Hatred, blind panic and laughter
bellowed in the slender strips
of my wits, pulled apart –
a stone between black holes –
singing in all that was me.
The call of the wild goose
beckons beneath the bronze rings
and rolling hills of night.
The red sun curdles and sinks with
envy, painting the morning dew
with dashes of leftover
A torn piece of flesh will heal
each time that it is hurt.
Twice worn and hard,
but averse to exert.
And so it is with the heart.
Loneliness is a dark path
with no markings.
But each man knows it well enough
to travel it.
Come, you may follow me.
Step past the crumbled leaves
and dance with the north wind
once more. It is okay –
I will be your smile.
and dance with me.
Your bruised sides ache,
but I am still
to you, aren’t I?
Day is done – the soil cools,
passions like the porcelain
skeletons of tomorrow.
Sun winking and
smoldering in a musty plume
of crusty coals and soot.
Time is gone –
I grieve not.
I’ve been to many places
but in the end,
I’ve always come back here.
To whisky smells and jazz cats
suckling on scotch teats
after midnight. When all
horns are silenced and
in faded music, reaping time itself.
The bartender shouts, “Last call!”
and the darkened hands of ashen faces
reach out for one more sip. Precious
streams of liquor to choke and mangle
the last hours of a day already gone.
Yes, I’ve been to many places,
but the inebriation I rejoice in after
I’ve come back here is all I need
to tolerate that face of yours.
On ginger streamed autumn afternoons,
my brother would go to the woods
to practice shooting clay pigeons.
Each was granted a brief gift of flight before
under a sheet of pellets. Beneath his jovial
shouts – the echoing remnants of monotony
rang alongside the discharged shells falling
elegantly to the ground, resting amongst the leaves.
“There goes Ashley!” he’d scream, as the miniature
corpses of fragmented clay scattered across the
gilded sky – a dark, hardened
blood spatter – smearing the autumn sunlight.
Perhaps he got too good at it.
The smile of an integrated circuit chirps, rather than moves.
Just as becoming as the most polished of Hollywood’s bleached grins.
Sixteen is a felony, but she is only three. Too old to glow, too twisted to dance.
She can at least smile. A little.
Lost, cold, and quavering in fear
behind scattered leaves and blotted rays
of auburn afternoons –
their faces remind me of hers.
and steel hail fell
four inches from my face
in a hollowed mound of rank gore.
Scents of hemorrhaged pine –
gale driven thistles flutter.
The cardinal shivers.
See them laugh in vodka vapours,
crooning to the little girls.
Hear those secret moans,
soaked in fermented jizz, coming
halfway to the throat. Their
foaming mouths –
sullied smirks – begging for one more
Watch them let their laughter
Stay with me,
in this violet night. The cream soaked
moon dangles amidst stars and sugar,
ignorant of the blood etched into the
grasses below – resurging to stain the
freshly fallen sleet. Stay with me,
don’t let me die
in this violet night
Smoke twirls and bends
on the air and the fen,
over brown leaves of the forest.
The vacant lakeside
glistens and shines,
under the sky grey with sorrow.
The floating of leaves and
the whispers of trees,
greet you as the day closes.
As the sun meets the ground,
in silence you look around,
tread through the frosty trail
back to the misty veil
into the night as autumn’s turning.
Back on the path,
you hear children laugh
from the old run down schoolhouse.
Their ghosts play on far –
keep their past in a jar,
waiting to find a new lifetime.
The sounds soon all cease,
as they begin the feast,
of the year’s final harvest.
The wind snaps at your face,
strangely soft with frozen grace,
sprits sing an antique song,
dancing for the light of dawn –
into the night as autumn’s turning.
Your mind on the breeze
echoed with the leaves
soaring with ash from a pyre.
Run by the west moon,
guided by ancient runes,
chasing the song of the Gypsy.
Your heart caught in youth,
you find one sigh of truth,
to take you from the darkness.
Feel the voice – of a distant choir,
dirges on the wind.
Go and see – all the gathered phantoms,
follow their sweet din.
Inside the shrine they chant,
in your soul, their cries implant
memories of days since past,
another life, deep and vast,
upon this night as autumn’s turning.
Lost and abandoned
thoughts embrace an infant
like her formula stained blanket,
as she is swiftly carried through slender
compartments. Mother works assiduously
dreaming of a silent suicide. She coos
to the child playing with
scissors and staplers.
She won’t get hurt; it’s not the first time
baby hands conducted the ‘click click click’
of industrial fasteners into her carriage.
She’ll grow up proud –
knowing that when she asks mother
(if the sores gracing her lips are not too profound)
“Was I a good little girl?” she will hear
you still have all your fingers.”
Beneath the plump, black, wild raspberries
in smokey wisps of crimson summer,
her small frame nestled the vacant dewdrops.