Monthly Archives: February 2019

The Mermaid’s Body

The mermaid’s body lay rotting on the beach.

Ravaged and choked, the water poisoned again.

The coroners collected her up, tenderly placed her in

the body bag, knowing even magic is finding death.

 

There were more by noon, as the children watched,

sobbing, finding loved dreams only in their loss.

Another wonder discarded, taken for nothing at all.

The coroners again saw the results of indifference.

 

The water was red, and the work went on and on.

We found another race, another kind, in our own world.

We found them only in death, after we took everything.

The coroners again saw the results of indifference.

 

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Supernova In Her Dark Eyes

An old backpack in the back of the closet, with Sonic Youth and The Cure patches.

Clean out the closet, you find lost things, things best forgotten, or left to remain still.

I open it up, and find notebooks of melodramatic and love sick poetry.

I find old cassettes of bands once loved, but now left behind, as innocence faded.

And I find the mixtape I made for her.

 

High quality blank, with the white and yellow drawing of an angel, and all those

songs that made me think of her, made me swoon over her, dream of a perfect fairytale.

Infatuation intoxicating and making you believe their was life among those dead stars.

Making her face the face of God Herself. The exquisite sorrow of hoping for a kiss.

The dream that we’d escape this mortal world.

 

No tape player or Walkman still around. I look at the songs, and sigh.

There’s no fool like a young fool, who’s never been fooled before.

Girls are not angels, just flesh and bone, and as fucked up and lost as you.

The dream didn’t see her face, just put supernova in her dark eyes.

Youth is a drug that breaks your spirit.

Dolphins

Pink and white wetsuit, her pixie cut black hair barely waves under the water.

It’s Valentines Day, and though I have no hope now, I have a pretty gift I bought her.

She says dolphins are love, that they are pure, but they’re are sorcerers, just like men.

It’s Valentines Day, and all the world is going to war, civilization a game no one will win.

 

A gift I bought her, a silver necklace with a medal of St. Jude, patron saint of all she loves.

Hearts are fools, high on their own supply, and we are lost, not two cooing turtledoves.

The dolphins never betray her, never by cruelty break her heart, but sorcerers still.

Hearts are fools, chasing the dragon of the first time, before all was just the war of will.

 

This is her world, perfect. Research and play, can’t see how she so betrayed them.

There is more to hell than licking flames. There is a tiny world with no room to swim.

All the world is going to war tonight, everything is just the will to power, might and right.

There is more to hell than licking flames, a stain in our souls we don’t even try to fight.

 

The Mermaid Walks In A Tourist Town

The mermaid walks in the tourist town,

when the bright lights are out, when the shops shut down.

Even stragglers gone home, no more fun tonight,

gone to fancy hotels that stand at a great height.

 

All through the hot June day, I would come again to see her,

In the aquarium tank, I would see her smile, swim, my heart would stir.

The children watched in wonder, their parents would smile,

and I felt like what summer used to be, for a little while.

 

And now, at this late hour, in the bones of all joy for sale,

and I see her, long red hair, emerald eyes, out of her tail.

She is sighing, smoking a cigarette, and I catch her bright eye.

She smiles, I say hello, and then we walk on, without goodbye.

 

She’s might be from far away, from Kansas City, or Jacksonville.

Following her girlhood dream, a magic creature, realized by iron will.

All magicians spend time out of robes, all mermaids out of their fins.

Backlot of paradise, the grubby streets of a tourist town, saints and their sins.

 

Conch Shell

The mermaid swam to the bottom, farthest corner of her habitat, to where the little pile of seashells were lain. It was the last moments of darkness, of the navy blue dim, before the aquarium opened, and the bright lights came up, and she was expected to smile and wave and be happy for all those plump, arrogant and demanding faces.

Her last moments to herself, in as close as she could find to peace. She’d never even been in the wild and tempestuous seas, never been to it’s abysmal depths or it’s aquamarine shallows, or been free and fierce in all in it’s glory and danger. Her mother had been bred here, and the mermaid was born, and this was all she had ever known.

And there, in the back corner of her tank, of her little world, lay the little pile of sea shells. She picked up a conch shell, pointy crowned and white and pink. Her mother said when you placed the shells to your ear, you could her the ocean and it’s crashing waves. The mermaid placed the conch shell to her ear, and dreamed, and wept.

Five More Septembers

Her name is Skye, like the Isle of Skye, where she says she was born. I don’t know if that’s true, or if it’s really her name, but I choose to believe her. She smokes clove cigarettes that are fragrant and make her lips sweet when I kiss her.

Her old army jacket is olive drab and stiff and unwashed. She said it was her dad’s, from when he was in Vietnam. Its pockets hold her treasures and her contraband, and those precious cigarettes.

We are in Virginia, deep in the woods, on a cool April morning, and she’s talking about portals and bat winged demons and fallen bridges and magic that can save us from what comes when the next century starts in five more Septembers.

 

She is singing, singing a fairie song. It makes me feel cold and at peace, like looking up at the clear and wide open sky, a late night clear in the depths of winter. It is the song of another race, another world.

She pauses to light another cigarette, and it’s scent alights a memory, and that special sweet taste on my lips. The first time I kissed her. The first night she chose me. The first night all was at peace in me.

She takes a drag, turns her head, smiles at me. She takes my hand. We walk to the top of a hill were the forest thins out to a circle. Nothing grows, just black greyish dirt. She pulls me by the hand to its center.

 

From somewhere in the three kingdom of her jacket pockets, she pulls out a knife, made of stainless steel. She says she can touch no iron. She opens it. She tells me to open my palm. I look her in the eye, and do not flinch, when she slices open my palm.

She slices open her own palm. We clasp our hands together, and our blood mixes. This is the ceremony that binds me to her, and to her kind, forever. I feel such warmth and peace. I see such beauty in her and in this broken, misbegotten world. I see what could be.

She kisses me. I cease to be. Cease to exist. There is warmth and light and the center of the sun. Their is HER, bright and soft and with the best of my dreams, all that I was at my birth before I betrayed the child.

 

I woke up later in the cold of night. She was gone. I knew I never would see her again. And after that, by my own will and desire, I broke forever. She could not save me. I would never see her again.

 

What have we done with sweet innocence?”——Electric Youth, Innocence.

More Radical Than Anger

Sadness, more radical than anger, more unwanted.

We can understand the street preacher screaming

about the end of the world, but not the teenage girl

weeping alone in the bus shelter.

 

Anger rips away the stars from their moorings above,

and sadness simply mourns that it’s dead light with

dead worlds. That teenage girl knows there’s nothing

to do but hurt.

 

And the rain gives cold comfort to her, and her loss,

as she sits in the last vestiges of light, waiting for the

bus to take her home, where she can be alone with

her music, her aching words written down.

 

That street preacher sees only enemies and sinners,

rails against all that will not obey or listen to him.

Ready to fight the world, but not himself, not the

shades of things not understood.

 

Sorrows and loss, as much us as flesh and bone.

Tears flow, and we break, and we carry on still.

Velvet dreams and spring rains for the teenage girl.

Only the mushroom cloud for the angry street preacher.

Animal Hospital

I walk, on my way to work, on the street behind the animal hospital.

Again the dogs are barking and howling in the early dark of morning.

I hear a faint voice of a woman trying to quite them and soothe them.

 

Still early and dark, a light run, and it’s perversely warm for February.

The woman cannot soothe the animals, and I wonder what it could be.

Howls in the dark, at some unseen tormentor, at some disquiet feeling.

 

And I too, am on edge, the feeling in the air like biting down on tinfoil.

That harshness raises my hackles, sharpens my eyes, makes me disquiet.

The good lady keeps on trying to soothe the hounds, but does not understand.

Tattered and True

I leave the party early; I always do.

I don’t know how to talk to them.

Any of them. Not bad people.

But I always end up left behind.

 

I ride my old BMX bike up the mountain.

Just barely guided by moonlight, now.

Up the mountain and to the haunted forests.

Were I whisper her name, tattered and true.

 

The stars are harbingers of God’s wrath, tonight.

The angels sharpening their blades of pure flame.

The moon Satan’s skull from when he fell to us.

The moon has his eye looking down on us, to dominate.

 

And on the top of the mountain, I find the old cemetery.

Where unquiet bones once witnessed love, when she came near.

She touched my face, and I did not pull away from her.

We sat in the grass among the graves, and where pure.

 

In the folds of the leaves, the intertwined limb canopy,

their is no light, and no stars, and no sign of hope,

as heaven prepares to mop up yet another mistake.

Why did I come here? To remember. To call her back.

End Of The War

I come back, not the one I was when I left.

Torn, dirty and stinking clothes. Ruined boots.

We won. We won. But we are broken, bereft.

All of us nubbins, ground down to the roots.

 

We rebuild the village. We prepare for winter.

Children laugh, they remember. Babes in arms don’t know.

But they’ll grow in ashes, raised by remnant splinters.

The poison will seep into their skin as they grow.

 

Sitting around hearths and fires, telling our tales.

Laughter sometimes, tears others, truest prayers.

To hope, these times, and coming children tip the scales.

Maybe God is with us now. Maybe he even really cares.

 

After all the others are asleep, I tend the fire, try to dream.

The pain is fresh and raw and burning under my skin.

I cannot be weak in front of them. I cannot loose the scream.

I have paid, and I will always pay, for the fight we had to win.