Puking Demons

Plush Petals

Broken dreams, broken plaster
I have known myself for far too long, thus
To be the executioner is my modality
To judge my offenses is my mechanism –
Cut off my own hand, tear out my own eyes, sew shut my voracious mouth
Is my reckless propensity
My ears bleed from the screaming veins bulging at my temples
Like a disorienting narcosis –
I fall into this Springs winter slumber, its bleak grip dredging foul odors from my withering skin…
I’m not sure that I can give this dying my full attention
When the necrosis of my mind flutters and flaps before my monochromatic eyes
Stealing the thunder of my dying…
Outside, all of these weeping trees with their bony arms slice pieces from the air
I want to slide my tongue up those rough bark pillars, and through each gnarled finger –
Until splinters bite, pierce; The stinging pain abruptly shocking my silent mind into an unsettling metanoia…
Let me walk through fields of bones and blooms
Let me claw through this dingy shell, punch through spongy larva into chrysalis metamorphosis
I seek a respite from this loud, sweltering madness
Where I am swamped with derelict seeds of crushing seasons; A terminal equation of urinated moments
Dire drought leaving weighty graves in a row like a serpentine-shaped spine
And these winged things with boxy heads and mothball eyes, that try to creep and crawl beneath my veil
Laying eggs between my teeth, which fester and drop from my mouth
To fall onto the icy concrete, shatter on the ground like brittle icicles…
Do you know me?
Like the unconscious petting of a cat lulls it into rhythmic purring –
Does the honest truth of my words soothe? Harsh and cold as they may be?
Does their candor excuse these tentacled deeds of mine, which have in the past evoked guttural wails?
Or at the very least, rebuffs?
I am not the porcelain cherub, soft and pale, moonlit dreams shimmering in my limpid eyes
I puke demons
Rip them from their wombs, rend them from my soul, drag them from my shoulders
Teach them how to eat darkness, gnash it with their rusted teeth…
I kiss time goodbye with senseless words, dry, dusty, hopeless eyes, and a heart stitched shut with cyanide sutures
I am no ones breathless hour
I am made of thorns and thistles, wretched leather scars from dreams missing blueprints and seamless mechanics
Oh, what have I done?
Cut off my own hand, torn out my own eyes, sewn shut my voracious mouth
And now there is nothing left to save
No savage pain left to feel, no warm, sticky-sweet, pungent blood to dip my fingers into –
Smear my life onto this dismal, regretful existence
In a destinal attempt to confirm that I am not a ghost in a fractured mirror…
Let me be loverly, tease my own eyes into a shocked, sweet bliss
Fan perspiration in melodic hollows, and candied curves and canyons, into bursts of honeyed succulents…
I can’t explain when, or why my spirit became vindictive
Its pinched composition curdling into a sizeable, shrewish succubus…
It’s too soon to forgive myself
Too dangerous to absolve each strangled flutter, crippled bud on the vine
And cold shoulder leaned into a howling, thermonuclear pulse
Too small to try to make what’s wrong turned into right…
I’ve carved no solace, carved no silence
Just devastation
Weaving, spinning creaking webs inside my mind…
But I know that this house needs cleaning
13,000 locked doors swinging wide, the confined air within exhaling, inhaling
To suck my sage and spark into every shadowed red room, every bleak dark corner, every heavy dead space –
Where wallpaper, peeling in blues and greys –
Its musty strips of ruins of lapses, exaggerations, missed hunting grounds and forlorn sighs
Is torn away by my blistered, burning, but determined fingers
Before it’s too long past that sweet spot, and my time has rotted; Done

Vultures picking at my crying bones










No Good Deed

I thought I was a star

Shimmering a pathway to the moon

I got caught up in my illusion

Thought I might be beautiful

Then you ripped me from the sky

Pressed your bitter words against my heart

Looking down; I saw that I was just a weed

In the rancid dirt

The best parts of me were just a fractured shadow on your face

Creased valleys of drought that your fingers tried to scratch away

As you chased after the blazing sun

Until I withered with shame

Pinpoints of light, the delicate threads of my soul reeled toward nothingness

Devastated by your dissection of my spirit

A list of grievances so long that it wrapped round the universe 13 times

Your truths deliberately cruel in translation, extinguishing my light

As I stood on the burning bridge

Wondering if plunging into the gasolines wake might be a better choice

Unsure how to react to such venom as it ate at my eyes and skin

Melting them, to pool at my feet

I dragged my defeated shadow, my desiccated bones to the cemetery

My heart falling into dead rosebushes somewhere along the way

But, too weary, too despondent to turn around and search

I carried on, followed the western lights that brought us together

This time leading us apart

To my resting place

My lonely, unmarked grave beneath the scraggly lilac bush

Wondering what I had done to create this rampage

Animosity oozing from your pores, your breath, your eyes…

I like to think that before I met you

Atrocious years falling away with no gentle attention built up such fury

And I became the hope that you cupped in your palms, but eventually could not believe

I dreamt that you loved me

I dreamt that you loved yourself

That the fire in your belly wasn’t for the alcohol on your breath

Dreamt of when your eastern eyes sought me in the western midnight sky

And those lips that never smile, curved wide like the crescent moon, when you found me

Wrapped me in your arms, where I inhaled the luscious scent of you

Losing myself in that silky lions mane, and those warrior eyes that hid the ghosts you’d piled up

A demon on each soft shoulder, carping in your ears

Creaky voices hissing rancor, goading a perverse blind eye

Toward flinty choices that chained you to your history

Love is a force for good

But it can not heal all

This is a dream that time and again will find its way to the burial yard

It doesn’t matter how many good intentions have feathered those wings

It doesn’t matter how far those wings arch to reach

Some demons eat angels

Some stars plummet to their ruin

No good deed goes unpunished

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