Thursday, September 10, 2009

Incomplete Wolf

Throw out your meat pans else he comes,
Ever coming, always leaning on the back door
With ice for paws and his breathy nose
On the screen, his messy smile
Nailed to his pained face. Tongue.

He wears a hat of cold river and the coat of
A wild wet spring. Though he never begs
With his warmth, his teeth sneak. The
Always smirk tacked on to his ashen
Tones, like smoke from a stack.

Big, rain-soaked eyes, famished with focus
Bulging from his wet head into our lives.
Looming, ever looming in the Garden,
On the Porch, in the Kitchen, Bedroom…
Stealing our Intimacy, our Private Things.

When mother leaves, the sound of fur on
The gate, breath on the knob. Like a
Kindred spirit, his filthy watching like
A stray from the Wood, through bloody
Lenses. She said he wasn’t my Father.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Rebirth

I am the trash beneath your feet today.
Step on my life, my dreams, with hard sandals.
My crumpled ashes smeared across the walk
My blackened soul to bear for all to see.
As fierce as Hydra’s heads will I return,
Biting and clutching freshly trodden ground.
Even the hydra babe must start anew. 

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

A Clean House

Google’s a mean one, Google’s ferocious,
To cut up your parents and leave you alone
Fixing the curtains, mending the seams
Sewing the edges, hiding the schemes.

Take a long breath and exhale the whole world,
Cover your eyes and beef up your arms,
Washing the couch, iron the stove,
Vacuum the blogs all littered with Rove.

Splinter the webs and split the screen Queen,
Bite your tongue, you floozy, it’s dark.
Humming
 a solo while soaking the lamp,
Leaving the cupboards all dripping and damp.

An Apple a day keeps the chainless away,
Carve your swath, the etchings of when
Butter the drapes, knife the phone,
Scrape off the walls, and rip out the throne.

iTunes is cold, iTunes is flat,
Clamp them together and feel the burn
Rupture the fan, ignite the guest bath,
Smash out the Windows, polished with wrath.

Let your freedom not ring, rather dialing tones,
Sugarplums dancing and slaying each other.
Wreck the floors, demolish the shower,
Polish and polish the center of power. 

Friday, March 27, 2009

Haikus

A Proverb
Pride consumed in full
Can never a full man make,
It’s not nutritious.

Oration
Swallow me deeply,
Taste to devour the whole
But spit out your pride.

Irony
Stupid distractions!
I’m trying to write a haiku!
Wait Kristen did what!?

The One Word Haiku
I have been trying
To write a haiku for you
Well here it goes: Damn!

An Important Announcement
Extraterrestri--
Extraterrestrials are…
Extra—ah fuck it!

Nature
Blue-bladed meadows,
Do not stomp on their freshness
Inhale, enjoy, live.

Bitterness
Haikus are for queers,
They always sound so profound,
Bite me. Fucking whore.

Driven
My vehicle is
Passionate, determined, strong
Where will I go next?


"__,__"

The Dark Fact went roaming around last Saturday,
It found its parents in a shoddy alleyway, feasting.
Meanwhile, the Casual Element poked in to try its luck
Its’ daggered mouth agape like a Nevada sunset.
In another black moment, the spiced death tango
Prepared itself for the shattered moon.

“Frolly tha hist wine onda farn,” the Fact, muffled,
“Brilly thon gren tug hast wafer.” Its’ blanketed
Mouth frothed merely at the point.
“Gintrogger dole in trast anser tumf,” hast the Element
Bid, its’ brooch hand sliding through the pocket.
“Blig tarn, thoun stahnder frilten schtumpf,” brooded
the Fact, with acquiescence.

Glib and marauding, Its’ highness, the Casual Element,
intertwined Its’ with the Dark Fact.
  Stifling the silence,
Their embrace.
  As if to scold the faraway: dark, and
Factually, It fell into illusion.
  The ensuing smile crept
Beyond the corners of obscure, where, perhaps,
Stricken with love, It, (alone) without It. 

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Le Marsaillaise

The darkness burns in my throat,
Like black magma it flows,
With stealth. With…suave.
Its slow, confident movement,
Graceful rolling tides, in the calm
Of the storm.

This black infection, its penetrating
Self-loathing, Self-inspiring heat,
How persuasive!
Let me succumb to your eerie flow,
Of the blood of war demons,
Give me my full cup.

Acid, venom, poison.
Ichor from the very heart of
Lucifer! Almighty God of Fire!
Release and unleash this might.
As hot ash gathers in these veins,
By innocence, grant me this flame.
Let this interminable fury conquer
My mind, my words.

Bring forth the burned blood.
As they fall, let them singe the
Flesh.
 

Itching.

Flesh.

By the sword of Mars
I do beseech you!

With the soothing grace of a
True Mountain yet, 
I beg of you pay me no heed. 

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Christendom (In Mid-Strike)

~

One incisive rainbow, ugly, perilous,
Drips faucet-like in a storm when
All the fresh dirt wafts like blood
And seeps through the curtains.
Yellow, as irritated mice, they live
A life apart.
 
I once saw his cynicism move
From his mouth, in slow ringlets.

One might compare his breath to
Current en automne dans la pluit.
My own brutality hath erased my
Claws, for from a higher hill did I
Yell.

Laiden with guilt armor, m’lord,
For last was he seen setting
The heavens, in shadow, too.

~

Fiery pith doth exude from me
Palms, a tricky weed ‘s grown.
Shorely the gardna would pluck
up the grass from under its iron
Heft.

Like the patchy locks on a bear,
His buttery smile.
  Blades upon
Blades upon Blades.

~

I myself, in a sea-worthy echo
Might like to drown a bit of salt,
A pity that. 

Monday, December 01, 2008

The Implied

The high priest, drenched, robe deep in anguish,
“The bell…!” curls over his lips as a billowing fog.
On paper, his clutch slowly weans the ink from
Its scribe leaving blurry wrinkles in stead.

Frost had congregated on the landscape like dust
On a forgotten time.
  Does his breath rasp and
The bell toll? The moldy scrape of his soles
Against the cold, dampening stone steps, are they?

What a history of heathens!
  Silent as fresh snow-
These angels falling heaven sent.
 Their voices, as
Soft as human minds, fall sweetly into the gaps of
Books, and their noble yet distant bindings.

In what direction shall I bow in the gentle bloom
Of spring? When all but the dust has returned and
The trills of the blackbirds deceitful calls has well
Hidden the echoes of the Scrolls, where then?

Let the piercing harp once more sing high! Punish
The Avians for their false cries, their light frolic.
May their feathers mold; only then will their spirits
Know the True Severity lest higher they fly.