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

All Of It's Futile You Know

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

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…

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.

Silence Is A Killer

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…

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.