Because It's Everything

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?

Some Summer Winds

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

Extraction

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.

Let Me Fall To Consumption

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.

Can You Feel Me Dying?

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

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.