Afternoon Leaves

Rusted away, last night's dreams...
floating along the makeshift gutter's stream
like afternoon leaves on the fell wind,

Brown eyes reflected in a glassy stare,
her orange umbrella cast a shadow,
with a red handle in the pouring rain,
a waterfall cascade,
but still the blue in the skies
it was just that time of year...

Deathly yellow sun, pasted close
on the blackened pavement,
as she boarded the train, searching for
a clean seat
her legs wearied by the long game
she saw him once again, as she always did;
he smelled of the mists,
a poor soul, with endless travails
and a wry smile

Another night on the 5:15, she thought...
missed glances, and paper minds,
destined never to meet,
or wanting to meet for that matter...
it was just something to make the trip,

It was her stop, she turned towards the door,
Still their eyes met as the doors closed
"I'll see you again tomorrow, won't I?" she said
Unspoken

"Till then."

Moulting (Waiting for Season's Change)

The lake ripples in the sunken moonlight,

and the icy-blue fingertips of winter's night

caress the scattered stars resting upon

a hero's shoulders


The old man's feet wrestle the years

as the floor-tiles grow weary,

cold and brittle

like tree branches after a storm


Every step behind the windows,

caught in the mirror

one side white-hot, like molded steel

the other laid bare; a wasteland of snow

and a promise of days to come


A vision of intemperate times,

swept across a living-room floor;

dreams of fire and ice,

left in the recesses of the mind,

and cradled in the heart.

Burnouts Part 2

Sometimes I hate the words

despise them for all their little fucking paradigms,

sucking on our withered intentions

goddamn it! why is it every word is entangled in some witches brew of 

wanting to be admired,

when in the vast reality of shit this world is, 

nobody gives a damn about the words,

it's just the same fucking buttons I push over and over again

Fuck it all, all the words,

nothing we can do will ever compare...

the stickiness of a mind,

mired in the sameness of it all,

the same sun and stars, the same moon, the same mirror I look into every morning,

the same old worthless phrases

bandied about like so many lost souls in the street

It's hard to figure out the puzzle, you know

desire melds into one - 

anger of the past, the happiness of now, the flame of the future

while the windows remain closed, fresh air deceased

and the words grown stale.

I change my mind...I really do love the words I've grown to hate. 

Dancing in the Sunlight

The old woman danced in the afternoon sunlight,

not with nimble feet, but frozen hands.


Just my mother, you see - never able to gain a wide berth of trouble...

Sitting there in the shadows I watched,

carefully tracing the edges of the antiseptic room;

white were the curtains, large the windows of the soul -

every gloriously tiled footstep caused a squeek, squeek, squeek on the floor...


Here at the end, we stood...

and yet the flood had not been released,

nay, not even a drop was shed...


Another minute or two passed, I knew I'd never speak to her again...

I knew we'd never laugh at the sparrows in the front yard,

seek peace in a like mind,

or remember the bad-old-days like every other day...


Soon it was time for me to go,

I felt in necessary to remember the old woman dancing in the sunlight,

never nimble with feet - or hands for that matter...but she could cook with words...


No, we were clumsy together - two shoes tied together by blood...

forever bound by dumb-assery...a billboard for foolish decisions...

still she was my mother,

and we were one in the same,

one day I will forgive that trespass,

one fine day it will all make sense, you know...

from the past the tears will fall,

only to live another day.

Friends

Skipping on the clouds,

sun rays, glittering on the horizon

cast down to the bright new sea

on the evening's turn,

bad luck shared with the beasties,

into her eyes I never strayed, content in the jellied fray

we shook and still frozen in the ancient cave,

it was a long night,

survived by only a latent voice,

and solemn friendship among the years,

It became clear, the darkness was our crew-mate,

Odd eye see, a forlorn conclusion...

but still we remain,

with a knife against the flimsy shield of time,

bound together by innocence.

As the summer wanes,

remember the moments we had,

on the open sea of bright new days.

Epilogue to the Battle

Moist grass underfoot in mourning dew,

fresh soil disguised on a streak,

a smile, sickly sweet,

she listens to the hall, heavy footsteps pitter-patter 

as the clouds pass over

just a wisp 

silver in the morning heat,

that sting, a sting on the flanks,

boiled like an old leather heart, rage fills the 

broken glass...

unable to empty the hole,

the dirt slinks back in,

like she used to on the evening sabbath ,

now the spell shatters,

on the daylight we slumber tense,

unable to forget the fateful hours hence,

remember it was only a dream - 

that's what the leech did say.

Nightmare King

Slayeth away, busy King

along the crimson fields the warriors fell!

Tearing apart the darkening skies, the King raised his voice

above the din, bellowing like the call of the horn.


"Stay, my boys! Leave the way clear - the Champion is mine!"

Over the bodies he skipped merrily, traipsing over the pawns,

keenly focused,

on a legacy by the sword.


"Don't go m'lord! Come back, before it is past time!" the warriors brayed,

still the King did not attend - drawing his jeweled sword,

shining now in the evening sun, stained with fading stars


Above all others, he led his life plain,

conqueror among the conquerors,

till that fateful day, the day his Queen was besieged,


She kept the watch

watching the feral hordes writhe above the catacombs


Not in the tower, but at the front gate, urging the young men to fight

in his stead.

With sleight of hand,

She was taken by the Champion that day, with cold steel and heart alike,

the grounds full of blood and dust, patterned like the spray of a waterfall

upon every lifeless face,

He stood above her, the Champion, driving his sword into her gullet

while taking the King's place in her heaven,

and all that he ever held dear.


Almost succumbed under the haze of fever,

the King did see it all,

the fire in His eyes, wretched gnashing teeth, yes, a hole was made into his soul that day!

As the thunder raged, and lightning fell like tears,

an oath was taken - with no one around.

Vengeance, was the only compass of the King.


Now at the edges of sight, his men regaled in the muddy fields

knowing what was to come - the mighty King!

As he clashed his shield against his sword, the men shouted

on high: "Do not continue m'lord, you are consumed!"

Too late for the Champion, however - for he knelt by the end of the King's mercy


Screaming, screaming, the hordes did wail, beseeching the nightmare King,

strangely hollow now, the scene divides

the many seem so few, and the hills become cobblestone hallways,

"What sorcery betrays these eyes?" wondered the King, as the voices became tangible


Gazing down upon the Champion, he noticed the flames had become blue,

a continence much like his weighed upon the image below him,

weaving together the mists, he cleared his troubled mind, and now he recognized the enemy!

It was so clear now, like the harvest moon -

"This man is not my wife's killer, he is my son..."

"My son! My Son! How has this come to be?!"


The King, seeing his son's bloodied features sharp, did now retreat a few paces,

ceased only by the feet of his body stumbling into a unknown form just behind him:

It was only the body of his wife, the Queen...with a dagger lodged in her heart,

to the vision he gasped "My love, my love! What have I done?!"


Time now slowed forth...as if in a dream,

heaviness poured across his limbs swathed in the fear of what he had done

slow as molasses in the morning air,

as the the servants stood by, gazing upon the would-be-king

horror clear, the sound of flesh became muddled once more.


The call of the horns,

The call of the horns,

the cry of the falcon in the distant past,

the pall of summer on the winter's smile,

for times long ago he flailed about,

on the soft mossy banks of the lake,

allowing one final glimpse of what was,

a tapestry of love, now torn upon the rocks, his

standard in the thorny brambles,

and the cruel absoluteness of tender life,

now alone in the corner, two forms still,

while the shadows crept in...

"Ah!"

the King thought to himself...

...then what is the point of being young, if you cannot regret it?"

Sinewy Burnouts (Writer's Block)

Wrenching playing hatred upon the masses
the ghouls and dragons of the mind melting
the one pure thing I had left
grinding my bones into dust
flaying the sacred places of the heart
pounding my way through the glass
windows my brain on fire
can't begin to stop the goddamned music
the same fucking tune played out over and over
again like a stitch in time
like needles in a haystack piercing every finger
every and staining the walls with pleasure
streaking across my vision the lies of everyone
I've ever known, the pain of those I've hurt
senseless anger breaking the dam
and I can't write a fucking thing about it
I can't give birth to the stars
and every frustration is kept there
locked away in a shitty cabinet
locked down in the embers of memory
disparate thoughts chained against the soul
holding me back from the flow
the river of heart
the lake of the mind
change me into ash on the wind
wretched stillness
spent now fallen on the horizon
these words spit out like mothers milk
I know that love will sometimes
change.

Winter Maneuvers

It seemed like soft twilight
and revelations spilt
upon the jaundiced moon
from a crystalline mind
like funeral bells

Comfortably crouched around
the little bonfire
delicately stoking
broken embers
steel-blue glow
buried in the ashes

Unfastened from the stars
icy flakes fell into the
golden inferno
only melting away like
an afternoon shadow's
silent wake

Mercurial dreams spent
warily under summer's gaze
never left his mind
for even in the snow
the sun's die was
cast

August's daze
and the dust's haze
coated dry evening coats
sweet harvest time
a reminder of Winter's
eternal embrace

Here in the glaze of
of frozen peaks
such thoughts seemed
strange
wrapped about his ears
congealed in time

The indelible sting of
the north wind
could never pine away
the cold comfort of
paradise and
Winter maneuvers

They found his footsteps
etched in the snow
a gentle smile and
parchment skin
stretched out for an
evening's nap
in the mid-day sun
like a despot of Spring.

Headstones

Traipsing dizzily across the yellowed
grass, perished under the
noon-day sun, hazily tracing forgotten
names, stacked together like
fallen timbers after an ice storm,
the headstones accept my playful
touch, fingers still ashy from tears
of old statues, baleful in watch
under the mossy tapestry, draping low
gracile tendrils woven
over sturdy oak limbs,
crestfallen beneath the weight
of ruddy sunsets, the stream of time
flows like honeyed wine in
view of a thousand eyes,
forever peering out from
Mother's embrace.

Fervor

Gaze upon the thirsty masses,
round callow eyes,
in their fervor,
clouds turns to ash,
and bombs scar the
night sky; golden fireworks
cascading
like entrails
into greedy mouths
and empty bellies,
as the bloodlust
crescendo
breaks apart the
empty temples and
brazen bulls,
the earth
take them all to
her bosom
to eternity's
rest.

Restless Leaves

Wither away in the
restless leaves
like stained red flames
against an orange sky,
the embers sway in
a lustful whisper of the wind
and the icy sting, winter's breath
bleeds through a tattered mind.

Hollow limbs dance along the
edge of a lake of mirrors
in an infinite gaze,
rain, tranquil in the mist,
as the soul flutters away,
leaving the body to linger,
in the restless leaves,
with a dagger through
the shriveled heart.

All Hallows Even

O' dance in the foggy gloom,
baleful creatures of the night,
under the moon macabre,
somber, fiercely blazing eyes
of the ravens, piercing maleficient
minds.

Run away now, my dear
under the inky sky!
Dash along the rickety
old bones, turned to
dust, revived by lurid
dreams.

Drink deep, potion of the dead,
alchemy of the ancients,
cadaverous mouths greedily awakened,
by the gnashing of teeth,
while each pace brings certain
doom.

Too late, for the earth is alive now,
with swarthy hands grasping,
a tangle of arms, pale in the
moonlight, taking you back
from whence you came, to sleep in the
darkness.

Malady of the Flowers

My amorous Dawn,
pause with me for a little moment,
here,
beside the sick flowers,
salacious Dawn,
why must you be taciturn now?

Brooding upon the darkness,
all the while, as the morning air
congeals around the colors of
God's eye, Dawn are you with me still?
I would that your threadbare love,
rival the world aflame.

Along the cottage streets where harlots
reign, glancing come-hither behind
the red curtains, billowy
with the rhythm of ancient blood,
Dawn, will you not rest with me
here, alongside my bitter heart?

Now Dawn, iridescent, resplendent
in the rosy clasp of Helius,
can you sense malady of the flowers?
Transcendent in your lost eyes, I falter
in the hollowness of reason,
and the ambrosia of time.

Empty Shelf

In the night-time hours,
the footsteps of a madman,
remain calm, even against
the call of the faceless
wonders, and the embrace
of the neon widows,
unfettered, unrelenting
the crunch of broken glass,
scattered underfoot, splintered
dreams, yet the feet keep moving
sometimes fast, sometimes slow,
always forward, till
everything becomes one in
the moonlight, still trudging
over bodies, sinking into
the marshy pavement, feeling
numb after one last drink,
and that look in her eyes,
speaking to me from the
edges of memory, soft words
and lips, painted across my own,
yet moving away now, afraid to
die while the night is young,
like a new star, the city
twinkles with pure intent,
yet remains incomplete,
a masterpiece torn by
regret,
gathering dust on an
empty shelf.

Untitled

Through that window pane,
as the rain rolls downwards
beady, loving streams,
in droves the innocents rave,
snarling eyes, with fear
in tow, balefully gazing
out that window pane,
when the waters' rush
outside muddy river banks,
spindly fingers caressing
frozen faces, cold breath
upon the window pane,
Death, that old
reprobate, hanging about the
trees strewn thick like haystacks,
he'll catch his death in the rain
dripping through the branches
like honey,
run away now, the view is grand
and there is safety in
numbers,
behind that window pane.

Silent Past

The morning bell tolls,
for those who listen,
a gentle reminder of
what things may come,
trace the path of the
sun from eastern
shores, for the west
is where all things end,
let your weary mind
rest now, unburdened
by the silent past,
live in the fluid moment,
not what is set in
stone, recall the
night, and embrace
the dawn.

Oct. 3rd

I got a little chuckle this morning when I was perusing the talk threads on Yelp. It's been just about a year since the end of my 3 year relationship with a certain someone, and this person is still obviously quite bitter about how it ended I guess.

What posseses her to do that? - She has a good man in her life, and by all accounts they are quite happy together. Despite this, she continues to make little jabs and references about me in public forums. I didn't even end the relationship - she did - so why all the hostility?

I realize that I'm pretty much an asshole when it comes to relationships; lord knows I've made mistakes, and will likely to continue making mistakes since I'm dreadfully slow on the uptake. But one thing I will never be is bitter. I want people to be happy!

This isn't the first time I've addressed this issue, I know, I know, but it seems to me that people ought to appreciate what they've got, and not let the past run their lives so much. In other words: grow up! Or don't, and remain a bitter and angry person. I'll choose the former, thank you very much.

Birth

Stroll along, my dear lady
through the dark city,
over the cracked old streets,
and sidewalks strewn with
cobblestone dreams, in the
stained glass windows, pretty
faces gaze out upon the
masses, gravely watchful,
piercing blue eyes, following
every step, as her delicate hands
busily tracing the tender flowers,
dried in the summer sun, down the lane,
a lustful illusion of divine whore,
spreading her wings across the sidewalk
marketplace, ferrying lost souls to
a lush hereafter with bottle of
moonshine and a kiss, liquor on her
breath, sending
away the doldrums with a
wink and a smile,
just in time for the evening storms
to wash away the cobwebs, sweet tendrils
hanging about the mind,
now a prison of imagination,
gracefully strolling along,
on the broken streets,
till the city swallows her
whole.