Tag Archives: mental illness

Sea of Tranquility

I sit in a swing, watching the house burn, the house where we were children.

Slowly push my self back and forth on tired legs, to dissassociative to care.

I’m watching myself, the orange flames ripping open the night on my face.

I’m a tin dime angel, addled brain almost touching heaven, which the flames reach.

I know you’re up in the sky, the eye in the moon, the listening dish, Sea of Tranquility.

You have that pilots clearance and the love of all that’s holy, good little princess.

I might have gotten something in my mind from kissing your older sister, a tumor.

I’m like neither of you, neither saint or demon, just at a loss for who to breathe in.

The house burns and I don’t care, not even my revenge gives me any feeling here.

I still float, brain damage and alcohol making me float, far away from you, in Tranquility.

The ashes always become embers, and I can never be free, my demons are invincible.

The Raptors are scrambled to take me to hell, still better than being a drone like you.

Still I have the name of love carved in my belly, without your name beside it.

 

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Rain and Sun


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.

Lost and Innocent Kingdom

The waltz long over, that mournful guitar piece
that through the thoroughly shot speakers in
the shopping mall rink sounded like it came in
from the cold and dark waters of Atlantis.
We were young, before The Devil came for me.
I learned to hold you to the sky, toss you to angels
and together we were one soul on the ice, lost
in deep, dark eyes and the soft, melancholy music.
At the end of the session, we skated slow, hand in hand,
ant then that mournful guitar from the lost and innocent kingdom
would play and I’d pull you close to me, and feel weight of heaven,
in my arms, in your closeness, in the end of the winter night.
The Devil came for me, born with me and my mind, my skin.
I fell away, tormented and mad, a hairless lycanthrope,
as I was taken and hanged from the sky, my thoughts emptying
into the sea, and you had to go one, you had a future.
The waltz long over, those bad days just a muted memory.
You’ve got another to raise you to the sky, toss you to angels,
and you’ve got pride and glory and gold, and I’ve got a mind
that can finally love you again, return to that lost and innocent kingdom.

Maybe

Up above the city, the vein of gold in the darkness,

looking up at those white and distant stars,

hoping to feel humbled and small, so none of these

sorrows will  matter anymore.

Maybe a star will fall, like Lucifer from Heaven,

and I can go hunt down that fallen angel, and keep

him from adding to what’s already been done,

stop a bit of the violence that always going on.

Maybe a good angel, a real angel, will come down

and impart a message, whisper God’s Will in my ear,

so I can know where to go, what to do, what words to speak.

Maybe I’ll be chosen. God always chose to use fuck ups in The Bible.

Maybe, the cool wind that is a soothing balm in this blasted

July heat, and the softness of the call of insects, the hooting

of nocturnal birds, and the feeling of being between worlds,

above man, below God, will soothe all those writhing thoughts.

Maybe.


Me and Claudia Party Down In Heaven

Me and Claudia party down in heaven,

the night warm and the music full of fire.

Eyes meet, and it all passes away, as we smile.

The pain, the loss, the addictions that burned us.

All gone now.

We walk on the beach on the ocean that surrounds

the throne of God, bright and shimmering in the dark.

We hold hands, we kiss, we laugh in the waves.

I pick her up, spin her around, nothing bad here.

All gone now.

Her fiery hair bright like bronze in a furnace,

her pale face as white as our souls are now.

A kiss can really make the universe open up forever.

We are clean again, the poisons drained away.

All gone now.

Only love and forever here.

A Ritual For One

The dead of night without dreams.

Sleepless, sitting in a darkened kitchen,

drinking piping hot coffee, looking out

on the street lit only by sickly streetlamps.

The demons run riot, kicking up a stir,

though I may look calm, and dead eyed stare,

out at the quiet world that gets to rest.

The demons always run riot, never let me be.

The coffee is hot, and harsh, and bitter,

and it keeps me connected to this world,

and it’s alkaline pleasures and hard touch.

A simple thing on a sleepless night.

A ritual to get through, as reverent in it’s

banal steps to make something I don’t need

as any religious ceremony, made for communion.

A ritual for one, who is not even a supplicant.

Maybe for a moment, just a moment, there is

quiet and the demons winding down to gnaw

on a pleasurable memory or a tender place so sacred.

Maybe I can distract them with some anger or bitterness.

Soon, the day begins, and I put on my smile and laugh

and go through it all again, as the demons ruin everything

and nothing sacred stays in my heart, and the devil beats

his wife on a sunny day, that is just a well lit rainstorm.


The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.

The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.

All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.

Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.

The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.

On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.

Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.

Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.

Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.

All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.

I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.

But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.

Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.

There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.

She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.

Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.

But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.

Dive Bomber On I-40

The trucks heading down the highway in the dead of night
have the high pitched, almost nasally wail of a German dive bomber.
I drink hot coffee, fresh from the pot, knowing I should sleep,
but I can’t sit still or lay contentedly. Like the trucks, I got to be somewhere.
Hot coffee, bitter and black, a harsh and sensual pleasure,
like the filterless cigarettes I gave up long ago. Hot and pummeling
on weak and soft flesh. It somehow makes me feel real and whole.
There is no one here to make me do right. No woman to invite me back to bed.
Dive bombers, on and on, hitting distant targets, distant cities.
My coffee, my inability to dream of a better world, only kisses and lovemaking
and the ghost that is in all flesh, and all birth that is the tears to come.
I don’t know how people can lose themselves in the sun.
When the suns come up, the raids will continue, nothing rectified.
I try to think of a woman, one I know, one I see online and in magazines,
someone to build a momentary kingdom around, a queen to serve faithfully,
and in return she’ll keep the cold and anger and rage safe in her septre.
The trucks roll on, and it’s a cold spring morning, and the sun has come,
laughing his cruel vengeance on my tired eyes, and washed out heart,
and they drop their bombs of mercantile items and promise of wholeness
and I bought into for so long, and I know have no idea what else to do.

 


 

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.