Concrete

The righteous young woman, from that haughty sect

that sets themselves apart, dress the women in white robes,

stood their among the cluster of other women in her band,

long golden hair in a ponytail, staring me down with fire

filled grey eyes.

In the ether realm, in the realm beyond the sun and flesh,

she carries a sword all afire in honeyed flame, that she stole

for herself from a bored, disinterested angel more interested

in fucking human woman and shaking down the lonely

with false hope that he would fight for him.

She stares me down, cleansing hellfire in her grey eyes,

knowing me, knowing I am not so different, so good as

I have made them believe or dream I am, and I feel that

sword pierce my heart, and her hate, and it’s flames

burn right through me.

A smirk crosses her thin, pale and unadorned lips as she

leaves me behind, as her cohort of Christians crosses the

street as the light changes and I see the hunger to devour

all the lust and greed and cruelty, that living among her kind,

she knows all too well.

A month later, I would see on the news one Saturday morning,

as I was halfway to despair and elation from a sleepless night,

where Roxy and Sam spoke to me of things hidden in the air,

that she had taken a shotgun and killed all the men in her sect.

“God was away, and someone had to make them pay.”

---

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“I Rightly Turn Away”

Milwaukee skating rink, on a snowy night right before Christmas.

I don’t want to go home to family that are strangers who don’t,

and cannot, are just unwilling to understand what I’m feeling, going through.

I want to stay in this dark place, heated to discomfort, but enveloping,

and the candy lights dancing in shadows, as all these kids, all these young people,

are free and easy, not knowing what is coming for them.

On a stage, a petite brunette, her frayed hair up in a ponytail, closes her eyes,

and sings about how “No boy, I will not love you”, “I rightly turn away”,

the music sharp and electronic, and soft and warm as a new lover’s kisses.

Kids, teenagers, young smart ass punks, poet and dreamers, and death worshippers,

all dancing and holding hands and dreaming of that one true love, or the one that

broke their hearts, or some better sunny future down in Hollywood.

The highs of youth, on free and fearless love, or the stars whispering in your ears,

falls away so quickly, leaving ashes and regrets and need to sleep mornings away.

It is warm hear, and none talks to me, so I won’t feel alone when they will not listen.

I was like these kids once, but death came close, and fear and so much pain.

I cannot end the scars and wreckage, and none of those asshole can reach out honestly.

That petite brunette locks eyes with me, and I smile, and in the dark I see her smile back.

The candied lights and all the pure dreams and all the things I can almost reach in her,

call back another girl, another song, another dream, and a lost and ruined life.

---

Disgorged Beast

The dumpster being lifted and emptied,
disgorging it’s rancid trash, brackish water
into the garbage truck with clang and smash,
sounding like the cry and roar of ancient beast.

4:30 A.M., the beasts rage wakes me, in my room,
cluttered and disarrayed, to the sickly piss yellow streetlight
shining in from my bedroom window, a mocking sun,
the light of heaven gone and curdled in this world.

On the desk is the words and incantations of poetry,
last ditch hope, that I can make an angel come to me,
with her sword of fire, wings of white, and furious eyes,
or a least a kiss from her so I can fight these ancient beasts,

that roar in the night, hiding in our skins and faces,
in industrial clatter of the waking world, the noose that
is soft and sweet and slow that we welcome it’s grip like
a young and enthusiastic lover, as the ancient beasts command.

I lay in that sickly light, that ancient beast chugging on,
and compose prayers and invitations for that pure angel,
so we can fight and I can be brave and maybe the ancients beasts
won’t have their revenge in the black pool liquid of their bones.

Without Stars

Tartarus, without stars,

as the sky cannot see us,

and the satellites, radio waves,

and even God is blind to us.

They sent us down underground,

without gold for Charon, because

we had no gold in our rundown house

in a bad part of town.

In the dark, the galaxies in her head

dim, with no hope for escape,

for the sun, for the warmth of Elysium

that all those rich assholes enjoy.

We hatch a mad plan; to make love,

birth a star that will grow to be an angel.

Raise up through the rock to world above.

Call down a disinterested Seraphim or Paladin.

Even though it was their kind who brought us here.

No other sword or key.

No other face in the sky.

Nothing but time to sharpen fangs.

---

Atlantis Guitar

The freight train rumbles by,

as I drive to work, still dark.

I thought about the bad dream,

finding a headless angel in the park.

I sit in my car, time to wait here,

drinking too hot gas station coffee,

listen to that mournful Atlantis guitar,

and try to head bad breath with a toffee.

That headless angel is being put

on the freight train, express to Groom Lake.

Someone might take a picture in Santa Fe,

but no one will be grieving at the wake.

A ghost can’t make a night stand still,

and the one with me, she just plays that song,

that Atlantis guitar, from when she was young,

when she could say in peace there was nothing wrong.

---

One Fleeting Moment

Tessa and Scott dance on the ice, above this world, free from it
as the melancholy romance music plays, and there is only them.
He has a soulmate in her, and they’ve dreamed this life together.
I wish I was an angel like her. I wish I was a brave prince like him.

Beauty in this world seems to fade so quick, leave only wounds.
That sad song and them above this world, brings for just a flash
a wonder to this rat-shit plane of existence, that is burning down
all that the human soul could make light, as if human life were trash.

The angels are tired of our shit, tired of fighting  for a race that loves Satan.
Still, for a few stolen moments, art of pure souls and brave, strong people
can make heaven feel as close as the death that is breathing down our necks,
that paradise will be for all us left out, that we won’t be skewered on a steeple.

Twinkling Snowflakes, January Sunlight

No one thinks of the snow,

or the cold and dark,

in Santa Fe, the desert.

Twinkling snowflakes in

weak January sunlight.

A song about Persephone,

sad and slow and so kind

before the moment, I am

put into the dark van,

the dark van driven by a dark man.

He takes pictures, me gagged and tied,

me and the other girl, smiling at our fear,

and I try not to cry, just stare him down.

He talks on the phone, pictures, and us,

ready to sell.

I sing that song of Persephone to her,

as we lay against the wall of the van,

still tied up, but no longer gagged.

I sing of Hades coming to take his bride.

I sing of her mother whose tears freeze the world.

Maybe the end, maybe the time, the dark man Hades,

taking us down into the underworld, bought and sold,

when we were so innocently enjoying life, picking flowers.

Mother let your tears freeze this world, let them make

these dark men give us back, make the sun return with us.

---

Gentle Monster

The thunder of the music in her ears.

As it roars her head finally, finally clears.

She’s come so far. She’s come so far.

Still playing her favorite teal guitar.

Dark of the club, not even a light show.

If she were to cry, the cheering wouldn’t know.

No longer smoke filled places, like in her youth.

Even if he was here, they wouldn’t sneak a smoke on the roof.

The crashed car. The headlight pointing to the black air.

Crying, wiping the blood from his face with her long hair.

The black stained red, a veil that he passed through.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Our world isn’t through!”

And the music is a lulling dragon whose fire is cool.

In it’s teeth the peace of her voice can finally rule.

His ashes and his grave spun into a melancholy thread.

If she still loves him, still feels him near, he isn’t dead.

And the ringing in her ears, the thumping in her breast,

this gentle monster still the exorcist that soothes the best.

And still her teal guitar, that she bought when he bought his own,

still bright in this dark place, still the devoted weight, tender millstone.

The Garden Hid Her Tears

Her thoughts are glass and without permanence.

They are great towers that crack in hot sunlight.

The gardens were left to grow wild in the summer

and are left to wilt and fade now that winter has come.

Her worn and dirty clothes, once high fashion, haughty,

are now just enough to keep her warm before night fall.

The garden, in the West End, where she was a child,

laughing in her finery, among her parents’ serious affairs.

The garden that was Eden before she knew the story,

before the fruit of heaven bled in her innocent belly.

The garden that hid her tears, from a demon nameless,

that made her heart break with the fantasies in her dreams.

The fine mansions, the fancy cars, well maintained lawns

are all burned out and ruined, the war took it all away.

She sits in the garden, left to it’s own will and devices,

and once again it hides her tears, though she knows why now.

The night is coming, and there’s not enough to keep her warm,

and she cannot claim a dowry or grace, only cleaned bones of excess.

Always Pining

A smoky club, dim lights, hole in the wall.

Standing still, she sings her wispy siren call.

Head cast slight down, dark hair over eyes.

Words sung, sorrowful, warm and so wise.

Witching hour, cigarette smoke a lace veil,

as I remember Eden and a first kiss without fail.

She sings the angels down, they eat from her land.

I thought they’d forsaken this spoiled, dark land.

2 AM, outside in the Old City, bitter January cold.

What love truly is, I was never honestly, purely told.

The songs echo in my soul, and the night is so shining.

I find sweetness in her song, and in Caroline, always pining.