Tag Archives: loss of innocence

Serpent Venom

The serpent threaded himself through the branches

of The Tree of The Knowledge of Good and Evil,

watching Adam and Eve play and be innocent and in love.

The serpent felt the emptiness in his heart, the blackness there,

and how beautiful Adam and Eve were, without care or shame,

and the blackness gnawed at him, how their beauty made him ugly.

And he knew just what he needed to do. He knew he’d bring them down.

He who slide along the ground, and was hounded by the light of God’s sun,

knew he’d bite the flesh of Adam and Eve, and put the poison in them he couldn’t escape/

Eve walked in the garden, the sun soft on her face, the wind warm on her skin.

Eve filled with love and full with God just right there, everywhere, in everything.

Eve could not have defended herself from the serpent’s darkness, having never known it.

The serpent called to her, in the softest and velvety hiss, called her to the Forbidden Tree.

He told her she and Adam could be like God, be wise and eternal, be more than this.

She resisted, but that’s part of the game, but the serpent and the darkness will wear you down.

And Eve ate of the fruit, and Adam ate too, and then they saw they were naked, and ashamed.

God became very far away, up in the sky and up in the sun, no longer just inside their hearts.

God found them, and condemned them to toil and pain, and the serpent had spread his darkness.

And the serpent sunned himself on a rock, damned but warm in his hate and satisfied resentment.

The poison had taken and they were now hurting and empty like him, hurting in the world of light.

The serpent watched as the cracks began to crow, and hissed as he saw they sometimes filled in.

Adam and Eve sat in their skins, protection given by slaughtered animals, the taking of life.

The sun was still brilliant and angry and red, but it’s wrath made the sky beautiful to them,

as if fell away again, end of day, and the night came to them, that now they knew so very well.

Adam held eve close, and Eve sang a half-remembered song from The Garden, from the wind.

The pain pricked their skins, but skin could still be soothed by an embrace, tears tenderly wiped away.

The Wrath of God still left warmth in the sun and lurid shades of his voice in the sky, as the night fell.



In the quiet forest she rests, by the little creek, babbling like a baby,

like her little nephew whom she loves playing with and holding,

so warm and so sweet, not broken yet, not scraped empty like her.

A melancholy and longing synthwave song plays on her headphones,

and her heart aches for love and a place to rest her head, of a thoughts

quiet and sweet, like when she was a little girl, unselfconscious, free.

Once, she was an elfen queen in this forest, a whole galaxy inside herself,

an wizard with a ray gun, a dragon rider flying through the stars, the brave

knight saving her best friend from The Devil. She once feared The Devil.

She lays down, the earth soft and moist beneath her, the blue sky soft

through the lush and fanning fingers of the tall and eternal trees above,

and she lets the sadness and longing swirl and crash as waves inside her.

The longing, the melancholy, was the only sweet thing left inside her.

She lay there beneath the sky until the stars had come out, before going home.

I Carry Those Scars

The young woman, who’d lived wild and free and easy,
and who had those scars,
played with the toddler girl, on the edge of the pool.
Young woman, too close to a child, but too far from innocence.
And all these young ones, drawn to children,
who were true and free, who had what had been lost.
They splashed at the water, blue and clear as sky above,
and they laughed, and made up games,
and by accident spoke the names of angels.
The toddler would one day be like the young woman,
wild and free and easy and would have those scars,
and would be drawn to children just like her.
Those who still had what was lost.
Generations turning in corruption and loss.
And I am the same. I am one lost. Wild and free and easy.
I carry those scars.
And I laugh now with a child, and we make up games
and accidently speak the names of angels.
For a moment, my heart doesn’t ache.

The Last Moment Untroubled

We were teenagers, wild and open, children of the sun.
We were lying together in a field, tall grass a veil of the
We were teenagers. The love song that was our was playing
on the little radio, the world conspiring to reveal all our
We were teenagers. We kissed and cuddled and laughed.
We pledged our hearts, in innocence and freedom, no fear
at all.
We were teenagers, and knew not, that this was the final
moment of unclouded peace and bliss and wonder for us
in this world.
We were teenagers, and over the sky jet fighters howled
like banshees, cracking open the world and making us cry
out in fear.
We were teenagers, and the evil and brokenness of  men
and of  this world had found us, and this, this holy day
was our last as children.

The Summer After

The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.

The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.

The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.

It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.

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.


Walking Home To Cambridge

Walking home to Cambridge, leaving London, leaving the lights,

those shining places, that thunderous sound, those lovely young girls.

I saw the face in a shadow and it walks with me as I’m going home again,

but home is not the place for me now; only my mind holds any dream for me.


The leaves are golden and yellow and bright, bright red, the sky a soft blue.

I dream of Emily dancing in the grass. A song playing seemed like it told everything

as she turned to me and smiled, long chestnut locks falling over her wicked eyes.

I dream of making love under stars, her softness and warmth, not that she left me behind.


The road is endless, and even when I’m back in my Cambridge home, it will travel on.

The road doesn’t end at the door, or in my bed. There’s not a woman wailing for me with

welcoming arms and a kiss on my grizzled cheek. Not a woman here to wipe away my tears.

I’m traveling down that road even standing still, with the shadows and demons picking skin.


In my old room, with that plastic rocket ship and tattered poster of Marilyn Monroe ,

the records grown dusty, the bed weighed down by the universe and the scoured mind.

I hope in dreams I can catch Emily’s hand again, and call her down like an angel of devouring.

Dreams, the only place to run, the only refuge in a blacked out mind. Count the cost of desire.


Ice cream blonde, hair bright, a silken halo falling down

over her American Flag bikini top.


She laughs and smiles like a child, writing her name in the dark

with the burning sparkler.


Even know, after it all, she laughs and smiles like a child, so free,

in this sweet moment.


Fourth of July and the sky explodes in color and fire and smoke,

and her halo shines back it’s light.


Independence Day, maybe we’ll be independent of the past,

of mistakes and the things that hurt us.


Declare we are one now, again, and the sweetness will come.

Maybe we’ll make love…


…….really make love, with tenderness and hope and softness,

and actually grow close in a touch.


The sparkler reaches it’s end, and she exclaims, asks for another,

to write her name in the dark again


where it will last and be eternal and kept and cherished by all.

Let this be Independence Day.

Wiped Away Tears

Man can defeat the Will of God, and burn the world.

               Commandments tattooed on skins, but no mark on the soul.

               Bottomless pits and hellfire don’t dissuade what they want

               And seek and from drawing of sharp knives to kill.

               We do what we do, no matter what we say.

               We do what we do, no matter how we pray.


               A heaven, where God’s own Son would wipe away my tears.

               Where the light was forever, and life was everlasting, all was love.

               I would be holy and justified, and leave my corruption in the old earth.

               I would be holy and warm, never again to fear or hunger or thirst.

               Jesus would be with me, and we’d all be equal in his favor.

               Why is it here, though, that I fear those that believe?


               Up on the roof with a bottle of not all sacramental wine,

               Watching the stars above, cold and out of reach, like angels.

               My heart swells for love for a woman, and love for the world,

               And my soul feels empty and washed away, even as I pray,

               For what is love and the wonders of creation, if all Holy Children

               Come to burn it’s face, and all that could have been?


               What was the meaning of His Dream?

A Favorite Spring Day

After play practice, sitting together in the early spring sun, sharing a smoke.

               A jet fighter roared across the sky, and drowned out the devotions you spoke.

               I dreamed of taking your hand into mine, and how soft and warm it would be.

               I dreamed of you, and you dreamed of a singer who was born across the sea.


               So many things had yet to come, for us and the world; we had something for hope.

               We never knew the fire that would come, or all the death with which we’d have to cope.

               The jet fighter became distant, it’s roar a dim call against a sky so clear and utterly blue.

               I knew not when we were innocent, and with a mischievous angel we blindly flew.


               Above the city, on my own, without sleep or peace or even you to dream about,

               A jet fighter screams across the night, the war going on, though we’re all wore out.

               A song by the singer you once loved plays, and just watch the sky and the city so bright.

               I know worse is coming, I know I want only to leave this world, and once again take flight.