Oh, mighty giant, how I worship from afar.
I see a lone, striding tsar.
But I may only gape.
Oh, fateful spectre, your visage of a love once known,
unearthing the wounds I had sewn.
How may I end this pain?
Now, squinting siren, I climb aloft to reach to you.
Now my life shall 'gin anew,
and I smile at the thought.
And as I jump come close to me you wicked, wicked boy.
I am that lovely shattered toy
you now hold within your hands.
a faltered glance, a look askance
but who would stop to guess the chance?
blushed cheeks with velvet voice
yet no one knew there was a choice
a knowing smile, he looks away
both know again, again we'll play
one lies yearning, try not to kill
this delicate bloom by keeping still
the other's heart, it is unknown
unknown as well is what was sown
and so we stage this careful dance
leave nothing open nor ope' to chance
e'er part as friends though hope we might
I say, go
I'd build a pyramid and on bowed knee
dedicate it to your memory.
And if I carved up the moon
you would be the first offered a slice.
For I hear your plaintive howl on the wind
and I answer, with bloodied throat, in kind.
Know that when your lonely soul flies the byways of the ether
you do not travel alone.
She hadn't meant to walk in on her father;
she'd only wanted a glass of milk before bed.
But as the door swung open her ears were greeted
with a deafening explosion.
Blood and brains painting the walls, a dress, her face.
Blood-flecked pigtails quivered,
mouth gaping at a landscape in hell.
She slowly steps to the side of her slumped hero.
Gingerly reaching out to those strong, gentle hands;
recoiling at their warmth, now unholy.
She bends as if guided by
He is the one betting hounds at the Kentucky Derby,
speaking a foreign language in a familiar land.
He is the one looking for snowstorms in the South,
and predicting rain amidst the desert sand.
He is...
Searching for a niche in alabaster walls,
casting no shadow as he roams down the halls.
Everyone knows him, a stranger nonetheless,
what could possibly ail him is anyone's guess.
He is king of a world,
and lord
this underground, placid ocean of still sadness
that has always been at my core
usually far below me
but standing on the shore
is like coming home
for a man who dreams of the desert
a tepid sorrow that has lost its fire
only to have embers flare into brief life again
this haunting melancholy
the last hoarse shouts
before subsiding into silence
extinguished but amid growls
I ask you, gentle reader, would you scorn
the violet's death in arctic soil?
slave's last exhalation in endless toil?
Could you chide or reprimand
the Indian's rest after futile fight?
the moth's candle respite from his quest for light?
Would you then begrudge me my final rest?
Would I find a cold, unyielding breast?
And if you would that rest but kindly allow,
my final breath a kiss of thanks upon your brow.
We settle back on leather thrones, glass and ice our sceptres.
Candelabra lit, the hounds at rest, two brothers share the night.
Tell me, lord, of mountains far, and I shall speak of valleys.
Whisper soft of tears aloft, and I will gale with laughter.
Boast upon your finest hour, while I but moan defeat.
Your nights of black and smiles lack, I will comfort be.
And when laughter wanes and tongues grow weary,
morning's light shall end our night.
We rise but slo
Those carmel lips that curl so deliciously at the corners
on a boy draped in a chair
His head falls back to reveal the silky strength of a neck
a chest rises and falls as he clenches the air
A sharp intake as I sink in
his taut belly quivering with the pain
Crimson ecstasy flows gently down savannahs of flesh
and a whimper escapes from those earnest lips
Then white knuckles turn a wanner hue
as muscles are laid to rest
And a smile plays across my lips
as
Oh, Annie, sorry child lost from my breast.
Where did you step wrong walking among the mortals?
Was it me they saw in your eyes when you confessed?
Close your weary eyes while I absolve the rest.
Oh, Dragon Lady, can you smile now your work is done?
The voices you hear these shall ne'er understand.
Pity to you, for ours is not the way of the sun.
Almost finished now as you gently squeeze the gun.
Oh horror, the atrocities and blessings performed in your fight,
hobbling those of a
I remember concert and marching band in high school. This was written back then in honor of and with much gratitude for our high school band director, Jeff Evans. ( a Patient man )
"Shout at the Band"
You didn't play the allegretto,
your notes are all flat.
You say you can't play anymore!
You got the sixth grade blues,
your music you want to choose.
If you want to leave, there's the door.
You got your spit valve stuck,
you don't give a fuck.
And you think I don't give a damn!
Altered and musing on my reverence for Camels. (from long ago)
like a candy box of confections
I open it up to sidle my fingers through
I choose a carmel beauty and slowly lift it from its shell
even dormant it scents the air in the passage to my lips
I light; a passionate, smooth dandy mingling his breath with mine
a deep bass rumble
from the throat of hell
as Demon clears a throat
a plot unfolds
insidious, threading, dynamic
rising and falls
the demons approach
they creep out from
every darkness, every crevice,
every corner of every vision
they tiptoe in to the scenery
long, incisor fingers clatter
along amorphous shapes
they come fast but surely
along your mindscape
caressing your mind as you watch
sliding their fingers between the sulci
was that a grin- no a glare
the myriad faces rea
I miss out out with a lot of horror movies. 1) I'm not a straight man. Could we have less titties in these things? Please? Now full frontal male nudity for days would be just fine. Am I a hypocrite? Fuckin' A…maybe I just like the company. 2) I am one of those sick souls who actually thrives, nay, insists on good writing, on a substantial story. (Unless, of course, we are talking creature features and then I am willing to negotiate my standards or perhaps throw them under the bus altogether.) Wh
