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.

cross and staff

A grave nightmare patchworks my teardrops;
scents of atomic lullabies,
and seventh tries,
those righteous lies
which say I will breathe ’til my heart stops.

I dance in laurels and nudity,
at their brutal, unworldly birth,
sedate with mirth,
a solemn earth,
hovers above and below me.

I touch down on an unholy moon,
amid a vast cornfield to cook,
with the wrong book,
cast a pale look:
the sky is nothing but a spoon

I walk a stuttering, woodland path,
all poached in the emptiest ache,
a bitter quake,
let the trees take
out on me their revenge and their wrath.

Here I cling to the nightmare like wind,
slipping it through salty fingers;
how it lingers,
’til the singers
exalt all that ought to offend.

I starve under bright, stained-glass windows,
my feet on a Seraphim’s nose,
a sultry pose,
a headless rose,
bells ring, but the door remains closed.

Alight with me onto a tower,
follow my corset down the stairs,
war with me there,
frolic ensnared,
in awe of resurrection power.

Then we will swim fast through the river,
all spraying giggles in a splash,
a soaking dash,
a weightless thrash,
playmates like unforeseen shivers.

Crab queenly reclines there, astride
the scales of brave Fish, those clear eyes,
they wave goodbyes,
in cold surprise;
my heart pled for mercy, but died.


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.


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


to our chest

in proud, jubilant,


you know,

that ?

If any of us knew what



perhaps we could say.


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
back to what must have been
the only world left.


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


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


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




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.


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