The Witxch (A Psalm of Eros)

She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves.

My older legs against the wall, for if I tell you speak of all, that magic spell that’s in my side that erupts pleasure makes it nice. What turn I this a gift to you that comes, in sinew, through and through. While lovers gasp in air of last, my spirit takes you shoving fast. This witxch, this witxch that comes through me, that loves to love and sometimes leaves. This treasure in the night or day, spinning your hips, your moisture play, and then on top on down you come, your back in stars, and water sums. Hold me, hold me, upon the bridge between your sighs, while lovers breathe, and change the world where shadows play, into your longing, of foreplay.

Older a plain of running sieves, when we made pleasure in the leaves, when fall, came down, we could not last, joined in our bodies, fuming fast. Groaned on we, took the wind that blows and brings a hurricane to our bow, and shot our soul into the sea, did you not scream do me, do me. Anthology of all sexual past, of arms and breast and paths through past. To come together in the dark, sweet beat of organs, from first spark, that brings you, on me to call out, for tasting nether where passion starts. Where bodies writhe in wayward games, and breath so heavy in their stay. Oh beam of human that will not last join into spirits, free at last, for Eros flies in mind unseen, releases nerves all energy, and cums and cums, and licks away, what word of stillness that moans with play.

Have you sweet woman wished a witxch, that there shy lad, with dark eyes thick. Did you not know when ember flames, and moons cross meadows, high western plains? It is then he turns into rain. And, his hard sex, becomes the prose, that takes you under, as he goes. Beyond all era time of the past, be still the future, while you bed, and then until your stated still, your perspired body, has had its fill. No one will know, the screams you’ve had, in privacy, the night done past. Has this now made you want the spell of witxch’s garden, from the well?

She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves. – 05.12.2015 –

Driving Snow

When you’re driving snow, it’s like a woman’s body, you’re careful where you go, speed and then slow. For your find yourself, watching atmospheric pressure, sometimes warm, in slush a slicker row. Now take your time, your certainly no genius, G-D created snow, well before you know, and just like that she’s carbonate elusive, your tires and handling, can take you where you don’t want to go. A weaker sort can live a long a beach front, bathing in sand, and watching skin glow, but laziness, finds, a lack of imagination, there’s plenty of that when you’re driving snow, you know, the man who drives a cold winter road, he knows about snow.

Elevated time, to drive a peak, a highway, somewhere up where there’s a lot of snow, frozen gift, a find , a sort of magic, white pale skin, the kind that makes love flow. Driving snow, well above a tree line, changing letters for words to help her know, that when your ice, you radiate the sunshine, closer to life, than heat would ever know, some grow, oh man, when your sliding, turn your wheel into the slickest snow, and learn about what you should know. Some would fall fast and drive around a freeway where ploughs have been, it’s safe to go. What chance is that your soul will not find freedom, learn to spin, a blizzard, will not fold. In time, you learn to love to drive in pretty snow, the man who drives a cold winter road, he knows about snow.

Now that’s men, let’s talk about a lady, one who shines pure, a light of driven snow, have you been looking for a freedom, a man who drifts, or a man who likes to drive snow. That fella there whose not much for talking, the one who drives where others won’t go, let him take you to a place of mystic, where there’s going to be a lot of snow, then smile, slip and live a drive through a mountain snow. The man who drives a cold winter road, he knows about snow. – 2.16.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Writer

Throes of Creation by Leonid Pasternak

I sat to write to keep me warm, I toiled with pen some bitter scorn. I spun a shadow, I felled a tree, in awkward syllables I wished to see, and still within me something grew, an inward soliloquy that shook the room. What if, in color, I wrote a fate, a detailed sonnet, an ode to hate? While hearts fell shaking in earthbound flight, a penciled journey on a starless night, I wrote in earnest, I drew in glee, strange lyrical verses by six and by three. Dark words on parchment not meant to be. For written in breath between the lines, there was a curse, a scribble scribed, a poem engraved in broken time. An omen tempted upon the page, a rhyme, a token, an author’s rage.

It was a summer when I wrote last, the gods of wonder let me pass, took me to heaven past some gates, phonetic magic in clear glass lakes. Described in narrative by angels worth, a book of novel a writers birth. I was the novel alive in light, an untidy journey scrawled in block type. A cast of millions filled my mind, ideas of magic that seemed to align, a story forever that staid the heat, antagonist fury that rid deceit. In tense and medium and style of design, I lived with my characters, and made them mine. Forgotten was anger, and black words of lore, in genre and motif, I jotted for more, and as summer went, I entered a plan, I’d write about days and the love of G-Ds plan.

The writer of darkness, she is what she sees, a stranger to living, a jailor in need. A writer for fortune he spins tales of woe, to heighten his margin and shill all his gold. The writer of romance she favors a war, where sex has no balance and envy wants more. A writer of mystery, he marvels at crime, afraid of his conscience and what he might find. The writer of days of what I can see, wants balance in writing, and all that can be. I write in fulfillment of grace in my hands, my terror is over, Hashem guides my plans, for over and over, inside what I see is writing forever, a dance within me. – 06-20-2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Skip With You (A Love Song)

Graphic rights Nakai Photography

Come gentle sprite, dance with me, see the dream, there are so few to follow. Have a happy family, bare your womb clean, children spring from what we borrow. Here on for after is the way not clean, it is life adversity in sorrow. I would skip with you, I would love you as I say I do, when there are no rainbows seen on the morrow. We look back, we screen our past, we fumble words on a mountain that seems too tall. Take my hand, let’s bite our shadows, no race won, without a plan, when your thoughts are broken, I would skip with you.

Come light lace, defined facet of a fallen queen, when we were dreamers, we were lost at sea. We found a door when we touched our hands, we touched grace, on a moving sand, look when we laugh our hearts no longer touch the land. I would skip with you when the puzzle finds its place, when the knowledge of this life has run out of water. We find our lips burning needing a place to stay, a rainy day, that keeps our destiny in place. I will never be over you, I am not afraid, and I will skip with you, when there is no road left to carry our sorrow.

Come lithe and sweet, taken when we were weak, know there is no Eden without tomorrow. There are turns and splits, snakes taken from the pits, still I’m here my hand willing to bring that carrion discomfort. You will not walk alone, life not your own, it is my spirits to atone in comfort. I will skip with you, over broken dew, I would lay with you in terror. I will skip with you till there’s nothing left for shoes, till we learn to play with hereafter. Come gentle sprite, dance with me….. 06/09/2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

I Never Wrote That Song

Some day’s the wheel goes round, and I look at the paper and sigh with relief, for part of me is tattered in G-Ds harmony. A bereaved melody that fell inside me became me, while the universe played a different song. Part of me, looks to see, what syllable will make me feel my home, a rare key, six to three, when every element, emotional, makes me bleed. Beside me, a world is free, but not in me, the only place these lyrics seem to belong. What do you see, when all those sounds come out so wrong, is it me that played inside me so long. Converge on me majesty, something misunderstood in melody, counting the breaths around me, I never wrote that song.

Descant in methodical math, a place to hide when I discern the worlds black wrath. This place in rhyme alone, when the sound of words alone leave my spirit ticking. A place on one knee beneath the branch of a crooked tree, where questions call to know what’s inside. A cold, a destiny beneath an alcoholic freeze, words, that fall like lightning, without a need. My paper’s ready, crying, daemons rising, it’s part of me, accommodation of something wrong. When I’m sad, a shell that displays my terrible wrong, a chant hopelessly internally, intuits to me, and there I freeze, I never wrote that song.

Line in air of pitch that speaks liquid harmony, a part of me that tears me, sometimes off key, a place of charmed gone wrong. Voices living, inside me pointlessly, still determinedly, I deliver lyrics that sing my song. Could it be, antiphonally, unnaturally in destiny, some old music stayed inside me too long. No matter, I’ll gather paper, and out of range I’ll become something that no one believes, and when in character they come to see, I’ll deliver, but in all that carnage that stayed inside me so long, please believe, I never wrote that song.


“I Never Wrote That Song” inspired by that rascal Alice Cooper, “I Never Wrote Those Songs” from Lace & Whiskey. – 05.19.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Part I [What Do We Do]

(Photo courtesy of Resident,

It seems so complicated, watching people cry, various reasons, philosophies lie. It could be it don’t matter, your tears making shadows, it could be love’s a devil that seeks when you hide. I watched a thousand people that kill a thousand more, a picture in moving darkness that permeates our horror, and makes us ask for more. It’s said that art is imitation of what we say and do, and yet we cry torn loveless, what’s an ethos to do. Love found is another world, this one’s cold and dark, control and power are so passé, addiction is an art. So if I see you crying, because you’re torn and blue, I will hold you closer, and ask what do we do?

Lords and Leeds of London, have you insured love, has it become a commodity that is taught in common core. It seems in mutual clarity between both rich and poor, a loss of definition just what is love won for. Does it save a sinner, a man who owns the throne, a president or congress, a whore spread on the floor? The arrogance of destiny to take us to the dawn, to tell us we are champions, alone and left undone, we seek a feeling special a love that last inside, alas we fall to greater fires, in life what do we do?

Did you watch the setting sun, a tide that went to shore, a happiness of moment that shook you to your core. A leper defines happiness as something swift and sweet, a moment without a mirror at hand, and no pain in what he sees. Love defined as habit, a moment not meant to keep, a generation of stolen souls, sown in what they reap. If love is to be a disciple of change that you can’t keep, then what do we do, what do we do?

If love is shame lost hidden, like fangs of death and lore, what causes us to seek it and desire it even more. Lust is terminology for modern theology, a chemical reaction that defines loves inaction, a spirit lost in anatomy that boast of things it cannot see. I opened a door of mystery, and probed a question categorically, if love is changed and gone away, what do we do, what do we do?


The answer (part II) will arrive shortly Jדָּנִיֵּאל -05_01_2014

Bathsheba the Morning After (Pull Me Under)

My wrist uplifted, sliced in light with a blade of dawn, my conscience tender, human filled with defilement from my slumber. The night, the dragons, the fears where daemons cry. My weakness before sunrise, in thoughts, a failure in darkness, the thorns that made love cry. No psalm right now, my creator before me, indigenous shame beneath dry sky. Pull me under, lest I kill me, your judgment before me, these sprites inside me, lost from grace inwardly misplaced. My mind a warrior, my soul a prophet, now ruined in shadows, unreasonable in its passion, my spear inside me. I am pulled under, spinning before your face.

Pull me under, with skin that falters within the moment, in moonlight, Azazel in passion with lips before me, a fire of wonder that marks me blind. In sighs, in minutes my spirit insipid, a man her other, my destiny, forgotten, this light of a new day, another I called out, and by a summoned, a clay filled pact, by that familiar did Uriah stumble and die. Opened now by my eastern window, noise, and divisions in diver’s places, this sorcery unending, ethereal and wicked. By my eye, I have traded compassion to another, in this coldness, I am pulled under, spinning before your face.

Bane of a tempter, that lightning that thrills me, her body in water that judgment controls. Pull me under, that morning might not find me, these covers in kisses of rapture, these whispers of soul. This light how it burns me, and makes my heart quiver, this place by my window, where your flesh has called me wait. A deception, a strange essence I have captured, an infamy now held forever, these acts now behind me, I am pulled under while I awake.


David (מַּלְכוּת)
awoke on the first day after the darkness was gone, alone a murderer and an adulterer, separated from the light, all predestined and a part of a strange and balanced plan. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/10/2014

Love Is

Love_is_hopeLove is, when we have been dancing for a long time. When the sky is no longer bright, and we have learned how to make each other cry. Love is when we take turns holding each other tight in grief, because we are afraid our last hope might die. Tangles and knots hold together our love like mystical adhesive when learning our children are not seamless, and watching them fight their daemons late into the night. Darkened hard wood builds our house, on rocky cliffs, without romance, and dances with devils on shadows that throws us into each other’s arms and there we live as love is.

Love is, in honest words, spoken after years have passed us by. When challenge is no longer a game, and religion is known as the lie. Love is the danger that passed us by, like the angel of death digging up our emotional shadows only to find us laughing in the light. Ideas, enchanted moving bodies in laughter, finding YHWH as an addendum, learning character in time, bearing children and tracing the outline of our blemishes, when we are famished in our own storm. There then we lose ourselves, that is what love is.

Love is, watching our children grow in grace. When time stands still, and visions cease, there we stand a family not moved in silence, quiet and watching, we embrace, as love is. Our labyrinth we have destroyed, a destiny found, for in G_D’s compassion he did try us first and find us wanting, and there we were found. Destroyed overture, still entangled symphony, cut and bleeding, healed and growing, under and over until we could not speak. There in my heart always waiting still and forever more unwavering, that is what love is. Love is, when we have been dancing for a long time. – דָּנִיֵּאל 02/26/2014

A Place of Your Own in Solid Bones

A place of your own

A place of your own in solid bones!  That’s all you ask or care for.  Sometimes walking, the crowd intensely around you and yet in purity your alone.  Charlatans and books they don’t affect you.  Those wild eyed men of a false god talking down in linear fashion can’t refresh you.  The games you seek dilute your body, bringing scar tissue to the surface and exaggerate your fear of vanishing.  Tricks upon wonders and bills and tears, what you pray have I built, and how can I expire without dying.  The dance you move to gives way on rocky ground, and you wish sanity no more.

What a creation we have invested in!  A place of our own with no home.  With graciousness we turn to the shadows of disappointment, and with lies in our heart, we pretend to believe.  Our politics are dangerous deceptions that we train as our personal idols and how quickly we laugh when they deceive.  Our communication is shortened and revolutionized to dots and code words with meaningless signs and still in desperate loneliness with the sun going down we can’t even speak.  All we want is a place of our own in solid bones!

Some lust for an androgynous kingdom!  They believe in a unisex home, where instant gratification can drive their temperamental sins away.  They dream of one person in one community holding individual loneliness at bay.  Still, the price of community is indifference, and the shame of inclusion is the loss of creativity in the art of the balance, no one is allowed to be free.  The cost to lose one when there are so many is the charm of the collective still no one has a place of their own in solid bones!

You cannot grieve anymore upon this false shore!  When you cut yourself before you would slice another it is a darkened affection you seek.  Circle yourself, seal your heart unto G-D, deliver your enemy with vigor, and never cede a place of your own in solid bones!  Walk in your beauty by your spirit!  Hear your own heart and count the many stars that angels have designed for you.  In solid bones you were summoned by mystery to this home of your own.  Embrace your loneliness, and fall from Eden, descend from illusion.  Stalk your individuality and resolve your plain of battle.  Your birthright is marrow and a place of your own in solid bones! – DS 01/17/2014

3 AM – The First Psalm


I will write no more unless you love me, my eyes will no longer shine.  In the rain when the grey turns to white you will no longer say G-d cries.  I will kiss without feeling if you refuse to flatter me, for it is all I require.  Some host they ask for gifts of tongues I seek only your affection and careful praise when you are tired.

Your walls they have grown haughty with possessions and reverberation of noise.  Your sacrifices have turned like melted sourness your posture lacking poise.  You do not listen, when you walk, your lowered eyes negate my voice.  You lament crimes of other shadows, without seeing you miss the symphony of uttered words.  Your strange answers have become over used.

I carry fire that burns without warming, my passion cold with ice.  The scales have weights of feathers, no balance you find worthy to try.  I will laugh without smiling if you do not speak to me, for without words you are not free.  Some crosses ask for blood without pleasure, I insist only upon your reflection in knowing that I am me.

Your wilderness in G-d forms your haunting, a second of time that’s not your own.  Your world has turned my spirit to stone.  You refuse to dream of children and harvest, you summon danger and torment you cannot control.  You wake without sleeping, you make blood without purpose, you seek to beckon law that is not corporeal, and cannot be released.

Yet until now so far

I am the quintessence of your need of legitimacy, my compassion spawned on a millennium of your storms.  I descend on your thorns.  I will bathe you in solitude, I will give you even more, for sorceries and oaths not spoken I will speak your light immortal where you feel blindness no more.  A wounded darkness has fallen I will see you bleed no more.

Your love in me is law unchanging, it cannot move on the tide or rhyme.  Your focus and calm in momentum must heal my fear of our divide.  You must know my magic before first light, and dance in my temple when the moon is bright.  Your forehead and knowledge are ever before me, you are given unfettered emanation the first psalm and now judged sight.

I awoke at 3:00 last night free judged and the first psalm like flame burned in me! – DS 12/17/13