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UntitledSecond to none
Our thoughts be undone
Hilt and blade
Bow and Nock
Blood to flood
Our Thoughts be Undone
Dance of blades
Fires of Damned
Legacy of Hell
Our blades rang well
Thoughts to scour
Lives to reap
Our beckoned Soul
Does now weep
Ascending FIreThe moon shines through a window
The dark is pierced
The light descends
Bringing Demon to Angel
And Death to the Earth
Out of ash and out of smoke
And Angels do not Provoke
It heads to both gates and splits in two
Hell battens downs
and Heaven closes her gates
It impacts both with a vengeance
The gods quake at its Fury
Betrayed it was
And revenge it seeks
with Sigil in beak
It burns the sky
And douses the Earth and all beneath it
And Fire descends
To scathe the World from the chains above
and the shackles below.
It is free, terrible and strong
and Mercy knows not its name.
A FailureShe sees herself in the mirror
She clasps her bracelet
She whisper words profound
And never once missing a beat
Words flow into poetry
and magic starts to dance
She sways, she sings and feels a gentle hand
Out of mist and verb
Cool and deceitful
Soft as silk
and gentle as a dove
He breathes life into her music
He breathes life into her words
He glimpses the future for her
He does what he is told
He walks with her
and spends his days by her side
as number as they may be
Joy fills her life
As she pays the ultimate price
The words fumble
Her verbs break
She misses a beat
and He gets angry
She pleads for forgiveness
He does not acquiesce
He pulls a blade
and slits her throat
A final mercy
for the failure shes become
He stands above
and slides a hand to shield her eyes
He takes her soul
down into his depths, laughing all the while
She screams, and regrets saying those words
That brought horror into the world
and put Death in her womb
That once there flowed
A river deep
That in stars and blood alike
flowed a rain profound
The torrent appears
A rage now feared
Thundering its might
So true its revealing sound
Like a rain that flows profound.
Those thoughts and fears
A plague to mind
Trembling at sound and sight
That flow a river deep
A river deep of sight and sound
Deep within, the torrent rages
I see glimpses
I hear sounds
There are others.
of Red Blood Wine
Of drink this night sweet
Amused the lips
to eve’s caress
We trodden down
The wooden path
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
An apologythere are books of memory
I scribbled in them with crayon and
seeped flowers into their spines when I was young.
Tearing the edges, I filled it with my life.
Now my hands shake.
Muscle slipping, dead ink spilling
marking my veins like
sin soaks the soul.
with so many lost lines
you would never find,
the first fresh stroke of its creator
or, the final sigh of the full stop
exhaling the memory
that it once was something-
a blank page,
a fresh breeze cooling you,
wrapping her hands around your neck.
And me, telling her secrets until
it overruns her with inky sickness.
Among my loves I still beg mercy
while carving my suffering.
My pen ripping into where my voice and hands
were never brave.
Tearing into pages of all things
like the dress of a lover.
If I could, I would leave a note, saying:
Forgive my words that cut you,
I only do it so I can live
with the poison inside.
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
How intricate this web I've fallen into. Most amusing, most confusing; that I find myself is such a wonderful place. Had I the vigor, I'd add this to my garden; if only by a thought. The sweet dew that drips from this place, captured only by the brave, and the brave with a Lens. So rich is the scent of youth in your garden, that I'd too, wish to keep. Yet to disturb such a quiet slumber, would be most distasteful. So I here end my notes, and continue toward the making; of my Perfect Garden; where all are welcomed.
Red Letter Day - Prologue
So here I am, writing.
I’m writing, I’m writing – just as you told me to.
I’m writing, I’m writing, I’m writing.
Have you ever noticed that when the sun goes down, this flat changes? It does. The walls are white during the day and lingering brown at night. During the day, I’m with you and the light from outside paints the walls that heavenly color. But when that sun goes down, the demons wake and I’m alone again, even though you’re just a room away.
Somehow it seems less threatening tonight, and I think it’s because you’ve given me an assignment to try and fight off the darkness. You gave me a stack of papers and a pen and told me to write everything that comes to mind.
It’s a strange feeling to have complete freedom. These empty pages are mine to do whatever I please – I could even wipe my ass with them – but they’re also terribly intimidating. The blank page has always been a nemesis of man. It&
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