Monthly Archives: October 2017

Sacrificial Delight

The desert coast, the melting, technicolor sunset.
The derelict bus was burning. Sacrificial delight.
In your robe like white dress you danced and laughed.
We were high. We were touching the stars. We were free.

Long, thick black hair and dusky skin, eyes brown like moist earth.
I filmed you, they eye in eye seeing you, youthful and beautiful
and with the starlight of Alpha Centauri shining through you,
were you soul was forged eons ago in fire and an angel’s breath.

The stars were coming out, and you smiled at me, and I captured
it all, all the dreaming and madness and endless nights of love.
The derelict bus burned and we were high and we were free,
and I could into the very center, where that shard of a star was your heart.

Goodbye my lover. In heaven we will be free and bright again……….

 

Advertisements

(A) The Death Angel (B) Left Behind

The stars, she said, were angels watching us.
At 11:30 they buggered off for a smoke break.
She was carelessly dragged out of the way by police.
Left face down, her shirt covered in mud, by the sidewalk.
The guns go silent soon after, but she is left there.
The starlight is soft in early spring.
The Death Angel, around midnight, comes for her.
Her soul is sitting up, weeping, shattered at what was done.
“Have a smoke.” The Death Angel says. “You won’t get cancer now.
She takes a cigarette from the pack, looks out at the lit up town.
The Death Angels lets her cry, tears and rage, snot and ashes.
The Death Angels always let’s them weep before they go.
——————————————————————————
It was like a falling star that raised itself up to the sky.
I sat on my concrete patio, looking out at the college
The lights were bright and sickly and ugly, a thumb in my eye.
I looked up, and I knew years later, that was her leaving this world.
Her body lay in the grass until the next evening, then the autopsy.
They made her pretty for the funeral, but corpses are always ugly.
All these years later, I still sit on my concrete patio, in the cold
of early spring, and the cold of not having the one I loved.
Sometimes with a can of cheap beer, or just my rage and tears.
The night winds off the Rockies filled with ghosts that howl ceaselessly.
In the basement, where I hide after work, and pretend there’s a dream
that can warm the world, thaw the dead hearts, that are marching for hell.

Sleep, All Is Well

You can go to sleep, my lover.

As long as you are here with me,

I’ll be safe.

Curl up on the couch, wrapped up,

and watched over by the adoring starlight,

dream beautiful dreams.

I’ll stay up all night again, with my 4-track,

making the music coming from embers of love,

and the light I was born with.

I’ll turn to look at you, with a little smile,

talking with the gathered angels in your dreams,

about all that is wise.

I’ll sing with my harsh voice,  these tender words,

and with you here, so close, so very real,

I’ll charge through the demons that come at night.

Prayers, spells and incantations of a better world,

a better place for my broken and abused heart,

made good enough for you.

As the sun rises, right before you wake,

I’ll lay down on the floor, my arm a pillow,

and watch you, pure and at peace.

All that I wish I could be.

Spells and Dreams

An old squat, ruined Victorian grandeur,

ghosts and stains haunting the staircase.

In the basement, where you conjured music,

spells and dreams, I fell in love with your face.

Sitting, watching all of the band, green chair wet,

and the crumbling mansion so cold and grotty.

Sitting apart, Indian style, smoking French cigarettes,

you were moonlight, sweet like an angel is haughty.

Then you played, reverberations of joy howling vast.

You and all the band, shrouded, looking ever down,

the mad spells of sorrow and love calling back the ghost,

of that young Victorian women, in her unused wedding gown.

I talked to you afterwards, interviewing the band,

and your voice came in waves, between heaven, the abyss.

Afterwards, writing the story, dreaming of your madness,

I could barely extract your words from the tapes hiss.

No Tracks

The snow has not tracks,
and neither do her arms,
despite what was said.
The forest is still, quiet,
and I can hear a voice
whisper in my head.
Her voice, I hope now,
and am I Percival here,
in a world gone blood red?
The road has eyes on it,
even in the dark, but she
went into spaces between air.
A diamond can disappear
from you open hand,
the point giving the skin a tear.
How can that light go out,
even in a winter night on the peaks?
How all quests end in despair!
Time makes her eternal,
reading the stars, tea leaves,
and the misunderstanding of grief.
Percival or Ahab, hunting for a
war or an enemy of some mystery,
or holy writ in veins of a dead leaf.
And even the trackless trail to
what was sought so hard, so long,
that heaven will offer no one any relief.

The Boy I Knew

The boy I knew,
what did he do?
The boy I knew,
is it all true?
A night, that fall,
sitting in stars thrall,
talking of our dreams call,
nothing hurting at all.
A goofy boy, so funny.
Sweet words like honey.
He had the spending money.
I thought he was so bright and sunny.
He watched her in the pool.
She such a beauty, so fucking cool.
He always afraid to be a silly fool,
kept his feelings quiet as a rule.
After it all happened, all the dying,
all us still left, holding tight and crying,
all the police around, the school fortifying,
That the boy I knew did this is so terrifying.
The boy I knew,
what did he do?
The boy I knew,
is it all true?

So Sadly Shimmer

Little girl.
Can’t be found.
A little creek.
Babbling sound.
Little girl.
Took his hand.
Did she know?
Does heaven stand?
Little girl.
No grave here.
The fey know.
Kept her another year.
Little girl.
Lost, precious daughter.
There’s no body,
in the crystal clear water.
A photograph.
Soft eyes so sadly shimmer.
Across the years,
the melancholy no dimmer.
An open shire,
a day like any other.
Innocence lost,
corruption in’s conjoined brother.
The tall grass,
a summer come without her.
The blue sky,
with whom no angels confer.
That photograph,
calling us to the underworld.
She is there, a child,
around Leviathan she is curled.
Will not be found here………..

Wild Young Women

Wild young women, out in the city.
Full of love and dreams and power.
Wild young women, out on the town.
Walking on the stars in the witching hour.

All those boys are yours, and hearts
are open to the whispers of desire.
All those lovers are yours, and
a shared high is all the sun’s fire.

Those touches go to your very soul.
And you can make Chicago by dawn.
Those kisses make the world bright,
and at sun up the confessions are drawn.

Wild young women, out in the city.
Full of love and dreams and power.
Wild young women, out on the town.
Walking on the stars in the witching hour.

I try to remember it all, as I see you,
as all that I once dreamed burned out.
I try to remember it all, jealous of you,
as the demons take love in a one sided rout.

Wild young women, out in the city.
Full of love and dreams and power.
Wild young women, out on the town.
Walking on the stars in the witching hour.

 

For Sophie and Maisie

 

 

Gutter

Morning comes, and the blood drains away
into the gutters, and only some of us are
picked up again to be taken to the sky.
A small cigar box, like I would bury a pet,
is laid in the ground by the now empty highway.
In it lay my hopes and dreams.
The storms come and more blood goes
down the gutter, and all the piety uttered
doesn’t mean an extended hand.
I walk down the highway, home gone,
and I have nowhere to go, nothing to hope for,
I am still stuck, left behind,
trying not get sucked into the gutter.

Rust Sliding Into White

Lying awake, almost midnight, rust sliding to white.

There is the sound of voices, out there in the night.

A woman, a little girl, hushed and secret, full of tears.

Echoing mutters outside my room, feeds pity, not fears.

Maybe Angela next door is watching an old ghost story.

Maybe the sleepless thoughts have found their quarry.

The woman, the little girl, so sorrowful and now so lost.

The night going to witches and their hour is now crossed.

The wind demands that the windows tremble in fear.

After a moment, those voices fall away, and disappear.

Angela loves ghost stories at night, when she cannot dream.

The TV low, but it carries in the cold air, on a pale moonbeam.

The woman, the little girl, so full of sadness, speaking so low.

What did I hear? Only the trembling panes can ever show.