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










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

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