Hair blue as her eyes.
Weight of her.
Soft, fluffy parka.
Vespa ride to the park.
Cold, clear creek.
Roar on the overpass.
We smoke cigarettes.
We drink wine.
She pulls her jacket tight.
Night is falling. Stars come.
Wine is poor man’s infatuation.
Cigarettes are bitter almonds.
We sit in swings.
We talk of paradise.
I miss the weight of her.
I wish we could ride to paradise.
Or a place of dark magic.
I drop her off.
We hug. We shiver. We hope.
November may stay this year.
Hope a pimped out whore.
Hope may beat it all yet.
The death angel said hello,
tapping on my car’s window.
She also bummed a smoke,
and of you and me she spoke.
A chain book store, cold night.
She said maybe it was still right
to dream of you, better than
the lingering rage at a Jesus Man.
Thin, gold rim glasses, black hair.
Rebekah you have a halo to despair.
You have a smile I made an a prize.
A dirty needle of greed, no surprise.
The death angel makes a joke rhyme.
Her cold, soft hands inspire my crime.
The night is endless, for you I ache, empty.
Walking on the highway, you just tempt me.
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.
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.
She plays the drums, lost in it,
simpatico beats, joyous racket.
Working all the energy of love,
scent of her lover in a gift jacket.
Maybe write songs, like as a girl.
Maybe her lover plays guitar.
Something shared in creation,
something to hang upon a star.
Clear, no bad thoughts, fears.
Just the rhythm, just the noise.
Not worrying about grace,
or that perfect model poise.
Hum of flow, just this thing.
Just this girlhood past time.
No pleasing fanged men,
whose temper turn on a dime.
Thunder rolls out in the sea.
Salty air in this hotel suite.
She stops her drum playing,
thinks of a perfect day in Crete.
Her and her lover, just young,
almost normal, almost ordinary.
Photoshoot soon, model glamour.
All this light and magic to carry.
Caroline lays upon the couch, eyes closed,
the wall of warm noise in her headphones.
It’s night, and the stars and the city shines.
Alone, the music embraces, soothes, quiets her.
Overlapping guitars and that angel voice,
that mournful woman, haunted and holy.
A cocoon of sound and thunder, the words
half heard and wholly felt, taking her to the sky.
The night is warm, her heart is full of love,
and she dreams again, for the first time in so long.
That mournful woman, calling back something lost,
but maybe in calling it back, it can be made whole again.
Maybe Caroline can be whole again.
She’s asleep in the back seat, at peace it seems.
Maybe she’s having sweet and beautiful dreams.
A soft love song plays on the radio, soothing me.
I’m not stopping this care until we make it to the sea.
The stars are more than I’ve ever seen, angels at rest.
We’re leaving home, those bastards, devils of the west.
I glance back in the rearview mirror, at her sweet face.
A cottage on a barrier island, that is just the right place.
I don’t want we’re running into, but know what from.
A tarnished wedding band, and a piece of land, got the sum.
She’s sleeping without the demon, for the first time tonight.
We’re hounded by things both within and beyond our sight.
A love song can put magic spells to the madness you feel.
Make it a solid thing, a thing you can believe is real.
The road’s wide open before us, and hope, if nothing for sure.
Love and hope, a place to be still, that is the angels sacred cure.
The sea changes and is still the same, like her, like her wild heart.
She will be scarred forever, but we have a chance at a new start.
Sleep and dream, my love, we’ll be free in the morning.
Slim shoulders kept safe by a soft, light brown jacket.
A sweet face content in a pale ale and BLT.
Safe. I feel safe watching her.
I said “Hello.”, touching her soft jacket.
It felt warm like Eden.
Angel in a swank sports bar, as hell follows a lost faith’s pale horse.
She hugs me, and I believe the stars will remember us.
A hit of hope in her kindness, and her light, as I lose track of God and man.
And then home, to call them up for war.
The war was over. The war was coming.
The war was eternal.
We had but a moment to catch our breaths.
Me and her, on the back of an old Honda,
riding to the lush trees, high mountains,
and first snows of a just begun winter.
The air cold and sharp, burning our lungs.
The sky grey as the eyes of a distant God.
The road open, deceptively endless.
In the distance, on the border, canon fire.
We could not escape the war, or loss, or death.
Just pretend for a moment, that all was beautiful.
The motorbike whined and I pulled the throttle.
She held on tight, and the blur was a mischievous dream.
Just pretending for a moment, that all was beautiful.