Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X

Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X. Let X equal the cold. The months of cold equal May through August. There are four months of cold, and four of heat, leaving four months of indeterminate temperature. In June it snows in Drakensberg. In February and July the students return and Adams bookshop, in Westville campus (Ukzn) is full. Adams coffee bar is full from February through June and July through November. Two months of heat, four months of cold and four months of indeterminate form. Let X equal the month when Adams bookshop is full. The number of books approaches infinity as the number of months of cold approaches four. Let X equal the quantity of months when Adam's coffee bar is open. The number of dishes sold approaches infinity as the number of dishes produced approaches infinity as the number of books sold in the one month approaches infinity as the number of months of cold approaches four. I will be colder in the future than I am now. The future of cold is infinite. The future of heat is the future of cold. Adams bookshop is infinite and so is never full except in February and July and the coffee bar will never be full except from February through June and July through November...

Sea Of Fire

I feel the cold, wet liquihands thumping
Slapping and tossing me deeper and higher
From the calm insides of the water palace
I see the sprays of white diamonds shiver
I struggle through the lungs of the deep
To reach a surface

Immersed inhalations ignite implosive inhibitions
Expanding exhalations enkindle explosive exemptions
I swim through the breathing floodgate
Injecting and ejecting, exhausting, inducting
I catch a glimpse of someone watching

I hold onto a rock as it battles the sea
To see the nude attendant peering
Gold brown wings and hairs of fire
She sits, relaxed and expressing
My aching body is burning but I’m freezing
I try to see more

Reddened remnants rouse reactive renditions
Pallid pieces pacify perceptive pre-cognitions
I crawl up the hard, slippery beach
Ripping and pushing, painting, ravaging
I catch a glimpse of her watching

I fight my tired body to turn and see
To see this glowing seraph staring
Intense floods of desire suffocate the pain
Her hair radiates, a sea, firing
Suddenly she is striding toward me
I try to see more

Freezing fires feed fearless foundations
Burning births breathe bitter blemishes
I lift my heavy head and force my body
Filmy and beautiful, burnished, fascinating
I see her presence watching

Suddenly I feel my weight lift off the ground
And I’m standing in front of you, beginning
Desire fills my mind and my heart

Like an angel in amity, you reach and take my hand
Throbbing sensations palpate amative addiction
I can feel a volcano of fledgling fondness

Eyes of cosmic greens and blues
Stare through and in me
They penetrate far, as we levitate
The great palace no longer dictates
As I see your soft mouth shiver
All I can think about is going where you are
Into your deep river

I see storms of red lightning attacking
Flashes and crashes, the labyrinth breathing
As you take me, I feel my blood rushing
Your eyes make love to my life

Silent sketches shout searing sensations
Queer quills quote quiet quintessence
In the clouds I rise and we rise
Silky and quivering, quirky, stunning
Everything I’ve ever been, covets you

Towering tornadoes tinker touching tomorrows
The spinning finger of God creates

As hard as the storm, as scared as fear itself
I reach out and touch your nippled palace
As smooth as silk, a burning sea of fire
I feel my fears eroding, I feel your face

We kiss and tangle, playing inside
Sliding and clenching, dying and living
To sounds of intimate exploding secrets
We scream love’s sweet and endless agony
We fight a war to not let go
Never let go

High upon infinity tower, wet and shaking
Our lips make love and distort time
I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I don’t want to
For in this eternal instant, I Am, for you

This instant is the reason I am.

Byron P. Brassel
Middlemist, VII
8/1/2012

Little Micky

In the cold, dark ward
Little Micky stares, bored
Basins of spirit
Tubes of life
Little Micky holds on tight

Morning brings in Nativity keepers
Little Micky is the baby intruder
Wounds of metal
Marks of dragons
Little Micky holds on tight

Hold on little Micky, hold on

Home brings not toys and joy
Little Micky is their decoy
Hands of hurt
Screams of scorn
Little Micky holds on tight

Back in the room of triumph and falling
Little Micky feels mender's knitting
Demons of pain
Angels of Mercy
Little Micky holds on tight

Hold on little Micky, hold on

Mommy, Daddy... How?
Mommy, Daddy... Why?
Mommy, Daddy... No!
Mommy, Daddy... Please.
Mommy, Daddy... Be.

In the bed of red and blue
Little Micky is a preview
A face, un-kissed
A life, un-lived
Little Micky lets it go

Mommy, Daddy... Be
Mommy, Daddy... Be
Mommy, Daddy... Be

Through a white cloud - The Hand of an angel
Feels and carries you
Into the violet oceans
Into the floating forests
Through the spinning seas
Through the golden gates

Into the world of indigo seashells
Where fishes of fire in flower cities
Warm the walls of love's infinity

Little Micky watches, he watches
Little girls playing silver flutes
Little boys rowing wooden boats
Boats with balloons and butterflies
And the angel takes his tiny hand
They flywalk in laughter and light

Onto a golden, white unicorn
Little Micky rides across the waves, unborn
With an army of seraphs
With songs of love
Little Micky holds on tight

B. P. Brassel
Middlemist, VI
26 November 2011

Essence

Through the universe is the star
Through the star is the Earth
Through the Earth is the desert
Through the desert is the heat
Through this heat is the life

From this life comes the nanobe
From this nanobe comes the weave
From this weave comes the entity
From this entity comes the entire
From this entire comes the man

With this man lies the reason
With this reason lies the accord
With this accord lies the motion
With this motion lies the residue
With this residue lies the gone

Byron P. Brassel
Middlemist, VIII
7 October 2011

Middlemist

The sun shines through a window pane
It shines across the wooden floor
On the walls are paintings of pictures
Of a world of antiquity outside the door
He lies there in his bed
Staring at a time once upon

A knock and then a motion
On a tray, elixirs and points, no, not again
He struggles with the confrontation
But for him it's no longer plain
Flogged and flailed
He dreams of better times

Times of Sunday mornings,
Monday blues and Tuesday soapies
Times of Wednesday snuggling,
Thursday queues and Friday coffees
Saturdays, carnal Saturdays
If only I was strong again

Once upon an aging time
He was a force, a driven hero
He was always in a raging prime
With his lover, never zero
Exploding cells and breaking waters
Cheerful babes run through the fields

Upon his moving chair, he is taken
Through corridors of lonely passings
Into the common room, of hearts broken
With wounds and reflections, tis' dying
Spinning circles into auto gardens
The sun shines on, as he dreams

Times of Sunday mornings,
Monday blues and Tuesday soapies
Times of Wednesday snuggling,
Thursday queues and Friday coffees
Saturdays, oh for carnal Saturdays
If only I was strong again

He looks through the trees, into the sky
And he begins to cry, he cries
Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, where did you go?
Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, why did you go?
Saturdays, why won't you come back?
Come back, Come back

Times of Sunday mornings,
Monday blues and Tuesday soapies
Times of Wednesday snuggling,
Thursday queues and Friday coffees
Saturdays, oh for those carnal Saturdays
If only I was strong again
If only I was strong

I come into your room as you sleep
Shhh, so soft
Into your ear I begin to whisper

I will not desert you, for I am here with you
I will not forget you, for I am here for you

I will be your friend, you will never be alone
I will be your saviour, you will never go alone

You may feel it but you aren't forgotten
For I will trap you in the arms of my love
The love you once gave me

On those Sundays and Mondays
And Tuesdays and Wednesdays
And Thursdays and Fridays
And always those Saturdays

Byron P. Brassel
Middlemist, VI
21 November 2011

Astral Dream

Through the clouds of soft exotic mist
The light finds its way onto your skin
Under the gentle waters of your lamina
You lie there, in sweet oblivion
Inside the palace of your mind
You're swimming and dancing
Swaying to the music of your astral dream

Great gold ships furrow the serum
Drifting into the astral plane
They bear red and yellow crosses
There's no sorrow, there's no pain
Inside the palace of your mind
You are leaping and flying
Swaying to the music of your astral dream

Beyond the warm and sleeping waters
I sit and watch you dream your astral dream
Pixies play sweet melodies on floating lanterns
Wielding bows on fluid fiddles, to their queen
Inside the palace of your mind
I see you running and laughing
Swaying to the music of your astral dream

I move my hand over the stormy water
I move my hand over to you, my love
I touch your soft soul beneath the water
I touch your soft satin skin, my love
The fires of your nippled skin
Dull the suns of time

In your astral dream, I come to join you
I run upon the rushing rivers
I stride upon the sleeping seas
I walk upon the wandering waters
Under the lamina, my love
I am with you in this astral dream

Inside the palace of your mind
I am with you, dancing and singing
Swaying to the music of our astral dream
Ah, our astral dream

Byron P. Brassel

Middlemist, X
5 October 2010

Industry Of Darkness

Dark purple specks reflect off murky puddles
Dark pink walls melt over pale, stagnant hands
Sink into structures of sustenance
Flapping wings, stop me flying
Oh I am falling through the manifold
Into the dark

Heated coolers burning freezing fires
Exploding loneliness in dark, shiny glitters
I sense the industry of darkness, working
Feel the icy, wet factory walls
Slowly reducing, oh slowly reducing
To an infinite black vault
No

Ingesting, rupturing, folding, ejecting
Machines of blackness, destroying
Cranking, scraping, winding, thrashing
Machines of nothingness, ending
This cannot be my fate

My cold, hard breath charges the air
Shivering senses slicing scaly skin
A cacophony of muted conversations
Converge in a finite abyss
Oh I fall through the deafening manifold
Into the dark

Oh the shafts of spinning silence
Induce the fabrics of morality
Compress the cages of magnanimity
Blow the jars of fragility
Exhaust the plugs of geniality
No

Spinning, twisting, cracking, propelling
Machines of weakness, blowing
Pulling, burning, cleaving, grinding
Machines of darkness, dying
This will not be my fate

Electrical stimulations begin burning
They burn up desire, oh they burn and burn
I can feel my soft, sick core mutating
I want to remember, I want to remember
I want to remember I am here
I want to remember I am seen
I want to remember I am heeded
I want to remember I am needed
I want to remember, oh I want to remember.

Ingesting, twisting, folding, propelling
Machines of antiquity, holding
Pulling, scraping, cleaving, thrashing
Machines of apparition, eating
This is not my fate

Oh, not my fate

Spinning, rupturing, cracking, ejecting
Machines of affliction, hiding
Cranking, burning, winding, grinding
Machines of ambiguity, secreting
This will never be my fate

Oh, never my fate

I want to remember, oh I want to remember
I want to remember I am loved
This, my industry of darkness
Shut down

Byron P. Brassel
Middlemist, IV
5 June 2011