If you can find it,
I dare you to look inside
The black house on a hill
Where three suicides were survived,
The remnants of their pain
Reach vapourously for a light
To expose their nakedness,
And the hollowness of their eyes.
If you're nearby,
Why not chance a look?
The forgotten undead
Would be glad to have known you.
There are fantastic stories
Hidden under the splintered floors,
Romances and tragedies
That you could be part of.
Why not have tea
With a dysfunctional malevolence?
The eyes that inspect
Every movement, chill, and hush,
Have a hunger for your love,
You devotion, your affection
And a hatred for pain,
And the gentleness of touch.
She's wrapped up in sheets,
In the bedroom, where she lived
Still hungry, still aching,
Still decaying from inside.
This Halloween, you should go,
She'll be delighted
To find the Haunted House
Is where she has always resided.
There's a bitter black tea
At my favorite cafe,
Wormwood black, like a poisonous
That I like to guzzle on a
Wet, windy day;
So perfectly perverse, so warm and
Tingley to my pallette.
When October turns cold and my
Temper turns brittle,
Solace seems as off as the
Sweetness of Spring.
Shedding the skin of a
The crow and the raven within me
Like showers of kisses, with hints of
Smoke and ripe cherries,
And passions pulling thick as wads
Of black licorice,
I'll fall, diving down with you
And die in the moment to make
I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.
Cool, quiet,and still mornings; alone.
A chord striking, resonating, and going silent.
Pale light still warm enough to touch faces.
A pit in your stomach, nowhere to go.
Fall, fall, September;
Autumn sadness, stillness,
Peace and horror.
Burning, burning, bonfires and leaves;
Passions singing, sang, and then falter.
You'll never know their love again.
The sky is beautiful, blissful, and so are you.
As beautiful as it is to cry,
It cuts so softly so much deeper
Since I gave up faking
And started listening to your whisper
Its smoother going down
But gets me so much faster now,
Those feelings that I'd missed
And that I pretended missed me somehow
Her every word is something sweet. She speaks so sensibly and smiles, And cares like caring is a treat Too tempting to stay away from. To taste her mind would nourish you, And reason out those foolish tricks That frightened you into pushing away The parts of you you're missing. And beauty hardly describes her face; The life, the light behind her eyes That permeates in any place She goes to be alive in. She's sweet enough to drown in, To swallow down until you're sick. It's hard to put the bottle down When it insists you drink it. Apples and honey make a snack So tempting its hard to turn away. As one should never lack for love, Having lacked, it still gives me stomach pains.
Men, women, and persons;
You enigmas of violence, misery, sex, and boredom;
How are you feeling?
To what end is your violence?
To what depth does your misery brood?
What comfort have you found in sex?
What madness does your boredom uproot?
If you're honest, I would guess, every answer, some way, stems from love.
Acknowledge this with me if you expect my intimacy.
Asleep in your dream They whisper in your ear As if they were beside you Delicately, dulcetly, in the voice of a kiss "Show us who you are,..." They tear away your covers, And you'll probably awake.
This is Death, my infinite pastime,
My plaything, my dalience.
It fucks me breathlessly into the great unknown,
And spits me out, and leaves me there.
God help us, goddamnit!
It wasn’t enough to make us feel alive?
To make us suffer so we want to feel alive?
We inherit a lust for beauty and are demanded to close our eyes?
What depth there is in darkness could never be enough.
Is it ever sweet enough to sleep? Well,…
It is, sometimes,…
When I go to bed exhausted, my sleep screams with delight.
And the more I romaticise, the more attractive it seems.
So at the end of the day, I only hope that I’m weary,
Not from toil, or troubles, but from the ecstasy of a brilliant party.
It was never over like I thought it was
Looking for myself and finding more of us
I don’t want to be that girl who can’t forget you
But I’m ready for you if you ever wanted to
We never really kissed as far as I recall
Somehow I’ve felt your lips and seen it all
I hate admitting that I think about you every day
There’s just too much I never got to put away
We talk so much, I’m thinking that I’m not alright
You haven’t heard me yet because you haven’t been in sight
I’m in a bed like always when you’re on my mind
I needed sleep, but it’s always you I seem to find
It’s over, past the date, so many years by now
Evidently I still need to feel about you somehow
I need to scream, I need to fuck, I need to fill a whole
If not with you then I don’t want to feel you anymore
I guess you should’ve never left me any hope
I’m going to cry about you now and hope to be alone