Makeshift Heaven & Cryptic Earth

Makeshift Heaven & Cryptic Earth

I decided it was time to move beyond my old poetry thread to get a sense of freshness for everyone with a passing or deeper interest in the kind of work that I do, in addition to inspiration for me as well. These poems can sometimes be edited slightly over time, so multiple reads can often glean an even deeper result.



Shadow Dream

Among all sapient energies, it appears I am essential; this is the curse of the mind.
At heart, what subsists this soul is the ten thousand things.
I reach for a treasure, and it becomes waste before my eyes.
A layer of enchantment pulses over everyday life, making it hard to distinguish matter from mind.
Every solution presented is a lie of a different kind.
We hold these lies to be self-evident, but there must be a self to be evident.
Where is self? This is the secret question to solve your snake oil severance.

Nice to see some writings from you again.

With this piece... well, it has good imagery, but your overall meaning is a bit hard to follow. (...this could be because it's 1 am, but still. <<; ) So, if it's alright to ask, what are you trying to get across with this poem?

Originally Posted by southern belle

Nice to see some writings from you again.

With this piece... well, it has good imagery, but your overall meaning is a bit hard to follow. (...this could be because it's 1 am, but still. <<; ) So, if it's alright to ask, what are you trying to get across with this poem?

Thanks. X3 I am sorry if it seems too elaborate...Kinda how my mind works.

Whore of Thanatos

Death is Life’s lust ended, and leaving the body,
but then again, I lie convincingly; it becomes Death itself.
So poetry fabricates for convenience,
while I am forced to eat these salt-in-the-wound tears.
I touch a pressed rose, several years old,
a whore of Thanatos with her plumage upright and proud.
She was crushed the day my grandmother tumbled into dust,
I assume, to keep her company.

That was a good one! I really enjoyed the imagery you used here. I also liked your use of unrhymed verse here. Keep it up! :3

Thank you, Vey! I wasn't sure what kind of reaction I'd get with that one. I've been so focused on comedy lately I was afraid I'd mess it up. X3 And yes, I am in love with freeverse now, I plan to do a lot more of it and less prosetry.

Love the title, the poems are great. They're not poems with big words, ambiguous use of characters and settings, and all dark and moody in an attempt to seem "deep" like the majority of **** out there (although Shadow Dream comes close). It's actually intelligent, though. The second is definitely the better of the two.

I WANT MOAR

Internal Damnation

The servant Brothers Logic and Reason
live with both the ignorant and the wise.
The two of them are quite indifferent to man;
they serve who is appointed their master:
for good or ill, like children.

As their master ages, he grows hasty,
and appoints assistants called Assumptions, a rigid sort,
to give directions to the Brothers based on the master’s general conceptions.
They rarely are inspected, and expectedly so, for the owner
freely idles without much disturbance.

The master grows sluggish with each new assumption,
and eventually his mind works entirely in autonomy. His certainties,
made in the distant past, clash with reality, but unless the supervisor
dares to venture and correct his convictions,
they are happy to be paid in vain
with the pleasures granted in false confirmation.

But the sounds of discord below haunt the master always.
The isolation grows only deeper without attendance,
He eventually forgets his original role,
and enters the path of a slave,
obedient to the revolving machinations of Hell.

Today

Today, I think I saw Jesus of Nazareth.
He was sitting in my college class, chewing the fat.
He said something about the War in Iraq and the future War in Yemen,
something about an obsessive need to control bowels and see demons.
Jesus wasn't real, though.
But he was in the class, and he was very irate.

He was pissed about lots of things, and he wanted us all to be naked;
who we were, with cigarettes in each hand and beatnik verse on the tongue.
He said he had been poor once, but there was always money in preaching.
Preaching about sex, fighting, and sometimes about both while driving an SUV.

He said cocaine was good, but only in moderation.
And that he visited whorehouses simply by by invitation,
but only to petition their souls against perdition.
All in rhyme, real annoying, just like that.

He had a heart of gold; it was his pocket watch,
and with it he could see the whole world at once,
and steal the eye of God from punks like Charlie Manson,
like some Saturday cartoon.

I once heard him warn against the excesses of truth,
because he said that wisdom was also a golden mean.
Tread softly on divine ground, he said. And don't beat your kids.

The Doctor

I had once heard of a doctor who performed miracles. He was a fascination to the media, and the people at large. The rumor was, he charged very little for his services, but he was an impeccable physician. This doctor was somewhat of a mystery to the rest of the medical community. They could never locate him in order to check his credentials or understand his methods, because he was always traveling to cure patients of fatal diseases. Always just out of reach, he would cure a woman's cancer or even, some said, genetic disorders.

A piece of conjecture that got passed around made was that he was from another world, and so he had knowledge of things we hadn't yet invented. Others said he was some kind of prophet, since he healed and wandered. But he never gave a sermon, and he never ascended into space. At least, I'd say with a bit of humor, he was never seen doing these things.

But there were things said of the doctor, things that were scarcely heard. I met many of his patients, but they refused to speak to anyone about their treatment, that was, until the reports of the man stopped happening. Consensus grew that there never was such a man, that he was an excuse for individuals with hypochondria, which I found unsatisfactory, given the evidence.

But that period, perhaps in tandem with the skeptical nature of the public, withered the secrecy among the contacts. So, I phoned and emailed the group of people who had claimed treatment, and kept the accounts that had details which were in alignment with the others. Some of the patients were obviously impostors, who were wasting my time and money with talk of a purely regurgitated religious nature. Others, however, bore uncanny details of which I could not overlook.

The descriptions which were not frauds had the following in common: they depicted the man as invariably "strange," but also with a red face, never giving any other details than that about the face. It was as if it never occurred to them. Did they mean he was wearing a mask? Or did he have a strange discoloration? Birthmark? Regardless of the gender of the patient, or even their grotesque medical conditions, the doctor would vigorously lay hands on his subjects. One account described his touch as "wet sandpaper fingers, like a cat's tongue" and another implied the touch of silk. Did he wear gloves? The vagueness of the descriptions, while they were congruent, had an awful vagueness that continued to leave me uneasy.

The accounts also seem to show that the doctor had some sort of sexual fetish for his work, and he apparently slept with the entirety of those men and women he treated. Perhaps this was why there was so little monetary compensation. Still, the accounts never mentioned being asked or coaxed for intercourse. It leaves me furthermore confused, imagining this caricature that perhaps a child would form with crayons and hands of varied textures.

There was also a bit of a mistake on a few of these accounts that would depict the two hands of the physician doing one action while at the same time doing another. It must be a coincidence, but the frequency of it is so common that I decided to note it.

The actions of the doctor, after his lust was satiated, were always meticulously geared towards the cure. I had been waiting to know his methods, but all I received was more mystery. The patients would cover their eyes, as he instructed, and then hidden by that blackness, he would aloud exclaim what he was doing in phrases like, "I'm rerouting the nerve here," or "I will clean the fracture of the bone." The descriptions seem to indicate a pain-killer that he used, but no anesthesia. This is of course because of the conscious descriptions of the patients feeling the hands of the doctor "moving under my skin," as they often phrased it, which is rather crude for people educated enough to write such letters. They did not use such unsatisfactory language in regards to other things I asked them to talk about, so it was not a matter of low intelligence. So, I was obviously perturbed at the mention of "movement like a flip-page animation" and "cracks in the air" accompanying this self-employed healer.

When the doctor would finish his work, whatever that was, he would abruptly lean close to them, his hot breath of a strong odor passing through their fingers, and they would fall asleep out of a kind of universal exhaustion that followed up with a dream of vast space, where they did not seem to possess any organs at all, like an out-of-body experience. There have always been rumors of an effect like this in reaction to certain drugs, but never before had I come across accounts of such static imaginings of nausea.

When they each awoke, the patients were checked out by professional doctors who found that tumors were missing, kidneys were well, and basically that they had recovered successfully, which was quite a jarring thing for doctors who had no clue how they could be so healthy. They were scanned by X-Ray and studied, but no indication of the healing element was found.

However, that is by no means why the patients that are alive today are bitter in regards to the doctor. While their cures had been found, their symptoms would often recur on some nights, and they became prone to night terrors. Some lost all sexual drive, their last encounter being with this elusive figure, or became addicts, to be blunt with their behavior. A number attempted to kill themselves, but circumstances prevented them from succeeding in such ways that they felt they were intentionally being stopped, and gave up. Sometimes the individuals would even regret being cured, if that is logical to say.

I have one account, translated from braille, that was sent to me in the mail by the brother of a patient of the practice, that seems to indicate regret:

I lost most of my face due to a fungal growth, and the doctor laid hands on me. I still feel the pain of the thing, growing in me as I write this out. Not just on my face...It feels like my entire body is like that, infected. I feel as if I've lost something important. My sleep isn't safe from the fungus. It grows even in my slumber, in the creases of my brain. My waking life is haunted by being blind and unable to speak. My wife loved me for who I was, as I was never an attractive man, and even she has left me. I lack not only her lips, but the lips that touched hers, and that is the worst feeling in the world.

The Doctor had insisted that we keep quiet, but I don't care. If he were a man, he would understand why we must speak. He cared about us, about me, didn't he? I never felt a touch like that, even from a woman. I want to die peacefully, without a lot of trouble.

I tried to contact him after that, but his brother seemed to have stopped checking his email. That was the last response I ever received from the patients, but sometimes, when I check for their names, I find one in the obituaries or in headlines.

The Doctor was simply great. The story was interesting, yet unflinchingly unexplained. The prose was astounding as well; honestly, some of the best I've seen on ZU. (Much more so than my own)

For some reason, the first thing that came to mind immediately finishing The Doctor was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas.If you haven't already, I highly recommend reading the book, as well as the other works of David Mitchell. Fantastic author.

But I digress. To reiterate, I've really enjoyed this short story, and I would love to see some more of it. I might even prefer these over your poetry. Regardless, you seem highly capable of a great future in literature ahead of you, and I hope you continue.

Originally Posted by Lunchbox*

The Doctor was simply great. The story was interesting, yet unflinchingly unexplained. The prose was astounding as well; honestly, some of the best I've seen on ZU. (Much more so than my own)

For some reason, the first thing that came to mind immediately finishing The Doctor was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas.If you haven't already, I highly recommend reading the book, as well as the other works of David Mitchell. Fantastic author.

But I digress. To reiterate, I've really enjoyed this short story, and I would love to see some more of it. I might even prefer these over your poetry. Regardless, you seem highly capable of a great future in literature ahead of you, and I hope you continue.

I appreciate the feedback, Lunchbox. Your reviewer's prose is very refined as well, so I see our skill is somewhat similar. I actually never have read Cloud Atlas, or Mitchell. My chief influence right now is Thomas Ligotti with a dash of Neil Gaiman. I will definitely look into Mitchell, though.

Thanks for your input.

By the way, I never see you on AIM anymore. XD Where are you hiding?

Originally Posted by Trap Master

I appreciate the feedback, Lunchbox. Your reviewer's prose is very refined as well, so I see our skill is somewhat similar. I actually never have read Cloud Atlas, or Mitchell. My chief influence right now is Thomas Ligotti with a dash of Neil Gaiman. I will definitely look into Mitchell, though.

He's amazing. And British. British!

"I had learned to be the god of darkness, who dared not pray too deeply, at the center of hopeless grief."
~Rozz Williams


Exhibit

An exhibit is lonely once the murder's done,
With post-penetration exit wound dried of blood,
And a body lying in abject quiet; no remaining warmth.

There lies the question, pending autopsy, of the worth
Of being the artist who always kills the audience,
stalking the wastelands of exhibitionists.

Have I already trampled the rose beyond recognition?
I, the uninhibited, have shredded with derision
the empty powers and promises all once envisioned.

If you would, I would bid you to rise.
The days have grown pale, like milky thighs
contorted in the pleasure of fine art.


The Organs Grind

I could not endure that man. With my fingers I made holes in every dimension of his flesh. All sound was ruined in the canals I gouged at in frenzy, while I laughed about how dead we both were. He couldn't hear that, or the currents within us, making love. I could not bear my nakedness in those lower tunnels. And so I ripped the throat asunder, removed the bone at the seat of speech, and sold bad advice to viscera of his throat. What a charlatan I was, and yet I still managed to make or take a living.

Below, in that headless corpse, I could see the factories of crosses built in the innards, and I was afraid. This was the mark of divinity. I apologized, but the head wouldn't stick back on. Eventually I hollowed it out, and put his face over mine. He demanded evil of me. So I did it. He got his revenge on every first-born son, and then was satiated, drinking blood from my hands into cosmic darkness that we all call Home. Soon after, his mind collapsed into itself, the words scrambled and aborted in a vortex of cruelty. I was finally left alone, but after seeing such chaos, I blacked out. The coma ended sometime in May, when they pulled the plug.

I've realized my work has a certain running theme, and so I'm going to start dividing philosophical poetry from non, adding a bit of classificaton so people who like one kind more will find what they want in the future. I'm also posting in all the best stuff from the other thread of mine that has the same kind of content.

YES, there is some emo crap in here. I was young and stupid. XD

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All Is Lost And Lost Have All

Ace to your deuce and all the cards are left falling. Smoldering lips burn through waxed paper, and give me all the wrong reasons. I threw the Joker away, yet it returns on pedaling feet. Can you tell me why it hurts? Give me a deathwish, and I'll hold it for you. The future is bleak. Upon a pedestal of ash I left my threnody, my singing effigy. Wind the clock back until the numbers are no longer real, until my existence is merely your precognition. Reach into the deck and I'll deal the hand pointing to seven. Time's up, and we're finished. Shall we play again, or are the cards too fragile? Consideration unto obliteration. The game we play lacks definition.

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Orionism

An inhuman melody screams of laughter. Joy in every little passing ember. I tore my way through a jugular. Eyes now without a body beneath. Perhaps you'd remember, I freed her soul that night. This steel, it would look so ravishing in you, don't you think? This light blue hue wasn't just made, it was found for you. Can I count the ways you've died, if only in my mind? All I shall reap, is what you have sown. Go ahead, Call it in. Unanswered cries. In this world, there is no 911, not a single telephone. Here, communication goes one way. This is your only operator. I'm sorry, we're in service. I was shattered to spite myself. Only the broken shard of glass yields a cut, and no temptation is sweeter than the spillage of your blood. Life is so fleeting...at least, it runs from me.

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Tears Of Ink

Let the letters be your tears, and see all the deadly patterns you could make. Possibilities dwell in every arrangement. I would guide your hand, were it not for the guardian candles. Carry this legacy beyond flesh. Etch it into infinity. Are we entering turbulence? Or is this all just a bad dream? Tell me it isn't. I would rather it end now than prolong the pain. Long for a feeling, as imaginary as you are. If I can't make you real, I'll steal you, and ruin a thousand poems with the sodden, slow drops of an inky agony.

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Hazardous Material

Poison creeps through my veins. Filthy pathogens dance in the rings of my eyes. Embrace the ritual, take part in the original blame. I was born doing something wrong. Drink of blood, taste of flesh. I feel the pain coming strong. My lips are stained and toxic. So many parts of a patchwork quilt...Can it be repaired? Love the material, flawed though it is. Even matter is a matter of waste. Is it an original work? If you can see the hidden image, I applaud you with broken hands. Even with age, the pigments remain cannibal. I can't wait forever. Love it, or hate it, I'm a part of the design. This is a perspective from a damaged cell, a hole in the hive. Am I the only one who's sick of it all? I'm tired of painting exits. Carve me a real way out, if one exists.

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A Box Of Justice, Wrapped Up Just For You

Envelop your tragedy in a fear for the future. There are three paths, three choices that wait for only one among billions. Forget the masses, everyone lives in a fictional world. Imagine something even further from this truth, because the reality you created is too much to bear. The hourglass, it is both friend and enemy in the hands of God. Never enough time for immortality. Want and waste until you want nothing, and use my seeping blood to paint yourself a memoir. Pyramids of ancient law slip past the prose of pretense, and terror. Blame it on Pandora. She was blind, deaf and mute, and she also carried a sword, if I remember right. Hope wasn't at the bottom of the box, either. Curious, curious. I saw her entwined with another; another illness. Is that a knife in your hand, or are you just unhappy to see me? Sins are like grains of sand, so abandon land and drown in the tranquil water, alone. Know me as the one who tips the scales of Justice. Negativity is relative, or so I hear. Sorrow sews the feathers of the fallen together to forge my wings, while I drink deeply of her tears.

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Cane

Voices you've never heard. The unborn cry for a rare affection, and scarce are souls that deliver. Purgatorial elegance, present in every element. Insensitive bitterness assails without mercy, the classic struggle of two flavors. The torment is as simple as North and South. Pulsing polarity draws the pendulum. You've left a sweet taste in my mouth. Indecision begets derision. It'll take more than one swipe to make the decision. In that branching chaos haunts the many shades of my dark prayers. Those ravenous wolves, they reinvent the word "heart attack."

Let me ease your kindred spirit, to balm where they have seared it. Before the chasm, I howled your name. My voice became vagrant. I carry my salvation in the form of a gun, minus the trigger. A hidden kiss. Barricade the gate as I smother my doubts in honey. Sentinel, saccharin chariots, watch over me. Velvet anguish points the way, yet vandals have marked dead ends in every direction. Avoid us now. You have no reflection. Burning trees erupt. Heed me now, drink not that selfish poison, the acrid sap. A weathered quill adorns the epitaph. Summoning sin, beckoning bullets has never been so tiring. The darkly dying wonder, in fatal haste, while reading the stone's message, "How do those lips taste?"

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Brotherhood

My greatest desire is to crawl to the summit of tallest tower by cruel stairway. Endeavor as I would, my ultimate fate lies in wait. Writings in my heart are my map, I shall not lose my way. Dark as the sunrise. Can you even call it daylight? Elegies emerge from the clamoring echoes of footsteps. I am alone. My tongue is a sword named Despair, and it betrays me as it entertains me, my only true friend. As the walls begin to threaten, I chant to keep them from closing in. The trail I've blazed mocks me. Former steps lead into circles, yet I swore I moved in a straight line. I am carried by my own will as strength fades, to the apex. Words would not describe the beast in waiting.

A face like a nightmare; four legs carried the madness. Hands shaking, I clutched the spear of failure. Traitor's blood now stains my hands. As fear clenches my heart, I begin to croon of tragedy. The beast tires, entranced by lovely gloom and Stygian self-hatred. Strength and timing no question, I raise the shimmering disappointment to deliver a final blow. By chance, I caught sight of the lady fair. A bright, glorious maiden. How you jest of morning's light. The sun is a frailty when compared. Even Despair stops his song. I glimpsed only once more at that radiance, before the monster took flight, shattering rock like mist as it tore through, severing, painting, marring me as we descended to the after in a final grip, like the savage embrace of brotherhood.

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Running, Cold And Blue

So many shreds of parchment secrete an unread eulogy. Pay your respects to the imperfection that bleeds morphine. I hide in the moaning white sheets; holes like eyes. Wearing that drab uniform, the living bow. Fearing the hollow leer of the unseen. I lurk in your lust, your murder scene. I'll let you inhale my dust, what's left of me. Conspiring faces. Even the walls have eyes. Flee to your warmth; it'll slowly fade away. When your holiday dies, I'll welcome you to winter. Soon, you'll realize you are a work of carved wood. Feel the hooks sink into...

Let's sing a song together. I wrote this carol just for you. Soldiers do what they're bidden. What do you mean,"your lips are frostbitten?" Why aren't the kids moving? Crimson snowballs littered a white canvas. The weather outside is frightful. The fun's just begun, and I wonder, was this battle ever meant to be won? In the distance, I see us all fall from heaven. A heartbroken sun. Forbidden, frozen tears tattoo the face of a lonely someone. Arrested cardiac stops the wanderer in his tracks. I heard him cry out, but I for once, an action lacked.

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Loveless


My mother should have said, life is like a box of lies. Can you taste the poison confection, underneath all that powdered camoflage? The scythe is incognito. I thought that thin shadow was licorice lace. Holding a key, I came upon the screeching frames of gates. I still persist to rumble, fumble the lock. So returns the melting clock. The waxy face watching, mocking my futility. My malfortune. My thoughts, my core. Everything I've already felt before. Wracked by the hand that subtracts from my ribs a single piece of company. I'm throwing it all away. Void light, void everything I ever tried to trust in. I force intermittent, lifeless suicides. Redundancies. I didn't abandon hope. Hope abandoned me.

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Strained to Educate


It seemed that everytime I blinked I saw your face. A memory of the "when" and "then" that still makes my heart race. I prefer the black roses, don't you? Don't you see the beauty in when they shrivel? Crumble in my fist?

So many moments I wished I'd missed. The sky rains pity, tears from the Gods, but I've blocked it out. The roses die in response to the drought. This school is abandoned, free of the devout. Knowledge long discarded. The boards are dusted, the chalk charts the shapes of hearts, finished but never started.

The crescendo of your escape was a felt goodbye, an apology that cracks the walls and makes caustic the steadiness of my sighs. It's all welling up. The ceilings creak and call to fall, fall to make my grave.

If souls can be saved, so be it. But I would rather fade. My will is for you, in that foreign land. My splintered fingers reach for your long lost hand.

Delicate. Winged. Singing voice. Enraptured, I walked out; you had grown wings, and my skin was burning. The sun learned and killed me in its cunning. The imperfect lie, and perfect tears fall from exquisite eyes.

It could never be.

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Somber Streetlight Sonata


Opulence beckons me, and yet, it withholds all of my dreams and laughs at my tears with each night’s departure; over the screeching tracks and passing flights of all the angels who never loved. They say they want to lock me up.

There is but a single name for the discarnate wretch that haunts all of us, and it is Irony. It forced a hole in me, and now, it’s a vanishing pool of rushing misery. Beachside hospital. The waves still crash over those that drown eternally. If only they could breathe, cough up fatal weight that was so gladly swallowed.

Dead thunder’s triumphant and utter return into exile. Do you see what I see? I’m afraid. I almost want to consume your illness again. Because, that’s what you want, right? To fix only the flaws I can’t see? For every value you hold, I want a new name. I’m not the one who needs prayer. It’s not fair. It’s lonelier out here.

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Caste Puer Aeternus Part I: Allegiance

For your sky I pledge the hollow depth;
The ridge of slumber, and the soul bereft
Of the passion unraveled to all nonsense.
For every word, the white made black upon the lotus,
And these treacherous eyes mark a fond wish of
How they would see, all sight abandoned at the whim.
World-weary never again.
A child in warfare makes peace with beasts aplenty,
Making strife with no effort against waves of this apathy.
With every rising crest, his hand parts;
From the ribboning tides of fortune and fate,
If there be time, it has no weight.


Puer Aeternus, Part II: Rejection

Return to a child in warfare. Consuming so much make-believe,
he spat it out and found his feral crown beyond the thicket of your whittled wills.
Skies tremble at the leisure of his games. Tonight, the stars will fight for his favor.
The dead will instill strength in him; do him good and smile all the while.
As the crash of waves bled out shell after shell, the bleached crests
parted from his wrist with each caress of ocean blue.
Adventure is his maiden, as surely as the new night is laden
with the biting heat of mysteries.

Puer Aeternus Part III: The World

This is the host; a
still watery sepulcher, graven
with footsteps of godfathers
that create the crumbling
climbing hazards along the cusp.
Nary need a watercolor heart apply
to swim amongst crabs (the snap of disarray)
or disjointed schemings into these forays
to find a sand-sculpted salvation at coast’s end.


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Photographic (The Old Deluder)

I took your soul in a photographic flash.
Decisions in time grow rash:
Buy a new roll of halide, or stay
with sorrowful sentiments of a red-eyed yesterday.

Though they are poignant, I can't remain this way.
Precious metal no longer, this silver tarnishes to the grain.

(An image drips in a red room, slain.)

Accursed Phoenix, I don't want you.
Not even the ashes may stay of this refuge,
lest a conflagration revive to burn my mood.

(Know the lens and you shall see the truth.)

Inevitable stranger, mind razer, I won't fight you:
You can find them in the crevices of a nameless, antique maze.
Unbind them, and rewind them. I remember those days.

(The mercy of a Zero suits as serum for this malaise.)

Efface each bitter subject as malady from my memory.
In a craving beyond means, I must be released
from these annals of haunted-and-framed history.

(Digital eyes see fit to seethe through me.)

Dear Death, take hold of this deluder's display of paradise-once-found,
then mark this ruin as your burning ground.

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Le Miserable Fils

My Mother loves my soul as a politician.
Days are and were spent gorging it with holy nutrition.

Divinity, discipline, and a double-talk of verbal asceticism.
In her absence builds a virulent skepticism.

The hunger comes and paints it coal-death-and-hades black,
a caged panther cat, trekking heavily a weathered track.

The respite of sleeping visions was refuge for only a spell,
as my night hours were eventually disturbed and fed to her Hell.

She came twice as an apparition,
a mobster matriarch, a cruel physician

who took good time and bullet to ensure
that all my spirit's dreams would not endure.

They were dressed in only Sunday's best,
buried deep within my chest.

Only lately did they start that maddening din
against the thread of their velvet tombs' skin,

begging against silence for "recreation, reanimation!"
I deign to answer them; time will tell of their resurrection.

But my heart will never forget the nightmare sketch
of the gunslinger, my throat a wet carnation, and dying, like a wretch.

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The Icon of the Devotees
A Congruent Crush

A storybook wedding held without air, beyond stars.
Take the time to run out of breath asking why.
I know no poetic device for these weightless avatars,
They know what they do and they take great pleasure.

Mythical, some can say laughable, and yet why so attractive?
An echo of a primeval dream resounds, and
All these paper walls seem to fold into their shadows.
Thin barriers recede. Then can we really say who owns the skin?

The course and the goal seem so remote, now.
I will embrace you like the spider, with all of my many arms
That reach into tenses even I cannot see.

Where is the end if you choose the alternate road?
The snaking way bestows gifts only to souls left open.
Difficulty? Everything worth doing is a task of demand.

It is hard to weigh meaning when words are but roses
cut and thrown in a vase of transient glass.
To be plain, sometimes you feel like you are mine,
and my ears go deaf to the Sphinx’s cry.
All she speaks is a mystery.

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Stranger Sacrifice

Kissing fiends found respite in an alcove.
Painfully, we ran through the motions
until mastery left us with beliefs so secure.
We were deep throating daggers in a cemetery grove.
Practice proceeded in hopes to succeed
beyond impassive limits that--

care for us not--
Love us lovers not--
So the frame surrounding passion rots
like an ancient coffin returning to the Earth to
seek out new forms from formlessness.

You were my guerilla love, perpetual ambush
in these forests of the underbrush, lush
and filled with darkly wonder.
Hearts loaded softly into chambers
to let this roulette begin.

Apologies, all you intense believers.
The stranger abstains from psychodrama
And is no more or less stable than you.
You know I'm just particles in your billion suns
Watching us carbon cartoon characters scream
"How could I lose...?"

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Decay

Watch as the killer masturbates the blade,
and blood is relieved of duty like a crimson guard
conquered and peaceful in the grave.

"Let me get a look at you.
Oh, you've gone all over the floor.
I want to carve a question into your beautiful mind."

The truth of a genetic defect detected;
How many excuses can one give?
Medicine solves the illness of inhuman reality.
Cover your eyes and yet...
This cancer keeps eating the gray.

What is this squirming thing called life?
It tastes delicious, even arousing, until it is soft with rot
in the tide that rends all of our gods
to sand and grit of salt.

The day apriori to the final event,
The patient said to me, in great confidence,
"a decadent yellow smile casts the shadow of opulence."

A hidden tool was smuggled at demand, and
bled red from a single stroke from his hand.
At last, he spoke the core paranoia of his plans.
"Death always collects...I have all the company I can stand."

Far From Me

You've got your God of love,
I am your God of fear.
You're so scared of little old me?
I guess every monstrosity
is only good when its far from you.

And then I'll come for you,
You can only be so far from me,
before I find you, I find you.

Far from me, the only place to be
safe inside your hollow shell of soul.
I'll tear off every shred of clothes,
make you shriek and moan.
I'm the naked prince of all your lies.

And then I'll come for you,
You can only be so far from me,
before I find you, I find you.

It's so cute, the way you smile and preach
when I'm the body and blood of which you speak.
The way is bloody, the truth is nasty, the life is an everlasting sleaze.
Come on baby, you want a God, then just fall down on your knees.

Keep blacking my name off of every list,
Outrage unto ecstasy, Your Holiness.
You'll send a search with curious eyes,
You spread the honey to draw the flies.

And then I'll come for you,
You can only be so far from me,
before I find you, I find you.

Reminds me of a certain Horned God--in fact my personal Horned God.

Thank you for sharing this delicious, lusty, provocative and in-your-face piece. It made my mind's eye jizz. ;D

God Only Knows (The Ancient Bittersweet)

I gave my blood, and you drank it.
I sent my strength, and you sank it.
A piece of this raw heart will forever be displaced
At the feet of an imagined soul.

You're gazing below from your ivory tower,
Just a different Babel than you read,
Though it is tunneling downward, instead.
A precious hole for a rabbit to make a home.

From your birth, plastic surgeons have served to sell
The proper tools to reroute nerves toward holy hell.
A medicated face is just too stiff to turn away from lies,
For the void of Heaven above has no wind for winged flight.

This rinse-and-repeat martyr is marked with the words you nail in, then unscrew.
A platonic hand extends despite that I am denied more than twice.
I do not ask that you be my bride, so don't wear a veil of ice,
Or my Judgment Day will clear the clouds to set things right.