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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