There’s a dirty kind of feeling,
A deeply driven repulsiveness
That sits somewhere between the throat
And the far back of the brain.
A moment that seems eternal,
Like a punishment for some sin,
Looking inward to an abyss
Of secretly sensitive yearning.
The reflection of something I cannot see
Knaws and separates myself from their company,
Dirty, deep and seemingly forever
Like the immortal voice of an angel that’s ugly.
Scars make martyrs and monsters.
Idolizing the villains who were yesterday’s anti-heroes
Waiting for them to burn their capacity to create.
The angels burn brightly, softly, sensationally,
To follow chaotically into a second fall.
Exactly as dulcetly as they first sang,
They clash crassly against some new foe,
But the only ones standing in their way
Are the ones burning as brightly as they.
I need you to want a little sadness,
A mood for solemnity and a mood to let loose.
Have a few drinks with me and read to me from Camus,
And we can keep reserved within a golden light mood.
Cold, like the light reflected on the moon
As it illumines our bodies and tempers, and soothes.
I need you to want a little more
Than a body or a mind like mine could ever give,
With fanciful fears and desires you can’t forget
And a brooding reluctance and passion to live.
Days that should be swept away will come
When we lay collecting dust together, undone,
Till one of us decides we may as well have coffee
And we pull each other towards the day to be begun.
I need you to see my mind
The way I’ve already begun perceiving yours,
To note your weaknesses, strengths, and passions
So I might give assistance when it’s called for.
When I lose my place in space or time
And spiral into cacophonies of dreary thought,
I hope you’ll see the telltale signs
And have the courage to tell me what is and is not.
Romance, sex, companionship, and All,
Is a lot to ask and harder still to come across,
So I’ll ask if what you’re looking for is the same,
Because if it is, we may be able to reciprocate.
Remember when everything was heavy?
When candy was sweet and a stare could get you hot?
Remember when music could make you cry
Without a glass of wine to soften your heart?
I woke up hungover without drinking,
Aching, soreness, and strangely giddy feelings,
Sensations in my heart not unlike what’s in my chest,
And stomach pains like little smiles teething.
Transformation entails some rearranging,
Hormones pushing, pulling, and changing.
My moods are growing and almost glowing,
And I’ve never felt more like a woman in the making.
Deadly trickles of anticipated dread
Are familiar enough to her to seem distant
But presently and always keeping her comfort
Likes years of experience following pivotal decisions.
Dusty and dark as her place of dwelling
Were the unfurnished caverns of her intimacy.
Too long empty is as vulnerable as untouched
With the burden and ferocity of memory.
Language unused atrophies like a muscle,
Remaining unseen negates the power of recognition,
The faces of a friend, family member, or companion
Turn feral as forgotten dogs to such a creature’s intuition.
There, in her lair, were the worlds where she dwelt,
Distinct and unapproachable, like light too bright to see,
Away in a darkness unbroken by trouble or fright
Her life, locked so preciously away, ever outward seeped.
Damn every fragment of those unresting feelings
That scissored her apart from every body where’s peace,
The creature of anxiety speaking tongues of the mad
Sleeping separately and sound in dysfunctional dreams.
I fall asleep to voiceless thoughts
And wake up to morbid day-dreams.
Out drips excretions from serrated prose,
The monologs of lifeless playthings.
Like playing dress up in foggy streets
Where every few feet has potential to be anything
And I can be whatever I believe
Until the sun erases my possabilities.
It eats me away with every dull moment,
Goading me back into my imagination.
Creative spirals of disparate mumblings,
The umbilical straps of my safe haven.
Eventually I’ll wake up to freer days
And slumber securely in a psychic Hell
When all my debts have been repaid
And I don’t slip away so well.
Happy New Year, Everyone.
There’s no denying it’s been hard. There are many faces I’ve missed and harsh realities to swallow. Still, it means a lot to share these scraps of prose with everyone who comes along. I hope you’re comfortable and secure tonight, and that we’ll have even more to share in 2021!
At 6 P.M, Christmas night,
When there’s no shadow on the frozen ground,
It’s better to stay inside with coffee and cream
Than to risk being seen out of doors in this town.
The weather alone is enough to have caution,
The first things we find are often their winter clothes
Followed, not far away, by whatever else they wore,
And finally, the body, often half buried in snow.
It happens every year, but we couldn’t tell you why,
Only that it’s irrelevant where one’s supposed to be,
It’s 20 below freezing just an hour after dusk
And there are hours more waiting before anything can be seen.
They stagger, it seems, to the woods from the roads,
The thickets leave cuts, which make them easy to find
Following the broken twigs stained with blood
To the places where the victims inevitably lay
An old tree, bent and rotting, where we find them reposed,
Or by the bridge, in the stream, where their skins turn pale blue.
Sometimes they seem to drop somewhere randomly,
And only rarely are there signs a struggle ensued.
What we mean, is you’re welcome to stay if you must,
We’re aloud to be festive, if we don’t leave our homes,
But Winter is the master of the elements tonight
And if you care to see another year, you’ll stay out of the cold.
Allow me to indulge my radient ideation,
A spectacle of bittersweet sunbeams breaking through gray skies,
Eeking their way into my ugliest days
Like transcended smiles projected from the purest celestial lights.
They reach me bedecked in wilting blue flowers,
Exposed to the heavens in a gown of silk white,
Seduced into a dream that lasts for an eternity
Between the fragility of a body and the soft sting of twilight.
It’s wearying to be deranged for the sake of beautiful things,
And as they dull, to come to know, that madness still remains.
A song I knew grew up to be a different kind of tune,
It plays the notes that made me up and broke away from me.
Intoning prose for my own health prolongs the point of breaking,
And sharing them from mind to mind is life that’s worth the saving,
To make a scene of who I’ve been to stimulate your feelings
Is all I need to brighten up this dream I can’t stop dreaming.
Burn me with the autumn leaves, with cardamom and honey,
Leave a house to my mother on the shores of a lake that’s crystal clear and foggy.
Find me there in ashes, free from poverty and wealth,
Dead to all the world, but not dead to herself.
I imagine that every generation experiences death in their own way.
In our old age, when that stop is more than ever certain,
I imagine every generation leaving behind a legacy
And giving scope to life in how they feel their last days.
As Grandpa was dying, I imagined the kind of mind
A man born in the fifties would carry while he survived,
And the sum of all experiences before he met the end,
How they measured up to what he saw and all the things he’d been.
A man who worked machines, watched tv, and prayed
Died hooked to a machine, with the television on, praying.
The same shows he always saw were the last ones he watched,
And the cigarette in his fingers was the last thing he touched.
Will I die surrounded by the things I see today?
Will I understand the world as I do now, the same way?
When my generation finally slips into the grave,
I wonder what the others will think of how we passed away..
Some people can’t be reached no matter what you say,
Who probably wouldn’t care to feel your touch anyway,
And for all those who need, in some way, to be reached,
Our fingers might wave but they rarely ever meet.
In a dark windy heart there’s cracked glass in the rain,
Palms still untouched can be cut all the same.
Quieting the air with a gesture, I find
It helps, when you reach, to shield your hands with mine.
Those stinging cold moments with warmth underneath
Pour lakes into places overridden with dead leaves,
An Autumn-stained blush from a spring-tinted gaze
Briefly turn skies that were black back to grey.
