Monthly Archives: September 2017

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.

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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.

Lost and Innocent Kingdom

The waltz long over, that mournful guitar piece
that through the thoroughly shot speakers in
the shopping mall rink sounded like it came in
from the cold and dark waters of Atlantis.
We were young, before The Devil came for me.
I learned to hold you to the sky, toss you to angels
and together we were one soul on the ice, lost
in deep, dark eyes and the soft, melancholy music.
At the end of the session, we skated slow, hand in hand,
ant then that mournful guitar from the lost and innocent kingdom
would play and I’d pull you close to me, and feel weight of heaven,
in my arms, in your closeness, in the end of the winter night.
The Devil came for me, born with me and my mind, my skin.
I fell away, tormented and mad, a hairless lycanthrope,
as I was taken and hanged from the sky, my thoughts emptying
into the sea, and you had to go one, you had a future.
The waltz long over, those bad days just a muted memory.
You’ve got another to raise you to the sky, toss you to angels,
and you’ve got pride and glory and gold, and I’ve got a mind
that can finally love you again, return to that lost and innocent kingdom.

Neither The World Nor It’s Souls

Caroline, who once heard spirits,

lays in her bathtub, lukewarm water,

looking up through the makeshift skylight,

as a bomber flies overhead.

She sighs, the war has already come,

and nothing in the world or it’s souls

could turn away the half-rotted face

of the queen of the dead.

Her town is left to burn and starve,

and her man was taken at the first,

only her alone in this house of theirs,

all hope and light has already fled.

She could almost sleep, sink under

the grey and soapy water, take that

into her lungs and not be in this world,

full of fires and blood and endless dread.

She gets out, gets dressed, cuts her hair

short and at a harsh angle, and packs her

bag with enough to last maybe a week,

and a picture of the man she never got to wed.


Just One More Morningstar

Venus still shines bright as the dawn rises,

just one more Morningstar I don’t need now.

She is still in my head from closing time,

long pale red hair, crowning her sweet head.

Washing a beer glass with a rag, singing low,

a distracted beauty, as I left to face the night again.

Venus, shining bright, I have seemed to guide

the days of my life by her whims, reckless.

Morningstar told me it would bring freedom,

but it all just ended up ashes, maybe pretty words.

I think of that pale red hair, and her soft song,

and wonder if love can come from sentiment and lust.

Backyard of a friends modest little place, a fairie tree,

sitting in his little girl’s tree house, cursing Venus, but I followed.

Cursing Morningstar, but I followed him too, greedy for fix,

greedy for a touch, greedy for the fire that warms only once.

Try not to sleep again, make the day something, something good.

Dream of that pale red hair, but maybe sentiment and lust only fail.

For The Sky, For Love

The lights of the glass mansion shine in this September night,

a distant star, a tiny sun, a light of another life, not ours.

She in her red party dress. stockings, high heels off, running

her feet over the water of the darkened pool, singing a sad song.

Me in now untucked shirt, jacket and slacks, black socks,

glass of champagne, watching her, as if she were a fey come above.

The lightning bugs are long gone, and there’s quiet here, but for the hungry

insects and humming stars, and the peaceful fury of our wild hopes.

She is a child of the water, but the wormwood of this pool, or stinging

regrets that have made there home in it, but it’s all we have tonight.

I am a child of the air, of the warm autumn winds and winter gales,

one or the other, blink of an eye from September to February.

We walk hand in hand to the river, crystal and cold, and pure because

it’s teeth eat our blood and anything unguarded.

We strip naked and walk in, crying out with the chill, and the stars

are all the light of our cracked spirits, as we touch, we kiss.

Beneath the water, dark and velvet blue, one in the dark, in the silence,

coming up in an embrace, those stars in her eyelashes showing His Blessing.

We float, side by side, naked and shivering, watching the night sky above,

knowing we’ll be back her again, after the universe spins back to us.

She sings that song, that still prayer of yearning, for the sky, for love,

for a moment’s peace as The Devil makes dissonant all thoughts of tenderness.

And for a moment, our wild hopes are pure, and the hungry insects are full,

and the stars are enough, to light our way back to Eden, to each other.


Angels Who Weep Still

Caroline walks in the cemetery, end of summer,

end of the day, wandering among regal tombs

and the black stained angels who weep still.

The falling night is still warm, air radiating

with the leftovers of the sunlight, and the

sunset haloes those mournful angels.

They say ghosts are here, and maybe

they are, maybe demons too, and those

that call upon them in the dark.

And, in the wind, wind with a chill

under the warmth, of the failing light

and bitter nights yet to come……

Caroline.”

She hears her name, feels something

cool coiling around the ache in her heart,

the ache that brought her here to be alone.

“Caroline.”

She stops, unsure. Looks back behind her,

wondering if a demon is claiming, or

a weeping angel is calling her back home.

She walks again, thinks again of the name

she curses, and then looks up at the starlight

starting to peak through the leaves of gnarled trees.

Maybe an angel is calling her home, it’s tears for her this time……….