raw

There are no more ways to feed me.

I wrote you the most beautiful bowl of fruit;

but my words were twisted up in

the flames of your

blue-lip fire:

nodding its heads under

their bodies.

Cooking.

Don’t cry.

We are made up of the same piece of sky.

And I can’t leave, you can’t leave,

we’ve tried; and

we’ve tried to mix up our miseries

and we can’t even do that right.

I will look for you

in the crowd of my personalities.

Hold me, hold us, hold, don’t stop.

You are the vast ocean, but I’m every drop.

Swallowing your anger

is an empty pill that

makes me hungry.

Don’t

Don’t say that I

haven’t been there for you

always

 

Eat up the sky

and pretend that you wait

hungry

 

Don’t say that we

just weren’t meant to be

darling

 

I have never seen you

I have never seen you more sad than today

 

Climb the rocks and paint the trees

Any color you please

Take my hand and don’t let go

here is the body I own

 

Don’t take the chance that

today is our last,

my love

 

Determine to waste

every second you have

on my touch

 

Don’t say that we

will not live happily

just this once

 

I will never leave you

I will never leave  you more sad  than today

 

Climb the rocks and paint the trees

Any color you please

Take my hand and don’t let go

here is the body you own

I own.

the letter

I sit in the still of my house, low and somber,

all wishing for witching and time machine lumber,

my promises baking like pies in the fire,

a crayon-soaked clamp round my neck like a wire.

 

A small steady whisper keeps saying its lines,

“I know you are sorry, but really its fine.”

There Childhood and Innocence leer from the rafters,

and choke on the smoke of their recent disasters,

 

and reel from the paper weight of written words,

and never stop squeaking like smoldering birds.

I watch as they wriggle in subdued despair,

I watch as they point devilishly at air.

 

I stumble while seated and stutter while silent,

the cries of the birds rise, soulful and triumphant,

I lay down in decadence, which I ignore,

the beat of their wings echoes down to the floor.

 

I simper and whine like a dog put outside,

the Haunts grow much longer, and stronger, and wide,

I see or hear naught but their song like a flutter,

I bury myself in the bedding like butter.

 

The cushions are soft here, the food never ends,

I’ve time for my mind to sigh, wrecked on a bend;

these Ghouls which you send me are holy and just,

the way you work through my pain which,

dear, you must.

child

Pay me in sand dollars

and candy cigarettes

for loving how it feels

to take off my clothes

with grown men in the next room;

or dance in a candlelit window,

embracing my pleasures,

while they hide theirs

out on the street.

Q&_

Do you suppose

we shall ever find it?

You know.

That something that we

push each other out of the way

in order to grab at,

in order to clutch

something

to our chest

in proud, jubilant,

wonderment;

you know,

that ?

If any of us knew what

it

was,

perhaps we could say.

killers

Huntress smiles harshly while posing, a trim pale

knee striking out over ankle, over them,

drying stripes of foreign blood reek on her chain mail,

dinner in the mouths of her babies, fangs strung.

The younger is already sleeping and dreaming,

lips thick with luxury, thighs strong as rods,

the tiniest version of her that you’ve ever seen,

in sleep, spines hidden, they’re gods,

they are gods!

She warms her tongue on the roof of her sly mouth,

eyes flushing gold in the memories of kills,

her muscles taut as she hovers, her mind froths,

guarding her merciless young in the hills.

She wars with the beasts that come up from the valleys,

wailing and boasting and claiming her land,

she wars with the forest, accusing its folly,

of hiding the prey from her swift, able hand.

She wanders the clifftops and forgets her children,

except in the night when she stumbles back home,

she watches them sleep with a strange sense of pride in

the way that they look like her, lips caked with foam.

Those faces, elated, or blissful in moonlight,

which, wild-eyed, rip flesh from the flesh of the bone,

will one day delight in the pouring of gore right

into their hard bodies, gorging with their souls.

And it makes her stay,

that they’ll act this way,

til the dawn of the day,

makes her watch them in sleep,

til she runs off in madness,

in decay and sadness,

in trampling excess,

and flavors that keep.

Soon, they’ll run,

soon they’ll fight!

By the end of the night, even,

maybe they’ll wake up and sharpen their teeth!

Soon they’ll split,

soon they’ll maul!

She might turn into prey, even,

who would be prouder than she in that death?

But it’s too much to think of,

while they shuffle and snore soft,

she ponders the conquest that nature supplies,

maybe glances at their cheeks,

their round hips,

their warm feet.

Is that feeling

ownership?

Weak, fleeting lies?

What is love

for a moment,

the longest, the most that is

ever allowed for a  fright of her kind?

It passes, she snarls,

and almost wants to bite them,

for bloodlust has worth

that love cannot

supply.

They snuggle and snort,

eery, she moves back and forth

over their bodies,

and their beating hearts,

one day they’ll war with her,

strong and ferocious,

she smiles and imagines

ripping them

apart.

 

demoness creed

God does not love you,

because there is war,

because there is hunger,

because there is gore.

God does not love you;

His heart does not break,

when your heart is wounded,

and you lie awake.

God does not love you,

because there is death,

because countless innocents

draw their last breath.

God does not love you,

He keeps fiery Hells

awaiting those guilty of

unholy swells.

God does not love you,

because there is pain,

because there are deserts

where you needed rain.

God does not love you,

but only Himself

your worship of Him is

His only great wealth.

God does not love you,

He asks that you stay,

but only to take all that you have

away.

murder

It was I,

splayed out on your altar,

fresh fruit leaves,

sticky with blood,

suctioned to my skin,

with our blood, yours and mine,

my offerings,

my sacrifices,

bleeding out,

all over my spread legs and

pomegranate carcasses,

you arrive with knives,

heartless, mad bastard,

Romeo remembers you,

his antithesis,

man covered in curtains,

false god, false prophet,

and I see her on the other slab,

fertile blossom,

we,

the innocent.

You dig the knives in under our chins,

so we can’t scream.

simple

It is waiting,

the waiting when someone dies,

like they’ll come back.

The way they held onto your shirt,

and you mimic it,

desperate.

The sigh of their eyes,

when everything is laid open,

bodies,

journals,

closets,

bones.

Blame is a wretched lover,

blame is a ripped canvas.

Did they love me?

is always the question,

even when they stand in front of you,

or in front of someone else.

Are lies love?  Does pretend love

count?

I mourn such passings,

the ones

where we are all

still alive.

loving to life

Loftily, a dragonfly plants himself

in the ground next to me,

violently brushing my hair and

endearing,

“My sweet, look at me.  I’m still here.  I’m alive.”

Illuminant wings shimmer lovelier than

autumn fields, as he

moves them over my neck,

opulent nerve-lightning and sensory flames,

reforming my broken soul,

growing my heart strings.

Ancient orbs, he moves his eyes.

I hear feathered cackles;

up over his head, the robins fly.

See, how he smiles.