Tag Archives: disillusionment


A sweet angel, with wings that had bled,

and the sorrows in the wind, demons in her head.

She radiated like the sun, bright in the Colorado sky,

and I wish she could have stayed, didn’t have to die.

The Demons that beat me down, she rose above.

I couldn’t find the way. She followed path of love.

In a book store, I read of her, and came to the light.

To a world so endless and warm and so blindly bright.

After these years, and the warmth has gone cold, light gone.

I still call to her in these endless nights, fighting until dawn.

The Church was just a smile on a corpse, a deathlike rage.

But she still shines. She was real. She was the Holy Mage.

I’m driving across the plains, to where I can give my soul.

I love her still, she led me back to light, even as bitterness takes it’s toll.

Love her like an angel, a saint, a magic known only in a fraction of days.

Maybe she loves me back, maybe I make her proud, as this Lost Child prays.

Halo of The Killing Chair

I told them, but no one pressed me for details

so now they must eviscerate a lily white dove

and read it’s torn out entrails

to find what the sacred word might have been.

Summertime is a war you cannot win.

The poison in a plain tin cup, the Grail of Christ,

lost in the back of a Romanian cab on New Years Day,

the blood turned bitter in the biggest, most egotistical heist

that turned halo’s into the collar of the killing chair.

To speak her name, I don’t dare.

Nightmares give comfort by telling my heart it works and is broken.

The wings that drip blood never mind the angelic frost on a little girl’s window,

on a crooked street, on the most perfect winter morn, in a slum in Hoboken.

Cigarettes are mother’s demarking of days into nights into weeks

and even The Devil trembles with fear, when her slurred mouth speaks.


High In The Sky You Look Down

Long goddamn car ride, late at night, not even the radio.

We could talk. We talk a lot. But only certain things you hear.

I watch the moon as we drive dark country roads, one little light.

I let it’s bone dry luminescence wash away unshed tears.

The world is spinning into death, but you put the blame on victims.

High in the sky you look down, just jerk telling me I have it coming.

The good times, the times when I’m glad we are friends are fading,

as more and more you tell me the knife to my throat is a kiss from God.

But the moon is a woman, faithful and bright, the real eye of paradise.

Angels fucked off elsewhere, and demons all to intimate in your dreams.

And friends become uncaring, strangers who are only there to preach.

But the moon is bright, even as she fades, even as friendship burns to ashes.

The Best Thing About This Town Is That You Can Leave It

For the first time in ages I’m craving a cigarette,

               Something to occupy my mind, my hands,

               As my hoodie becomes wet and heavy from

               A morning rain, waiting for the train to come.


               In North Carolina to catch the Amtrak away

               From a place that never felt like home, or

               Made sense to me, or had much use for me

               And yet so many will wonder where I’ve gone.


               The people I used to adore and defend

               Have not been a part of my life since graduation,

               And I don’t want to see them anymore, ashes only,

               A reminder of loneliness and my arrogant sins.


               I want to make friends, find a girlfriend, a wife,

               But everyone is just passing through, don’t have time,

               Can’t get the shit out of their ears to actually understand

               What I’m trying to tell them.


               One way ticket to city up north, another world, beautiful strangers.

               Maybe I’ll find someone there who’ll understand or won’t have the

               Weight of the past on their smiles, or demand I be who I was at 17.

               Maybe I’ll find someone who’ll stay, have time, actually fucking hear.

A Tender Nothing

Deidra from the Dairy Daze out by the bridge

               Sits on the rotted and dirty picnic tables,

               Listening to her headphones, to that one song

               That made her stay, that night it all almost ended.


               The sky is wide, the horizon bleeding out from sunset.

               No mountains or trees, just the plains and the wind.

               She thinks she can see Chicago, the place she wants to be.

               She drinks her milkshake, waits for Mike to come for her.


               That song, about a mermaid longing for the man she loves,

               Fills her with sweet sadness and endless regret, a tender nothing.

               She didn’t cross The Styx, didn’t pass a coin to the boatman.

               But what’s here for her now, that could make staying be worthwhile?


               The road is straight and endless, heading to the sea, to paradise.

               Winter offers at least sleep and solace of hiding away from them.

               Mike is coming down the road, headlights blinkered fireflies.

               Mike is coming, she’s going home, and only dreams offer pleasure.

Blood, Milk and Honey

A pilgrim’s tattoo, marking the embers of faith,

Marking where the cross become a muttered word,

And her kiss burned a sacrifice.


A woman may know, or is too divine for love,

Or keeps the shepherdess veil closed to all,

And sees only god’s face in the water.


Outside the city, where prophets roared,

And the words drew blood and milk and honey,

I walk the path to her.


What does the penatent offer to the prideless?

What does prayers offer to the contentedly concealed?

What words can I make for her?


The tattoo itches and burns, light perdition and salvation,

And I know not these hills and her home with the lost,

But I only seek what isn’t seen or found.




Funeral For A Friend

I’ve come to bury a corpse, metaphorically speaking.
The body was killed by your cowardice, your excuses,
the need to be always right, no matter the blood on your hands.

A cross has a sharpened end, and it’s blunted my heart.
If I speak of god, you reply. If I speak of my dreams, silence.
If I speak against you, I get your “Father” voice.

Not your fault what happened, but you didn’t have to cover for them.
You didn’t have to sigh and say it doesn’t matter. “Father”, fuck you!
You’ve got even more skin in this then I do, asshole!
 So I’ll see you every day, and smile through heartbreak
and a head full of bad shit, just keep smiling, as always.
But you are not my friend, and I have no use for your bullshit!


Israeli woman from a past year, me and her sharing wine.
Lost all hope for a resurrection, a saving grace, from Galilee.
Just drink our wine, and hold close, as the sea eats up the sun.
There’s no comfort left in the stars, no kisses sent by the moon.
 No rocks or bread, no devil to tempt us, just the foolishness of hope.
We lay together, look at night sky, the one and only miracle of light.
We make love in the depths of the darkness, to sweeten our death.
One flesh, but no spirit is kindled, the seed falls onto the hard ground.
 And morning come, will come when all is barren from man’s infernal fire.
The sun mocks us, offers a cruel hope, a sanctimonious reason for living.
We are naked in the last shred of soft darkness, of cool and empty delight.
The sun on our skins is warm, but touch leaves no traces, only ugly scars.

Forget The Sun

The memorial to the saint, in the little park, quiet and seclided.
The faith I shared with her, the adorition I held for her purity,
has slipped away, lost in the night closing over me, old suns dead.
 I sit at the statues feet, feeling numb in a cool early Autumn day.
The wind is gentle, the leaves are just begining to change, all is well.
The proud saint, I once loved, is quiet in all my thoughts.
 A virgin, a pious peasant, a clean hearted maiden. The holy woman
even in plate mail and armor, even in the blood of an endless war.
An angel, not a girl, not broken and mad like one of us.
 Just another virgin dying young and violent, sanctified in death.
To be made a martyr and feminne perfected, to not know passion.
Too long I worshipped her, a penetand La Hire, but this day is not hers.
 Mad and wild and full of perversion and riled emotions, others truly live.
I have always been one, and trying to die for ghosts is for masochist fools.
Flesh, corrupted and holy, prision and paradise, is my true fate.
 I leave a coil and a medal at her feet, bid her adeiu, and change a season
as world prepares to sleep and forget the sun. Seasons pass and come again.
But some suns are never remembered, and some seasons gone for good.

In August Sun

James Agee Park, as the sun comes up,
a truthful ballad chewed out of a
bubble gum queen, disaffected conformist,
playing on my earbuds, soothing my undeath.
 Even a program of safe rebellion knows
heartache and abandonment, the emptiness
of knowing even those who love you the most
cannot be turned to, cannot stay awake one single hour.
 The sun is sweetest at first light, the world still
half-velvet and welcoming, and it can fool you,
as that bubblegum balllad fades out, ringing your tears
like bells, that there is still magic in this worn out life.
 The sun comes. I put up earbuds and mp3 player,
and face the shifting shoals and sucking sands,
and all the devil I feed and wish I could starve out.
The day, that loses me in the crowd, in August sun.