Cordially Dismissed

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

Opheliac

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?

Where Wolves Wander…

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.

You Can’t Spell Slaughter Without Laughter

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.