The Pact

The night cracked under whips of oppression.

Plotting with slow digression,

Upon the lips of deception,

For fear of sheer rejection.

Sharp clangs screeched through the thick brush.

A shadowy figure appears

It is dazed and in a frenzy.

Worn, tired, rabid, and alone.

It falls to the forest floor

Disturbing the creatures below.

A white butterfly drifts through the darkness.

Fluttering towards the frail beast.

She hovers over its body,

Gently perching on its chest.

She hums a song of times past…

The beast cries out in agony.

Weeping tired tears of release.

Recalling such wondrous tones.

Its cold heart pounds ruby red.

Blinding white light sheds its black cloak.

A pile of ebony dust shrouds the grasses.

Two specks rise up from the ashes,

one white, the other black

integrated as one always, a pact.

Mythos of Mania

The maddened moon unseals your catacomb.

Awakened by stardust, you are flesh once more.

I see you with hollow eyes.

You are soulless, just as I remembered.

Then, you see me across the river;

staring back, a mythos of Mania,  

head tilted aside in blunt curiosity.

Fantasies crystallize inside of your eyes,

marbling a kaleidoscope of desire and fervor.

Bones rattling, teeth chattering.

Tasting the air with your lies.

And I hear the mortal inside of you tremble.

Cooing for sustenance. Begging for revival.

But your heart is soundless. You see,

those of flesh will ultimately find flesh and

those with gills, glide gently beneath the river

and those of dust desire swift winds to fly freely.

So, I disintegrate into dust to escape from the flesh,

swim in the river to evade sight; live by day, but die by night,

because you are of substance, but will always be hollow.

The Waltz

Wind me up and watch

me waltz. I am half woman,

half machine. Dancing

to the feeble thump

of the heart I used

to have.

Frolicking in fielded

flowers under the Sun’s

dogmatic glare, as sweat drips

droplets down my spine.

Shocking electro pulses. Convulsing

nerves—my humanness is

rusting from the inside out.

Oil spewing from my

crackling voids.

Left sizzling and scorching,

I waltz into the darkness.

A secret silo. Combustible.

I am lightning in the evening storm,

blazing fire to the Sun’s field.  

And I Her Lamb

If sanity be a shepherd,
and we his lambs,
then lead us to the water,
so we can be nourished again.

The mountains wind,

roughly carved,
steep and statuesque,
yet, manageable in flock.

The showers come down to pour,

churning the cliff into mudslides.
Our wool is soaked through, drenched,
and our hooves are sculpted brown clay.

Weary and selflessly,

we travel as one,
hind to head, and head to hind,
always supporting each other’s weight.

Seeking shelter from the storm,

the shepherd clicks his staff.
And the flock follows,

but I stray…and I stray,

for I know my own way
because I am my shepherd.
I am her lamb.

House on the Hill

And we will dwell in the house on the hill.

Poised, malevolent, the drummer boy
beckons his throbbing voice. Water
crushes shells to sand, a frothy

soup crimsoned with victory.
Buoyed bodies bounce off boulders,

the ocean's indifferent shrug.
Life drains into life: recycled aluminum cans
repurposed too many times, rusted
and flimsy. We'll build our final city
on misused temples - vexed remains.
And we will all dwell in the house
on the hill. The hill that
is not a hill,
but an engorged grave.

These Days That Sway

On a manic day, I may just sway a little

your way, nestle close to your collarbone,
asphyxiate the warmth right outta you. Trust me

when I say I'm a little topsy-turvy—like

winding mountain roads, you don't see me
coming in my metal cage. Barreling.

I speed through your tunnels and scream
around your hairpin turns. Purge
your pity and sorrow. Give me lust

instead. Press our lips to release
my disgrace. Red skid marks. Leave behind

my solitude. Let me feel. Let me

feel something? Anything rather than

these furrowed fissures. I’ll use
you as tar to engorge the grooves;

and swoon into you, as our illicit

creation creeps forward—its acid

searing us together. My Darling,

sway with me again

on my days that sway.

Let’s sway. 

Ink Blot

“You must stay drunk on writing so that reality cannot destroy you.” –Ray Bradbury    

    

I wouldn't get in the ring with Ali, or meditate
in the wilderness with Buddha. Nor would
I want to sleep with the whole basketball team.

See, I'd rather box Gandhi and scream
at a mime. And later, touch myself
into insomnia, eyes glued to the poster

above my headboard. But above all else,
I'd love to just sip a lyric laced brew

till tipsy and slur at the slinger to keep 'em                    

coming, until my deviant demise draws

near. The hand's liver rots and blooms

in blotches as if lava were sloshing

beneath. Then my heart explodes—magma,
and I collapse forward, leaving behind
the blot of my face: ink on paper.