Welcome

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.

Melancholia 1

Arching Arms Aching

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

Snowy Steeple

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

Wrecked awake

Snowy Stream Skimming the Subconscious?


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