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

Spasms

Slipping into Silent, Sempiternal Slumber

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

Abberations

Of Obscured Origin

Those eyes, empty mirrors telling honest lies
Apparitions sucked out all their life –
Gnarled, wasted fingers played a lullaby, morose notes beckoning your soul
Too late… eyes sewn shut and withered wings, the angels start to rust –
Damned to perch on headstones of the living dead
You pry open all your wounds, mesmerized with how your veins bleed acid rain
Standing on sacred ground, you sacrifice what others beg to keep
Reach inside and rip your heart from its bone asylum; Harvester of the absurd –
The banshees and the demons laugh and flirt with wicked sighs. Make a joke of me
Twisted flames melt your metal cage while you hold the key –
As all the crows are falling from the sky
Littering the fields with their tiny bones, soft among the brittle leaves and thorny stems
I’ll make my way to your resting place. Sleep upon your dandelion-finial grave –
Dig into the musky dirt and push it to the side, so I can rest my sorrow and my body close to you
Deaths alluring seduction your primitive desire – loamy eyes pursue its providence
It is not for me to maim or desecrate, to dissuade your hyperbolic love affair with the cessation of being…

And time unfolds what’s true, like rivers carve the stones. Like moss climbs up the trees and flesh dissolves to bone
And pain reveals what’s real, like shadow swallows sun. Like damage erodes sweet and tears eulogize what’s gone
And it is not for me, to try to hold you here. To mutilate your aberrations –
To calm my deepest fears

There is no peace tonight, in tender dream or prayer. The ghosts sleep in our bed, between you and me
Where my love sanctifies, your forlorn love impales, provokes our demise, without lament or wail
Deep in your caramel eyes, dark with brooding ruin, you’ve already gone to murder the light
In this specters dance, the grass is dying beneath your feet, the trees are weeping to the mountains –
The stones turning to dust, and the crows, their carcasses rotting in lovely desolation, are so delicate in flux
Time does not heal all wounds, its sutures rupture, unravel and assault
The heart becomes a tomb, decimated with misshapen visions, shadows of false prophecies
No footprints in the doorway, the flowers left to weed, windows smeared with seasons storms –
Black feathers stuck in blood upon the shattered glass
And all you speak is pain, all you love is woe, all you do is murder
You left long ago
This ruin is mine to tend, its desolation deep, these rusty, empty hours lacerate my bones
I watch you walk into the reclusion of your pain
You drink your torment down, then retch it back again
My hands slide down your skin, to calm your fevered grief
But in your frenzied ills your madness screams against relief
The twisted messengers in your mind, shrieking all your pain, mocking, taunting, brutalizing
Jagged beaks pecking at your last article of faith; Cannibalizing
And no one understands you now — appreciates the way you burn
They set fire to your fire, goading your pathologies from grotesque into perverse
The damage in the air; Your disenchanted wounds culminate in desolation
Too long you’ve worn this skin; Too long lived as this wretched mutilation
Where Death murmurs like a wanton lover, with tender care made of shameless deceit and treason
To disfigure… to cheat you, steal you of yourself – take scalpel to your soul and reason

And time unfolds what’s true, like rivers carve the stones. Like moss climbs up the trees and flesh dissolves to bone
And pain reveals what’s real, like shadow swallows sun. Like damage erodes sweet and tears eulogize what’s gone
And it is not for me, to try to hold you here. To mutilate your aberrations –
To calm my deepest fears

Note: Funny story. In a hotel with a nice, clean, huge window. Woke up late at night, couldn’t sleep so took a few photos. In the morning I realized that “I ❤ U” showed in the photos. Looked at the window but no such message was anywhere.