Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising" — ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming skyDistilled in the timbre of windswept voices,black feathers enchant earth in fevered-songMagick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,seething like a migration of hungry wolvesSilvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;watching the spirit world fold into the mistsAnd where Shadows and Witches conjure,— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayerFor eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore — a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressingPools of
The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselvesand I began to wonder if that was the death of them.A simple, quiet death;without broken fingernails lining the wallswith the stripes of a despairing end.I began to ache with the questioning in my heartwith the echoes reverberating in my capillariesof her face scorching sunshine in her smileright before it crumpledand nothing was left but a frowning moonset firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,sensation without touch,like breath in winteror a misty mountain morningthat stays with meuntil the stars fall in evening.Your eyes contain the secretsyour lips would dare to betray,but your body tells the storyand I am tryingto read between the linesof your paperback smiles.A grazing touch, a covert glance,the memories remainas skin grows warm and redbeneath lying fingertipsthat claim incidental contacta thousand times a day.Of course,it's not the kind of thing we saywhen we are speakingwithout talking and feelingwithout touchingand thinking without knowing... all of the things
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;that paper-thin line wherethe current swallows the starsand the water churns violet(you tell me to bequiet,dandelion queen, we'veheard all these words before)tonightI will sleep heavy and wake a few hours before dawn,only to forget my namemy wave-weathered heart will cry,I will cry (my biggest fearis drowning in too many of my own weighted wordsyou tell me to bequietso I can hear the world breathe)I want to go home
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.White like bone and stars.Black like reclusiveness.Green like dead air.Orange like the savage instinct.Purity like a god's heart.Red like thawing hatred.White like a frozen, severe cry.Black like the night's deprived shadows.Green like the wind in the grass.Orange like the light in the shadows.Purity like the sun rising.So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,Takes a little bit of my soul away.You're stealing the passion,You're invading my heart,And killing what emotion I've left untouched.Stop this.I can't love you.I've tried to before,Oh my god,Have I tried.Tried to unlock the doors to myself,Tried to open up,And let you in.But as soon as I took one look,Negativity took it's opportunity,And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.Every word you mutterMy knees falter under You're killing meYou're my kryptonite I'm your paradiseBut in this odd peace that seems to be approachingI can't find happiness.We aren't meant to be togetherBut this
WindowsHere am I, repeated, and beyond waits everythingbut everything is more than I can bear.I am not built for altitudenor looking far afield;groves and granite-sided mountainsstop my gazelike rest for every tired wing;a cover in the coldest timesnugged up beneath my chin.Windows nothing more,but safe lies there behind themas the chambered hours pass;safe sleeps there behind themon the soft side of the glass.
Poet as PainterThe worldYour dusty palette,The penYour muddied paintbrush:Dip intoThe impossibleColourOf imaginationAnd stainThe pristine slateWith anImage distilled.
Dry Spell I am immobilized by time. by the idea that it is somehow slipping, fleeting, evaporating through the cracks of my fingers and high above my head. I am terrified by the incessant notion that no combination of thoughts, words, silences, or actions could possibly satiate it.I realize only now that it can never be filled: all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste or stretched so far that it dissolves into non-being. I find that I am caught within its furrows much like the words it devo
BoyfriendI thought you were good.You WERE good.You played with my hair.You held me when I cried.You were a gentleman.You made me laugh.You kissed me.You loved me.I loved you.It was then that I learned the truth.The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.About you!You cheated.You played with her hair.You kissed her.You loved her.You made her laugh.I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.I saw you giving her that love.That same love you gave me.I break up with you.You don’t even seem to care.Did you ever love me at all?Or was it only ever her?Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.I
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawnand you pull over,idling on the shoulder of route 50.it's a polaroid morning andthe world is as grainyand sleep-heavyas your eyes,and one million milesis not far enough.it plays back, filmstrip,blurred along the length ofoptic nerves,and here you are:facing a choice betweenonandout.and this?this loosejointed, hollowbodiedweightless ache--this is whatgonefeels like.
You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me saneI nearly went over the edgeWith a knife in one hand and a gun in the otherBut you grabbed mePulled me back on my own two feetEmptied my handsAnd when you realized that I couldn't stand on my ownYou hugged meLike a mother would do for her childLike a friend would do for, dare I say, another friendYou don't know it, but when you saved meI felt freeI felt wanted I felt neededI felt, dare I say, lovedYou don't know it, but when you showed me kindnessI fell in loveIn love with your kindnessThat same sweet kindness you saved me withIt felt like I found a new homeOne that I could be, dare
untitledGold abundant at your feet,Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,And eternal admiration;To say happiness has evaded youWould be asylum-esque lunacyFor you have nothing to lose,Fate is on your side,The odds are in your favor infinitelyDo not waste the gift you’ve received
PocketLeftover religion in the pocketOf my trenchcoatA key that unlocks nothing A penny, a scrap of paperWith half of your nameWritten in black inkA song that is usually in my headIn the shriveled carcass Of a long-dead dreamIn the pocket Of my trenchcoatWith the lint
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their shipon the other side of town,you can see it from the second floorall the way over here.You can see the white cloudsrising from the wreckand a nova of heat, a big brightnova of warmth pulling the moths and wolvesout from the woods (with their noses up and searching).You can smell the yearning like beesleaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bearson the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).They call it fear,but I see these ghostsscrambling up into the skyand I like to think it'ssomething different entirely.
3 in the AfternoonHappiness is when the door clicks shutat 3 in the afternoon and sunlightstalks in uninvited through the blinds,making a sepia mess of the room, and youare waiting, waiting, waiting, waitingin the sunken sofa cushion like a lostnickel looking to be found. The truth isyou found me, standing just insidethe doorway like a stray animal broughthome for the first time, imbalancedragged and confused. I stumbled on myselfthat first time, making more contactwith the floor, tables and walls than Idid with you. In some respects, that hasn't changed. I trip on my feet, walk into walls and door frames still, but every now an
Outcast DreamsAnd it happens quite by accident: a waywardthought slips out a lobe and drifts, andthen it belongs to someone else, that dreamwith no name or tag. From there it willbattering ram into anyone's head, takeone look around, decide it's too tidy,then casually destroy everything inside.These dreams are the trouble that the newsshould be reporting. "Late Night Breaking News:Drunk Man With Gun Invades, Takes Peace of MindHostage." The ensuing shootout leaves the drunkardand sleep dead, peace injured, and one unharmed,traumatized survivor, that unlucky anyone.Though it gives the waking person trauma, considerthe one whose h
Creating and Recreating a SelfIt's a simple thing, like catsin so many boxes. Truth is, we can'tcope with open spaces, vacant air,so we fill them with ourselves, dwellingonly on the best or worst, littleparcels filling rows and rows of quiet.We make our selves foreign, ship themoff to remote places in a strange arrayof envelopes and guiltsome needingstamps, others needing stamping outmany get sent to Bermuda, on purpose,the rest just get lost along the way.Some others get returned to senderand stared atlike a leftover batteryfrom a pack of 24, where it seemedcertain they were taken in even amountskept, "to be safe, j