Bittersweet

I drew a picture of you today. I tore it into pieces and ate it. I dreamt you swam through my soul, like dragons through a golden sea. I moved as you moved through me. The river it runs and I stumble and fall along its edge in my vein attempt to keep up the pace.

An enchanting evening full of faerytales and bittersweet memories. The tragedies always fulfilled in me something special, some secret lullaby of melancholy the stars hum after midnight. I walk along roads made of moondust searching for sweetly shimmering stars hiding amongst the foliage. I crafted a jar of the clearest crystal in the shape of a star, and sealed it with an ornate wire top so the stars would survive their journey to you. I search in the evenings, for the brightest ones to keep you in the light when all is closing in and falling down around you.

Tonight I am wearing my wolfskin as I sing symphonies to Beethoven. We stroll beneath the rich boughs of sacred trees and I dance around him to illustrate my point and orate my tales for which there are no words. And in the breaks between the trees we shout rumors at the Moon, who carries her gossip on sweet evening breezes.

The Cheshire follows close behind, eager to hear to riddles and pry for pieces of our minds. We are happy to fashion our replies with strange concepts for everyday items and words that have no significance when spoken together. All of us laugh, made merry with our simple jokes which have no meaning or underlying motives.

Crossing the Scotch Bonnet sphere through the veil we join the fae in celebration for the rise of the third moon. On cliffs overlooking golden seas, we look to the east where the mountains rise in a halo from the marine. Secrets are whispers that comprise the breeze that pulls the new moon from her home in the deep. The exult begins as a thousand tiny diamonds shuttling through the air in wet festival and announcement of arrival. Here in the joyous respite, the wolf with the bittersweet memory is most sacred of all…

Sojourn

And in this space there was a time of raging curiosity. I walked a line, bedraggled time of all its saints and sinners. And harrowed down it shuffled off mumbling incoherencies; of childish pride and foolish game and trivial pursuits. Left alone I sauntered off to woods lush and deep, and sought to find some piece of mind in a lost path to lead me far and wide.

A misbegotten attempt at getting lost proved fatal, and so I sat a while starring in the pool with Narcissus. We drank some wine and laughed remembering well-worn follies. After a head first dive we floated on the darker streams of being and chatted up Ophelia, who somehow proved a king. And in the shadowy abyss we sat before her throne; of black pearls, agate, onyx and obsidian stone while she reigned high above with her glimmering crown of sapphire and hematite.

The sights we saw, the games we won, The Carnival of Dark Delights – was ours a time in merriment and well deserved escape. And in the deepest tresses of my soul did stir a lust for wandering. And so I bid ado, to friends and lovers alike, and with well wishes and promises of return left in the middle of the night.

A sojourn with nocturnal creatures, pale and full of fire, we laughed at the worlds creation of the vampire. We paid the ferryman to cross the river Styx, and I peered often over board to query the deceased on all the things that they had learned and their old memories. Upon reaching land we ventured off into the realms of hell, to visit Hades and sit and talk a spell. He told us marvelous stories of long lost enchanting things, and dazzled us with treasure unlike any we had seen.

We traveled through the orchards of luscious pomegranate, and picked and ate our fill until the stains were dark. We danced with both his wife and mistress who held sweet secrets of their own, and bequeathed fine trinkets for our journey home. The festival we had to admire was both dark and bright as black fire and burned us to exhaustion. So with our carts of gifts we slumbered as we rode into the realms of vivid familiarity, safe in the stewardship of Hermes and his staff.

I Monster

What is it about us that so encourages us to want to find and destroy that which we fear or do not know? I have often watched movies in which the werewolf or vampire is sacrificed for the seeming benefit for the rest of the town – only to wonder what exactly it was they were sacrificing. Or even the anti-heroes. How can you not watch V for Vendetta and find yourself convulsing when V dies at the end – fueled with a furious anger and an all consuming righteousness.

Do christians honestly believe the devil lives in the form of a goat – cloven hoofed with slatted eyes? A concept they themselves created in their beginning by “laying all the sins” down upon the goat and sacrificing it to their then blood thirsty god. And if so why is it they cannot see what it really is – their own darkness refusing to die?

Why is it when everyone else is thrilled to see the monster die, a part of me dies as well. Do you not agree that it is the darkness as much as the light that determines who you are? And if you are content to deny a part of who you are – why then should you be trusted?

Damaged

With some inspiration, I rewrote the lyrics to Bob Marley's "Jamming." Not intended to be a parody. I seriously want to get someone to sing this maybe in a Mira/Android Lust style. Industrial chamber. meh... We'll see where this goes. Enjoy the lyrics for now!!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

All right!
We're damaged
I’m damaged goods, aren't you?
We're damaged, damaged,
And I hope you like scars too.

Ain't no rules, ain't no vow, we’ll get broken anyhow:
V’n’V will see you through,
'Cos everyday we pay the price with a lot of sacrifice,
Broken down just for you.

We're damaged -
To think that heartache was a thing of the past;
We're damaged,
And I hope these memories will last.

No reason can stop us now, we neither beg nor we won't bow;
Too damaged to be part of the mold.
We all defend the right; to be broken deep inside:
Your life is worth much more than gold.

We're damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged)
And we're damaged by some fucking whores;
We're damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged),
We're damaged somewhere deep inside.

Yeh! Damaged deep inside;
Damaged deep inside:
Broken down deep inside
With scars for each occasion.

Yeah, we're - we're damaged (wotcha-wa),
Wotcha-wa-wa-wa, we're damaged (wotcha-wa),
See, I was broken before you
We're damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged)
I'm damaged, I hope you're into damaged goods.

Scars about my pride and the things that I will try
To keep you satisfied.
True love that now exist is the love I can't resist,
Damaged deep inside.

We're Damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged), yeah-eah-eah!
I was broken before you
We're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged,
We're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged;
Hope you like damaged goods.
We're damaged, we're damaged (damaged),
We're damaged, we're damaged (damaged).
I’m broken (I was broken before you) – I’m broken
I was broken before you.
Damaged, damaged (hope you like damaged goods).
Eh-eh! I hope you like damaged, I hope you like damaged,
'Cause (I was broken before you). I was broken before you.
I’m broke - I hope you - I hope you like damaged goods.
I’m damaged.
I’m damaged.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to A Life Less Evident

BFLP Syndrome

There are some days when I want to just sit back from it all. Days when I don’t seem to be enough, or maybe there’s just not enough out there for me to consume. Big-fish-little-pond syndrome. I’ve got the itch and it lies in a spot that I just can’t scratch, no matter how much it burns.

I want a million little things. I want just one thing. I want to be caught in the implosion, that magical explosion where you burst out and suck into yourself in a contradiction – the universe’s idea of a joke. Can you be everything and nothing at the same time? Is it possible to be content and utterly restless? I want to run until I am at one with everything – until I am nothing.

I’d like to explain some things, but there wouldn’t be any point. There rarely is in these hours, these moments, these tiny eternities that stretch on forever connecting and overlapping with one another like ripples in a pond. And if you could see further ahead, that telescopic glance would lead you to the past.

I’m sure the smile on my face is somber and sad, belying the notion that there is something wrong. And if there is I couldn’t be the one to tell you, taking every thing as it occurs. All of its fate and divine intervention and independent will. All at once there are choirs of angels and god on a throne in heaven while satan slithers in the shadows to coax you with ease to hell – and there is only me, no gods, no devils, no hope or faith or belief.

I wish I could tell you that I am afraid, that all this seems to weigh in on my like some crushing rock. That I am lost and merely seeking some small comfort.

But that would be a lie.

The object that I seek is just out of reach. Alas, I have continued the journey long past the death of Hope – she waits still, martyred in that room full of blood and roses and the shredded wings of angels. And I am here, which is nowhere. Where everything is nothing and all of it is riddles – some misspent youth in a looking glass with snarky beguiling cats.

I’d like to tell you that everything will be adequate and that time and faith will mend all that ails you. But I have never been one to lie unless it served a purpose. There are times when the journey serves no intention but to wear you down and put you out – when the sole function of the endeavor is to see just how much we can load on that camel. And I wish you would never have to go through it, never have to face all the horrors and monstrous things that lurk in the world, all those misdeeds and skeletons locked away in proverbial closets that would make Dracula and Frankenstein’s Monster run screaming for the light of day – but I know of no other way to build the character.

Much like articles of clothing, you must be broken in and worn down as vintage carries a great many things, including wisdom. And all the nightmares that you face are merely a question of obstacles, of choices you need to make – Athena weaving the tapestry of your life wondering what adventure you will find yourself in the middle of.

The Fates have no interest in building your life for you and so the gods gave you free will. The same determination that makes one abused child a sociopath and the other a champion for civil liberties – that makes one rape victim a prostitute and the other a founder of organizations to help the victims and raise awareness. They care not if you flounder and fail or fight and win, they are simply here to throw you into the deepest pool they can find at a moment’s notice. And it will always only be you that has chosen the area.


I have always preferred to imagine the worst. I like to spend my free time thinking of tomorrow’s possibilities and twisting them to breaking. Visualizing the most horrible outcome for any number of activities that I may be required to perform or happen to chance upon. Vivid and garish: the sounds of breaking bones and steel and glass; the slick feel of blood, like wet velvet; the sensation of exsanguination, of death, of broken bones and dislodged joints, of ripped flesh open wide, the possibilities are as welcomed as the impossibilities.

I enjoy the fantasy of suicide, the sensations of dying by various methods. The predicament of my body upon discovery, the assortment of stages it will take throughout its decay. I have never thought very much of this habit, and in truth its an exercise I take part in many times a day, some more than others, but always during everyday I can remember I having thought of it at least once. I have never set to undertake an examination – a thoroughly noted analyzation of the possible notions, the underlying meaning, the subtext of the subconscious, the wherewithal to complete the flights of fancy.

I like to imagine the horrors. I like to dissect each one, replay the action slowly and examine the inner workings. There is something to this – to knowing the terror intimately. Terror is stronger than horror, so the nightmares lent to it are greater, and if you can be well aware of this – of the things that given to creating night terrors in brave adults, then there has to be something said of preparation. Knowledge is power, and all power corrupts – and in all of us there is a capacity for power then we are all, on some level, monsters.

The demons and devils of lore are nothing more than the fears we harbor about ourselves. Satan is nothing more than the skeleton of the scapegoat we slaughtered haunting our closets. Maybe we’re all just afraid of being monsters, afraid of admitting the terrible things we are capable of. Though I’m pretty sure if we just manned-up and dropped our balls it would be more invigorating than we think.

To be at ease with the atrocities we are proficient in creating on a whim – secure in the knowledge that we are better for rising above and succumbing to these caprices based on any given moment and separate situation. To have the judgment we are all guilty of casting based not only on our mayhem but also on our benevolent endeavors. Maybe that’s really how it goes. Maybe the ticket to getting into heaven isn’t all those benign acts, but also the deviances we take part in with wholehearted gaiety.

Rebirth

I have come to the stunning conclusion that not all peace is good and not all lies are bad. It would seem that some things you think you know never seem to show all of themselves until you are so sure you have the meaning that it all crumbles down in a catastrophic cacophony of “WTF?” and you are left sitting there amongst the shambles of your own wrong conclusions. I write it off to my insatiable curiosity that I find these moments refreshing.

Buddhists say that every mistake is a new beginning – and if so then I would have to say that I have been granted more than most. And if that is so – then how would one allot the karmic retribution? Am I living through my hells even as I create them? And then there is the matter of reincarnation – can one live more than one life while ones body has yet to cease? Are we too narrow minded when we think that this matter of re-birth is something that takes years to capitalize on – or are we capable of expanding the way the universe does, not in mere miles but in growth of planets and galaxies and the life therein.

I am an artist and thereby a martyr, doomed to suffer at the hands of my crowd whether they choose to set me free or see me flayed alive. So are artists always martyrs and that said are martyrs always artists? Now don’t get me wrong, I suffer no grandiose illusions and hold no court with Jesus or Joan; but there are martyrs and Martyrs, heroes and Heroes, a subtle hint that separates the everyday from that of epic stature.

Do we need to be broken down and torn apart to get that new beginning? And if so how far does it have to go, how far gone do we have to be before we see what we were missing all along? Are all breakdowns merely the winters in our lives – the period where we are so barren and stripped of it all that the numbness is a welcome sensation while our souls slumber waiting for the fresh breath of spring. Or are the breakdowns themselves the winter, and the aftermath where we sit staring at all the things we’ve taken for granted in an entirely new light that new life of spring?

Maybe the fountain of youth isn’t some gurgling spring, but the sensation perpetrated by starting over. Maybe eternity is granted in the mistakes we make.

Dark Whispers

Shadows orating tales
Anxious anticipation
Ice milk along burning sand
Atmosphere thick hot heavy
Speeding technophonic rhythm
Red races flushing
Clutching stability against
Violent captivating trembles
Invading weakness
Ice fire life lightening
Dizzying spiral dance tilts
Phoenix burn

You and Your Anchor Tattoo

If you really believe the stories, then it is all divine intuition marred and harrowed down by concrete science. I stared at the moon, fat full with light and magic, as if she would produce an answer. She remained silent in her passage across the sky, as I sat against the frost bitten pane.

The world pooled serenely outside the translucent barrier. I felt the night coalescing much like a flower symbolic from some outcast mythology. The energy from bud to bloom set to humming deep within, like a symphony being steadily turned up until the volume is so loud your bones vibrate into dust.

Standing, I stretched upward into the heavens as hard and far as my body was willing to reach. I looked around the room, bathed in what little glow poured in from the window. Stripping in the soft luminescence proffered from the unsheltered portal, I was bemused as the glow from the moon mirrored itself upon my pale flesh, and smiled.

I could feel the night slipping from me, moving too fast so I quickened my pace to match. Showered and freshly dressed, I moved hastily through the preparations to leave. Locking the door, I slipped out into the night. The night was calm and rich, softly whispering her secrets to all the denizens nocturnal. The grounds and walks were wet still from earlier rains.

Moving to the parking lot I came upon my vehicle, glimmering under the moonlight like a bloodstain poured into cast, creating shape and sustenance. The strain of the urge relaxed once the engine ignited.

The drive was over in an instant of moonlight and swift passing shadows. Pulling in to an empty parking lot, I sat over looking the beach and the fierce flowing ocean. Exiting the vehicle I stood, tasted the air fresh from the ocean that created it. Removing the light jacket and my shoes I placed them on the seat and floorboard and closed the door.

Making my way through the parking lot, past the hotels and life guard stations I sat on the hard packed sand a scant distance from the sea lapping at the terrain that had struggled up and out of its salty demanding grasps. I stared at the pool of deep sapphire, amethyst and jade glittering beneath the stark white rabbit. Inhaling deeply I knew the decision had been made and I stood.

If answers were to be had, the time had come…

I Wonder

I wonder
How it's going to be, when you don't know me
How's it going to be, when you're sure I'm not there?
How's it going to be, when there is no one there to talk to
Between you and me?
'Cause I don't care
How's it going to be?

I wonder
How's it going to be, when it goes down?
How's it going to be, when you're not around?
How's it going to be, when you find out there was nothing
Between you and me?
'Cause I don't care
How's it going to be



I am finding that who I am now, who I am capable of being at any given moment is a vastly capricious thing.
I feel left out or unjustified in these changes. There is a great sense of unrest. And also one of insecurity. And a sense of resentment that lingers in the air for far too long. I want to take you with me, but I realize that maybe if I do love you now is the time to let you go.
I am categorizing myself, and as awful as that sounds it really isn’t. It’s merely a way of breaking myself down so that I may fully understand and come to grasp all the fundamentals, variations and analogous parts that make the cognitive whole. As much as I desire to take all of you with me I understand, somewhat regretfully, that that is simply not an option. So I am doing the only thing I know in this situation.

I’m letting you go.

----------------------------------------------------

Blessed are they with a cherry smile
Who stopped by to chat a while…
Blessed are they that make it known
That I am loved and not alone
- Grace McDonald