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.
Please note, because I feel that some posts are more for adults, just drop me an email and I’ll give you the code 🙂 Anyway, thank you for reading my words. I hope that you enjoy.
Frigid bitter morning Will these hostile days never take their vile taunts and retreat? Raging torment biting my tender mind, gnashing, crushing every hopeful thought And I, I sit in this decrepit corner, listless Useless wit, senses devoid of articulate ingenuity I am withering, wearing my cloak of funeral shadows Ink-stained fingers screaming in protest, curling like the Eastern witches pointy shoes beneath that razing house… This bloated desk smirking, crumpled pages, half fed, demand my crucifying The empty, dusty air drifts into seedy corners that screech my fears without mercy, each time I shift in my chair – Sinking further into this drafty void, this hollow, lonely nowhere… alone… Between the light I falter Webbed, shadow tentacles scratch fissures in this crisp air, and the borderland exhales its oblations – Provocative demon sliding through the cracks – Lips wet against my lobe, it hisses in my ear; You hide behind the curtain I succumb to the rotting in my head, and wander in a wasteland of disease My mind riddled with tunnels from this spectre, this vinegar worm, chewing ravenously I am a timepiece leaking minutes, while recorded minutes fade Disappearing… making a ghost of myself… There is no voice as warm and sweet, yet cold as mine, licking at my wounds with its acid saliva Like a bitter herb mulled into tea of which I drink Each sip a betrayal of myself I take hatchet to my fingers, for what use are they if I have no words to write? Even when I’ve written them; They are monstrosities, bulbous caricatures lacking and absurd I pierce my own armor Whiskey sours swilled to notes of blue melancholia dappling my mind No better angels to compel in me a faith when lifes unkind I take cigarette to gasoline and tend to stagnant poetry Burning hot, like a dried out scarecrow among parched stalks Piles piled high, like intestines climbing to the sky… Dour eyes, ankle deep in this wintry mix of jewel-encrusted snow – Peering through the frosty glass with baited breath, they caw, these nosy crows Fingernails tapping on the rim of this nearly empty glass Liquid fire burns like hell in summer But its good for aches, and shakes, and worthless dreams Clink, clink, clink, then take a drink – Clink, clink, clink, like a church bell promising saving grace Or, at the very least, a respite from the mundane in this madness I lean into the keys, so sweetly sensuous beneath these liquored, impaired fingertips Where are the seething, growling, gutting words? Why do I betray, devour myself? The ruthlessness of my own thoughts sucks me down bone by bone These empty months have untangled me, as in the mirror I seek my soul, but find A reflection halved in two; the human, and the Grendel – Bleeding isolation, howling desolation I can no longer speak Oh… these pages crisp and winter white, yet bare My voice fades in the air of yesterday I howl into this nothingness I howl into this emptiness I howl
We are born, innocence shining briefly, like a shooting star My oh my How the world spins such wickedness into gold Crushing spirit into lies Cutting out ecstatic eyes And then one morning you believe what you’ve been told
My mourning gown My stinging undoing A wreck, ruined and breathless As my lungs insist –
This firesong was ours without a doubt Hearty passion, intuition, entered at our own volition Look through my seasons Look through my eyes Onto the parts of me that no one else should ever see Onto the pieces that should be left to obscurity Douse the melting flame With breath and touch and gasoline – With lips and mouth and quarantine – Where starched sheets tangle, like our legs As kiss becomes one spark to flame Within thin walls pressed ears could obtain Soft moans, in peaks of cherished pain Reckless marks on tender skin Taste so sweet they should be sin And mortal, crimson petals bleed Passion purring rhapsodic need Velvet smooth against the rough To singe so sweet never enough
And in my mind I live to dream Of angel wings we laid upon, as over skin our fingers crept til dawn – Fingers drenched in the sweet obscene That, after pulse and breath did still Did hold filter-tipped to our delighted lips Bleached, thin strips, of menthol flavored nicotine
Into your eyes I remember; I fell unbound Silent, sweet, searing sound To fade, to die as mortals do These lips immortalize what was true
My mourning gown My stinging undoing A wreck, ruined and breathless For what no longer does exist
Gathering my energy Histories frames illustrate that I need ritual at my table A feast to stop the lingering and rotting To inhibit the dying and halt the death Strange doesn’t indicate insane, but I’m not sure where I am I thought my definitions were crystal fireflies and amethyst dragonflies Tilling the soil in my soul But an ill wind has pelted me with an acrid desert and I admit that I’ve damned my own river at times With my mortal, deceptive, checkmate sentiments, etching sharp cornered boxes that I cut myself climbing in to… I’ve tried to scoop the stars into my blessing bowl – Stir their soft, unwavering vitality into my emptiness Harness the moon, bathe in its crisp, generous, purifying beams But the tide has ebbed and hope has settled into twilights camouflage Shadows and dust, grime and rust, present and past, and thus Beneath frozen ground, crocus and memory feel like velvet crushed Timeline unravels like twine; Fraying lengths of lethargy and apathy… We slide through eons like glowworms, interpret and invent ourselves, our epitomes, between our highs and lows We hunt and gather a montage of whispers, hums, thoughts, beliefs, voicings – We become But this biting, frostburn winter has come among my travels, and among the debris I have lost my pith, my flame – My scorch Laudanum dreams might inject some warmth into the spirit of this place – This institution of empty puppets, their layered, paper mache strips of faded letters, extolling yesterdays presence – Extolling yesterdays presents… those dusty, pasted pieces shape bone, and limb, and holes; Vacant eyes of the dead Chew up the ruby fire which exists in all lifetimes of clockwork dimensions, gnash and pulverize its shimmer…
As we rush from one time to another, chasing our breath and the sanity in our minds – Smoldering embers can be stirred into fire Over infinite rehearsals, we create vast valleys, to traverse whenever we reach into the echoes of ourselves Where the sacred speaks – Stones, blaze, smoke, haze; Symbols that weep, that rise or seep; Uncover and steep… This crust, with a gentle boot nudge, cracks open a channel Where have I gone? I’ve caused my own slow death Distance has not impressed the ghosts of my tender age Yet held close to my heart a safer place – I wish that scars could be strung on silken thread To wear like pretty things, but take off and lay aside when tender spots ache Fling into a corner or set upon the sill of an open window – For the crows to carry away and churn into shiny totems To make, for just one moment, shattering tragedies into things with enough purpose That the pain, shame, isolation would melt into the ground… I’ve walked where normal made you strange Which haunted all of my ghosts nefariously The pieces may never fit exactly again But I refuse to have a love affair with regret I am my indifference against incompetence I am my psychology, philosophies and treasons – A whirlwind charging into the seasons I ask myself “What conclusion did you expect from your course of action?” As I attempt to solicit the juice from immeasurable reasons Staying one step ahead of myself seems a potent intrusion – It extracts the softness from falters and hindsight Renovates the myths of this breakdown Into the mystical of a breakthrough I am a compass I am a bridge I am my own thoughtful measures
Sunshine through the window dapples the walls with flower shadows Fall is unfolding into winter, and wistful arms wrap me in a contemplative cabaret To cavort, in a mad feast of affection for the miseries and the revelries Lick the bitter from the wounds Savor the sweet teasing my lips Like grapes left late on winter vines become ice sugared wine to sip And I can feel the lulling weight of anticipation, a divine opus sprouting in this desert in my soul Beneath a frosted rubenesque moon I smile