Silken Whispers

Hollow Gods

2010-09-22T23:01:00.000-07:00

The hours they pull long at me. And what you've said has left me restless. It doesn't sit right and I find myself scratching an imaginary wound. I walked along a creamy desert, soft and silken fine. I explored quiet forests and mountains high. And when I descended down into the fire-less pits; I found a horror unlike any I have ever known. In the heart it was a ruin, an empty lifeless cave. Dormant and stagnant.

I sat cold and alone. Hidden in a sleeping colossus. Waiting.

Swim

2010-08-14T23:56:00.000-07:00

In the bitterness of the night we are wholly alone. An island quiet in a sea of ideas. The ocean which sprawls before us is an endless array of decisions. Choices to make. Paths to be followed. Sometimes the hardest part is choosing the path to destruction. The one that you know will only lead to unhappiness. Tragically, sometimes that is the only path that seems to make any sense.

In the darkness, everything is muted and vibrant which shades of blue. Blood is made black, all the rich red drained away until you're left with its absence. And still it is vibrant, slick and shiny rich in the light of the moon.

The beach stretches in a seemingly endless way. Huts nestled into the rich lush tropical foliage fade away. No longer loud in their arrays of browns against an array of eye catching greens, they whisper in the night. Somber grays and stoic blues. This leads the optical illusion that perhaps there is only you. Only you and that great wide world. The wilderness behind you. The stretching maw of the ocean, lapping at the shore.

That soft sand, rich and creamy in the light of the sun is hushed. Cool and pearlescent, each step is carefully taken. Delicacy seems required. No birds call. No wildlife screeches. No insects hum.

Maybe this isn't the life you wanted. Maybe this isn't the path you chose. But now, its all you have left to you. A tropical paradise, abandoned and abhorred. Vibrant is the pulse of the sea. Luscious and light in the bask of the full moon, staring into the depths is like watching a deep teal colored night light painted dark with silhouettes of the animals going about their lives. At first it seems inviting. Schools of fish. Flickers of turtles and sting rays. And somewhere inside you know that this is merely a warm welcome. The fervor and flash of an rendezvous you've already agreed to.

The first glimpses skirt the edges in fleeting flashes. But you know they are coming. You know they are there. The hard packed sand beneath passes quickly, marking a clear trail of where you were. The history of where you've been. In one cool sweep she washes it away. No trace. No memory. The sand is always one salty kiss from a clean slate.

The ocean is cool enough to be tempting, and warm enough to seduce. The silhouettes pass by you now, rolling you into their dance. You pass through it all. And the sharks, they swarm in closer. Greater in number and more menacing in their lurking passes. This is why you've come. Perhaps there was no destiny greater than this. Maybe you were never meant to be anything more. If everyone is a whore for something, than maybe whores have something. Maybe it is easier to give pieces of yourself away than to have them torn. And if you cannot rise above. If you cannot cater to your enemies. Perhaps it is a greater gesture to lend yourself to the feeding frenzy.

Nothing hurts as badly as the first scar, and all other pain is fleeting.

201059

2010-05-09T18:22:00.000-07:00

If you reached into her chest you wouldn't find anything there. Hollowed out, what was once mortal and soft had been altered. Changed. Rendered into the new machine. All the systems were there same as before. It breathed, it ate, it slept, it drank. But it was no longer human. No longer ubiquitous or pleasant. No longer something to be desired. Even the casual onlooker was put off. Whatever had once inhabited this shell had long since pass and now no man, woman or child would be able to place a name to it. A mere title of convenience. Something to manipulate this new machine.

Treat.

A false name. A lie. A sinister practical joke at the expensive of whosoever sought this prize. And sure as where treats are tricks are soon to follow. Perhaps the man who owned her was mad, or perhaps he had been spurned by her. The stories were many and each of them tinged with inklings of truth, and in the end if you took bits and pieces from them, along with time, you could puzzle together the legend. Whatever could be said of the man, one thing was true – he was nearly as empty as she was.

However, where his had been a slow withering from corrupt morals, a lack of ethics and a seriously skewed set of values; hers had been taken by his whim. As if in an ironic twist of fate, he was aptly named by fate. Mr. Trick. Whether his first or last or something in between, Trick was the official name on his birth certificate. An ill omen that cast a shadow over his family until he had crawled away from their all to bright and eager socially acceptable world too a slimy darker one where he could reign supreme. Often the worst nightmares are the ones that we wake to.

Because I Keep Posting Blogs No One Reads

2010-04-08T00:30:00.000-07:00

White hot lightening flashes deftly, lingering on tendons and vessels; spiraling up electric courier systems. Crimson horizons against milky backdrops even the rain is scarlet here.

Sorrow is all consuming if you let it

Floating still in waters so near ice they burn, silent and empty – like boats left floating on the ponds of Roanoke. Physicality is life and you cannot spell life without lie although what is the cost or worth of it? The intake is acid maybe oxygen feels this way to flatworms and the gurgle surging up this throat clutches to it. Thrust back your head. In willing maybe sinking is probability.

Maybe Ophelia had it right…

Slow in gravitational trail, crossing endless fields of cream that garnet honey flows as rivers do. Saccharine leisure you can count the tally in groups of five is seductive. The world may not be a vampire but it certainly hungers for something. What is left to give after heart hopes wishes dreams soul?

Filled with an emptiness full to bursting and yet without feeling. The Nothingness was not some idea in book forgotten long ago. If you put your ear to the wall you can hear it coming for you. They lied when they said it was termites. And no one anticipates it; regardless it comes still – like natural disasters of the soul.

Pour out that tide of verve, rich in vibrancy with notes sweet as honeyed nectar flowers spill to bees.

It will break like waves cresting walls they shouldn’t be able to climb and will sweep swift over all, consuming pooling engulfing drowning. Escape futile from a stampede as overwhelming as the coming depths of oceans god hasn’t known. Cascade like waterfalls in damned villages from christian fairytales. In reality christians are vampires, drinking the blood of life. The puddle matures into pond as the form collapses, colliding with marble in vein attempt at stillness. That white escarpment bleached as bone blinds and that sanguine pond spreads as oceans do when ice ages end.

…The slowing clock stops

Bittersweet

2009-12-12T22:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-10T23:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-09-27T22:10:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

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.

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Thanks to A Life Less Evident

BFLP Syndrome

2009-09-20T22:47:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-14T23:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-29T22:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-31T22:48:00.000-07:00

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

Cordially Dismissed

2008-11-13T02:11:00.000-08:00

We’ll meet the way old friends do
Silent and pleasant
Ever the same
Strangely new
You’ll remember me classically
Preconceived notions
Expected actions, patterns
I’ll receive you as I am
And you as I’ve never imagined
Unexpected present and accounted for
I’ll smile serene
Intelligent on your design
Artifices
Remembering the you I thought you were
Wanted you to be
Everything
Nothing
Each wish and dream and hope
Destroyed and desiccated
Ashes upon the winds
All of it gone
Perished
Except for this hope
This wish
That fate may be kind enough
That I might know your face
In this new everafter
No more the admirer of your beauty
No more the singer of a song
No more the dancer of the blood rush
No more the slave to your master
No more the junkie to your fix
Tomorrow I am giving all of you away

Velvet Lined

2008-10-19T22:57:00.000-07:00

Velvet lined my mouth
Soft and crushing
Enfolding
All the secrets I’ve yet to spill
I scrambled to catch
And eagerly consume
All the embers
Glittering like rubies in the light
With great haste I
Filled my mouth to bursting
Inhale
Conflagration
Overwhelming this
Hell
Heaven
Sweet sensation cascading
Down and out
Fierce heat so long only
Soul strong
Erupting and devouring every
Inch of flesh
The way I sit and patiently wait
For your mouth
To fulfill

Curl Around

2008-10-19T22:35:00.000-07:00

And you’ll curl around like you always do
Cardboard box
Escorting a velvet shrew
The eyes that slither
They slide
And I’m giving out pieces
Of my soul
Just like I always do
And I know for whom the bell tolls
And I know why the caged bird sings
And Edgar’s in the alley
Sucking the souls from the clouds
In his coffee
I saw your soul today

The Lies You Uttered Still Whisper In The Trees

2008-09-13T22:29:00.000-07:00

And the melodies spilling through my veins, myriads of symphonies time had yet to tell. Shining silver etchings, iridescent upon the milk pale surface. Myths and legends, warnings and prostrations of tales no poet had heart enough to breathe into words. Such sorrow, such agony; sweeter due the bitter. Vibrant and rich.

The lies you uttered still whisper in the trees, haunting me with all the blessings life has stolen. Everywhere and in everything they speak of a youth filled with love. Here am I, jaded in silk shadows. Grey blue, with tumultuous oceans for sight. Pallid and glowing amidst the shade, flowing darkness sparked to background sound; rumors you can’t quite catch but yearn so desperately to gorge upon.

Slip in. Slip out. Slide silent along the worn path, narrow and jagged, flitting just along the perimeter. A flash of pooled moonlight, anthropomorphic; breathtaking. Beauty a poor man’s lure, the mystery here is deeper. Torrid. Some Sidhe slithering, beguiling your indulgences. And if you have the courage, if you have the strength; the rewards ever outweigh the risk.

Violent and cruel, exactly what you’ve been warned away from. Yet the chance is thrilling, trilling the soul swimming along your highways; seeping into the furthest mundane edges of suburbia exposed. Nursed inward to your most audaciously brazen self and murmuring ever gently, things you never thought you would hear. Things you cannot quite comprehend. Things you cannot live without. Things you need. And all it takes is that one chance. But it’s all or nothing. The creation. The destruction. In the end the question is simple. Searing. Revolutionary.

How much of your soul are you willing to lose?

Because It's Everything

2008-09-10T23:56:00.000-07:00

And I might be beautiful if it weren’t for all these scars. This rot ridden soul. Putrid and hateful.
No matter how deep the razor goes it just can’t reach what’s wrong. Because it’s everything. Every breath, beat, lash, cell. Every day, hour, moment. Curling out, up, in.

The only way to get out is to break out for good. Break down. Decay. Big bright red Cheshire grin. Sloppy jagged hunks of flesh sickeningly remindful of teeth gushing crimson vomit. And it’s all tumbling out now.
Worthless
Wasteful
Wicked
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
And if you ever did anything right they might love you.
If you cease. Cease to be. Think.

And if you could, please, just be a little less you. However, it really doesn’t seem to be worth my time, so why don’t you just continue on.

While you’re busy championing Jonathan Harker, I’m mourning Dracula.
And who is there to hold me while I lose control?
Who is there to ease the pain of loss?
Who is there to ease the heartache?
Who is there to tell me the sun will set and night will return once more?

Maybe they would be,
If you weren’t a Monster.

But then who would you be?

Night

2008-07-29T23:16:00.000-07:00

The hard packed sand gave way beneath her, cushioning her bare feet on this cool damp night. Sweet release from the tepid heat of the day, sweltering and dehydrating even as the humidity clung so voraciously. The soft blonde crystals clung greedily to her toes and arches; and the back of her ankles where the cadence of her walk flicked it. Even then, lost within herself, overwhelmed by the thousands of thoughts all cluttering to the fore and chattering for attention; she walked like a predator. Alone in the darkness where females were particularly cautioned against such wayward acts. Still she meandered. Solitary.

Yet this was no act of defiance. At least not conscionable. It was merely an escape. An interlude from all the burdens cloying her attention. The night was always sweeter. The sounds richer, the colors more vibrant in their subdued shades. She concentrated on the stretching and tension in the muscles. The flex of her toes to maintain balance, the subtle tremors in her abdomen and spine in response to her gait. The soft crushing sounds the earthen road made beneath her, the chittering insects and calling night birds. Drinking in the world the way she did her vodka. Deeply, as if reading the memories of each note.

Some Summer Winds

2008-07-28T23:54:00.000-07:00

Some summer winds
Have whispered saccharine promises
Sweetly ladened with their buried treasures
Alone the loon echoes weeping willows
Beneath strained sunsets
The sky stretched onward
Surging to envelop
The tender loves it cherished
Glittering brightly
In that fluid intensity
How they quiver
Graciously overwhelmed
By this display of intent

Bitter Hibernation

2008-07-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

Twilight was silent. Seeming fit to burst with some token, some mote of wisdom to provide what little comfort was available. It, however, was crushed beneath the cacophonous silence.

Wearily she lay, staring through the verdant forest. The ferns, trees, the soil, the marching insects. The mind is alive with a thousand thoughts - but not now. Not this time. There is only the nothingness. The hollow ache. As if the body was a vein stripped of all it's glittering pieces. There was the endless expanse of time stretched out before her. How long had she been here. How long had twilight been hovering. Were there others? The hard packed earth was rich and soft beneath her, long since ingraining itself into her hair, bits of it clung furtively. Dust to dust, and it was intent upon pulling her back in. Her muscles had long since given up the fight to pull her out of the huddled mass she lay in. Had the fingers against her lips or the ones crushed beneath her belly gone numb first?

Piercing her to the forest floor, the agonizing lance burned its way into her spine. She was sure the scream ricocheting through her cranium had been physically uttered, yet the forest wielded no echo. The blinding white light split her skull apart, subsiding to the muscles being rent apart in her calf.

And suddenly the pain was pinging from one cell to the next. It was then the acid carved it's way down her face. Of it's own free will, she stared from her back into the canopy. Shuddering from the effort and wracking sobs. It was the rain, violently cold and furiously falling. Heaven crying to pushstart the body without the will to do so.

Every muscle was alive and hungry now. Awakened from it's bitter hibernation most hastily. Clutching and clinging to itself it cried. And in her mind there was only the acrid wasteland. Only wind and cracked, dead land for miles. Yet she wasn't alone. There was that one. Hovering over her. Unrelenting, however, undemanding. Seeming content to just be there. Voicing no queries, no motive, no comfort. Nothing.

The forest moved. And suddenly she was staring out again. It was then she noticed the curled claw of a hand clutching the wet earth. Sliding over it as the legs behind her pushed. Content to watch the dragging, she huddled into herself observing until she was lost to unconsciousness.

Asmodel

2008-07-20T00:07:00.000-07:00

He was looking at her. That was it. No emotion in the gaze, mere observation.
The bile rose thick in the back of her throat following the cold sensation creeping up her spine, setting fire to the nerves in its wake. It spread slowly, seeping into her bones. She kept herself tightly wound, breathing deep slow breaths subtly to subdue the rage. This had happened before, suppression was an automatic symptom now. And it might have worked like the cherry it was, if he had stopped staring.

It was the sharp trembling of her feet along the outer edges. Like someone who had pushed themselves to far during a workout or in marathon runs. At least that's how it had always been in the beginning when they had been trying to induce the storm that erupted from within, those furious frenzies where the devil hisownself took a sick day to avoid.
She remembered gasping.

Lunging across the table she had time to analyze several possibilities of action he might take. He was slight, so physically no match for her unless he could fully pin her in a vulnerable position and then use the full strength of his upper body as well as every ounce of weight on his skeleton. The guards coming in the door were more of a challenge, being specifically bulked up to be dogs of war. Well bred and well trained. Arching herself mid-leap her right hand shot down to his weapon, her left catching his shoulder and using it as a gymnast might use a bar to turn.

Shoving him into the table and landing herself in a crouch behind him in the fractions of a second it had taken the two guards to enter, and in another she had angled his frame against her to the guards. They could not see her from beneath and behind the furniture and body, yet she could see their feet and shadows. Calculating their moves and the time she had left, she slid the gun beneath his right ear. And pulled the trigger.

Cowering from the shot, even though he had turned to avoid the blowout thus saving him his hearing, he had provided the opportunity to be used as a weapon. And she took it. Hurling him at the first guard and taking out the second as they collided. Landing to his right she fired on the first guard while yanking him up and across her body.
"Time for you to be useful again, Asmodel."

The terror ripping her from what ever subconscious state she had been was almost as painful as the blinding lance radiating from her side. Sweat broke out and she huddled fetal to ease the shock waves into something manageable until her body responded appropriately. Sighing hesitantly she counted the breaks. Whatever had happened, her ribs and shoulders had taken the brunt of the beating. Numerous rib fractures and breaks, as well as a shoulder out and collarbone floating. Hell, her whole right arm was out. Which was such a shame, she had always favored that hand for shooting and at heart she was still a gun-bunny greaser.

Pulling herself upward she took in her surroundings. That shame stopped dead in the tracks of a frozen heart. He was here in this place with her.

Extraction

2008-05-27T22:49:00.000-07:00

The words that are written are memories traveling through time. An existence as magnanimous as the sun, yet as all consuming as the hungriest black hole.

The stars are spilling melodies
I simmer down below
Sweet symphonies explode
I want a million
Summer nights
Swept up in your monsoon

Extraction. I'm thinking of you now. An exile reversed. I'd carve it out on a silver spoon.
We mill in the twilight, the sticky air clings. I refrain. The longing is there. As are the hours and gallons of unspilled words. It's not that I don't know what to say. It's that the words I reach seem all wrong, or not enough meaning. And you know that.
Lost in translation.

Scions Sing the Summer Winds

2008-05-26T22:47:00.000-07:00

The fire that burns. Opalescent words cascade vivaciously.
Cinders spread flames, winds that singe. Stars tumbling down broken dark paths. Where wicked words lull them into faiths of madness.
The cascade that pools. Claret depths sickly swirling, rich and thick as syrup.
The scions sing the summer winds. Rich fury, lush whispers. Beguiling. Ever enticing, roils the form forbidden, igniting conflagration soul consuming.

On Being A Vampire

2008-04-17T00:33:00.000-07:00

I suppose I have been rather cantankerous of late... And-Or rather morose and encumbered with malaise. Stunted I lie lethargically recumbent. Bent on doing nothing - or rather sleeping the life I'm with away. Trapped in a memory, I'm sleeping with ghosts again. And maybe avoiding being my usual self.
It's almost like I'm hiding from something. But I have nothing to hide. However, maybe it is my lack of being so precociously blatent in my nature. Although it is something I find as natural to myself as breathing or taking a piss. Vampirism. The state of being and indulgence.

For some reason I'm drawn to memories of my coming out as wiccan. Declaring proudly with determination as I clutched that candle staring into the mirror in the middle of the night. "I Am A Witch." Stating:

I Am A Vampire

brings that rush back. That sweet symphony adrenaline ignites your body to humming. For some reason, as of late, I have been filled with a burning need to randomly meet people - shaking their hands the way those within the lifestyle have become accustomed to - and stating. "Hello. My name's Miranda, I'm a vampire. Nice to meet you." The want to climb fire-escapes to the rooftops of local buildings and shout it to the heavens.
I find it strange in that I have never denied I was. Nor have I ever not answered the questions about my consumption/desire/arousal around blood or biting. Quite forthcoming I generally tend to overwhelm. I come on strong.

You're thinking cup of coffee when it's more like Tsunami, a mile high and climbing.

I miss the shitty group of friends I had when still in the camarilla. When I still dealt with camarilla's. It was fun. And yes, we were kids and stupid. And we did a lot of things you REALLY should NOT do, or try, or even consider when you're high out of your mind on narcotics even hard core addicts avoid - but they were good times. They were fun. For all the wrong reasons - and a few right ones. We were like a family. Just as fucked up as your average, and less crazy than your Springer types.
The nights were wild and illegal. Sharing was especially casual, insanely so as not a one I know of practiced safe sex if they were getting any. And while not convinced of our mortality we were still smart enough to know better, and crazy enough not to give a damn anyway. Of all bodily fluids swapped, blood was probably the wisest choice we were making. It was definitely the one we traded on with most reverence.

And I do not advocate the young vampire scene we were living, it's not as though we had any role models. Or any real idea of what we were doing. Like most things at that stage, some of us lost touch with the scene while others went off the hairy edge into Crazy Town with it.
But as friends go, they were right fine and I miss them. And most of them weren't douchebags. I really only remember getting hurt over one or two. The rest just grew away. And maybe there were more bad times than good, but I cannot remember them. Only the hazy golden glow of a by-gone era and memories of being emboldened and content in my nature. In our nature. Celebrated as it was, if only for a little while.

I'm not too sure I want to attempt to enter the lifestyle given my current location. My metro is growing, but insofar as acceptance of differences, we're still living a Leave It To Beaver state-of-mind. The thoughts are crowding my mind, I'm just not sure I can swing the freight.
I'm not looking for a husband, a significant other, or lover.
But it would be nice to find a friend. To connect with others who's ideas of love and passion and romance run among the darker hues of the spectrum. Logically, I rationalize that given my position it is an unlikely and overly ideal dream.
Still, when the night is full and the moon is high I wish and dream...

Come out, come out - where ever you are.

Infinity Flowers

2008-04-13T21:03:00.000-07:00

Infinity flowers on. Cursed corpses of bees pollinate vast expanses of wasteland. New ash for bitter days. Harsh and tepid. An open mouth pours the viscous sangoire fount. Memories of golden years. Cool lethargy throws waves. Rivers congeal, ice with a vice grip. Sink slowly down. Twist, reveal, rent asunder. Hot stone cracks, crumbles, breaking away. Winter has come home with steel talons.

Ripe Forbiddance

2008-04-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

Sweet melancholy, rich plum; ripe forbiddance. How sweet, I taste the tongues of a thousand years - whispers as gentle as lovers touching - honeyed and rich, thick saccharine. The clarity of an endless sea of words, as oppressive as it is freeing.

Arterial Life

2008-04-02T22:35:00.000-07:00

If you were water flowering into wine I could flow through you like a butterfly; flitting over an endless ocean of rotting flowers, effusing their death unto the air like the songs of Sirens. Harpies crushing and rending, bitterly ravaging. The cadence a sweet-sour mourning song; the rending of flesh, the crushing of bone, the spurting gushes of arterial life sprayed into the sky and flowing from their necks - fountain of life.

Burn

2008-02-19T23:13:00.000-08:00

My mouth a cup
Overflowing with saccharine
Sugared life
Riotous crimson lies
I turn
Observe a vicious star
Open the tongued portal
Exhale
Ash spilled on bitter winds
Burn

Warm Dreams

2008-02-19T22:10:00.000-08:00

Sink lover
Sink down
Where breezes bring warm dreams
Thoughts
Sense memory
I feel you
I fill you
Wasting
We're wasting this
We're wasting away
All the things I want
I push away.

2008-02-17T18:20:00.000-08:00

Every night
You wrote another line
With a bloody, broken, bottle
And every day
You wish it away
Why don't you pull the pin
On that grenade
You cuddle

I wanted to believe
Bodies swinging from trees
Struggling to stand
With your head in your hands
A stoic last stand
Of a dying man

I wanted to believe
As I watched your world
Crumble in your hands
I wanted to believe
As you raised your glass
To your last stand
And I wanted to believe
You would win
The war in your head
That I did not understand...
I did not understand...

Every night
The questions poured out
Of your wounded eyes
Damn dark things
Every day
You used to pray
Listen to the black raven sing
You wanted to believe
As you were falling to your knees
Struggling to stand
With your life in your hand
The sad last stand
Of a broken man

I wanted to believe
As I watched your world
Crumble in your hands
I wanted to believe
As you raised your glass
To your last stand
And I wanted to believe
You would win
The war in your head
That I did not understand...
I did not understand...

I wanted to believe
As I watched your world
Crumble in your hands
I wanted to believe
As you raised your glass
To your last stand
I wanted to believe
You would win
The war in your head
That I did not understand
I did not understand

And the questions poured out
And the questions pour out
I did not understand
I did not understand
I did not understand
I did not understand
The sound of you falling
I did not understand
As the trembling heart of a dying man
Did not understand
The sound of a trembling heart

I wonder why there is such stigma with suicide. Or with death in general. I often think about killing myself. And it's not that I am unhappy - because I am in fact Happy. I really like my life and who I am - and don't get me wrong it seems to be going on a bender hard and fast. However, above all things, I know who I am. And I don't worry. Something that seems to be swiftly maddening to those whom I choose to surround myself with. Especially my kittens.

I don't know. Sometimes it just seems that Death is the last Great Adventure I have waiting for me.
I am in Need of an adventure.
So desperately so that when I think of it I cannot breathe and my body is frozen in some silent prison, shaking with the need to explode violently into it.

Perhaps it's not my suicide that's bizarre. But the fact that when I picture it, I'm never caught. If I'm found at all. Sometimes I think I'll just wink out like a star, silent and lost among the thousands that capture your eyes. Overlooked or maybe misplaced and forgotten. And while I think I should feel sad at being forgotten, I rarely am. At worst I'm empty and at best I'm amused. But never sad. Never down.
Maybe it's because I believe that I will be here long after this body and earth has gone from existence. That I am me because I am the soul, the god I have spent so long looking for. I am the burning need that gets me through the bad days, and lifts me to flight on the good.
Empty because I don't need you.
Amused because I loved you and wanted you with me regardless of your concerns.

I don't need you. Any of you. And that should mean something great to you. Something wonderful and fantastic. Because you shouldn't need me either. Ferociously Independent. I want to be like the sea. Like the earth. Completely capable of severing you from myself at any and all costs.
So you will know how precious it is that
I Want You

When One Monster Slaughters Another ― Is It An Act Of Murder Or Salvation?

2007-09-15T23:31:00.000-07:00

Roving ashen lands, mortified forests, inert pools. Pushing onward, monotonously; surging, stumbling, rushing. Incessant the ambulation to obliterate the anamnesis. Reminiscence of recollections of reflections of memories. Escaping from what? to what? for what? What?

The monsters grow agitated, the demons restive, and annihilation is riveted in the gaze the observation. Crushed underfoot, trampled, mangled, vanquished, ruptured, shambling scintillas of something long forsaken. Integuments of eidola of reveries of wishes vanished antecedent. relinquished deserted obscured Absent the horror, the anguish, the mirth, the aspiration, the chiroptera, the coleoptera, the serpents.

Is a cavern still a cavern when it is desolate - Or is it nothing more than a chasm?

The tranquil complacency in the peregrination is sufficient to succor that ache within. Vaguely devastating when dwelled upon, but evanescent is the thought entertained before the instinct to unknow is reclaimed. The erratic cadence of the atrium discounted. The gait incremental. What ignes fatui that evince wayfarers to their expiration capitulate and venture to beguile. Entice. Inveigle.

Verdant the meadow. The eruption of hues addling; quailing, traipsing the periphery of the expanse. The clement cachinnation disseminates tremors through that vagrant malaise and the quavering of the auricle are lissomely buffeted. Be afraid. Sidle into the grasses. Contiguous is perfection. He smiles and that quaver is back. Endeavor, infiltrate the unfurled limbs primed to enfold. Defunct within the embrace, stationary and taciturn. Compliant winnowing. The sneer on his face and the neoteric effulgence in his eyes has that muscle hammering. Assimilate the javelin as it perforates sternum, atrium, glissades parallel vertebrae.

This might hurt if you could remember how pain felt.

You might be shocked if you had not known this was coming.

Thrust into the heavens, it is the paralyzing cynosure of the stars that astounds you into lacrimation.

When one monster slaughters another ― is it an act of murder or salvation?

What Dreams May Come

2007-05-20T23:43:00.000-07:00

I am waiting for you. I see you just there. I want you so much it is killing me. But I would rather die this death than be without you. Do you see me the way that I see you? And are you so very far away that you do not come to me now? I will still be waiting when you get here. My breath is too great for my chest, costae straining to contain what atmosphere the pneumos can absorb as my heart swells. I’m burning, I’m breaking, I’m waiting for you.

I will wait forever.

In waking I can still feel the warm press of your body crushing down upon mine. In the crowded room where we osculate there is only the muted thunder, cacophony in miniscule. All of my focus on you, in you. I incense you; inhale you – you are etched upon my mind more intense than my best recollections; a supernova sunset. In waking I breathe and scent you in the air, my frantic frenetic searching otiosely. I can taste you still upon my labium, strong and supple the press of your superioris upon mine.

I am still perambulating those amplitudes on your flesh when corporeality crowds in, overbearing and callous. Consciousness is the bitch thieving you away. The ache of it is breaking my heart, even in this moment centuries pass and I die in muted silence – how bitter sweet the pain. But silently in the early mornings I am stealing myself back to you, because it is there you are waiting for me. I want to trace my life upon your syncytium, burn it to ash and blow it away on a bitter sea wind before giving you mine.

It’s your eyes, burnished and blackened honey – soul consuming. We do not need to articulate. You do not need to move as I am already crashing into you the instant those umber orbs find mine supernova of hypergiants. Everything laid open and bare, there is no fear – only the need to touch, those epochs when not even flesh has caressed and all is only body heat and nearness Einstein makes theories on in thinking rooms far away from here and now…

My moon will rise and set within you and that is all that I will ever need.

I’m waiting for you.

Opheliac

2007-05-17T01:41:00.000-07:00

Strumming waters, soft flowing in decadence – bejeweled in pussy willows, lily pads and whispering reeds. They sing a song if you listen, but it has been decades since the universe revolved around yourself.

Soft is the smile crawling across that porcelain façade, petal bright and supple. Wearily she traces the secrets of time across that liquid surface, reflective as a mirror, chill with winter’s lust. Darkened sable, as bottoms of crystal springs - that reflective sepia rich with surreptitiousness the earth murmurs on the wind. How bright the verdant foliage clutching the cool flow.

The light of that smile never reaches those sorrowful orbs, dulled darkened and burnished. Slothful that figure clambers into view, removing all hints of humor drearily resplendent upon that visage.

Narcissus didn’t fall in, he was pushed…

The ease of it hollowed her. Hours watching vanity embodied wasted. Worse, the sense of shallow futility, all remorsefully ineffective. Observing the dissolute departure of his profligate cadaver she wriggled her toes into the malleable earth.

Millennia elapsed and still her figure remained statuary in silence. Sluggishly rising, the coarse

rustlings of silk, dark emerald shimmering golden iridescence, susserated repartee to the mistral blustering amongst the reeds. Heavy the folds of cloth encompassing the fleshed frame, pulling in gravitational need. Plantar shuffling, sink shallowly forming minuscule mountains and valleys amidst cloying grasses.

Gently lapping along metatarsus submerging scarcely adjacent of flowing memory of snow,

rivulets coarse superior seducing porcelain into wintry depths. Vivacious consternation as physique plunges into that brumal mellifluousness. Mass consumption of ichorous stills inhalation. Upward tilt, leisurely absorbing roiling exterior. Pawn encompassed of currents marching to their heart.

Slow ascension, tumultuous tresses broadened in death’s halo.

If Ophelia drowns, and no one notices – is she really dead?

All Of It's Futile You Know

2007-04-16T00:36:00.000-07:00

She would prepare everything. Or rather she had, at least mostly. Gathering the collective tools, random items more befitting a [medical examiner] [butcher] [mortician]; the stainless steel shimmered softly – with that soft wire scrub sheen so many medical trays cloned. Laying out the tarpaulin, and cocking her head softly to the side she found beauty in it. Clenching her jaw and blinking furiously to blot out the seas which burned with acid fire in her eyes, that’s the problem, she whispered; more to herself than to the man.

Or was he a boy?

She hadn’t decided.

She always found the beauty in everything. Even in her own wretched pain, the festering rot coiling within her soul – that lancing burn that sometimes blocked out EVERYTHING, even the ability to breathe… Sighing, like the earth after genocidal tidal waves vain efforts at a message no one wants to hear, she smoothed the last of the semi-translucent petrol. Head bent, her gaze was lost - seeing beyond the staccato tile floor - futile endeavors to salvage memories she felt she needed.

What she really needed was hope - but that was far beyond her now.

She turned her gaze back to the center of the room, the frigid cadaver table - stark and brutal even as it lacked quick edges or gothic décor. To the organism breathing, those shallow inhalations only the comatose or deeply drugged do. The conflagration smoldered her extremities, they twitched as though acid had pooled at the tips; aching itch – the need to touch.

No thoughts had formed or time had passed it seemed, INSTANTLY she was beside him; bent and leaning slightly over him and watching, the way hazmat crews observed CHERNOBYL or HIROSHIMA – with that morbid enthrallment engrossing every iota of their being. Lighting gently upon his clavicle, her forefinger hummed with the soft heat his body gave, tracing over the ridge the ice eased softly from that INTREPID digit. Oxygen optional, her breath froze as slowly she traced along the length of brachiating bone and curling, the way cars curve around long highways doubling back along themselves, up and along the throat, climbing the soft hill of the sternomastoid in soft ascension of the mandible and tracing downward. Ceding upon his lips, orbs lidded she breathed, crawling along the stillness that had consumed her. Pulling away so that her distals grazed his face, she stood.

He hadn’t moved, and in many respects appeared DEAD. But he was alive; she NEEDED him to be alive. Shoving the needle into the carotid, the thrum of his heart’s song traveling in gentle permeation through the metal and plastic of the hypodermic, sweeping upwards into the chilling phalanges – she paused. Pressing in bitter vehemence with prehensile, the serum vacated its holding cell; finding a new journey within that sanguine causeway.

Hoisting the weighted surgeon’s apron over her head, she admired the thick slickness of it; the matte black almost absorbing light, as though it were destined for this and was ready nigh eager to soak the claret sprays into itself. Turning to behold him, the char pigmented vinyl gloves slid across the steel tray, ushering a sadistic whisper into the silence this place had claimed. The fluttering of his lids told her he was waking, as did the change in his respiration. Sharp and swift, the inhalation devouring as much atmosphere as possible; awareness surged culminating in the rapid flick to open those soulful windows. Pulling those void gauntlets over her writhing digits, he saw her and remembrance and recognition blazed like stars in those windows. Grasping the hacksaw she sighed and looked at him directly, gazes locking.

You’re beautiful.

But that just isn’t enough.

Quicksand Eyes

2007-04-10T02:13:00.000-07:00

Black pools those
Quick Sand Eyes
Consuming
Alluring
I want to
Be buried within
You
Captivated
Wild animal entranced
Ensnared Spellbound Enthralled Fascinated Awestruck Mesmerized
Dizzy and willing to fall
If you say you will
Catch me
I want to
need to have to have you
Watch you sleep
Observe the life you live
When no one else is looking
Fear is growing in me
Burning with the need to run
I could
If only you would look away…

Claret Mire

2007-04-10T01:31:00.000-07:00

Randomly running through some vivid night, the stars will burn linear in confusion and pain. Thick the clawed branches of trees vicious as those frenemies having snuck up in front of you – those sheep in wolves clothing. Mild tempered curs, static; and everyone knows static equivocates death. Thorns and thistles, scattered and strewn over wild grounds amidst the scratching vegetation pierce and shred; leaving sanguine trail. Blood burned away long ago and those vessels fill with the acid that drives. Pumping, life’s drum beats a broken song. And the seas those windows leak could drown worlds in wake. Ripping through foliage, which grabs and clutches silken tresses abandoned in the urgency of need to be away.

Forest gives way to ruins, demolished and torched. Thoughtlessly carried on appendages bruised and numb with frost, moved by wires pulsing electricity from a generator on automatic pilot. Through arching doorways into shadowed realms, over smooth granite dark as void roped with argentate slices – silver veins in the ebon coat of dying wolves. Echoing slaps ring throughout chorused with gentle snapping, tattered garb mockingly white.

Stumble as earth gives way, like those reeds when the wind is high from the Hunt. The crimson stain climbing those pale threads perplexes, pushing on to wade through this claret mire. Plunging deeper as the ruby morass coats, surging up gullet, covering shoulders and clinging to mane. Some rubicund sand trap, dragging down.

How many can boast of drowning within blood marshes?

Let Me Fall To Consumption

2007-04-06T00:28:00.000-07:00

Her mouth crawls open, great fanged gateway to realms untraversed. Piercing softly flesh rich as musky sunshine, inhale to consume essence of another. I want to travel you like nomads crossing the Sahara inching over every molecule and atom. Ice craving flame, regardless risk of cessation of self. Planets colliding give birth to stars

heavens brighter in their destruction

I’d like to collide with you.

I’m staring again, in that espionage way I have always staring never caught, Cat’s are envious that. Only this time your orbs have me, and I’m drowning in those black pools willingly, for maybe death is a little bit of heaven itself and someone is talking to me that I am ignoring absently.

I want to capture ensnare catch you.

Hunting blindly again or rather with tunnel vision, solely absorbed within you. I’m passing worlds stars universes galaxies but nothings there I want. Always within view, silent torture all too enjoyable [in ways suicides must find death]. Negligently I am reaching for you and how my world falls away when reason crushes down and I spurn myself away,

dancing insanity empty and wanting.

I want to find you intimately absent, buried in your dreams, that I may come to watch you some scientist with new specimens make slow progress over you the way insects do the denizens at night in Africa. I want to bury my visage within your hollows, that sacred place where the strongest scent of self survives – rich with the blood humming so near to surface. I want to run my ivory along that tendon keeping you alert, supple cables strong and vulnerable.

Maybe I will lure you to my den and deftly place you within those blurry realms that I may have you the way I need you.

If only for one night.

Silence Is A Killer

2007-03-21T23:45:00.000-07:00

His breath billows out, white clouds from the mouths of god, and in stillness she remains – like death within shadows praying for her heart’s sake he notices. All whisper and hush, silence dynamic, the air so cold her fingers burn and yet caught in his gaze there is nothing but the flame it stirs; phoenix tending to hearth flame, and she can’t wait to burn. His movements jagged, jaunt wolf rogue and lone trailing terrain foreign and ripe with disastrous possibilities. She leans in, unbidden and unable to refuse; only those dust winged nocturnals know of this as they rush into the flame, calling that way only vampires sing ripe humanity to their death.

If he can see the dark flame hidden betwixt the shadows they shall converge; violent passion as fire and water, rippling exploding energy –dangerous with allure that consumes with a totality gods wish they knew of– Caress the frigid, measured and toiling, leisurely with a languorous pace heady as love potions of men with morals of jinn in back allies of cities known for danger. Collision firm and supple, steel and leather tangled as string cat’s attack, obliterated with desire thick and spicy – mead a shade only blood knows.

Clasping mandible, dread wolf in a vice grip, fingers burning white hot where they press; dominate romance; encroaching along with distal phalanx, sweet in dawdling rate over labellum soft. Intake sharp in hesitance, as delicate the digit is rolled over incisor lengthy and scalpel sharp; lack of fear induces trembling at acceptance forever unknown. Saccharine and consuming, plummet into the moment -furious longing, smoldering necessity, overwhelming ache. That muzzle is burrowed deep inside the hollows of his rachen nipping, nuzzling, grazing; wandering in utter delicacy lest flesh be rent and life spilled.

Impacting cavitas oris split all boundaries leaving only the conflagration, vivid and alive and enveloping as unconsciousness – without escape. Exploration bursts violent red, fury of the unsatisfied. Desire to consume, intake, devour overshadowing logic and caution; tsunamis capable of utter annihilation crashing into one another, shattering reminiscent of stars.

Faltering he pulls away, unsure of the surge and its capacity to obliterate all else; wildly ensnaring her fingers encase his face jerking his vision to hers. Within her orbs all of her soul is lay bare, rapid gasp as the desire contained within is not just skin deep; she’d devour him with her soul and replace his with hers given the opportunity…

Her lids raise and the realization all of this perceivable only within her heart’s wish filled those spheres with oceans. Raising her muzzle to the sky she breathes deep, implanting bits of his soul within hers and flesh; memory of what she cannot have bearable if given the tools to dream with. As he turns his eyes catch hers and silently their gaze’s burn into each others, eons pass and worlds die as stars are born; and her soul blazes with the want to speak of her need for him –

…If only I could understand the words your soul whispers to me

Where Wolves Wander…

2007-03-20T01:37:00.000-07:00

Thick ribbons swirl noxious and delirium resounding the heartfelt need. Entwining and burning with the heat of want, fine flowers blooming in open air where death itself finds fear. Mysteries purged, like vomit of the bulimics –But mama I just wanna be pretty– cruel the smile that decorates her lips, that sick upward twist leaving you bereft of hope and warmth

Satan prefers it chilly

In the noontime hours pass in seconds and the depth of things are thicker than you can stand, wading through concrete proves vast entertainment in moments where eternity spins wildly. Every detail a glaring neon sign to those with a physical aversion to all light – the glower noxious in a way bees or penicillin is to fools. Rush rush to those needles, sweetly awe striking in their twisted colors warning death and toxins. Delicate the supple flesh porcelain hued reaching languorously towards the thorn, some sleeping beauty out of context in a world where the prince has long since died – it would seem the joke is on her. And the laughter is so loud it’s quiet, like the rush of waves along the shore; maybe the ocean wants out?

Roll back, the eyes of a dead man, you mimic in some ironic twist – proof of life and also mockery of his current state; not your fault, you are not the man nor god who took what little life he had, in a said twist of fate he was wasting it anyway…

The birds hum loudly if you listen a moment, the sharp smack of their wings slicing the air like emo’s with razor blades who have no life left to give and no idea of what real pain might be. You watch them wondering if maybe they have the real idea nailed, get out quick before there is anything worth living for; the cold slap of your own death hits you. It’s coming and you can feel it in every breath you take, beat of your heart – but then it might not be so noticeable if death weren’t watching you from the doorway, waiting in that way of Cheshire cats.

If only he would smile

Maybe those skittering trembles crossing your flesh would cease, unlikely given his profession. Hell even the coldest heart finds warmth in something, no matter the iron casing and steel reserve; it is the ones who pretend not to notice who care the most, and you laugh and enjoy their company freely as they give it to you like those dancing with the wild wolves in forests – but if you took the moment to wholly understand what it is they are giving you, what all they have risked, maybe you would not be so careless with their hearts; for surely their soul is swiftly behind it.

Do not give me that look, souls are as easy to give as hearts; words of caution to those who so choose to release them, as many of these addle brained minions of soulless monetary fucking seek only satisfaction of the self ensure that the peril you are taking is worth the leap – even Geronimo could not take a redo in that leap.

Hearts heal Souls do not

Awakening in the forest in early dawn, the sky is that purple gray shade resplendent in newness, like the fawns of spring. Dew heavy on the grass reaching for the sun it feels crawling ever slow across the surface of the world –resembling the whispered passion of a lover as their breath and lips play delicately upon ripened flesh– reminiscent of shiny worlds, clear with a slate as new as any soul’s. Evaporation is sex only the elements understand, heat and desire tangible in ways humans yearn to be. Fuck romeo and juliet, I want to be water waiting for fire to ignite me; primal in a way only the gods understand, waiting as they do for their fifteen minutes of fame to be repeated–Mithras laughs in that silent joke only he and Dionysus share, while christians frown their disapproval.

I want to be silent in the ways vampires hear, that fleshy torrent wholly consuming and enveloping, that sweet divine scent and taste only those born of angel’s knowledge. Envy is an interest of its own when paired with indifference; a plaguing scoff of all they have been granted yet supreme curiosity would belie more than is apparent, and wearing Mona Lisa’s smile I sit silent, center of their attention entirely consumed and barren of their opinions of it.

Looking silently I peer over fields of ice and mountains built of thousands of millions of flakes as individual as a soul in the universe – I see those wookiee’s arguing with vulcans while smirking from the shadows in a veiled way so as not to attract attention – and that great whiteness blinds with all the fury of the cold burning hotter than black fire. You can see spanning those endless white fields the glass tower at the heart, rising like the babylonian tower; only instead of attempting to reach heaven it sits like a fat cat, satisfied in marring the skyline. In telescopes you can see the blood smeared a conglomerate range of brown-black-maroon where there was something trapped inside, and sick with the knowledge of ice approximating sharpness so severe it dulls razors you ponder what could have escaped from that hell -knowing full well the devil would scurry quicker than a bat out of hell given the sight of the thing- and in that mellow instance of insight what gives you pause is not what came out, but what could possibly have the force to imprison itself in such an abomination.

Quietly the warmth of life whispers upon your neck, caressing as a lover does in willing you to abandon that which frightens you. And grasping sweetly your face betwixt hands supple as lambskin and firm as steel you surrender – given the nature of the one holding yourself it may be a muzzle buried in your throat in the moment

You could always offer your soul in absolute submission.

Love Is Just A Bloodsport…

2007-02-11T22:30:00.000-08:00

How fast can you run when it is merely your mind you run from? The avid eyes of harpies are diligent to say the least… The myriad of hues that makes up the world, sullen in its sophistication. Strange the rhythm that seems to haunt every chamber and vessel, clamoring for attention not readily given. The maddening rush seems all encompassing. It always burns like fire.

Who would bespell the damned? Fierce in competition, the razor teeth were sharper than those of the sanguine predators. Like scalpels of the damned, wolfteeth gleamed with a ferocity to scare even the eldest of bloods. Infuriating as it was, they couldn’t help but shove their hands directly into the mouth of the beast. The screams were predictable and though the rest heard them in the end there was no hope as more in the line continued to step up, lambs to the slaughter, all prepared to have their hands and arms rendered to shreds of what was once limb.

I Miss The Moon

2007-01-25T23:28:00.000-08:00

She ran hard and fast. Ran on through the grasses, thundering between trees and bursting through bushes in a fury of twigs and leaves. Her wolfskin was hard upon her and that itself made her heart ache, pained and weary with recent events. Foolish she had been, and yet was there ever a time when she was anything but a fool? The miles passed swiftly beneath her feet. Pounding through dead leaves, dank rich earth thick with the scent of vegetations decay; over rocks and pebbles crushing into brisk waters flowing with their angry torrents – grasping grabbing so eagerly for her. She wanted to let go and embrace its caress deep into its raging rocky depths, but the anger and pain burned high in her and she galloped on. Running into the night as though she could catch the moon, so close and still so far; nearly hiding in its new skin. She wanted to hate them, those silly things with their exemplar ideals; such farces and still so embraced. Naive sheep with their stories of how the hero defeats the boogieman, the big bad nasty thing.

They had come with their silver, ignorant and full of fear. Immunity was hers through chance and accident; and what a charade to think it might kill her, that maybe if she just let enough sink down into her it would work its toxic will and bind her to death. She howled the anguish. She envied them with their ignorance to believe that everything was better when you hunted down the monster; how can that be when you are the monster? And she ran ran until everything was burned away by the sheer need and will to run; ran until there was no more fear or rage or pain. She ran until forever passed beneath her feet.

The Tragedy Of Cats

2006-12-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

Why is it some mammals just insist upon rubbing you down so as to grant you a good covering of their fur?

And out from some Greek Tragedy it is always the ones you find yourself allergic to.

I am sitting demurely, masticating the fur betwixt my toes and here SHE comes. Strutting as though SHE is the daughter of Bastet; some pampered elegant royal temple cat. Presence a lie, SHE’s all the class of an abandoned rotten academy; with more litters than toes upon HER paws. I swiftly veil my contempt – truly such trickery is mastered by cats alone. SHE attempts to do the same; a leech in a fur coat – it is in vein.

Deftly do I descend to meet HER eye to eye; characteristic of my eminence. HER lip curls, but SHE catches HERSELF and refrains from full snarl. Mine eyes have seen the game, and I am a better player – to say Master is being modest. Swiftly do I see all SHE has to offer, an estimation to be calculated and I have yet to underestimate the underhandedness of my opponent. SHE sidles up to me, hoping to feign obedience and compliance while smothering my scent with HERS marking dominance perhaps to illicit and provoke some rank response. HER face burrows beneath my chin and as SHE glides I bury my face into HER neck and let HER glide along to the tip of HER barely furred tail. SHE begins to saunter off and stops abruptly realizing that HER scent lies beneath mine.

The fury within HER eyes burns and smolders as HER fur alights to stand upon end. I sit lightly and await HER movement. A physical attack is dubious, yet not entirely out of the question; I am easily twice her size however, the supreme thickness of my coat dampers the judgment to my strength as well as hiding ancient battle scars.

SHE yowls as though a lit firecracker has been tied to HER tail. The attention of Lead Mouser has been caught and casually alert he saunters over. SHE caresses him, mewling woe betides as though mine ears are suddenly deaf and I cannot hear HER calls of betrayal and dictation, authoritarianism in the extreme. His gaze levels the room and all cats stop motion keening their heads in our direction. Decorously I stop cleaning my paw before dethroning him with a Hiroshima glare.

Now this is getting interesting…

Do I Have To Tell The Story Of A Thousand Rainy Days Since We First Met…

2006-12-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

I am running. The acid rushes through my veins, I’m sure there’s blood there still. Maybe. I’m running from you – or at you – I’ve been running so long it’s hard to remember.

Initially it was at you. To be with you. Every kind word a blessing in disguise. The longing rises within, a cruel kundalini –its serpent smile just as misleading. But you are such a sweet fruit I cannot help but long for more. Crisp. Sugary. Red Delicious. E’er within reach and just out of grasp. Temptation never looked so good.

And in an instant, the realization that I’m clinging to a memory. Or a dream. Stumbling I look up as I’m struck with the validity of the never ending quest.

Are you real or venomous mirage?

I need you. I’m sobbing before I comprehend. You are here, all around me. But I need something more. And I am ashamed.

I was whole once. Complete. Absolute. Entire. The only thing craved was more time with you. Every iota of time so precious seconds to years in a minds eye and details with voracious vividity. The scent of you is strong, long after you’ve gone away. Deep. Rich. – Life itself.

The crueler part of it all is that you never left.

Always there. Never the way before.

A hundred questions cross my mind before I can bare a whisper. Fate would be kind to remove the burden, but the weight of it is ever suppressing. I’ve analyzed it all. Beaten the long dead horse to life and death time and time again. Over analyze a gross understatement. How can you stop watching as the needle is shoved through the eye? You’ve seen it hundreds of times and always with chills, but like some authors demonic tease you can’t put down, you cannot look away; nor prevent the replay.

Maybe you don’t have to die to go to hell –

You don’t realize how lonely all of it is until you’ve been complete. Somehow it’s not all it’s cracked up to be and how do you function now running on E? find me the man who quoth “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” That I may smite him with his love. Fools are ever poetic.

I remember the before time. Sad to think I miss it. Ignorance may just actually be bliss. But you can betray what you’ve known to go back to it? Let me know because I just can’t seem to find a way. And if you can could you face the guilt of going back? Given the choice to do it all over again – would you?

For what it’s worth, I miss it. Perhaps more so than the feeling of a soul’s completion. For as decadent as it was, in the before time I was invincible. Lost far beyond the barren lands; cracked and gray, and e’er cloudy – lost in the turmoil of self depreciation. Climbing to the snow, past breathtaking mountains, into cruel valleys where no warmth came and all life extinguished. A perfect wintery landscape; as harsh, hard and unforgiving as is ever been in existence. Perhaps colder than the glare of the truly heartless. And far into the center an ice palace, all harsh line and jagged razor edges; malicious mimicry en large of the daintiest of snowflakes. In the tower, high into the lifeless air, the blood of the captive who became free…

To what ends?

Winter has come and with it always the memory now of the before time. Who can say where all this may end. For so rarely do great things seem peril less.

The memory of you is half the problem. You are always here and never there. In vein I wish for you when my soul aches from the cavernous cold sweeping in from the Universe.

Always in vein do I wish.

Always do I wish.

A Girl Can Dream

2006-11-27T02:46:00.000-08:00

I’m choking down those ashes again. Maybe I wouldn’t be so eager to shovel mounds into my serrated gob if only I could remember the taste of something else. I know I am missing something and it’s so close I can feel the weight of it crushing down upon me. I cram another handful and suck it down.

If you could crawl inside the windows, past the blue glass and peer down further into the ebon depths hidden, fold of a world. Press yourself against those frightening crags and move further down. Coming out of the darkness the light would blind and illuminate with such coldness that frigid still and smothered hangs the air. Wander down any path and the evidence of decay is heavy and thick. Remnants of a long forgotten glory smite the shite stained surface. This place has been dying for so long it doesn’t remember what life was. Hope is the white horse dying in the open court, eight shades of diseased emerald. The blood, however, is bright. Death imminent vivid in a washed out existence.

You could storm the creature without so much as a flinch. The eyes are dull and sticky, flecked with black dirt. Mayhaps death has already come and gone, but the rattling breath and consistent gush of blood communicate what is left of life in this being. Maybe it doesn’t know how to become dead, thus imprisoned in an endless state of dying. That could be one of your childish notions, easily waved away by the harsh stamp of adulthood, if only the horror of it was not so palpable. And as it consumes you, the realization that the entire world has been in this state long enough to see old gods overthrown while new ones were erected hits you like the moon crashing into earth. The vomit is hot and sticky on the back of your hands before you comprehend what has happened.

Your breath ragged the arctic air harsh in the back of your throat and you keep sucking it down – waiting for your heart to cease its frantic pounding, your head to cease its dizzy spinning, your eyes to blink back into focus. As this happens you feel it, the dread sensation of foreign eyes intense upon you, crawling – prickly sticky, like roaches – your stomach entangled and stone, your eyes follow the invisible path back to the voyeur. The white horse is watching you with those lifeless fish eyes and the echo startles you into actuality before your body has time to tell your mind that you’ve finished screaming. The world is blurring past you before you comprehend you are running, you gulp harder at the air willing your lungs to fill to bursting so you can run. Run run RUN RUN RUN RUN. The word is every breath, thought, sensation of movement, gush of blood from your heart; your body is screaming it so loud you’ve lost the feeling of movement and all you see is a world smearing past you faster and faster.

The pain is neon red, lancing through your arms and head. Panting rigid and callous, you are coughing before you notice you’re crying so hard you can’t breathe. You gulp down the air between sobs; sweet, cool and laden with soft hints of life collapsing to the ground you revel in the texture of the grass – the supple warmth and tangy scent as your weight crushes it. You stumble home; grateful for the mild chill the breeze conjures, eliciting goose bumps upon your flesh. Climbing the steps you’ve almost forgotten what you just witnessed, as you shut the door that eerie dread fills you; at the time it was so insignificant you had overlooked it, but now it is staring you down. That place held no sound; even the rattle of Hope was silent, only noticed in the series of bubbles in the bloody froth.

Your stomach churns but you try to disregard as you twist the knob and water rages downward sending a cloud of steam into your face, the adjustment and stripping are done in a haze. One foot follows the other into the glorious cascade that’s easing a chill out of your soul you didn’t conceive being there, and tragedy strikes as you’ve closed the glass door and managed to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wouldn’t be so bad, if the blood staining your life toned flesh wasn’t a horribly perfect color match for the blood of the dying equine fit to match the dying world you abandoned for dead. The vomit sprays the doors and walls, retching between sobs you fight to forget, to leave the dead world behind, like some twisted childhood nightmare re-envisioned for one last haunt. Still hunched over dry heaving long after the saccharine hot water swept away the remnants of vomit and blood, you cling to the warmth of the liquid careening down your spine.

The light of midday brightens the room and you breathe deep, the air thick and heavy with early afternoon; and as your foot graces the floor you feel the wooden fiber of it, rich and earthen beneath you as your body moves from the bed to the window. As beautiful as this new world seems, the wind even seems to carry a soft lilting note – sorrow pressing hard on your mind and a memory you wish to forget. Shuffling back to bed you surrender once more to the glorious amnesia Hypnos grants; mayhap days pass and in vein the sense, as the clock betrays mere minutes. Peering up at the ceiling you fight between forgetting and scheming, torn betwixt the sense of guarding one you care for or of self preservation.

Waking to a new day, the weight upon your heart has somehow lessened, and the guilt racks you into a harsh sob; preparing for the task at hand while blinded by responsibility is swiftly done. Calming breath to steady yourself at the window overlooking that bright world you can see with such voracity, a vein attempt to preserve the sense of innocence. A sensation familiar crawls upon your skin and you look down to the sidewalk beyond and into the eyes of dull blue glass and the tears well softly in the corner, betraying you and your decision. You cannot save her, you wouldn’t know how - but if you remain friends the fact of this would drive you mad; abandon is written on your face as plainly as E PLURIBUS UNUM on the currency, full of sorrow your frown twists into that smile all the gods of pain and loss bear. As you bring up your gaze to meet her face, her piercing stare, your eyes convey “I cannot save you and I cannot stay” and this alone is awful, but the pain is sharpened by her soft smile and the ease of her body language as hers convey “I know. And I forgive you.”

Turning your back you slide to the floor and let the world fade away into the blurring tears and the wracking sobs.

I might notice I was crying if I could feel it and if I was accustomed to seeing where I went. I lived in your world once. I know this, but I cannot remember. Sometimes I think about it, but all reminiscence brings is pain. I feel the chill coming and sight relief.

Might not be death, but a girl can dream…

Labyrinth

2006-11-24T01:40:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the days seem to stretch on forever. I think I remember times that were better – but do I? As my soul collapses inward I ponder ever seeing a brighter side. Of course the grass looks greener on the other side. I might remember what it tasted like if only I could halt the frantic consumption of ash. While it’s heavier, somehow I think it’s just not filling that void there.

How long can you lie before that lie becomes truth? I’m gagging on those ashes again, but it’ll wash down with another handful. If mirrors are gateways, what’s there for you if all you see is nothing? I crawled inside the other day, only to find decay. And the comfort that the frigid brings. The tightening ache in my chest clutches harder each passing day – I might say it’s my heart breaking if I hadn’t forgotten what that meant long ago – and I fight to breathe through it. What happens when I’m too tired for it?

When I started at the beginning of this I knew where I was going… Plush labyrinth turned harsh maze.

was that the Minotaur?

I’ve run out of options and now I can’t’ help but run on. Before I can realize I have fallen down I’m up and running again. I’m chocking and coughing in a strange fit as water blurs my vision is this what crying’s like? but the drive is strong as I stumble onward. Drive rooted so deep I don’t even think to question, just moving.

Motion! Is that the answer?

The pounding of my footsteps is my only memory.

What am I running from?

A thought so quick I’ve lost it before I can conceive its idea.

There was a destination once I think and I try to awaken myself to it. The flooding sensation only causes my vision to lapse into bright colors and vague shapes. Movement is default. The acid, what was once blood, in my veins burns and stimulates kinesis. Prone to it, I can’t remember sleeping, only myriads of dead ends and paths traveled. As my eyes come into focus I see the path laid out before me. Comfort in continual motion, pushed forward.

That sound again; strange and scratchy, yet constant as my pace, shuffles. Thick and lush, no option available and backward is the way forward. Passing a path long since traveled, a figure glimpsed. Insignificant to the drive. The need to finish this. To find the end. If only she could remember the reasoning for starting to begin with was the figure she’s running from.

Sensation of time passing is an eerie one, but it crawls along my spine familiar as the pace I’m keeping ever onward in vein and the scratching shuffle that surrounds. Long since the elusive figure which haunts the hallows of this place as surely as I do. Pangs of something wrench as the silhouette slides across the paths of my thoughts and the drive is harder as is the ache crushing down.

The world is bright where the black reigned moments ago. Harsh the drag of air inward, wracked in torment. The slow stumble upward widens the scene, brightly scarlet thickly slick, pouring freshly from some gaping wound in this skull. Trembling and ungainly I surge forward.

What does it matter if I die here? There is only the answer. That strange secret at the end of this is my salvation or undoing and I must press on. I am not I. all that’s left is this shell

I’ve passed another dead end. I am lost and I just keeping running farther into it. Helpless to the need of something I cannot remember. And the dream of it is the drive, the hope behind the dream giving endless endurance.

And in the end all I will have achieved is the desolation of this that was once my soul.

I am at ease.

secretly she died long ago

murdered my her reason

You Had Your Night In Shining Armor, I Had My Monster Under The Bed

2006-09-27T00:34:00.000-07:00

What is it about the monsters that makes me [us??] cry for them. When I see a movie I do not plaudit for the dragon slayer, but the dragon. It is not the hero I want to see at the end – covered in blood and gore from a job well done – but the werewolf. It is not the slayer I hold my breath for, it’s Dracula.

I was nine when I had my first crush. He was tall, dark and handsome. He was Dracula in the ’92 version of Bram Stoker’s. Seeing him left me breathless and at the end my heart truly ached at his peril. I connected more with the monster than any other character.

Still evident today in which characters I love from even the most mundane of shows. House and Cartman –who you only love because you hate– I love for very different reasons. I want to BE them. In ancient times I would kill them and consume their flesh to invoke their attributes within myself. They’re an addiction—strange, bizarre and fascinating. Like the two-headed cow you can’t help but stare at. Only, where the masses generally find themselves a little sickened and/or horrified, I can only proclaim desire and interest.

I would merrily frolic into the night of Stephen King’s werewolves and gladly plunge into the maw of the maddened creature if only for that brief encounter. Most would urinate in fear, with confusion I believe my reaction to be far different.

LUST

The breath that the masses hold in fear for being found, I find myself bursting with anticipation. Secretly counting the seconds until the cold claws tightly grasp my arms and shoulders before plunging into ferocity. The toxic giddy-up causing your heart to burst full of adrenaline at the need-to-flee fills mine with wanton desire.

Perhaps this has filtered thoroughly into every fiber of my being; because I find myself carrying a great disdain for the masses. Not all of the normals, just a majority. Secretly I’m combing through them to find the dark star shining within.

I rage harshly and fiercely and love just as passionately. I want that in return. The monsters have it. We are kin and I am wanting to be ravaged. I want to combust beneath you. “Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.”

The trick to monsters is you have to be as eager to consume them as they are to consume you.

I am ready.

And I am hungry.

Come out, come out, wherever you are…

clapping; bravo, hallelujah, hosanna; acclaim, accolade, citation, commendation, compliment, encomium, eulogy, homage, paean, panegyric, salutation, tribute

acclamation, cheering, cheers, ovation, plaudit(s), rave(s)

Some Secret Sin Crept Upon My Lips And Unwittingly I Uttered The Utterly Reprehensible…

2006-09-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

I raged silent against a violent world. All of it sticky remorse and translucent pain. So unsure and yet secure and well aware. My heart picks up a notch. The slightly unnoticeable flush betraying the giddy up of a rhythmic enthused muscle. A light in the eyes evinces and undermines the rest. Marbled body- cold, unyielding steel mimicry. Vampiric ancient a statued self but somewhere within blood rushes. Hot pooled seduction rushing through cable systems working a little too efficiently.

You only smile at them. I’m screaming – quiet, quiet, shh – and the silence of it fills volumes. A polite grimace is all I’m bequeathed but I snatch. Child of Ethiopia with a steak. The slightest hint of recognition and nuclear reaction causes this cold star to burn hot. Chameleon black to vivid red.

Burn with a yearning futile as a child building a tower to heaven. Tears like acid carve hot trails along marble — canyons in wake. I’m only breathing to see if you notice. Curious. Hurt. Wanting. Hating, loathing, impeaching every notion. I see you look at them, watch them, converse with them, touch them, smell them. Green eyes veiled, still as prey. Angst climbs tendons like electric charging batteries. Frozen in the instant–beg for an ending far away as Armageddon. I’m lost in my own iron tranquility and my silver tongue slit my throat long ago. Soft sighs mock the cries I make that cannot escape my python throat.

Velvet lashes flick liquid diamonds swiftly from traitorous doorways. Hard to breath in the vice grip of self control but I’ve learned naught else. I’m bursting expanding rushing racing to fill all directions. Thundering madness out and away, anywhere but here. I can’t bear to move –to leave–

Silent fingers grip like springs wound tight, steel twisted–clenching vicious. Clutch it, huddle closer. Pain swirls and encircles and strangles that bastard that keeps beating after long requited silence.

How do you fix what you can’t change. I regret not being what you want. I regret not being what you need. I regret being here. I regret – being. And I huddle in awe and fear, pain is sweet lust and I let it linger while your near. You’re palpable as I ache starvation.

I stumble unable to convey the idea so simple its infinitely complex. Light candles to your memory even as I make plans to see you on the marrow. Plans you’ll never know about because you’ll never notice me beyond the passing glance. A gift I’ll cherish even as you regret descending your gaze upon me. Odd scents promulgate the burning flesh as I caress the flame lost in imagery vivid with you. Red poppy among the sea of clover. I’m [grasping, grabbing, rushing] for the safety while eagerly falling into your desire.

A rush to open that red door only to find the light within marks the emptiness of time and space without some semblance of you. Violent angry rush boldly streaks black upon it. Bury the desire– a betrayal of myself.

I will never have you because I can never be what you desire and I’ve nothing left. How stranglely hollow filled with your emptiness. Awe struck and breathless.

Wishing an eternity of this.

We Had A Torrid Love Affair, Until His Dreams Of Death Silenced It

2006-09-12T22:26:00.000-07:00

Along the shores and past the sea, the girl lies amongst the rocks. Not jagged, the black shreds of volcanoes long since gone – receded into the earths memory.

Adorned in softest rags of deepest darkness and stray strands of seaweed, wet and heavy she lay unmoving. Bedecked by sand and guarded closely by overeager crustaceans, the smooth alabaster belied the secret her body hid.

Dark and angry waves of the sea, green-black with envy, continued reaching in vein. As one who searches for some long lost items within. The sky, bewitched, held darkest clouds yet still the world was bright – as on a merely overcast day.

The vivid green of the forest further up the beach was muted. And unholy silence hushed the surrounding space. The birds that flew were silent as death’s harbingers, and the sea itself hushed.

Then she opened her eyes…

I Was Happy To Be Hollow, Yet You Wanted To Fill The Void, And Now I’m Bursting With Death

2006-09-10T22:18:00.000-07:00

Some sympathetic ear taunted me with vicious dreams of capricious pagans. Wholesale slaughter at private prices, and someday I’ll be just another whore. Maybe then you’d want me. And I smile; feigning delight, because what you want is a star and unfortunately all I can be is a phoenix. How quickly all the color in your world has faded. Scantily clad in red I try to hide, ruby amongst ashes. My tears tread black along pale faces, a porcelain lie.

And you sit silently amongst flames, frigid by the open window that smothers the fire. Inhalation of ice is lancing red and I can’t help but breathe you in. Thick in my lungs I want to keep you here. But destined to leave; you smile and reassure me that you’re my shadow. By my side always. Moon brilliant, I’ve lost myself – but who was I to begin with, not anyone I cared to know.

Slowly the blood crimson of the bismuth oxychloride smears delicately along the labium inferius. A decadent doorway into the abyss. Still I stare with vacant, oculus hollow.

Sometimes I think my heart would shatter to be found. I’ve lost it and see no need to find it. A white queen within an endless realm of snow and bitter cold. Alone and unyielding; Caesar had friends – it’s all to easy to see where it got him. Harsh and bitter, I am the north seas. Chill with the omen of death. But the crueler the mistress, the greater the bounty. Perhaps there is some treasure at the end of this bleak gray rainbow….

Some Silent Cat Whispered Sweet Nothings In My Ear Then Abandoned Me At The Altar

2006-08-25T23:15:00.000-07:00

Some intrepid sin forgotten by a long abandoned god crept upon me whilst unawake I lie. Cushioned in clover and lost in blissful dreams of chaos. Suffocating blankets of NAG CHAMPA curled around, hugging the warmth by a still beating heart locked within.

and in the shadows, cloaked in observance death still solid perched the audacious shadow. gingerly tiptoed dainty delicate cat stealth, creeping e'er closer.

gentle as the morning dew

curled atop the muscled rhythm

one beat, two beat, a tango within the veins. and nine lives of fur void black and satin soft stooped to whisper in my ear.

in vein i lie there still

You Can’t Spell Slaughter Without Laughter

2006-08-22T02:42:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I’ve done wrong. these days in vein searching every detail how wide the fine tooth comb

muddled mishaps scream while indecisions beg lulling false pretensions into hysteria

and every attempted scream merely issues forth sycophantic gushes of glee. a lying smile. this sweet façade. beyond the back door the girl is dying cold in the warm summer sun

in this crowd I am alone

this boy he smiles and holds me gently. and carefully he wraps me within tight ropes and my naïveté shines softly as i docile lie.

crucified in silence, not a whisper. and how carefully the unwrapping. the ropes serve again hoisted some sick carnival ride, afraid I’m the late addition

sweet silhouette upon the hill. a golden ticket lost, and i have watched all along to beg the question

can martyrs be void within?

smile. the jackal found it disconcerting when instead of laughter ink issued forth. far cry to the blackness of beyond lying in wait just within.

Silent Observation

2006-08-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

Twist fire, how bright burn empty stars.

I suffocate in this fluorescent machine.

This amalgamation of violent peace.

Ravaged and secure I sit sidelined.

Placid and dormant,

A sycophantic observer of my homicide.

Lethargically dreaming, this void overflows;

Corrupting and wicked.

Burrow deeper; morbid curiosity creeps.

Rotting carcass licking life, expulsion from flesh.

Apathetic watcher of my own evisceration.

I huddle, clinging to this

Grand mastication of the soul.

This all consuming horde.

These devils with white wings, saviors of damnation.

Can You Feel Me Dying?

2006-06-29T23:40:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it’s the Rains; but I feel Ancient.

weathered.

worn.

The sunlight is distilled here. -- washed tainted muted pastel -- Devoid of warmth, the bright spots are chilling as the first frost.

I am Tired. Exhausted.

understatement of the year

Driftwood.

Mayhaps vanity, the sick clock ticks somewhere deep inside. Evidence of existence in solitaire. Alone. Unwanted. Washed.
This bright day is cold
And I'm left Alone
Pondering. . .

To Whom It May Concern;
The Hours have grown long
Razor and I had a conversation
On heartache and time
Seems he fancies a fellow
Astride a white horse
Elusive
My confessions flow ice cold from devil's lips
Shadowed whispers
In hallowed halls
Maybe I'll marry him

suicide

We could live together

beneath the hard packed earth

Forever
Razor sighed to hear it
A proposal to the end of our torrid love affair
Who would notice?
Who would care?

The silence held no answer

Mist

2006-06-17T00:39:00.000-07:00

Did you lie when god slept on Thursday?
Or was it the Saturday before?
Sometimes I wonder if you mean it.
Are you acting?
See this mask?
I found it.
Who dropped it?
By the way, I found your dagger...
In the interspatial of the fifth and sixth
Along my spine.

I walked along the rainy sidewalk.
The Cemetery sighed
I found myself on the muddied ground
Red rain burned my eye.
A lie, the blood upon the tomb stones is myne

The fog is harsh and thick
I
Can't
See
Is it rain or wet snow?

I keep clenching furiously
Sticky clothes
I hate the wet tack
And where are you!?!
You said you'd always be there for me
But you're not

Working For Emptiness

2006-06-01T18:24:00.000-07:00

Life is quickly losing its brilliance. Chaos ensues day after day. Myriad of indecision.

I'm working all the time.

I'm droning. Worker bee.

I've nothing to show for it. I want to do things that I cannot because I do not have the money. Working for emptiness. Not piercing. Cannot find a master for it. Apprentice deficiency incomprehensible.

Have you paid the piper?

Stiff Lies because I starched the collar. So sorry to disturb.

Can't you let me run away??

Cat had nine lives all that's left is a bucket of lies. Pale in comparison to the moon. Demons shine in shadows of angels. Never made me laugh without wry smile...
You whispered things you did not mean.
I'm tired of trying.
Pardon me is this the way to hell?
I see the pavement

How sparkly new are your Good Intentions

Wicked Wicked Wicked

Ding Dong the Witch is DEAD

Work work work
Run Away! Run Away!

Are you using me?
Have you had your fill today?
There's something left. Although it's somewhat damaged. I think you could find some use.

Half price?

Worthless stars hide in shadows

Demons fear

Can you hear me now?

Pardon The Way That I Stare

2006-04-26T19:29:00.000-07:00

The boy is sitting there. The girl sits there too. But the boy does not see the girl; he is too concerned with the future. Tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow.

THERE IS NO TOMORROW FOR THE GIRL.

Gollum hollow, filled to bursting with that achy emptiness – thick and suffocating, self replicating cotton pushing at the seams. She’s memorizing every inch of him [the way vampires do veins – softly humming highways of life]. She could crawl millions of miles across his flesh and never be finished. Some glorious puzzle box she’s too terrified to touch.

CAUTION: FRAGILE

That conflagration blazing in her distal digits caused violent seizing, swiftly hidden beneath idle limbs.

How long would this
[THIRST NECESSITY CRAVING WANT HUNGER YEARNING NEED]
go unrequited?
How much longer could she bear it?

Implosion on the horizon, she inhaled deeply – vain endeavor to impart the effortlessly achievable portion of him within her. Mournful, the howl rolling up her throat - swiftly stifled, eruption no more than a whimper.

Whether politely ignored or blatant indifference, lack of acknowledgment proved damaging. Obvious inadequacy spurned her to motion. She could no more tell if he loved her than if he hated her; worse was the utter lack of paths to convey her intentions.

But she could RUN.

Rising like the night she flowed into kinetics, pounding flesh to earth until the night had evaporated and acid seared her veins.

Phantasm

2006-02-02T02:30:00.000-08:00

Are you happy? What do you want out of life?

A picturesque dream. Swoon lively my sweet. We dance FIERCE FIESTY jumping at flames. Heaven’s a bubble the tin soldier on street corner X popped.

Bing.

Flash lightening and wild. Tipsy topsy turvey BOUNCE BOUNCE BINGO. Sometimes I bubble up; surface all distended.

Hiphopscotch.

Do you dream? Monochromatic dreary drama. Honeysweet sugarcakes.

Possibly once, down stream, many shiny colored bubbles hatched tiny gerbils.

And YOU, music lover, you’re next.

Cacophony chuckles rapt apparent.
Post-consumer waste. Whiskey hickey struggled swift. Maybe never next bluebirds birth pancake berries. Honey hollow ducks. Silver peacocks twist dainty. Some mushrooms say blood on Tuesday’s fares well with flesh.

Harbinger lost, softly swill red river frost.

Folklorist

2006-02-01T01:08:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think life must be square. Random anemic events. Dwindling dancers pinched in the moonlight. Tiny tiny bubbles. Some sunbeams feel restricted. Locked in boxes with no light.
I find them glittering like fireflies.

Burn It All Down

2005-08-19T01:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder how I surround myself with these people. These sick sycophants who parade around like Godzilla in Tokyo. These goblins who wreak havoc and copulate destruction. I'm withering in this sunless environment, this dying flower. Diseased and full of decay.

Sometimes I think I have everything all wrong. I've misread this map, a convoluted conjecture as to my position and the one I am supposed to be in. This surreal bubble is all consuming and treacherous.

Perhaps I'm seeking validation in the wrong places. Or maybe I have stopped looking at all.

Stolen Kiss

2003-11-23T01:27:00.000-08:00

Wicked bell tinkling
Lethal water spray psychotic
Rouge kissed marble
Sunbursted puddles
Red velvet Virgin Mary tears
Twisted magma steams
Tainted sugar trail
Seductive dances death
Midnight bone lover
Will you steal a kiss?

Build The Doll

2003-11-18T01:37:00.000-08:00

Rainbow emeralds
Porcelain geisha mask
Offset platinum cover
Violet flanks shamrock
Midnight lined
Blood merge violet bow
Sugar sweet pout
Coiled copper bondage
White spun strawberry gold
Bejeweled spiked band
Engaging throat
A doll for a pet

Twisted Love

2003-09-14T00:16:00.000-07:00

Red lance
Creates anguished song
Unseen behind
Trusted fiend
Dance closer the floor
Marble ice crushed
Cream flame child
Demon lover carresses clarity
Flinch flickers deadly
Through open windows
Pearl moon collides sun gold
Resistance spawns only
Darkness worse than death

Tormentor

2003-09-13T23:16:00.000-07:00

Hollow haunted windows
Only evidence
Soul fire dying
Memories ache more than death
Crimson regret stains
Milk marble
Jagged silver fang
Deep diver of angelic abyss
Search you sanctuary
Secrets withheld
Riddle life solved puzzle
Within withering angel
Take advantage
Crush pale candle
Beacon the lost
Rape the mind
Murder the soul

Random Pieces 001

2003-09-11T22:54:00.000-07:00

Hollow sick burnt
Alone fire died
To soon stars spent on
Empty promises

Sadistic tunes trample
Ideals of galaxies
Containing songs of hope and joy
Killed 'fore fledglings flew

Sorrow suffocates
Angel dancing deeply into
Despair violet black

Welcome Burn

2003-08-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

Violent quakes of curiosity
Erupt electric sparks
Spinal xylophone tunes
Creating symphonies felt
Supernova white blinding
Rush in
Crushing suffocating
Burrow rabbit quick deeper
Welcome burn
Fire cool to caress
Eternally phoenix death
Burn on

Shimmer

2003-06-18T18:07:00.000-07:00

Shimmer soft in deep recesses
Of ebon velvet darkness
Glow darkly
Dim star among shadows
This pale candle
Calls home diamond winged
Lover of the night
Commanding wish
Shall I burn for you brighter?
Beacon from home

Icy Slumber

2003-06-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

Clear ice pours swiftly
Encircles metal tunnel to forever
Blocked with silver marble
Ice rises in personal porcelain pools
Curled white fabric flashes
Translucent floating in timeless
Eternity of liquid ice
Thick golden spider-silk strands
Dance forbiddingly in new home
Figure merges infinitely
With gentle ice caressing
Deep entrancing darkness
So close to forever
Light explodes

Lust

2003-05-09T14:41:00.000-07:00

Sick sycophantic passion burning
Supernova between the silver satin
Cool quicksilver
Wrapped around fire sprites
Drink lust thick like cream
Honey rich ice
Neurotic electricity sings
Snow white down
Central vertebral structure
Symphonic solar explosion
Love is hot whispers
Lust is hotter reality

Stalker

2003-05-08T14:43:00.000-07:00

Blood moon sits silent
November stars weep violence
Diamond dust rains
Down upon the undeserving
Silent watcher
I see all you do
Breath in snow on the horizon
Room to room
Roaming endless nights psychotic
Mindless craze
Lustful obsession you crave

Accident

2003-04-19T14:38:00.000-07:00

Supple amber words trickle down
Soft petal lips
Gentle instruction soft in encouragement
Gray steel fang shines
Newness creates inanimate anticipation
Tremble gently silver ice melts
Into solid milk
Exact precision becomes deathly
Ruby caramel explodes violent
Are you happy with crimson regret
Filling goblets for you
Drink deeply talking to
Shadow voices
Tell her it was an accident
I did what you asked

Touch

2003-04-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

Aquatic waves of silence
Sheltering blue laser lines
Fragmented murmurings seduce shadows
Cascading from ruby lips
A blood brushed fullness
Colliding binaries infuse explosion
Ripples electric awaken numb limbs
A quaking swirl of heat
Tremble one more symphonic
Caress of imploding galaxic harmonies
Rush of nothingness consuming
White birds murmur silver songs
Awaiting one more

Daemon in the Daylight

2003-03-04T14:34:00.000-08:00

A golden illusion
Rays of light blinded me
Because I saw him
By the brilliance
Of a burning chariot
Blood born boy
With crystal black soul
Beauty birthed of darkness
Amazed and elated
My breath caught
A rush to touch
This creature of blood and shadows
Sensation so new
All because I saw
Daemon in the Daylight

Today

2003-03-02T17:31:00.000-08:00

Silent shadows sprang
The cat came out to play
No one saw the blackbird fly
When Johnny died today
Torn veins shuddered
The guard dog slept
Like death in the morning
Blue curtains were wings
On acrid air
And I dreamt through it all
Because I no longer care