"Not to be Done by Man-Made Epidemics of Shame… We Vote for What is Beautiful!" [2002] by Sir Steven Ilchev

Not to be Done by Man-Made Epidemics of Shame…

We Vote for What is Beautiful!

{Steven Ilchev, 2002}


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'When you walk through a storm

Hold your head up high and don't

Be afraid' {Hammerstein}


To Holly Wells, Jessica Chapman and Milly Dowler
=============================



Thinking you could sort of railroad young

And aggrieve the weepin' old, well you

Done it but not annihilated the spirit of simple innocence,

O Soul-tumbled cowards flying higher now!


Lowest be your heads when you look yourselves

In lakes marbled in the honest tears of those beautiful

Unforgettable children of ours whose lives were

Not led in vain… they enriched our scopes with the playful

Golden grain… zooming in their mica-silver eyes, unstained


No, they didn't play in vain… three bright children

Whose tender hearts belonged to sweetness so alive and independent

A glory-hound madman couldn't thwart, not even with a blasted sword -

Dishonourable in these infanticide epidemic stains of giant shame


You swiped their looks out of here but not their magic touch

With moments that pass we believe in the salvation of this crippled world,

Crippled by Grim Reapers so worldly they settle on our doorstep, they turtle

Along but their time will be dressed in tatters for we ain't gonna be done

By man's epidemics of shame… we opt to vote for what is

Plain beautiful… this day, the next and beyond!


Three lovely girls, you touched the world's collective heartbeat gong

Symbolizing passion for nonchalance in childhood's perfect garden

And the sweet song of carefree laughter will tinkle all around as that

Lovely affectionate mum-and-dad hug will always live on for you


Cowards… you may be almost-takers, successful in your echoing

Sickness-mind-motivated bells of shallow glory but our

Girls will not be goners ever, for we shan't forget them

In our album of beloved thoughts and as we snub your epidemic, vile

You'll be the sorry sight that lies awoken in forgotten mud

So faraway indeed it wouldn't matter…


O, I will ask our shattered, wounded world to hold the

Human hand, to bring it ever closer to our children's

Hearts and minds and let me lead this kiss that sets

The feelings free… the feelings of compassion

So needed in these catastrophic times… believe!


I kiss you, children… will you kiss them with me too?

Of course you will! You are all so lovely and living can really be

A conglomeration of unchained splendour, tearful

And laughter-pampered


Today I let out my tears, my worn-out muscles

Flexing to save the most beautiful particles

Of us we've opted to vote for! Will you cry

With me, then? Will you let cry with me and

Not feel the least bit ashamed?

"The Lovecore of Forever's Knots of Exaltation" [2002] by Sir Steven Ilchev

The Lovecore of Forever's Knots of Exaltation

/Steven Ilchev, 2002/

Where is your morning's smile? -

Here in my mirrored sight;

Where is the crazy twinkle in your

flaming eyes that pearl like glowing

particles in the sesame dark of old? -

Here in my mirrored sight, oh precious love!

Yet newness is forever circled

in the fire of gypsy fortune-tellers

by the river-sand of swampy turfs

begotten in the platinum seed of gold

My passion slots in for your mercy within

the grinning butterflies of the prawns' thinking's host;

terrible is all my swerving wording

marvellous is your appealing portrait -

a hushed noise of dramatic expectation

Trembling wiring of jilted telepathy -

where is my leek of words? -

zombie muttering of pillows squatting

and togetherness in shallow ponds

I want to swim with your profile of wine's

tasty expression on your lips... and the caramel on your body

will shiver on my grated hands as I ponder on midnight's

wonders while the songs erase my brain control and I

dive unto your wagon of sensual electric cores

Love will manifest its flute's companion when I swell

my loving spree for you to feel in heady heaven

in heady heaven we shall spring...enhancing the pine cones of

our love's epitome when I feel you close to me

clinging to your cushy shoulder 'til I surrender to you, free

I wish to swim and please your profile's winery

of the honey-melting rock sensation

that bodies paint upon the caramel

of shadowed couches whereupon the midnight song

Stimulates my brain control and erases all my reasoning

for I give you my electric cores of shrubby love -

love bushier than ghastly density; bushier than the bush-war of

fatalistic words, sobering up before the wine glass' trumpeting

that cries for more and more... and more!

"Splendour Never Escapes" [2004] by Sir Steven Ilchev

Splendour Never Escapes

/Steven Ilchev, 2004/


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To the legend of anything and everything legendary and beyond,

The real-life statue of humane interaction breathing from within

And radiating ever so gently from without – the most unselfish

Character in a film called My Life Alive and Kicking,

My creative, inspirational and never deprived of worldly wisdom

Mum… Mums, you are an example of unsurpassed splendour

That simply can't ever escape… don't you dare forget it!
=========================================



Feel the poignant sunshine radiating from within the green,

green grass of goodness as you walk upon a lawn

that belies the power of the soil crumbling underneath

your feet as you galvanise every bit of yourself!



Poetry in sliding motion through mountain rivers

cascading towards your unspoilt dreamy eyes like

manoeuvring opalescent dribblers of a game so beautiful

it becomes us



The game of natural splendour questionnaires

you and the green lawn, the emancipated trees...

and the wistful music of hedgerows stretching

for many an unforseen mile...



Splendour never escapes... not when it comes from your

loving self… not when it redefines the immense gentle

strength man could've never learned from anywhere else

but from the versatile you...



Mum, you are a legend in your own right and splendour

never escapes me because of that!



======================================
From your son who terrorises words and language but in a sweet,
sometimes idiotic kind of way, to you, the mum of all mums...

"Pyre" (1994) by Steven Ilchev

Pyre

/Steven Ilchev, 1994/

I seem to have become an old man so aged,

I feel I ought to die for the good of all the nations

And the catchers in the rye

Through all the years that I ploughed I wept

My only sweet desire to be 'lone in cowardice

And extinguish on the pyre

For the pyre seethes with ire and the crops are

Growing free, Apollo plays the mournful lyre

With commitment to the beast

I wrote of days of effervescence; I wreathed them

In a head and chilled them in an icy letter to a

Hedgehog of another Earth;

For whom my lips were dry

For the pyre seethes with ire and the crops are

Growing free, Apollo plays the mournful lyre

With commitment to the beast

With time the rivage is beclouded from my vision

And I begin to fall apart

It seems I have been always near

A pillow of the opaque sleep

For the pyre seethes with ire and the crops are

Growing free, I am committed to the lyre

In wanton feelings to expire!

"Mystic Cyclone Squiggling Interlude" (2002) by Steven Ilchev

Mystic Cyclone Squiggling Interlude

{Steven Ilchev, 2002}

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To a beautiful lady with loving,ceaselessly romantic thoughts and fantasies this festive season

Wish you were here, my love, cuddling my life's

figurine with immortalising passion and bathing in maroon bubbly

with me by the outdoor amber fire

which keeps playing colourful viola blues of idyllic intimacy never before played.

Merry Christmas, my glowing Mermaid. I, thy protective

unicorn love and cherish you and will never ever leave you!!!

==================================

Tenderness…

'Tis what my hands crave when I spread them

Far and wide, when I want you every glimpse of

A quiet maroon moment vilifying placid

Seas like a restless, frenzied speedboat

Bellowing for dramatic love

To express itself in film

Film…

'Tis ours in the making and nestled in an

Evergreen pine-tree wherein an affectionate flute breathes out

The breathing-in of a sweltering love's breath you breathe upon me

Through precious words of magic and everlasting festive smiles

Blowing through a mystic cyclone leading us to

Merry palaces of secret feelings so inner and clear

So inner and clear…

To the eyes of a boomerang lovestorm of festive cheer so tingly and dear

For when I think of you and me, guitar-strummed in silent moments of that unstoppable forever's busy intersections of trafficking desire, I'm enthralled…

For I see you and I could see nothing else but your winter season's glow

Tunefully coloured in shades of summer's ballet spring step of

Autumnal painting motifs,

How wonderful you are, my flame-wooing darling mermaid of crystal Music sheets leaning through the ice-skating squiggling

Interlude at our private Solstice park

Our private Solstice park…

With binding chords of intermittent

Viola blues of idyllic intimacy never before played

My hand twists like a braided tree branch through

The crown of your smooth pianist's fingers and can't

Let go… ever

Not ever…

As we waltz through the mystic cyclone squiggling interlude

Amidst warm oceans' whales and silvern alps united

Through our Wiccan pledge to love and honour one another

And Nature's gifts adorned on all mankind and wildlife

Oh, wildlife of beauty inexplicably powerful…

The spontaneity of being joyous lovers in jacuzzi-astral allegretto

Selflessness while the season's white viola squiggles the

Simmering air of soul-soothing stripping exchanges of emotive

Sugar scenes creamingly plated, vineyards elated…

Film…

'Tis ours in the making and nestled in

A forest's firewood's philosophical message screened through

The breathing-in of a sweltering love's breath you breathe upon me

Through monkey-wrenching cherry-juice tears of amazingly gorgeous Inviting words of intimate viola themes and everlasting festive smooches

Blowing through a mystic cyclone leading us to

Floating palaces of secret feelings so dizzy in gear

Clearer than the planet's Christmas trees in blinding union.

***

May my little effort of presenting my undying

Love and adoration to you through the above verse this jolly season

Immerse itself into your nucleus of sensitivity with the degree of elegance

You have bubbled through my life for a few years now.

I fall in love with you more and more each day and I cannot

Wait to take you in my arms and show you

Just how much you make me want to live

And give you a life of continuous unrelenting

Thrill, gallantry, unconditional support,

And fearless unrestricted sensuality

.

My blood vessels, muscles, brain sands, and skin's

Webbings will feel your charisma ever so strongly this Christmas and beyond.

I hope they touch you in the same manner you keep touching me

Every single day of my life.

All my slow heated kisses, most sensual lady xxx

"Of Whitby Swelterpassion" /2003/ by Steven Ilchev

Of Whitby Swelterpassion

/Steven Ilchev, 2003/

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To an incredibly beautiful lady and the magical North Yorkshire village we were so blessed to roam through with symphonic heartbeats, under summer's scorching spell and Dracula's scintillating eerie grin
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Meet the dame of swelterpassion
swing a tear of delight
while the scintillating prism-vision
beaches are vampirically bright

Meet the dame, breathe no longer
conventionality is thrust aside
as free-falling into magnetism
cannot be historically trite!

Whitby is within me,
my ghoulish goosebumps tell a tale
of listening to Dracula chanting
as the dame grips me
and her touch just never flails...
amid hot amorou-airborne sailing!

I free-fell again and again
still free-falling as I speak,
I countenance those Whitby moments
zooming forever more,
my grotesque mind will ne'er leak

Ne'er again, tis solid now
and climbing those two-hundred steps
or so to the hillways of our
kissways and that euphoric murmur:

"Oh, blist'ring summergaze... Oh, Whitby!"

"One Dead God" by Steven Ilchev /1992/

ONE DEAD GOD

/STEVEN ILCHEV, 1992/

**********************************************

Ever since Julius Caesar was stabbed in the back

Our dastardly world has never quite been on the

Right track

Reading Romeo and Juliet spells glory in my ears

As I imbibe them tasty, life-like bitter

Tears

Oh, Romeo and Juliet you converse with each other

Churning out words so expressive and

Pure

My geriatric soul is forever enthralled by it all

That my sight can conceive of

No cure

Damn! I'm driven like a humanly-inept animal out

Of my narrow-fisted mind treading through forests

Boasting an almighty green lawn

With unfounded brutality, though I strike

A tender match and put paid to the rotten bod

Of a lost ghostly gibbon

Then I drop like a writer's ink, so

Very senselessly thrown into the

Imposing abyss of the perilous unknown

Damn! I do, I feel forevermore the trendy, heavy boots of

Somebody who's a total drone; his voice hits me for a six:

"Dear Man, decaying lethargically is this sinful human bone!"

Oh, oh… I reckoned I was in contact with some golden ray

But how it turned out it was the reflection of my artificially decorated

Shiny o so shiny dismay

This man, this man has hidden our happy days, who is he…?

He comes to heal, to preach, to lift your soggy figure from

The heartache knitted to the perils of your mire, the forbidden pearls they are…

Who is he? One dead and deader god of the doleful tone

He conjures up something or other, gesticulates to the

distantly distant phantasm, his ire is incessant

His tongue is so entreating: "Why don't we

Pray? Why don't we merely pray for praying's

Sake?"

Who the dickens is he and are we of our own selves

Or of the sky of the Universal overthrow,

Are we of our own selves, my brothers and sisters?

Do we, do we live in a phantasmagoric environment,

Yes we do and yes we do and how we do it is

A mystery but the point is that we do

Who the dickens is this man? Who is he?

He conjures up something or other, that much

Even your granny could ascertain

His magic has outlived the ages or the mind of human pages –

To heal, to preach, to lift you up, lifting you high

And dry, amen!

A god so irreproachable with a doleful tone

He gives advice, advice he gives,

Betimes – and that's his style, his trendy style

One god, just one in a charnel

One god, just one in chastisement,

One god who made us for his ardour

A god in a dusky water, one dead

Hackneyed resolution; one man of iniquity

Iniquity, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes

One dead god, one god deader and deader each day,

Each happy day that smiles

upon us

One dead god who sojourns somehow beside his

Patricidally-inclined audience,

One dead god for our common bedpost.