.

I smuggled this one true glory home and buried it in the fertile earth of my twisting heart.

Salvation is in abandonment.
Truth lies in torments inconceivable.

To know God’s unfathomable love, it is my privilege to suffer.
To know God’s unquestionable mercy, it is my privilege to die.

A cube sits in the corner of a ______ walled island. The soft sea is a color of _______ letters.

An angel falls from the ________ its ecstasy, hailed as a black miracle.

Shapes crumble unmistakably on one another, but the three-sided, my mountain of Anubis, _____ illuminates with the passing of the jackals’ screams.

Creeping Death
comes quick
as serpent’s
deeper kiss.
Long in tooth and thoroughly ensnared.

Reverse the crucifixion
of the round, and hail
the faded garlands of
the aged. Make fools
of those who think
themselves profound,
a bitter freedom
sought by the profane.

The seeds of
soft skinned plums
remain inside.

The flesh is far too sparse
To see them fall.

Bone
blossoms take their place
upon the stage.

Red rivers

perished for the curtain’s call.

Lustful crowning
crimson flowers
degrading
candied tears
neither
s
w
e
e
t
nor
bea(titutdes) u(ndone) t(ransformed) i(nto) ful(filment)

Don’t Be Like Me
Fuck.
Suck.
Rage and run.
Blow your brains out
with self-love.

Don’t be like me.

Fight your mother,
fight your father,
fight your obnoxious
pimps, whoring you out
for peasant profits.

Don’t be like me.

Flee from abuse and call
it what it is—
the traps of love.

Masturbate your way
into Nirvana,
juxtaposing
perfectly
perversity
and piety.

And as you walk
conflicting paths,
of heroin addicts
and sodomites
of ascetics
and nuns,
cultivate
kindness
exceeding
the pure.

Be the unloved child
of diverging bloodlines.
Reveal the folly of the saints.

-Denzel Scott

Life
-that which flows forth louder than a bomb

swallows the radiance
of the albumen,
drifting untethered through

concoctions of decay

-bespeckled
by the crystallized saliva
of the singing mares of midnight


Sunyata
-emptiness as it stands
life without us.

A flowery cavernous abyss
where the vitellus,
Amaterasu,
withdraws from her dance
of generosity
to observe the pulchritude
that blooms with her exit
-an unhuman concert resumes.

An absolute unknown,
vibrating
non-material.

-Denzel Scott

Here is a poem I finished writing today for poetry class

To Teach New Love

Into the field, with a circle bound by olive branches,
creeping darkness
from the unseen portion of the moon,
the she-wolf,
the three-faced guard,
the torch of hallowed graves,
power of the earthen words,
the path of stars,
malicious gestures,
sleeping
and the killing
charms,
I beseech you.
Work your insidious arts
in the witching hours.
Force shadow up
from the underworld and send it
adrift with hooked chains
of silver and gold to torment
and ensnare all hearts.
Make them split open in ecstasy
and feed their new gaping mouths and aching lips
viscous morning out of the greatest goblet of the cupbearer,
accented with petals of the Narcissus flower.
Make the world the refuge of N. vengeance,
of the house of N.
The flailing tongue of blazing stars must be
sheathed in the cool waters of the mouth of a lover.
Make the world sing madly of forbidden fruits that fed
deader epochs,
screaming from pages of history.
Make the world all loves,
chanted amongst the hungry ghosts,
jackals of the golden sands,
and winged monstrosities
gracing new heavens,
praising a master also of three.
-Denzel Scott

Go with the flesh and become the beautiful.
Lay with the serpents in the fields of tall grass.
Remove the skin and live the dirty freedoms.

Return home. It no longer accepts masters.
The heart has come to stillness, starved and raped dead.
What of the kindnesses resting with the Lord?

Mercy burns with her relics in loneliness.
Patience is crucified by her pretenders.
Empathy wears her noose of bitter rose thorns.

God wept stones but turned his face and said nothing.
His ruby rivers ceased. He looks for us no more.

Muses spin white whispered yarns
to still the box of the soul.
Eyes fall sweet; the spell adorns
all of man’s truths ever told.

Syrupy lyrical tunes
dance like sunny cream chiffon
with love that kill gods and moons
and steal dreams and much beyond.

Tipping wishes onto rainbows
rising smoke, dull serpent’s scales.
Full swollen gilded blooms throw
forth silk stripes like smooth stone trails.

Where these lonely paths unfurl
visions of lost horizons
draw slave’s otherness to curl
upon master’s endless sins

Feel my razor.


Remember


the cigar’s kiss,




too sweet

like cherries with chocolate.


Cherish the hollow smoke,




a kind memento



like a suicide’s prayer.

For Always Going as Only You Can

I hate the phrases (for always going),
(giving away yellows) because they are
truly in every way a mockery.
(For always going) makes jewels wither.
(giving away yellows) forces children
into exile from simple families
where pride, image, God and righteousness are
plausible reasons for execution
amongst the scoundrels of this ruthless globe.

And even when sames speak and meet without
the rage of others the circle of points
that form the curving line resonate ill.

There is no lack of identity as
the phrases are not lacking in substance.
Let the suicides, nightwalkers, homeless,
Closeted, well-adjusted, loners, nymphos,
Fetish enthusiasts, and radicals
be a testament to wayward notions
as identity. My dilemma with
phrases like (giving away yellows) or
(for always going) is lack of magic
that I used to know as a dreamer of dreams.

It’s not like the world has legitimate
answers for this mythical narcissism.
For every thief and murderer there is
the feather and the scale that will judge the
human heart. But what of this mythical
narcissist and his old heathen secrets?

I thought I honestly deleted this.

My attention completely turned away from this. I even forgot the title, the link, everything. I thought this silly whim was behind me. I thought with attending networking event after networking event, that I don't need a blog to find an audience, but I was sadly mistaken. If I want to network like the best, this is the best route to do such a thing. Better to find this out now while I have the luxury of doing this kind of thing in school. This is now a real endeavor I can't avoid anymore. Too many people keep saying blog, blog, blog, so I comply. Here is my blog. I really hope this doesn't completely blow up in my face as some laughable mess I can't burn from my memories.

Why this is being made I guess and a hello to whoever happens to read

I want to be a writer. Its that simple. I am not writing this in order to give you something that you can get a hundred times over with the plethora of other blogs that exist. I am not a fan of passing my opinion off as if it were fact. I just want to write and be criticized. I want to be scrutinized and buried by your opinions because I feel that maybe that will make all of these pieces worth crafting. My poems do have value even as they remain hidden in my closed palms, but they would undoubtedly benefit were they granted someone else's acknowledgement. If its crap, tell me its crap without hesitation. If its good, tell me why and how it might become better. If you find that my work doesn't suck to high heaven, tell a friend to give it a read. If you like it so much, and this is the most unlikely of scenarios mind you, tell someone that can help me get this stuff out of my hands and into some form of legitimate competitive publication. That's all I'm saying.