fever

I crossed a mad sea,

in an infinite wait,

to kiss your hot forehead,

and fatigue the Fates.

 

Screams and agonizing

fade into a sheen;

I struggle to cipher

what life and death mean.

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.

winding

The sea careened
in a summer stretch,
unfolding its jaws over
bleached-white boulders.

Strangle me with the strings of
my piano,
and waste me away in the desert,
pining for water,
though I’ve never seen the stuff,
leeching through the bare ground,
cracked sand,
piping hot,
my world is a waterless vine,
a portioned meadow of barren moon,
the sad recollection of jewels
which might have been mirages,
sensual and without respite,
the merry hallucinations flickered and fell
flat
back to what must have been
the only world left.

The Daffodil and the Breeze

Said the Daffodil

to the Breeze,

“Pick my petals off like plums,

strip and peel

my stem with zeal;

uproot me,

boot me toward the sun.”

Said the breeze,

“My darling Daffodil,

I’d rather treat you fondly,

with caresses,

and the scent of fresh birds’ nests

to greet you warmly.”

“Are you meaning,”

she, the flower, replied,

“I’m only what I’m wearing?

That these fragile bones,

edible,

leave me worthless in the tearing?

Is there nothing left of me

when once you’ve plundered all my innards?

Am I wasted, am I useless in a use

that’s not aesthetics?”

“Daffodil,” replied he, warily,

“You certainly are pretty,

but of course, you know,

I also find your wit to be quite witty,

and the tales you tell are well-worth spells

of sitting, quiet, listening,

and the thoughts you think remind me

of the thoughts I’m used to thinking,

so of course there is much more to you,

but still,

what would remain,

if I rendered you dismembered?

Would your thoughts still be made plain,

if I gathered you from earth

and flung you, dripping, toward the heavens?

If I ripped and tore and weathered you,

and flung and cut and severed?

Darling,

sit quite still and sing for us,

and we’ll all be enamoured.

Stay tight in your place

and my embrace will block

thoughtless endeavors.”

But she wailed,

“How can I stay?

How can I simply be a marker,

for the ones who tread over these hills

to know they’re halfway farther?

I wish for more!

I wish to fly!

To see what comes hereafter!

In the great unknown,

where might my soul end up,

once I am slaughtered?

See, I’ve seen what can be done in this,

my current tethered state,

please undo me,

slice and ruin me,

now, toss me toward the gate!”

“Nay, I musn’t!”

said the breeze with many a

sad and wheezy bluster,

“Nay, I shan’t!”

he spun around the Daffodil

in all his fluster,

“Nay, nay, never!”

and he broke his path

and raced up toward the treetops,

til the sight of her alarmed him

and he retraced all his first steps,

and he roared toward the hillside,

but then back down to the orchard,

and he skimmed the foamy stream

and doubled back into

the barnyard.

“See, I’ve angered him!”

the Daffodil sat,

leaves folded up contently,

out in front of her as, wretched,

he continued,

and presently

blew too hard upon the very hill

where Daffodil was molded,

and she sighed as all her parts

became unraveled and unfolded,

and she gasped as she escaped the soil

and leaves and petals vanished,

and her stem was split right down the front

and landed near a radish,

(which turned,

and looking down its nose, said,

“Now you will be garnish.”)

“Oh, oh!” cried the breeze,

“Oh no!” for he

had turned into a wind,

and rustling in all the branches,

the birds’ nagging did commence,

and scratching over all the grasses,

fastening skirts onto legs,

he flurried noisily through courtyards,

ruffling and sweeping,

begged,

“Oh, Daffodil!

You made me kill you,

and you turned my pace much faster,

you are ruined, I am ruined,

you creator of disaster!

Why didn’t I mind my business!

Why didn’t I drift away?

Now I’m on a path to

purchase wrath,

as soon’s I hit the sea!

Daffodil,

you wicked flower!

Was this planned and where’ve you gone?”

And he wandered thus forever,

til forever ended,

gone.

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.

 

boundless

the sweet, simple whisper of a dying soldier,
the unfocused blood of another year older,
the cold, broken luster of mirrored, soul-hearts,
the poor, folded bluster of dismembered starts,
the racing and raging of tornado ire,
the flame-blasted fortitude of my desire,
the sinking in oceans of frenzy and pleasures,
the frolic of clouds in their broiling sky seizures,
the running horizons, gone leaping like satyrs,
the way I chase after their wine and grape platters,
the icicle holes in the sky call my names,
the voices all chiming and reeling in frames,
the winds from the earth, all four corners exclaim,
the bold invitation to start a new game.

nuke

In the silence of your
nuclear blast I found
the substance of what I will
use to save the world.
I’ve lost a lot in your mind,
lost a lot in your eyes,
found it all again when
we destroyed the universe.
Our cadaver garden,
has perfectly straight rows,
limbs erect from the ground,
stiff, without their blood flow,
is it spring or winter?
these were all beheaded,
is it daytime or nightfall?
who can tell for all the storms?
We never meant to-
but we did,
and I thought if I killed the world,
you would be by my side.

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.