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.
Anathema; Reviled and shunned, by my own hand, having written my own, detested story Pages turned where the voice that speaks, my own, creaks with cursed harbingers – That I am damned, and detested, within my own cruel, disordered mind These sharp and rusty fragments do not dissipate in this ill begotten wind That blows through the hollows beneath my cheeks, through stiff joints and swollen knuckles Brushes the low curve of my spine producing tremors that embalm me like a thousand feral gnats Lapping at my meringue flesh, pricking it with their tiny stiletto teeth, as if I am a succulent – My plump flesh ripe and sweet However, their hordes are merely demons smelling my earthy scent, a dead giveaway of my wretchedness I am witch I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath I call the clouds, the wind, to roil To chastise myself for my grievous errors, upside down and sideways, singular and plural – Threefold when webs cling to corners, and ruse slithers up the walls, my minds eye blinded – Unfolding a collateral morn… Debris crunches beneath these funeral boots, antiquities phantoms smeared upon their withered soles Briar and bruise, cut and burn mars skin with a map resembling a tortured playground – Like the one long ago where my 5 year old self first met its shadow… A circular teeter totter from which I fell and broke my arm in two places; A greenstick fracture There was no teetering… nor tottering… no movement… only sitting Barely the space of a few feet between ground, and girl The beginning of wreaking mayhem on myself for my helplessness to exterminate abominations How else could this occur? Perhaps I bore marshmallow bones? Or were they volcanic; Full of holes and feather light? Some believe that there are accidents, but the rest of us know there aren’t From the time that I could tie my shoelaces My mind at war with itself My heavy eyes observed the intricacies of the universe – The pecking order of oblivious mannequins There are few saviors, and none blessed me with their good deeds during those 2am night terrors As, swept up in soft arms, we would creep into the brittle, cold night air… When he, fulcrum to her lever Ran amuck through the wormwood fields, leafy oils seeping through his skin, staining it green Until his mind was gone and his demons breathed, inhaled her forlorn miseries – Throwing them back at her in a cyclone of blood Brutal, metal zig-zag teeth leaving bite marks on her tender faith Droplets of bitter crimson climbing up the hem of her precious wedding gown The only bit of good in the bad; She would not collapse, would not pass onto her offspring the feeling of forfeiture But even with her clever, feline, agile tenaciousness Her medicinal, crafty armamentarium of spotless, contemplative infinities, intuitive planes, and transcendental artistry She could not separate the heart from the hurt, the child from the tarnish, the soul from the shame I am a product of primitive gardens; Seeds that bloom threads of dark divination – Harms that need not be human faults, though they be! I screech and scream in red splattered so brutally across creamy walls that it settles; Into silence – I am a ghost in Time magazine photographs Bleeding and bled yet revived and fueled by fury; A porcelain pinata exploding with a parched bloodlust Come Fall I feel its nearing – That inky wash staining my skin and eyes Its dark, dreary appendages, spider-leg fingers reaching for my spirit, clawing at my dreams A childs memory mottled with guilt Its skulking shadows magnified on the wall in the candles flame I am a chromatic aberration, circles of confusion along the path of chronic calculations – Energy exhausted, to determine sacred ground, where my eyes need not plead for, nor fear… love Mugwort tea to bless my dreams, yet knowing that I can’t undo those parts of me that now travel through each lifetime I can’t spell an answer when the question is irrelevant – Whatever determines what remains, so shall it be And I can scream red, can cut off these scars, dig deep and long, break these wicked bones rip my hair, my lashes I can rage that I will not become the results of blights, and plagues, and ravages –
Of brutal things wrapped in pretty bows (vile atrocities should be thrown to hell, but even hell doesn’t want them)
I can fight the good fight, but as the long, grey shadows of fall slink over my face with their cold, wet tongues I am all I am, and although I loathe certain things that have brought me here I loathe the abandonment of myself even more
I could not save her from his thieving arms I was a child with an angelic spirit whose wings were torn, ripped from their tender seams Left on the floor in a crumpled heap, in their shattered bedroom – Holes and glass, metal and wood, paper and pierced photographs; What vile dream is this? My child is a monster I invoke the clouds, the wind to roil at her strength While my wicked eyes send heartbroken tears down my lonely, empty face
I am witch I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath
The night caves Folds itself into this asylum of darkness Pillow talk, then twilight sleep beneath our sheets; Your lunar dreams mirror mine Moontide conjures shadows in our minds Our web-weaved dreams, melting in the flames of the damned… A chessboard of the same battles, just different demons We howl, curse such threadbare sanity – Lungs inhale a distance that tastes of cold hammered metal, which becomes exhaled coppery alienation… Nursery rhymes are grotesque illusions, demons live between the pages Disturbing minds, spewing torment made of afflictions too dreadful to name Maiming Love; jagged pieces scattered in careful, erotic poses in a barren field… Blood seeping like dahlia ink between hagged, bony fingers bereft of loves prose Their most ravishing calligraphy churning into a demon-scented, premature eulogy A dissection with unsterilized instruments and no remorse No respect is paid when loves cadaver is indistinguishable… Hopeless corrosive seizures, fueled with a fury paralyze loves flesh Tear it, leaving it raw, flawed and reviled – Lost beauty morosely beautiful Glittering hyacinth recollections hiding beneath lacy, silver moon rays Carried on wing and wind back into monochrome dreams Petal-perfumed memories blossoming despite what offenses have tarnished Reach for me; I will reach for you Through cosmic cracks – I see your soul This inertia, that were going through… Mathematics, mechanics, mutations and molecules Obscenities – Reach for me; I will reach for you Paradigms a solitary, thorny cage; Puncture wounds stain a crisp white page Sunless silhouettes rotting on the walls; Undrempt dreams unravel in the hall… I’m your destiny, not your fate… Your choice, your desire – Not an inevitable chain I’m the oracle of your truth I’m the medium of your pain I’m the vessel for your moody soul Your silky lair to rest your nightmares of woe Our savage, raging specters are forgeries – Restrain love with each morbid, carcinogenic striptease Shibari bound, to choke on kinks that masquerade as fantasies But, my love, you know my eyes in your dreams My whispers, my warm breath against your skin Eons of sweetness, star-ice wrapped in moon fire… Our thirst, faith, perceptions, fill the abyss Time is this skeletons skeleton key; Through the dimensions our harms seep And though whether wrought by fair or foul; I suspect that shadows creep Through the sun to catch the moon Tell me love, will you come home soon? Wrap us in your tender words… Give love a voice to be heard?
Howling, rabid emptiness chases the velvet night into a wildfire Like the tall meadow grass is set to flame, when a wildebeest races across it, and coal-flung hooves collide Clack spurs breeze spurs spark; Ignite… And you, you seek refuge from your demons in this industrial, urban cave Lean over the dark-stained, diamond-patterned, leather-clad and red velvet bar Fidgeting fingertips drumming contemplative brooding into the stale air Amaretto sour in a lowball, like a smooth, solid paperweight cupped in your caressing palm – There was a time, in your glazed reverie… a warm, solid breast cupped in your caressing palm… Oh those starburst eyes, spun from star-death kissed dreams, engulfed in yesterdays closely held far-aways – Those young, ripe aspirations, like invincible silver-screen tutti frutti morsels Almost turned the mountains to gold And now, reconciled and bored; You pull at frayed, tender threads Ply the mocking hands of fate with slurred quotes from unfinished poems that tremble As you recount needle-sharp trials, that left clichéd burnt dreams rife with ghost souls – The aftermath of cruel, crushing disappointments It doesn’t actually matter how you got to here To this here; sitting at this bar, belly warmed by this Italian-crafted aphrodisiac that melts the webs in your mind Lets your skin breathe and loosens the macraméd bondage of your tongue Until there are no walls, no blurs nor lines to censor the blunt within your words You consider that while you are typically congenial; Blunt will do just fine at the moment As into the liquor-fumed air you direct your attention toward fates tyrannical existence Launch a stern admonishment to remove its sadistic tentacles and reacquaint past with present – The babies breath with the lamb Reignite the tingling anticipation you once felt up and down weathered and stiff vertebrae seams Fill your head with origami clouds that spin your mirages into jeweled wings Which carry your shoe-boxed reflections, metaphors, notions and half finished creations Into this current, resigned, vanilla existence Carve the dim air surrounding you into the dazzling fireworks that swirl through your imagination Like the wheel of life nailed to that stubborn tree in the corner of the yard Its spinning needle spitting sparks that heat your blood – Snap your gloom like crispy bones Burn into your skull, to relieve the pressure that your contorting fingers can’t massage away – Husk that ritual, of fingers to temple, that provides an impotent mute at best, of the riotous, tolling spasms that throb Or at least maintain some semblance of mediocre pain between the fingers and the booze… It’s funny how no one knows your name You’re like a smeared chalk outline on the wall But your face kind of resembles someone that someone thought they saw somewhere, some time ago You suppose that’s better than nothing And return your attention to the molten liquid that loosens clenched vocal chords Considering that possibly no one would think you sane if your lips moved in an attempt to scold demons Despite those same cynics revering a faceless, bodiless specter called karma – Of whose evidence you’ve never witnessed, and whose name you’ve spat toward hell However, you have wintered with fate, its stingy, cruel, decrepit fingers twisting, squeezing your hand Dragging you into its bone yard of the puppeteered forsaken Where it climbs on the backs of demons, its egg-sized, wobbly eyes and arthritic claws digging beneath their thick skin – It goads them to suck the juice from lottery ticket souls until they wither into shrunken tombs To harbor nothing more than disappointment, faded eyes and sawdust… Demons have known you well, dwelling in your mind, and in your house You’ve seen them creep from behind the curtains Seen them drag their dead limbs across the room when sun dust settled and the shadows fell Heard the bed groan as they climbed in beside you Hissing, yammering creaky-breathed soliloquies about a wasted world Hammered into your pounding head lotus dreams unfolding 13 years of nightmares Where crow, feather, beak and bone foretold that this apocalypse was your Everest, and – “Another?” disrupts, returns the present, so you study your glass in its knuckled perch And decide that there comes a time when fate must learn that you’ve had your fill “Whiskey, neat, I’ve had enough of the former,” you remark, as you conclude that we each have our own demons Some haven’t entered battle yet, some have already lost, some are still putting up a fight, while some have won And insane can be a lovely distraction; You’ve no quarrel with her allure So they can be damned, with their pointy fingers and clucking tongues, you think But now, it’s time to scoop up hell and send it raining down While you stand firmly on the ground, and on the brink