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
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.
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.
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.
If it exists
It can be eaten.
A body that needs and a mind that percieves
Never ceases to breed new cravings,
From bitter seeds to fields of weeds
And entire populations.
For pleasure and the fear of death
A war for peace against distress
And harvests passed through mouths and chests
To pacify those needings.
Where emptiness meets the scent of flesh,
The freshness of unspoiled aeons,
The yawning consciousness of ever-dark
Yearns endlessly for freedom.
Its shadow veils the infinite stars,
Collapses galaxies and consumes their dust,
And for everything it cannot have
It holds a knawing, grating lust.
The dry and brittle bones of worlds
Stripped of their luscious, inebriating fruit
Fall from looking out with awe
To pits of their self too deep to see through.
A space-less shape beyond these dimensions,
A mind with too much trouble unseen,
The common core of all creation,
A child with candy on Halloween.
Faces, fingers, scalps, and skin
By silver knives and blunted hammers
Stripped from many and made whole again.
The Human Ideal and depraved’s obsession,
Perfection in a women’s form,
Assembled with passion, ardor, and precision
From stolen bodily possessions and one pair of volunteered eyes.
Her mother blinded, her father fanatic,
The night dreary when she came alive,
The mind of a girl with the body of an angel,
A gift to the world, the artist’s nightmare and scientist’s prize.
By design, incomparable to any other being,
At sight, overwhelming one’s sensitivities to shape and light,
And having glimsed her, any obscurrance of her face induced pain
In the heart so profound whole crowds were made to cry.
Musicians and poets wrote nothing more but about her,
Some despaired knowing what they could never have or be,
Multitudes gathered daily to witness and adore her,
All the while laying cash and other gifts at her maker’s feet.
The living embodyment of faultless beauty
Drew wealth and satiation into her father’s hands,
Admired by all the world for merely existing,
Her mother, whose eyes she had, became her only friend.
The crowds, left outside constantly yearning,
Grew more restless, depressed, and frenzied every day,
Bewitched every moment she allowed them her presence,
Dead to all pleasure while she was away.
In time, sight alone wasn’t enough to ease their torment,
And an unprecedented emptiness stole their collective minds,
Demands to be loved by the being that was perfect
Grew from callous whispers to a full-blown battle cry,
But the angel, who was a girl, hardly loved a soul,
The consuming gaze of strangers seperated her from all
But the mother, being blind, who saw her without desiring
And the father who idealized her as art’s true and final form.
The final levy broke, and the people flooded their home,
Cornering her in the attic where she’d only recently been born,
The crowd shouted unanimously for the love that they deserved,
With guns, torches, and hungry eyes prepared to take by force.
There is no way to love anyone by choice, the angel knew,
But when so many want your life there’s little you can do,
Ascending down the letter, every voice was silenced,
Scalpel in her hand, she did what was required.
She slid the steel past her cornea and cut the optic nerve,
One after the other and offered them to her observers,
“My mother’s eyes are the only gift I ever truly loved,
Take them and know I’ve given you all I have.”
Torches were dropped, legs fell away as if broken,
A stifled cry echoed loudly and gave way to screams unrestrained,
Many shots were fired into the temples of their holders,
And many more gave in, weeping into the devouring flames.
The house erupted, the blinded angel bleeding, motionless,
Suffocating, sweltering, and without thought of escape.
A pair of arms found her, above them all the most devoted,
The eyeless mother, holding tight as the world fell away.
We put our heads together,
Hands to shoulders and thought to thought.
We broke ourselves open
And the weight of our anxieties was forgotten.
There, in a dark room,
We circled around a single candle.
There were no tears,
But the release was potent as heavy sobs.
A brief euphoria
Shared between joined hands in confinement.
Woken from our obsessive woes.
Hello everyone. My poem “The Girl On The Floor” was recently published in the first issue of Necro Magazine. The theme of this issue is “Death.” There’s a lot of unique and interesting work in here from all kinds of artists. Check it out below.