Dark poetic surrealism for beautiful brooding eyes
I love contemplation, curiosity, self awareness, imagination and strange things. I write about the human condition, and often write about love lost. Tragic, haunting, graphic, strange, heart-wrecking sorrow calls to me, and so; I write. I believe there is beauty in sorrow. I’ve lived it, seen it, felt it, know it. I hope that my words create a Universe of their own for you, full of visuals and contemplation.
I hope that you enjoy.
Woe eyes
Gathering the storm before the clouds rolled in
Always against the grain, against the norm
You were a shadow in the corner
Peeking through your hair
Sipping the pain of the world
Maelstrom spinning a cinnamon moon, warming your bronze skin, intoxicating your mind…
In your eyes I fell into the edge of the wilds of your precious madness –
Those Outer Banks, so rogue and mysterious, kept you far from me
Jagged and bleak like lava, with sparse pops of nests tucked in their craters, like cupped hands –
Cocooning the few places of soft, mossy sponginess in your harsh, brusque landscape
In which to offer a sanctuary to the unwitnessed pain from lullabies unsung
Canyons dense with pockets of foggy fingers stretching like creeping specters
Silence, with rebellious lapses bursting from your chest
Like toothy worms masticating an overripe pomegranate…
All these precious things sown by your constant corpse gathering –
No laying to rest the bones of life’s cruelest gestures, despite the burden –
That combustible fury of haunted ghosts, squirming
Raging and shrieking into the spiraling velvet umbra, in the 13th hour…
Smoky and sooty, this wilderness, with the beauty of sorrow –
That sweet spot, a lacy web that few understand unless the abyss of loss has taken them there –
Into the eye of devastation, the frantic tick, tick, tick… of desperation –
The human expectation of a specific allotment of seasons and moons; Undone
With the swiftness of one flutter of a butterfly’s wings…
Psychedelic panorama of dreams burnt to pale, silky ashes, that the wind stirs into flakes of burning snow –
Winter graffiti –
Frozen winter like I often saw in the summer of your eyes
Year after year, after… year…
Water shaping stone, raven missing home, field full of bones…
But before noxious –
Between secrets and magic, and the mastodontic sky, lush with chandeliers of chrysanthemum stars
Your lips charmed me with poetical soliloquies –
Lover speak
And the poetry of kissing
Blooming in my heart into a succulent, plumy cosmos
Seraphic face –
Too late I realized that you were a rabbit hole, sliding into a worm hole, falling into a black hole
On purpose accidentally, iridescence curves around corrosion –
Corrosion that sprouts from the abnormality of dishonesty
Complicated affliction
The barbed tentacles of pestilence embedded deep beneath your skin like a cherished addiction
Grim tribulation, your indifference toward yourself, the self-flagellation that you – that you didn’t deserve
That wormed its way into your mind during some strange, florescent witching hour
Penance that you wrought the wrong way around, deep in those soulless confessional tunnels…
And I, I didn’t know the score. Maybe that’s why the hell I kept coming back for more? –
Kept trying to turn the handle, when there was no door…
But it’s not as simple as those with rosy glasses drink
Nor as easy as the dumbing down of the most obvious think
Complicated takes the devil a little longer, but he still gets the job done
Ubiquitous
Until we are specks of stardust, darling
It was an aberration
Madness
Some kind of psychic machination, vile cogs and gears smashing against each other
Sucking the spine from “the impossible” until it fell upon itself, limp and docile
Thrusting the universe off a precipice, into a descent of shrieking lunacy, yet
There was no rabbit here, deftly maneuvering dead-end exits, or shrill queens swinging toothy axes
There was no bloated caterpillar, or fatted centipede, or even a lowly worm, offering an absinthe sedative –
Or the sweet earthiness of bud, or even an unremarkable menthol, smoky fingers curling round you like a cocoon
It was an aberration, cloaked in warm, clover-scented skin
So many pathologies, too many to dissect, too many to neglect –
Deaths-head moth brooding in the corner of the windowsill, doomsayer plump with prophesies?
I confronted the pain, a red haze of threats in my mind, flashing a warning to cease and desist
Did you do something unspeakable?
Specters screeching, angels crying…
Did you creep beyond the pale of unkind?
Red neon blaring –
Red sun, the sky is burning, visions sliding down the hourglass, like blood, slow and syrupy
Nailed to a rusted, grub-infested post; I’m a scarecrow, twisting, turning –
Crows pecking at the delirium in my eyes
Digging at the guts that used to anchor my insides…
Smashed posies and poppies, ironed between wax pages
Bone and crimson tapestries weaved from brutal rages
Only a few have seen this, in the deepest depths kind of dark… They know the score
Hope is the cruelest thing that will ever knock upon your door
My first taste of you
Was like an ocean view
Broken-hearted by your beauty, taunted by your cruelty –
And when all was said and done; Almost ruined
It took too long to understand that your callous disregard for my feelings wasn’t a mistake
And that saving myself would end up becoming more that I could take
I can’t stand here anymore, while you scream your madness at me
That belladonna crown sprouting thorns of foul, fetid poison
I see your eyes, as emptiness roils across them; A lightening-tortured sky
You fed me bleach so casually – stole the color from my life
You were an aberration
Bled my breath, crushed my bones, burnt my shadow, maimed my soul
Murmuring of love while gathering flowers for my funeral –
Blaming me for my murder, with your hands around my throat…
Warm red earth as I get closer to California; The energy changes and the bones roll away
But I’ll be damned – I’m right back there… to my first taste of you, bathed in poetic shades of blues and greys
I need to hold on to the bitter to keep you in the distance, I don’t need more regret from the burn of hindsight
Red Apple motel, cigarette burns in the mattress, shitty part of town, but I think I’ll get some sleep tonight
And I even think that some day I’ll stop looking over my shoulder
And these ghosts won’t stay much longer if I put up a decent fight…
So much damage, you used to say I was damaged, but when all is said and done, we both know the truth
All of the devastation… it’s going to wind up in the rearview, the miles dropping away until they become skewed
I’ll eventually put it away, turn out the light
And finally be rid of you
I have to pick my battles with the dead
Sometimes it feels like it's the amateur hour where my blue-light confessions aren't (to them) of any particular interest
As I choke on dead stars and quick-and-dirty martinis
Failed provocateur, howling the pain of contradictions, relinquishments, rhetorical questions, and fluttering regrets -
So. Many. Fluttering. Regrets. With you...
Wing-ed, fluttering little things, pricking my eyes, my mind, every part, facet, and fragment of me -
Death's-head hawkmoth effect reaching from here to the spirit world, wafting, like foamflower lace stitched with tears
Me, squinting, with drowning eyes, at battle-worn maps of the fault line that ran through us
Tangled vein, branching out into the vulnerable, empty places of us that we couldn't fill, couldn't fix -
Spaces of illusions, contusions, confusion...
Opium and alkaline do not a cohesive adaptation make
You, a triad of coffee, pen and cigarette, with your poppy eyes, starlit with a casual concern for consequences
Shaking small skeletons from your ratty hair; A trail of bony tears
As you deftly pounced on the next take-it-to-the-extreme daydream...
Me, with my western sway, and naivete of the aether within your beautiful, briny, eastern skin
The membrane between dark and light so menacingly thin...
And, apparently, I am a connoisseur of bittersweetness, abstruse love, and the sweetly wicked...
And damned if I don't act like my own worst enemy, despite my gritty volition...
Which is why, in this hot, dusty desert, with our esoteric language of cryptic conversations, our fire bled out
To wither and rot among the tumbleweeds, crows, and the piercing monotony in this festering town
The story of us reaching the point of cemetery fatigue...
But we found a way to write a new psychology, extracted from poetry that made sense out of the revised us, until
You were left to your own devices, and right turn became wrong turn down a catastrophic road
Clocking illegal speeds through the past, all hope disintegrating; Falling away, sliding down silver guardrails...
An accident on purpose through 80 mile glass...
This now is my twilight zone. I want to crawl out of my skin. I want to dissect my brain. I want to be awake in my dreams.
There is no way
There. Is. No. Way.
To make feathers out of stone
Hold the past in your hands
Or bring back the dead...
I'm a wounded, mourning, walking disaster, riven open by your unfathomable, hasty exit -
Internal landscape a maniacal mojo rising...
My heart's exquisite sorrow splayed open, inadvertently offering any trespassing specter something enticing to feed on
As I search for a catharsis to get me out of this place
Anathema am I? Or simply, a swine for punishment? I loathe who I am while I rage, scream, and I weep -
That all of these discarded things are not mine alone to keep
Peculiar Neitherland - neither entirely existing in this place, nor entirely existing in that space
And while you, or you, or you may never see what hovers there, or there -
Or there...
In this haze... This, jarring aberration, where I am rootless in the wild, with undone eyes
- I know when a spirit moves the air... -
I whisper words of turbulent longing and torrid desolation against the cold, blue mouth of silence in this house
And none had better dare tell me that these jeweled hauntings aren't traces of you, or that it is only my reimagined pain
I define my own definition of distance, undone not by time, method, instrument or structure; An ethereal constellation
Where, when I can no longer stand the bite of this feral devastation of the loss of you... whether by mind, or magic -
Through the veil, cocooned in a realm of luscious periphery (Of which I know that you would wax poetic)
Your metamorphosed reawakening has at times, lingered, to anesthetize my tears
Your angelic face - your beatitude - my Every. Single. Dream.
Theater of Sorrows 