Thursday, March 9

A Glass, Darkly

A GLASS, DARKLY

It so happens that
true hearts, their bleaker parts,
those garnet gleams of dreams,
they mark us,
turn-to-dark us.

Where emeralds once, now smoky mass,
and in this tangled, grim morass
I wonder as I wander,
ponder as I pander to the
dissolute meanderings of a mind diseased,
a thing on its knees,
so please . . .
please.

Allow me to elaborate:
a spec-te-ral entanglement,
aberrant entertain-y-ment,
where what's within the brain is
plain at odds with what we claim.

I'm told our actions speak much louder
—do they, though? It's cloud on cloud here,
crystal shards in eyes deceived.
Curse the imp's cracked vanity!
My vision's through a glass, darkly.




Wickerman

WICKERMAN

limb of straw and twig and twine
hollow man, athirst for skin, a-
trem-bl-ing along its spine
sruthán le fuil agus tine

beast, bird, body inauspicious
flesh frenetic caged and pinned, a
banquet for the gods lubricious
sruthán le fuil agus tine

wail and wimper man of wicker
sacrifice what's deep within, a
pagan faith and flame a flicker
sruthán le fuil agus tine

limb of straw and twig and twine
sruthán le fuil agus tine




Monday, February 27

Greek Chorus

GREEK CHORUS

God from the instrument--valentine dactylic!
Fate in its Greek chorus tells of the idyllic.

Triplicate faces and serpentine veneries,
homage to odysseys, clandestine prophecies.

Thebes! Oh my extant, this plague exalts eagerness.
Pearlescent white-hot--the core of our wine-dark seas.

Stirrings where none should be, penance for revelries . . .
Sever the verse that determines the hero's course!

Pennate, the winged dash to bits on the precipice.
Cold Amphitrite cares naught for my tragedy.




 

Tuesday, February 14

The Women in the Woods

THE WOMEN IN THE WOODS

out in the woods, out in the water
out in the woods, out in the water
take us down to the ghosts of our daughters
sticks and stones bring the lamb to the slaughter
out in the woods tonight

under the moon, under the stars
under the moon, under the stars
sister sightless taking what's ours
bones are breaking opening scars
under the moon tonight

friend to the worm, friend to the raven
friend to the worm, friend to the raven
skull and soul and flesh of the craven
on the knoll their sorrows are graven
friend to the worm tonight

tell it to the wind, tell it to the wild
tell it to the wind, tell it to the wild
now's the hour we bring home a new child
swift devour the pure and beguiled
tell it to the wind tonight

Monday, January 23

A Love Poem

A LOVE POEM

the tiger stalks in bars of orange

and crimson tongue

razors push through gum 

sinew thick and dumb

he’s numb,

at least to your appeal


glister red inside your head

and organs plump

it’s instinct, no offense

he makes no recompense

just sense

to him, you are a meal


sweet entrails wrap a smitten heart

two bloods turn one

so jaw engulf your head

and grind the bone to dead

sweetbread

most primal love ideal




Wednesday, February 9

A Shiny Thing

A SHINY THING
 a shiny thing I never was
nor made of stuff immaculate
but toothy grins and shins and bruises,
burnt up skins and string-tied shoeses
tentacles and pentacles; spectacular, tentacular
pentaculate, tentaculate
immaculate--
no and nope; not me
all angles in their witchy ways, 
all writhing feelers gone astray
a playground where no soul dare play
and in the gnarly blackest spots
where itches scratch and scratches cross
there rots the lot of should-have-beens.
the what-it-is
is what is there, and 
nowhere . . . nowhere
nowhere
is that thing once bright, that shiny light
oh radiant thread, pulled taut and tight
just hair gone mad and fingers roaming
eyes gone bad and fancies foaming
far from impeccable, close to wreckable
a shiny thing gone dark
https://lovemaegan.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/Sara-Shakeel-Crystal-Collage-Digital-Artist-16.png





Sunday, September 12

Hush

HUSH
 hush . . .
the touch has broken tips
it looses what in unfeigned hours
thirsted for luxuriant flowers
lingering in tumescent air
immaculate the time we share--
so no more of your luring lips
just hush . . .
concupiscence entombed in need
the bones I break to satisfy
we born to wing are damned to fly
while soulless, starless in the dust
impossible suns ignite, combust
so none of this; we are agreed
now hush . . .
a moment locked in diary
the pillars of our fevered minds
like curls of hair unwave, unwind
in one-two-three the braided guilt
unfastens while the seconds tilt
so know me now, your devotee
and hush . . .
https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/1/haunting-vintage-rose-flower-jennie-marie-schell.jpg






Friday, September 10

The Monster's Sweet Farewell

THE MONSTER'S SWEET FAREWELL
cold in guise, inflamed in eye, 
so stalks the child of the night

boundaries unbound in flesh repressed
unnatural nature, anomalous fright

opal cheek ensanguined 
ruby red, so move the dead

their heads, inbred, the porcelain bite—
the blood enthralled, forever fled

now run the veins of our desires; 
nocturnal creatures lap them free

in deep abyss of dark concave 
the harvest moon creates its slaves 

inspires children lost in lore 
a breath on necks bent back for more

and when the dark of churches' bells 
a-ring in spells occult and swells

of craving, not of saving, 
one who wants the misbehaving

here the white against your night  
here the monster's sweet farewell
https://thumbs-prod.si-cdn.com/4CC1CNES4xAetTwyA5RnYOPavXs=/420x240/https://public-media.si-cdn.com/filer/real-life-vampires-of-new-england-and-abroad-631.jpg



Thursday, August 12

Pre-Game

PRE-GAME
shy and shadow, bric-a-brac
crafty cues the master makes
latent once, now lightning cracks
beneath a skin the toucher wakes

pull a string
they’ll go ‘round in rings
tap a tune
their heads’ll balloon

above, below confetti bits
parade the pawns of foregone games
master crowned in crystal sits
where no one knows each other’s names

turn a key
for the repartee
twist a tongue
the pre-game’s done
https://travelblurbs.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/MarionettePuppets.jpg

Wednesday, July 14

Curtain’s Call

CURTAIN’S CALL 
Quirk of contortion, a portion 
of what's recalled and what fits, 
what we bind into bits.
Arms extending, bones a’bending, 
amortized ends 
of wasted beginnings.
We don’t belong here, bodies wrong here, 
xanthic shapes 
all sound birdsong here.
Hungry undertakers wait for mishaps, 
ate what perhaps was never meant 
for this nor that.
We glow, we spin; we flow, we sin; 
we are, we won’t; 
we scar, we don’t.
Encyclicals of all amiss, 
why feign lost stars 
when sunsets kiss?
Acrobats all, through fires we fall—
drowning in rivers 
at curtain’s call.
https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTnk8svyC1T1ya8c_9zAoH67KCkdUXsm_gx1w&usqp=CAU