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

Witch

Tempestuous Testament

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

Unraveling

Caldron of Churning Cumulus

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?