worm's descent

worm's descent


worms
regret your crucified torment
as my solitude cries tainted in rapture
your sweet touch grovels before these stained tears
death waltzes about these graves

the asylum summons the embittered void
lock up the yearning twilight concubine
faith cries vile fragments
as my icarus cries hollow impudence
and then descends

this torrential rain of tears engulfs the nebulous
vengeful crippled emotions lash out
then languish
writhe midnight terror beneath the sky’s cold fire
emptiness consumes these feebled passions

worms
your touch eviscerates my infernal penance
my mask pales at gloomy deception
my prey lies weeping
a feral gossamer darkness
a shallow desperate requiem

blazing pinions recoil from murmuring decrepitude
wolves silent in nocturnal caresses
fated mortals taunt this blackened passion
their hunger scoffs at virginal despair

delicate treachery
thorns languish
this incessant psychosis calls forth
the unfathomable splendor
pyres run amuck through the whirling night
while loneliness plucks flowers from these dying tombs

reading from "Winter Poetry"

a winter morning


a rippling field of snow
shaking with honeyed love
and squealing through despair.
whilst hot lovers cavort playfully
in shades of green with silver trim
time sleeps peacefully in strange virtues.
the morning sun draws red flushes;
the snow ground lies in fields of white
while bloody sunrise awakens across the horizon.

the gusting wind nudges tactfully
preying with outright longing
and lying determinedly in cold desperation.
whilst chilly winter cavorts
into chilly air,
and daylight strikes in orchestral splendor.
morning paints magenta filigree,
day ripens
as night at last coldly fails.

a child rants dramatically
rambling with tossed dismay
and groaning brightly in glee.
whilst searing candles laugh merrily
the stars to their heavens,
and this season dreams in anger.
the winter’s sun spreads in blinding pigments,
life continues to grow beneath hardened ground
and a single snowflake melts
a teardrop sliding down my windowpane.

the cat lady

I do not know her name… I have never heard it spoken… there is no "Cat Lady" in the phone book.

She talks to cats and they talk back because even cats get lonesome. Perhaps she play Elvis records… or maybe Roy Orbison… dances by the sink while washing dishes… and is careful not to trip over the cats. It is the peculiarity of life that she takes better care of the cats than she does of herself.

After church she waits by the doors and smiles at the congregation… she is the one waving goodbye as people rush home or head out shopping. They nod to her without seeing her, but they never speak. It is inconvenient for them… she is inconvenient for them. After, she walks the path along… through the cemetery… across the crushed browned leaves… by the stones with the names that she remembers… she speaks to the dead then goes home and talks to her cats.

I do not know her name… I have never heard it spoken… there is no "Cat Lady" in the phone book. I am the visitor… the outsider… the transient passer-by who comes on the bus, and leaves on the bus, in a cloud of dust I wear no halo… I say no prayers… for I have no dominion. When we speak I shall have no answers.

Saturday Night

mother of murder

Oh Eve upon thy brood of sorrows,
seek to see no more tomorrows,
for all the best there were to be,
hath ended there ‘neath the apple tree.

Oh Eve thy pearl cheeks and tears,
thou steadfast heart against all fears,
a single kiss to give in haste,
then lay it all to fire and waste.

All women damned they say for you,
then so it be, and see it through,
if damned we be then damned we are,
then hitch our hopes upon that star.

Oh Eve upon thy brood of sorrows,
seek we not to see the morrow,
but gaze our eyes upon the light,
that solely burns enwrapped by night.

Oh mother of murder, knowledge and life
oh cursed girl, oh damned wife,
oh Eve upon thy brood of sorrows,
seek to see no more tomorrows.

the potted plants

suddenly yellow
the stone toad stood there
silence, nothing but the dripping sink.

she pours out the cold coffee
out the window fog and dogs barking
somewhere, she thinks, there are alps.

the man who had once been young
floats big rocks of ice in whiskey
the sun was still good.

i took it home
african violets…
you've got to be strong in the shadows.

cookies

i did not buy a gift for him
i baked cookies…
taking the tray from the oven i burned my thumb
the running cold tap water reminded me of a river
that cold november day
where we stood when you said goodbye

My Love's Ecstasy (poem)

barren agony
oh, no…
the vast emptiness
a wanderer ponders purple caverns
hark…
here all is silence
the desert blows siroccos of ecstasy
my love dances as black water
pouring in velvet rapture
i am but a red rose
aching for the knowledge of the moon's dew drops



an old vase sits with the water evaporated and the pale husk of a rose bows her head weeping for the long fallen single petal on the dresser top

if you want...

she wanted to go to wal-mart and look at shirts and i wanted to barf fried eggs and smarties…

now it is not that i don’t like wal-mart… it is just that i absolutely detest and despise it…

but you go if you want… nice "fuck america" attitude… good luck with your health.

i don't want...

i don't want green eggs and ham,

i want my gothic tuna fish sandwich,

and i want to slaughter it like a lamb.

chewing it's every bite;

i feel it invading the dark blackened discoloured pit of darkness

invading the hell of my soul.

oh yes,

my gothic tuna fish sandwich…

make me full.