Bare November Eden

The park is too small now, too run down, too cold.

               The Eden I remembered, is just another let down.

               I remember mermaids in the creek. Elves in the trees.

               I remember an endless world, and my friend with me.

 

               November would offer some comfort, if it was cold.

               The trees bare, the leaves wet, but warm as spring.

               My friend is not here anymore, and I try to dream

               A new dream, a new spark for tomorrow, to hold on.

 

               Sit in the swing I once rode all the way to the sun.

               The sky is so distant now. The sun just another star.

               I don’t want to go through this without my friend here.

               But everyone leaves, and the night falls quick.

 

               You do what you have to. You have no choice.

Seattle Rains Are Baptismal

It rains here, so I am safe and comforted.

               It rains and the wind is cool, the sky so grey.

               The rains wash away the scent the demons follow.

               The rains wash the blood from my hands.

 

               People I know up here, love me, but have no time.

               I stay in a little house with lush, knotted trees.

               I sit in them, and dream of an Elven Princess, from before.

               The rain cannot wash away her kisses, or kindness.

 

               In my room, with the innocent tales of enchanted forests,

               I try to hold onto to the cleanliness the rains have given.

               That Elven Princess comes to me, sweet and winged,

               And for a moment, a flicker, there’s more than hate, anger.

 

               She sleeps beside me, and I can touch the stars, and bleed.

Eve

Eve died childless. This has all been a bad dream.

The Dust of a Dream

I can’t remember who I was with you.

               That naïve and clean boy, so sweet,

               Sitting at your side, so eager to please,

               To win your favor.

 

               I can’t remember hope when I woke up,

               Or how waiting on you to call, because

               Hearing your voice would make it all

               So beautiful and worthwhile.

 

               I can’t remember believing in God,

               And in angels who swooped in to save,

               Or thinking that HE up there loved us,

               And cared so fucking much.

 

               From here, years later, in our love

               Souring and the demons having won,

               When the march is on to snuff out

               All those decided unfit,

 

               It’s like not even the dust of a dream.

               I know it was real once, that I felt all that,

               But it’s a lead ball in my chest, a weight

               Of shame, like believing you were worthwhile.

 

               The demons you called angels, the cruel ones

               You called saints, the Hate you called Morality,

               When come to kill you, just like me, and that

               Is a cold, bitter comfort, but comfort all the same.

Those Besotted Kingdoms

The land beyond the forest, cool and twilight.

               A river flows there, cold and grey and clear.

               That misty and distant land I dream of,

               And I dream of it more with every passing year.

 

               Quiet and with hushed calls, of angels and beasts.

               Quiet, where the thoughts fade and dreams flicker.

               I covet quiet and stillness and the cool of autumn morn,

               And wish for it to come for me, every steady, every quicker.

 

               A face there, of a woman, distant and stern, but so loving.

               An angel abscences and departures, and being whole again.

               A calloused hand, like that hand washed yours in their own,

               And wipe away every tear, but told no lies, never that sin.

 

               A forest, thought in the droplets of mist, to be won by god,

               And remembered in dreams of those who sleep there.

               Those besotted kingdoms, those mysterious passions,

               Those things clean in unknowing, and lost in knowledgeable despair.

 

               I know she is there, the angel of remorse and dignity and laughter.

               Furies take the blood, she takes the fragile and holy, no skin at all.

               Divy up that which brought grace to my heart, and love to the palace.

               Leave the pitted fruit, so a seed may grow, to tempt a fortuitous fall.

 

              

Down To The Sea

I ride the train, down to New Orleans, down to the sea.

Scars and tattered dreams and my love are all that’s with me.

I hear the sea is golden as the sun rises over it in the morning.

I hear her name, I hear her voice, breaking me without warning.

 

That house is ashes now. May it burn forever in the pits of hell.

That town is long gone behind me, the pain still clear as a bell.

I walk on the beach, the star light washing me clean of blood.

I carry something inside of me. I carrying something damned as a bud.

 

That blue water, that golden sun, that desperate hope for an end.

Yet the angels burn our eyes with their holy flames on the wind.

If I sleep I’ll dream of a sea where sirens sing what I never heard.

My thought pecked out of my skull by a pair of black singing birds.

Dead People Don’t Give You Any Shit

Here in the paths and and avenues of the departed,

where nature and loss are united and wed,

I pass lonely hours, not wanting to go home.

 

Under the spread open branches of an oak tree,

I listen to sad lamentations of all life takes,

the sad songs on my headphones that soothe me.

 

All is quiet as September turns to October

and the leaves fall and the air grows cold, still.

I can dream the satin veiled dream of my loneliness.

 

No one follows me here. I may as well draw the veil.

And I’ll be here until the stars wink out of a bled pink sky.

This place is safe for me, only ghosts call my name here.

Pink Satan

Pink Satan, young woman in Satin, perfume of Jasmine.

Scent of some subtle and unspoken sin, beguiling truth.

               Pink Satin, soft and smooth as the deathless kiss.

              

               Ballroom of conspicuous and archaic finery, a relic.

               The golden lights, like summer sunset, show the skull

               Behind her inviting face, the death I chase with her.

 

               The song is sweet, but the honey has the sting

               Of uncertain brokenness, not seen by people perfect.

               Honey sweetens, and fattens and makes the angel sleep.

 

               The night so holy, so perverse in it’s innocence, inconsequence.

               Morning comes, and that gown that makes me want something,

               Unnamed and dreaded, will still be beautiful, but so fucking useless.

 

               Dancing the night away, as outside the cold comes, death waits patient,

               And the dreams of blood and pain still bleed in poisoned rivers, dead trees,

               And the empty houses that hold only a demon’s court and curtsy.

 

               Unnamed and dreaded, it’s beautiful and hallowed, but so fucking useless.

Childlike Sincerity

Reno, around Christmas time.

               But the lights were lurid all year round.

              

               I saw her, short hair, fuzzy tabougan,

               And the distant hint of a smile,

 

               There in front of the casino, chips cashed,

               And like me nowhere to go in the cold.

 

               A cheap buffet and piss warm beer,

               And the first snow of a hot winter.

 

               We talked of things that never were

               And things much to real, to pass a night.

 

               I told her of my sweetest moment,

               She told me of her biggest score.

 

               I told of that angel I saw as a child,

               And she told me of the tender devil on her shoulder.

 

               Piss warm beer still gets you drunk, and giggly,

               And as the snow came down, reminder of things past,

 

               As the sun came up, we in a fit of childlike sincerity,

               Sway danced to some corny ballad playing too loud.

 

               Childlike sincerity, as she lay her head on my chest,

               And listened to my heartbeat, and chase away the stars.

 

               Morning came, I was on a bus, back to somepoint south.

               She squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek, watched me go.

 

               We never crossed paths again.

Peace on Earth

She’s asleep in the next room; I wonder what she’s dreaming.

               The stars won’t send word. The moon keeps her secrets forever.

 

               Christmas lights in the house next door, candy colored and lurid.

               I would crown her with those colors, those lights, that sense of peace.

 

               `Christmas morn, but too early, even for greedy and restless children.

               Peace on Earth, but not for a troubled heart, without her embrace.

 

               Peace on Earth, but not for tonight, or this world, or the saintly many.

               Just words mouthed without meaning, without beginning, pious tinsel.

 

               She is sleeping, or so I imagine. Maybe she’s us unsettled as I am, sleepless.

               I still wish I could escape into her dreams, I believe it to be such a happy world.

 

               If not happier, something human and dark and sweet like that first passion.

               Passion that bleeds skin and taste like a fruit hidden, but always found with time.

 

               Peace on Earth, but never here with hearts of fire and rage and loss and hunger.

               With people wanting to quiet down that demon calling name, calling her down to here.