Tag Archives: violence

Bitter Orchids

The Woman Who Spins The Webs, of silk and silver, the spirals of touch and reaction,

as the wind and the people and the angels and demons all collide on the earth.

A boy. A girl. Children. Weaves the webs so they are seeds of light to grow wings,

and soar to the sun behind the world and sky, to fight the demons nipping at their heals.

A boy. A girl. Secret games in a better world. The sun children, honeyed light.

Love would grow and they would be indivisible for all of life, and into the next world.

But a demon snatched away the boy. Took him underground. The ache grows the seeds

into bitter orchids, black flowers, but still sweet with it’s nectar, nourishing those who adore angels.

A demon rips the webs, and The Woman repairs and changes it, forever and ever and ever.

The girl takes the light and the sun in her ache. Not what it was meant to be. All is still not lost.

The Woman Spins The Webs, and the girl grows grey wings, not pure light, but she flies

into the sun behind the world, and a missing arm still has his brother, still a hand to hold.

The stars above her. Her is tending the one that watches her. She is tending the ember of him.

The stars can warm us, and those lost to death. Light is a song sung across all of time, all of the universe.

The Woman Spins The Webs. The demon rips the webs. She repairs and changes. Forever and ever.

A tangle of plans and attacks, of the light and dark, of all that is dreamed in kisses and in fists.

Forever and ever and ever.

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Collecting Her Winnings

The gunshots stopped hours ago.

The fire alarm is silent now.

The sickly, angry florescent lights

shine on into the dark, cold spring night.

The Death Angel collected her winnings,

the souls to take to Charon and to Hades.

The bodies still, killed and killers,

blood innocent and blood profane

mix in the flat, grey carpets and tiles

and the well kept grass out front.

They all sleep together this night,

in silence and quiet, excruciating peace.

The wind from the high mountains

is silent in it’s passage through the town.

The tall grasses on the edge of suburbs

bow dumbly, like so many prayers of strangers.

Tears are shed, so much loss, so much waste.

The dead sleep, but the living dream.

 

She Will Take Him To The Stars

She is young and beautiful, with child, LA sun.
The night is coming, dusky, starlight glow.
She is happy, at peace, they will be a family.
What’s coming for her, she doesn’t know.
She tells her child, she will take him to the stars.
That they are glittering angels up in the August air.
He kicks when she tells him, she laughs, caresses her belly.
No innocence, no tenderness, does this world spare.
The night is warm in the canyons, the hot winds still,
and she dreams as the starlight glitters in the pool.
The day was perfect, father will be coming from London.
I’m not sure if God in his Heaven is indifferent or cruel.
Too soon, too soon, she’ll be taken, stolen like the sky.
Father will be in London when it happens, not there.
A lower case angel, a child yet to be, butchered lambs.
She will be remembered, a pretty face, and golden hair.

Love and Thread

Needle and thread, she sews the skin together,
simple domestic and womanly things, seals
the cut that manly, and honored, things had opened.
Her husband, almost like her beloved doll Amelia,
that was wounded and opened by love, stuffing
put back inside, and closed up, to receive more love.
Her husband, closed up, but not as simple as sewing shut.
Wounds linger, maybe gangrene, or permanent limp.
He’ll receive more love, but will not be the same.
She puts away her needle and thread, bandages him,
once more have gotten more life out of something torn.
Next time, will love and thread be enough?

Feared or Loved?

I told her not to ask that. That question. About that girl.
She fucking did anyway. They always do. Always fucking do.
I just don’t inspire respect, somehow. My wishes aren’t honored.
I say don’t talk about that. Don’t about that around me.
Don’t pick at the scar. They laugh, call me a fag, do anyway.
Friends are supposed to love you, and care about you.
But, if I hurt, they just want jam their fingers in the wound,
have a good feel around, laugh at me for protesting,
go back to that go to word: “Fag!”
Sometimes I wish I was violent and vicious, someone feared,
like a goddamn Conan The Barbarian motherfucker,
the kind of person that beat people into pulp at the slightest
provication, disrespect or insult. People would defer to violence.
Miciavelli was right: It’s better to be feared than loved.
He just wasn’t right like he thought.