silver-tinged twilight owls nestle, hooting along with the help of lofty, fresh leaves so too, do the summer's evening winds whistle around the empty park bench passing through the p
Owl and CrowYour fingertips stuck to my forehead, and popped off when you pulled them back. We were both wearing black that day, mourning our own deaths. (Those little deaths that happen again and again.) Kisses planted grow rainbow flowers at twilight. We were waiting for twilight, that day. I pushed your fingers back into place on your hands, kissing the tips of each one. You cat-purred, I bird-screamed. Twilight rolled in like a fog, smooth and beautiful, the way it does sometimes in autumn. We didn't need anything more.
I Modestly Trudge OnMuck plastered and carcass ridden:the earth is a burial ground where humanity went extinct long ago.And we, the souless wanderers left,we hope for a new meaning, a new life...We hope, and we pretend desperately that hope is enoughto keep us human.
ListeningListeningWhen the angel speaks, Mary dips a fingerinto the wine, holds it out for the angel to taste.This may be the last thingof the world .... The angel's tonguewraps around her finger, a string tied tight.Mary wants to remember the cracked cup,the wind fluttering like a trapped moth,the taste sharp as a pinprick in her mouth."Chosen," the angel calls. But Mary is listeningto the scrape of an oxen's hoovesas he drags a cart, wheels crunching leaves,the last thing .... She already knows.She sniffs her hands: eucalyptus, pungent, crushed,a bright thread tying her to this world."Innocent," the angel says. "No," Mary answers.
keepsakein old boxes we keepnext to spider web walls and heirloomroot cellarssmall pieces of ourselveswatermarkedhoarded like weapons from theenemies withinthe shrapnel of unsettled palaverswaitingfor the right time on the wrong dayorthe right day but the wrong timeto echo sharp olloquiesthought erased with the analgesic ebbing of timesalvaged from boxesand back to the surfacedisplacedlike sickness in gingerale dreams
confined to the marginsapproximate silence has killedour mystique with dancing out of timeproto-vertebrates conscribed to the physics of a ripple
See there's the girlSee there's the girl The girl who's losing gripWho is slowly losing everything her screams of pain and sorrow Fill her heart.Do you hear her Can you see her Can you Listen to her Look at her scars that bleedShe means no harm She's just dying inside Help her before she's goneDon't let her slipDo you hear her can you see her can you listen to her look at the scars that bleedThere she lays The girl who cried outthe girl who everyone Laughed at The girl who did the permanent Solution to a temporary problem.DO you hear her Can you see herCan you listen to her screamsLook at her she's six feet under now
catch and releaseproselytizing disparate discoveriesopined by rusty keyscontraindication was a crazethat could rout us through these doldrum dayshegira fed and ostentatiousquicksilver in a hazeand drawn the perfect line, i've neverusurped the universeinscrutable,re-usable,but i can't spit out the hook...
She stands tallShe stands tall and brave no pain is clear, but look in her eyesand you see the mask of fear and sadness. she has a secreta small one but it is big she fakes her smiles her laughs anything she tries to hide herpain with laughter and falsenessshe is slowly slipping losing her sanity her grip on that fragile line she calls her relief.You see a girl that smiles every day, but maybe she has a secret one like no other a plain to escape the hell she calls earth.
ProphecyProphecyAbove the kneeling angel, a sun dangles,a ball of yarn. I want to unravelwhat they did to me. Mary crosses her arms,an X of blue cotton. They hung her sonon an X, cedar planks haphazardly nailed together,no pattern, only what has already happened.I want prophecies,warnings, road signs, a hand that scrawls,their hands deep inside me,claw hammers. Under Mary's blue robes,red cloth drips, the folds gatheringinto a puzzle on the floor.The painter knew the end,so he shaped the beginning sothere could be no other end,no, if only I ....could I?
DepressionI visited my psychiatrist todayand in an office with no evident emotionno obvious soul beyond a Gettys imagein a painfully drab framescrewed firmly into a pale green wallthat matched the colourof his uninspired suithe told methat people like me infuriate him,he said that six months earlierhe had been told that heonly had mere months to liveand that he had been clutching, snatching,grasping onto every second that he had left.His light brown skin creased andcracked as he told me this,frail grey hair fell onto the lines of his foreheadand I said nothingaware of my body swallowing itself in shame,'So to see a person,' he sai
ThawAs you are loadedinto the backof the ambulance,you thank Godthat somethingis happening at last.
gumshoedear Detective:Nixon had his enemies, and I have mine,and for reasons it seems you count yourself among thembut i'm sure we can find some reasonable termsin the body of these mandatory matriculationssomewhere in the median, of this semblance of humanity,can we not surely coalesce?like a mortise and tenon and calmly recite common sense compartmentalized[the new permutations on the plateau]so if you'd please reign in your dogswith their electronic ears and surveillance eyesand now longer beware of the darkness;i'll share with you when and just how slowly you'll dieyours truly,the Abyss
The Gorgon's lullaby:The Gorgon's lullaby:The gorgon sits on the rock on the edge of the worldshe see's nothing but the dark sky, nothing there she was all alone in the worldnot one soul to comfort hernot a set of eyes to turn her way seeing hatred everywhere but she says to herselfits going to be okay because i'm here with my sister'sthese heavy hands curl around rocks and tree'snever to see another living soul for if she does she'll turn them into stonewhere she could only stare but never have any interactions the Gorgon's lullaby is the only thing that keeps her calmas her wings stretch out behind her she lets out a soft hiss nothing else is h
Ding dongDing dongA burning we will see tonight.Ding dong the witch is dead,pussy in the deep dark well.Harvest a green witch.Weak is the knife held by the child.But the Greenman will sew up the chasmwhich you planted,which I plaitedInto a belly of winter wheat.Do you have to tear?I have no liking for paindespite the scars,despite the seams.There can be no knowledge without the knifebut did you have to tear?
chikaraunique eyes in the sky ::distorted:::kinetic wells that lackno bottomless threat of potentialgodsbefore the siege encased their bones in [history]like seeds to fertilize a future racethe flourish only in the after-math of our erasurebefore repeating our disastersthat are now called commonplace
authentic fakeryself-proclaimed -we demand small tributes from the universe bright gifts of its secretsto awakenmore build-our-own paradox dayscomfortably numbed and dislodged from dualitiesfrom the rough constructs we call memoriesand dreams and their templates of an intrinsically two-button worldand behind our backs self - proclaimedarmies are just days from the doorbarking war, but we won't ever see themonly hours until we implode
physics(of the fourth dimension)it was angular thinking; throw away the wolf's hide and finallyflock with the sentient sheepbleed the black holesdry until they coughed and heaved perfunctory lights into the sky lulling gods to sleeplugubrious concubinesexhausted by the infinitelyweightless fists of time
templarsecluded with old miracleswe stain the solemn pagelike animals before they're brokenpacing trenches in a cagethe good life was voraciousso we silently secededlet Icarus play paper wingsand build heretical machinesand while the valley fog is liftingwe'll flood the empty lakeswith bodies of the baphometto atone for our mistakesa third of us confined to ride these facile theories to our gravesand the rest will nurture rust, convincedone night we'll all be saved
permanent reachevery night our voyeur eyesdrink maria on the Moonhypoxic pseudoforms performingfalse-flag-operationsgratifying only those who skate across the surfaceof poorly padded curtainsor over-polished spoonsand no wonder we're unsteadywhen left without our sundriesno wonder we enlist such bawdyanachronistic rusesthat sets the truth at readybut keeps our hands unsteadyripened 'til the day the kingdomcollapses on its own
pseudologycircumambiousnearly lubric in loquationprolix to the point that no rubicon can fathomand it paints a pretty picturevenial, yet neatapproaching facile thresholdsof sycophantic blissa calculated venomstored succinctly my cheekclosing eyes complacentlyfor at least another week
transpositional thinkinginfringined upon itself and staggeringthe meat is on the moveunpolished hooves and allpainting outside the imaginary numbersfighting battles with the pavementand gossamer wings are givento any with the constitutionto eat their younger brothersor worship with the moon when castingpagan shibbolethsa wolf inside the congregationholding heavy breath