Night Air Reflection

 
 
 
Archetypes
walk city streets, ride subways
costumed as commoners —
subterranean trickster consciousness,
ethereal siamese twin
to the mundane.
Shadow and substance
entwine as before
the incursive divide.
I long to tell you,
yearn so I loudly whisper,
but only if you really listen.
I cannot say these things twice.
Memories seep through,
acquire form.
Stand straight and true
as soldiers or Marines
gifting full allegiance
to any who will take that load.
There are Gods foaming in excrement,
demanding relief in sardonic
sacrament
potent and deadly.
Angels and
Demons wage stochastic war;
dice from a grail
foresage trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts wail.
Vampires and Creatures
made of night
seek shelter before
travails of fablers
break them.
Morning Star
winks salaciously.
In wild’s kingdom
all manner of beings
thrive.
Eagles soar.
Lions roar.
Whales sing.
Humans open a
veiled third eye.
The World rejoices.
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Many Voices

 
 
 
May we attend the funeral please,
for our sweet sister?
Nibble a bit upon her vacant flesh.
The foxes, the dear little foxes.
Mais oui, mais oui, the funeral, please,
for our sweet sister.
Mais oui, nibble a bit
upon her tender flesh.
Her day is over.
He’s digging a hole in the ground for me.
He’s digging a hole in the ground for me
and singing a song of sweet “I love you’s”
all the while he digs.
(minimizing his own discomfort)
Mais oui, nibble a bit
upon her vacant flesh.
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Bitter Dregs

 
 
 
You don’t get it.
You don’t want to.
It would be too much to bear
if you let your thought go there.
Briefly unconscious, awakened to
hard concrete ground surrounded
by heels and toes, amazing
they don’t crush me, but no,
like clockstep they walk around
though occasionally a(n unmeaning?)
shove — I’m not a someone,
just a minor obstacle
unnoted in their busy day.
No worries.
Not like shoved down under
hard muscle, jutting  bone,
stinking of beer and rage;
or waking from too brief oblivion,
broken pain, bleeding
tears, torn, bruised, a
colorful toy
made for pleasure.
Then the voices, echoes.
Harpies and Sirens, Furies
and sad old women.  Fingers
shake in disapprobation.
Shrill voices call me beautiful,
in the way that ugly things are.
So bad, so pitiful, cardinal
status among the neverweres.
Struggling shadows, whispering
curses demurely lest anyone
notice and throw them further
down, below duration.
Never easy, confessing degradation.
The sin adheres.  No one wants to know.
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hungry zeitgeist

 
 
 
Slivers, splinters, falling meaning.
Catch it, spinning out to the stars.
Bleeding rags dressed in fine red patches.
Shredded hands, hopes, hearts, drip desire.
I can’t hold on, hold out, hold a good thought,
flailing agonized neurons,
shattered mirrors
unable to provide sustenance
hold suction,
bind the wound.
Embrace me.
Clasp so tight and tenderly
as blood scores your fingers.
Touch my raw eroding senses
with gentle rain, easing,
obscuring the view.
I would curl up into destiny,
adore my lacerations
as fantasies of false skins.
Sliding, holding fast to sharp edges,
I would fall immortally lost through space,
dripping inward.
I would lock my consciousness in pasteboard boxes,
too squeezed for mortal breath.
The words whirl around, whirl around, whirl
like scattered bits of paper tears.
I would hide in the deepest cage and
keep life from slowly seeping through.
But the hunger calls.
It growls and jumps in fits to battle.
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sangfroid

 
 
 
Hunger.
Too redundant for horror.
Each night to feed wrapped in repugnancy.
Hidden, alone, hunting streets of death.
No hope, nothing legitimate.
Days escaped in self-made mausoleum;
no relief of dreams, blocking memories,
enduring.
Creature of  frigid streets, abandoned.
Preternaturally cruel air.  Sulphur, tar,
stench of rot sans remorse or resolution.
Unnatural world devoid of end or warmth.
Even when blood runs hot into aching jaws,
metallic, raw,
no heat penetrates.
Nights stretch to nowhere.
More filth, barbarity
too familiar to offend
solitary stalkers crowding all the secret places.
There is no exit here.
No respite, release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only eternal degradation of soul.
Not possibility, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no useful expression, no expiration.
Yet in this ceaseless odium, this carnal Hell,
in this my desolate home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of bleeding vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.
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Art’s Fool

Art is the most demanding of lovers
Cruel and abusive.
She’ll use you, and once you have served her purpose,
toss you aside.
Then, if she pleases,
she may call you at the most inopportune of moments,
demand your full attention to her every whim;
and you’ll love her and beg for more.
You feel so empty when she’s gone.
You will do whatever it takes,
suffer pain, poverty, indignities,
destroy your health,
destroy your mind,
and do it over and over again
just to have her,
fleeting, ecstatic moment to
fleeting, ecstatic moment
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Secret Desire

 
 
 
Here, in my room, waiting.  Silent as I close the door, turn out the light, turn out the world.
I feel presence from behind, reaching to touch my clavicle, soothe vagal impulse to turn. 
I feel hands, supple, strong, heat through in contact; healing sacred touch fortified with love.
We kiss; swirl like cotton candy, sweet, sticky, surreal. 
We touch into solidity, each synapse response exquisite field of permeability. 
We taste. 
There are no words.
 
I know I said (I prayed):
 
To be adored beyond embarrassment,
I who can do no wrong, because beloved.
To be gifted reflective critique.
To fall securely into open arms and heart.
Each blessed day to start
gazing into shining eyes that see so deeply,
so wisely, my precious wondrous being.
What I have taught myself severely
I can never have.
Too bad.  So sad.  Can’t let fantasy
keep me from my daily dance with debt.
My perfect
love
never to be met.
 
We meet secretly, in places that can’t be mapped or tethered. 
Embrace in rapid burst, seductively slow motion to subtly trace desire.
Emotively charged ecstasy, pulsing electrically beyond space/time. 
Fluid majesty, gently shaping eternity.  We are ouroboros, ancient fantasy, modern physics.
This is the charm I need to cast the spell, to open the fortress.  I become energy that feeds
on ambrosia of essence.  I become beloved.
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love poem at midnight

 
 
 
I tell you my heart, wrapped in bloody
papers, rots ripe with brutal stench of
rapacious cruelty.
I deny your lilting hail, call to healing beauty. 
Entranced, I wallow in respite,
the invisibility of sleep,
tightly coiled cold, alone.
 
Yet I fall open as you touch me.
Eyes melt shining into eyes,
lips into ecstasy.
Your fingertips feather down,
soft, alluring along my
long parched skin.
I want so to believe again
in two hearts beating wholeness.
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On the Threshold of Silence

 
 
 
Absorbed by rabble noise my tired voice trails unheard.
How can it matter what I say?
A fool, I record hard travel truth in written word
to scatter as if for use someday.
 
Realize that my eyes see uncommon visions.
My mind seeks to find unlikely decisions.
My lips may seem gripped, but that’s not done on purpose.
What I know doesn’t show on my nondescript surface.
 
How can I explain,
entice suffice to hear,
what isn’t always clear?
Notes of refrain
jumbled with pain;
I must be insane.
Lyrics
play with my inner ear,
keeping me guessing.
Burden or blessing?
Of course you don’t care.
Just turbid notes on passing air.
 
Weaving through aether,
permeating atmosphere,
essence I ache to share
already everywhere.
You never heard it from me.
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Little Love Poems

 
 
 
    I.
 
Passion Plays
Sidewalk street scenes
Commercialized love-ins at the five and dime.
It’s getting so you can’t speak of intimate feelings
without sounding like a third rate flick
or pocket novel.
So we go cold in protest.
And that is the evil
of obscenity.
 
    II.
 
I fell in love once
Now they just take on different
Faces and Forms.
These objects of my passions.
It’s all the same fucking merry-go-round
of rapid pulse beats
hot and cold flashes
And none of it seems very real or sane
or even, at this well-worn point,
Romantic.
 
    III.
 
You said you loved me,
And it made my world.
I called you my lover;
and felt secure in the race to conquest.
Yet lately, when I’m alone
I feel an urge to leaving.
And when I’m with you,
I’m not there at all.
 
    IV.
 
Love is a word people use a lot.
I love you.
Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not five minutes,
but right now.
You touch me.
Through a look, a phrase, an expression,
the way you stand so firmly on your ground.
And I respond
with the hot flush of love
in a smile.
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