Swim

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.

Bittersweet

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

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

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

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

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

You and Your Anchor Tattoo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lies You Uttered Still Whisper In The Trees

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?

On Being A Vampire

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.

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

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….

Folklorist

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.

Stalker

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