Laying On My Back, Looking Up

My lover is asleep inside.

It’s a cold Autumn night.

So many stars above me.

So many stars.

Looking for a streak of light.

A bolt across the darkness.

An alien craft from a far off world.

Come down for me.

My lover sleeps. I am empty.

The passion calms no demons.

Same hunger makes me tired.

Sex is evil.

I lay on my back, look up.

All those infinite worlds.

A better world out there.

Come down for me.

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Hollywood Olympus

Cara’s picture, torn from a fashion magazine,

is laid carefully in the center of the pentacle.

White candles, white light.

The demons have come; it is night time.

There is no rain to wash them from the windows.

There chattering draws blood from my dreams.

Cara is an angel from Hollywood Olympus, up in blue sky.

I invoke her youth and lust and wild heart in this night.

I want to be alive and real again.

The demons drag dead bodies from my memory.

They mock the corpses in the harsh light.

They grow powerful from this grave robbery.

Cara, I draw peace from her flesh, blood of her soul.

I draw the air of Hollywood Olympus into my lungs,

Let glamour win the day!

Morning, finally rain, knocking on my window,

to let the moths into breed and die and become seeds,

Cara is here, with a knife, to rectify the balance.

The snatching of purity was worth it.

Sea and Sky, One


Enoch’s Daughter

She is tall and lithe, dancer strong.

To a pauper prince she does belong.

This is her moment. This is her song.

Dark hair in a red bow, all in tight black.

The eyes of Enoch’s Daughter do nor crack.

Her angel birth lights up without taking back.

Red of the room, a lurid peace, a pugilist’s kiss.

She is lighter than the sun, her eyes do not miss.

Golden glow lights the room with untroubled bliss.

The pauper prince embraces her, scene complete.

His heart is a momentary joy, his soul supple concrete.

He kisses her, suckling Nephilim glow, her heart’s divine suite.

Walled Garden

A crack in the tenemant wall

I would disappear through,

come to this walled in garden

and play all day with you.

So many games and adventures to play

down by the cool waters.

Sitting hand in hand with you,

one of the Tsar’s many daughters.

The sun was honey in your hair

and the glimmer in your eye.

With you all was well,

I never had any need to cry.

As the sun fell I’d kiss your cheek

and go back through the wall

to the angry words and harsh things,

the corruption that held that life in thrall.

But I’d always return to you again,

and we grew as angels in the light.

Without a thought we’d nap in the sun,

as I held you so close and tight.

Yet even in our walled garden time did pass

and soldier’s of red did come.

Forced to know of he forbidden tree we were

by their cruelty’s bitter sum.

But I held close to you, I stayed near,

as the rifles were fired.

For being with you in the garden

had been all I ever desired.

 

St Joan of Arc Chapel

A long drive, rainy and cold October afternoon.
Again what I thought I knew I didn’t know at all.
Michael and Lucifer want to claim victory today.
ST JOAN OF ARC CHAPEL. I see the sign there.
I pull in, needing solace, and the presence of light.
The door is open. The sanctuary empty. I am alone.
The cold grey day soothing. Patter of rain on stained glass.
I sit and pray. I ask St. Joan that I could be better today.
I let the silence fill with the longing for the light and bravery.
St. Joan, strong and brave, and willing to go to her death.
I don’t know, like she did, what aim I’m here to serve for.
I just know, I want to be strong and brave, not fall on flesh.
I leave my few dollars in the donation box. I leave a dream.
Michael pushes Lucifer away. The fire becomes soft sunlight.
A battle in war that doesn’t end today, but that we can win.

Skeleton Girl

Skeleton girl, white bones on black leotard, white make-up, black line of teeth.

Ballet of bones as she dances, the sweet spooky tune, reveals nothing underneath.

The bones hold her up, the hidden flesh makes her real, her soul a shining wreath.

Halloween, and the ghosts and spirits are so close, and winter is coming for sleep.

We drink and we dance and we laugh as the falling leaves and golden moon creep.

I watch the skeleton girl, and sip my red wine, and now her love I cannot now keep.

Her black line is smiling, her eyes bright, and the song a fun time of coming sorrow.

She dances as bones now, for she is young and free, but will be dust on a soon morrow.

She is bones and flesh and a soul, but the days of summer come only for us to borrow.

The song ends, and everyone cheers and whistles, and she takes a bashful bow.

A spirit in the dark, a light in the cold, brings us close, makes a breakable vow.

That we will always burn free, be flesh that is real, be casters of magic somehow.

Mammon’s Winter

All night diner, south of the river, silent flurries lurid in neon.

Joan runs her fingers through her buzzed head, bleary, tired.

Winter is here, demons loud in the quiet, in the still darkness.

A couple of cigarettes in the pack, the stress pushes for more.

The black coffee is piping hot, bitter, and flushes her cold cheeks.

Cigarettes and coffee, keep her fighting, pleasures robbing the sun.

Mammon stole the faithful, and the hot dry smoke is soothing,

as that war grinds on and on and on. Coffee tender in it’s harshness.

Winter is here, and she has not done enough; Mammon’s feelers on her.

The waitress, grandmotherly and kind, always asking after Joan,

brings ketchup and scrambled eggs, pats Joan’s hand on the table.

This is God and devotion, so simple, so freely given, so tireless in the cold.

Simple meal, vinegary topping, cigarette finished, fresh coffee in porcelain cup.

Body can touch the holy, can escape the dust, even in these corporal pleasures.

Mammon’s winter threatens God’s creation, and in prayer, in the streets, she must stand.

Buzzcut

Buzzcut, short spiky brown hairs, disciplined.
A dark and big and poofed out parka her armor.
In her pack, a plain bible, cigarettes, Aquinas.

She has a worn and stickered scooter at the ready.

South of the river, November twilight, first stars.
Idolatry on that other side. Roar of the crowd, forgetting.
I imagine her to be Joan, keeping low to do holy work.
The cold insists that we hide. She gets on her scooter.
New castles may push us on somewhere else, take home.
Money buys too much, including respect and honor here.
The young woman, puts on a scratched helmet, speeds
into the falling night, sword invisible, mightier than men.

Small and Eternal

Train, take me to the sea.

I won’t think of her then,

looking out into infinite blue,

feeling so small and eternal.

Train, lull me to sleep again,

rat-a-tat-tatting on the tracks,

and I’ll dream of a world before

Adam’s and mine’s fall.

Train, carry me through the night,

so as the sun rises, pink and tender

in the western sky, I can feel close,

to another and better world.

Train, let me leave old life behind,

that I drove her away, that I broke

her heart, that I made old mistakes.

Let me begin again, small and eternal.