Red Chair in the Forest
(Earth's First Love)

  • Red chair in the forest
    to remind all creatures that I'm the poet king
    Birds take flight with cheerful songs they sing
    In and out of the trees and flying around my throne
    Letting me know the dark poet is never alone
    It's a good day here in the woods, where life began
    Away from the city air, yes where life began
    the sounds of the river, like blood flowing in my veins
    We never love, we never love in vain...
    The world is dark with an evil dark
    The world is dark with a good dark
    Here I baptize my imagination in the darkness of good
    Where holiness is brighter than the light that's understood
    Come sit with me here in these sacred woods
    Bring a red chair, and be a king and queen with me
    In the garden of Eden where a tree bleeds for thee
    Red love and red chairs with lungs full  of the moonlight above
    Romance and kisses, all is welcomed, please come
    Bring your red chair and watch the world come undone
    Bring a red chair and listen to the earth's first love


    Voices Without Footsteps

    Without the voice
     these footsteps are souls as dark as devils.
    Dimensions on timeless levels..

    Fall deep into the depths ..and feel the wings eternal phantoms...

    I can die now, because I know I won't
    Some did, they do, but we don't.

    This light was greater than the sun and moon..
     voice without footsteps  coming soon.

    Are you ready, those were never just clouds
    It was never just rain
    It was the breath of life
    Calling our name..

    Do you still hear the birds sing over all the  telephone rings..
    The songs were never just songs of spring or just getting past winter blues
    Their voices were the voice of an eternal symphony still calling me and you ...

    Voices Without Footsteps
    by... Lucian Wilde 

              I wore your skin in t
he cold dirty rain…You say you’re a vampire…I tore your gray & dark city veins... Lucian’s dark tower…You drank the blood & watched the night disappear…Lady of the moonlight…In the morning the sun was not your fear…A different blood type…Holy wolves howling sacred kisses…Everlasting River…Devil’s dead with Satan’s hisses…Marvelous Gothic Shiver…My tree & Bloody feet I stand…Wild moonlight silver ... Part of the red door plan…Stone hearts of hardness…Holes in my hands…Breathing winds of whispering…Dark twisted shadow lands…Do you want to be moonless? Hell & its bloodless sour.
You found a better darkness than the Blood Maker’s flower…You call yourself a vampire? 
Not until you fall into Lucian's Dark Tower. 


What we know as the prime of the pump, the wine of the soul, the river of life,                           
        is a peculiar and unique fluid  that possesses  the secret of who and what we  really   are.                                                                                                                    
          Poets, philosophers and physicians fight for the rights to this elixir.                       
Each with a corner on the market of what they think it is and what it means …           
        crossing and carrying the concept of family, idea or therapy when
cited as line, lust or cure.

Delivering power and eliminating the ravaged waste of that same process,   in one smooth pass…  
         tiny orbits within the cellular-galaxy-fraction of who we are.
 Life and breath linked by the ebb and flow… correct and balanced ratios of give and take…
         each gasp and beat united eternal.
Sanity, determined by the sweet or sour chemistry of this fiber core juice, dilute or thick,
         feeding our thoughts…..triggering synapses that calcify or relax.
 A child understands without knowing…. the tears flow uncontrollably, inconsolably… 
         not necessarily from the pain,  but because of something not being right,
 a real sense of losing part of themselves  with the appearance of  shiny, ruby-red  droplets
         welling from the dirty, skinned elbow… realization of losing part of what is inside,
 that which  is inside when life is happy and not hurting.

A fallen hero watches as, from beneath, around and through his clenched hands, 
       what was once his courage and valor,  flows freely to the dirt,
 leaving his last words and breath nothing more than a puddle of mud.
        From here, the prospect of renewal by replenishment or rejuvenation by means of cleansing,
 gives birth to all types of modern/medical and ancient, mythological  promises…
         all worthy of living and dying for…..
History has shown it…’s reality requires it.

        What surely must be encrypted seamlessly, intertwined through our helix-spindled dye coursing,
is the one and only truly original thought.
         Embracing or escaping this truth are the only options allowed….
the only freedom we enjoy is in this choice.
         When such a time arrives that a man surrenders to the pulsating flow that empties,
the surge that fades, the red that pales… only then will he seek the seamlessly-intertwined code.
         To surrender is to admit. The code is assured.

The bloodcurse demands a bloodcure.  The tainted bloodline needs a dialysis of some sort.
         We all crave it. Sacrificial gifts of bloodflowing creatures, blood-drinking rituals, blood-sucking transfusions…all answers to someone…. in the shape of religion, cult, sect and creed.  
This bloodcurse proclaims that:

The physics of time, energy, biology and psychology all suddenly changed.
          The perfect laws of infinite existence are violated and have been replaced by
           a  decaying sham of  “what is meant to be”.
            Time now has beginning and end… in between these two points we wander,  
  wondering where we come from  and not knowing  where we are going.
 The energy of life is severed from the source. Galaxies, planets, cells and systems…
    a disconnect that was not meant to be.
 Relationships that are meant to be perfect in love and passion
   have morphed into  self-centered, twisted alliances. 
Passion which started out as a proprietary blend of spiritual, physical and mental fulfillment,
   has lost one or more of its ingredients.
These new unbalanced potions are destructive rather than creative… 
   painful instead of pleasurable…..restraining rather than free.

The very essence of us, encrypted in our blood that flows ….written on our heart that pumps, knows that there is more…more to this predictable cycle of cell production, reduction, degradation and termination. Rescue must be found in the one truly free, original thought.
Originality screams for origin. Origin calmly is.          
Mr. stonelight