nSvS .za.i=09



What to see,

when the sea,

of my ocean has no

concept of  motion.

Where my shoe left my sandals,

of all laces, 

I can see the peace

where i left that piece.


®artsydhude 97-18




Poem is a heart in which three things matter.


to encase all that which is not even tangible

to begin with.


to fill and to sort all of nutrients

with all the cesspool what all of

emotional content,

emotional tenses,

and its stress.


So at least it can take out all shit from it.

In takes away all garbage out.

To find the fingers which can construct a word, a verb, a noun.

To make a statement out of a sentence, and to subdue all clause

to form a paragraph into a story. 

Then you know The heart does matter,

and the Poem has gone away,

coz the navel of the novel stayed.



®artsydhude 97-18


Poem. ,

a definitive accusations wherein lies a heart dismantled.

a defining minutes of every second of centuries of emotional languishing upon a heart. . .

. . of one’s own amusement;

. . of one’s own lamentations;

but only one true construct

and of condition to train,

One heart remains beating to the rhythm.

would that be,

yours, mine

or someone

who still loves us,

Who can . . 


©oam®artsydhude 97-18


Art of my heart.

This conduit can make my eye,

yet all of the sea of my tears cannot look.

Blurred love is all I get,

Obscured hate is what I take upon.

Why would all of me,

wail and flail about every time

you question my love for U.

Once upon a dramatic love I sheltered,

At the heart of which to Love,

is not even to be at peace,

waiting on trust that is always paid,

that of betrayal.


©oam ®artsydhude, 97-18 ™XENOphagz

Art of the heart.

Break apart my heart,

it wil cry,

it will try.

Go ahead kill my soul,

you will try,

and yes I will cry.

At the art of my own two arms,

I will unfold,

I will make my fingers bleed to my bone.

Only when,

the art of my heart,






®artsydhude, all artworks thereof. 97-18


nSvS .za =009


Into this Tuesdays sky,

I don’t want any of my bruhaha

yet I am puzzled that on which I saw once upon a dream.

A man dancing on his own death by worrying his life away.


©oam ®all works by artsydhude


 Monday’s .w1:m1

A coat and tie seemed wrinkled at the hour of 6 am to main avenue.

For this frap stain came late before this hot mama was in line, 

a smirk of a smile, then txted me her num as she bumps three people in tow.

At third and quarter past, a vid call came in,

then a beautiful shout from someone I never saw,

yet it rang the bell as the doors cannot yell.

muttering and said myself to sleep,

as this frap creeped into my sock,


Fired again for the first day,

I can’t even keep.


For all those who work 9- til,

this is for U.

w/o U all, we can never survive.

Sincerely us grunts.



®all artworks by artsydhude 97-18


Bakit sa bucket.

Tell me what is the first thing in mind,

what to do when a job or a career has ended.

List it some say,

Do it anyway,

or have tech do it for U.

Damn it all to pieces.

I’d get me one way ticket to the land of the rising sun,

where the hot mead doesn’t bore the soul.

In a stupor of wanting more 

a blonde aryan who can never speak,

but the butt and or it busts 

your alcohol down where it 

follows to where Nidhogg speaks.

Aye. . .

that be the land;

of ice and stone,

of the love of all gods dead and reborn,

of all wisdom in a mead out of a horn.

Then tell me you puny humans,

scurry about what life you can lead,

into a nonsensical greed of the weed,

that do become nothing into the air we all breathe.


©oam® all artworks by artsydhude 97-18


Donde estas mi . . .


that one who you left alone wanting you for u.


what were you thinking when you have left me in the memory

of could’ve been.


what shit did i do when your company wasn’t even there to begin.


at least there I am well fed first by my hunger of these greedy fingers and hungry eyes

to know how and when to stop reading without technology to tell me to sleep.


©oam®artsydhude 97-18