I take a sip of water,
Like the actor on the stage;
Immediately, I begin to write,
Starting halfway down the page.
I talk of the many faces
I have seen and I have loved,
I describe woods and valleys,
The sky and clouds above.
They belong only to me,
I own these memories outright;
The shifting sand beneath my feet,
And oh, the sweetness of the night
The click of a shutter (or is it my fingers?)
Awakens me from my dream,
I stand before them tall and proud,
Less afraid than I seem.
I saw the past yesterday,
The man I used to be,
Trapped in a suit, shirt and tie,
Waiting, hoping for liberty.
I bathe your eyes with my water,
Hand you a brush with which to write
About love, life, sex and death
And oh, the sweetness of the night.
You must do the same as I have done;
Revolution is the key.
We can all of us do without you -
Let go and you shall see
You will walk along the path
And stop to rest upon the seat,
Made ready for us both
For it is there that we shall meet.
You see, we were always the same person.
All we needed were tools with which to write
About secrets that travel fast
And, oh yes, the sweetness of the light.
Its quiet and peaceful for now.
In the distance however,
holds a war of all.
A guardian watches alongside her sisters,
They see the world through the eyes of the creator.
As the sun gleam's upon the water,
A massive horde comes closer.
Valkyries are strong,
beautiful but deadly.
We fight together for the Light,
but the darkness can overwhelm thee.
Only one Valkyrie stands out,
above them all.
She is unique, wise, and tall.
Her blue eyes only see thy soul.
As this horde comes to the waves of white.
Valkyries spread their wings to take flight.
Now she knoweth the world and becomes,
The demon they fear, Kekay the Young.
Rising into the sky,
not fearing the dragons who surround.
She looks to her kill,
and stands...her ground.
Her wings turn black and her sovereign soul abides.
As she summons the Catalyst on the heights.
Tempest Suthrane as deadly and black.
The lightning kills off anything death.
The Valkyrie stands before her sisters now,
Who watch in terror of the darkness overwhelmed.
For now she is known as Kekay Suthrane,
The Valkyrie, The young, Dragon Rider today.
Know the war that takes place within her soul,
She knows not the worldly fall.
The end will draw near of the sisterhoods kin,
The blood will show the way,
To her next kill.
The Valkyrie of light and Darkness,
The Archaic one.
Shes the one you should fear,
For Tempest comes to her call.
This is it
Single serve Apocalypse
I'm staring into the center of a future
One I can never have
My wants and dreams become alight
All that I cherish
The bite hits
Tearing me down like an atom bomb
Obliterating all that I hope to be
As the light of the blowback fades
All goes dark
Blacker than the grave I may crawl from
But there's you
The only thing keeping me afloat
At least until I have to fall
These final moments can be one of sorrow
Or a happiness I know will shatter
I stare into your eyes and words fail
So I lie
Pull you into my arms and simply pray
That you don't smell the blood
Because I know despair is coming
Marked special for you
You will share my darkness, so I'll share your
A few hours
My time is quickly eroding
My mind is slowly decaying
My body will be playing catch-up
Your love soothes me, bittersweet lullabye
So I go with my friendly executioner who saves my soul
I'm not the sort
where you flick a switch
and I fill your room,
with dazzling light.
I'm more a torch
you have to wind
and hold in your hand
But if there is no hand
I cannot shout out light
in your dark.
into a delightful darkness.
They let it consume them,
remove them from the past.
You may be led
by the wrist into it.
Even I might dip my feet into it,
feel the heat coil
between my toes.
Those I have known
do not catch the train back,
or do but for the briefest of talks.
The 9.55 waits for you,
will you catch it?
No surprises at the station.
I dreamt again.
This time it drove longer
smashing into smithereens.
There was a tree,
daylight, quiet laughs,
but I could not hide
from the dark.
It came as a wave,
bite of a bad fruit.
I open my eyes.
I close my eyes.
Explanation: A poem in three parts written in my own time on the theme of light/dark. The first rough draft was written in a university class, before being extended and improved later on. The original title remains however.
No water tastes sweeter
then that sip in the desert
No touch is finer
then that hand on the shoulder
when encased in loneliness.
No paycheck more abundant
then following employment deprivation.
No buffet more filling
then that first bite in hunger.
No more wonderous serenity
then when the pain
finally goes away
from your mouth
No idea more stimulating
to a mind so hungry
then a poem which catches
the moment so perfectly.
No love more appreciated
then when awash in self judgement
No praise more received
then when lost in condemnation.
No warmth more soothing
then when lost in the snow.
No light so bright
as that first sunlight
when lost in the demons
of one's night.
No sensation so
pure as an open
heart after numbness descends
Compassion in hatred
A laugh when joyless.
A lover's kiss after betrayal
A loving look after the cold white wall
A loving word after tense stone silence.
No embrace more healing
then when you come home to me.
The receding waters after the tusnami
The stillness after the earthquake.
The peace after the warfare.
The spring flowers after the winter
The coolness of fall after the blistering summer's heat.
The wood stove so warm when the house is so cold.
No bed so content
No home so sweet
after being stuck out on the streets.
Without our joys no sorrow
Without our sorrows no joy.
Of course I'm a poet
What else could I be?
In the beautiful light
That taught me to see
With intensity shown
and with such constancy
The terrible light
That forced me to see
The luminous sadness
The light brought in its wake
That lodged in my heart
And oft' caused it to break
And filled me with wonder
For wonderment's sake
By revealing my soul
The light doomed it to ache
The light came in slowly
With each new regret
Each instant of pain
I could never forget
The sadness malingered
As if telling a joke
That it dared me to get
And each new misfortune
Brings with it the last
And backward through time
Backward into the past
'Til I start to surmise
How my die is cast
How some new disaster
Is following fast
So I am infused
With this pain and this fear
And this wonderment at
All this beauty that's here
I feel that the linkage
Between them is clear
The price of such insight
Is terribly dear
But this light is something
That everyone shares
Though often obscured
By everyday cares
By friendship and glory
And great love affairs
The soul is appeased
Ere it seeks out the glare
But those worldly things
On which others thrive
Seem all but mundane
I don't feel deprived
For it is the vision
That keeps me alive
Of course I'm a poet
It's how I survive
the moths and the tulips hear
The light flashed across as birds would –
Crushed in a stair of painted flecks.
History writes nothing but famines and burnt flesh,
Closing in on a blurry pile of curtain thread,
Like posts starched white with meandering snow.
The basin lies glazed and porcelain cracks grey
With shadows and real estate fields.
A landlord who is too old for doorbells,
But instead eats only avocados and drinks the juice of smoke –
Who cares for winter? Can you tell? Can you still see the sun in the sky?
Edged and dark nights weigh heavy on a cast-iron bend,
And chapels once filled lay with empty pews, gathering dust.
The laundromats stay open,
And flies lay still in the garage,
While nervous tenders sweep their brooms.
The doors are locked and the dirt floats in the air.
My angel used to laugh, but she don’t laugh anymore,
Fat and satisfied with decay.
Shades down and bees flying around potted plants,
Where the incandescence draws them in
To a room full of wine and grapefruits.
Gold bracelets as worn as an old symphony played over and over.
Ambitious sketches of radio programs
(The moths and the tulips hear -
They always listen in).
Has the sun disappeared from the sky? Is this what we should call night?
It has come down here with us – it leaves us with this coat of smoke.
My angel used to laugh, but she is dead,
And now the only holy thing I see in these streets,
Is the patient bloom of gasoline.
that if i spend my time
for my phone screen
to light up
then i am so disconnected
from the moment
and that scares me
i want to move about the moment
with the grace and ease of a bird in the sky;
there is nothing
and no one
the corpulent rosebushes stirred
As time dragged on I felt the slow meandering of oceanic, shattering vibrations
With flesh flayed and spattered out onto the gravelly pavement
Broken and blistered in the barren hovel that men and women call truth
With the weight of monastic guilt and filthy pretense on my shoulders
I broke the back of madness, for fear, for the fat opening of cuts
That bled, tearing, sutured, stained with bandaged innocence
As the daylight spiked into a heat of pain and flesh and disgust
What is the passing over of this viscous, liquid crutch that holds us
Like children, like adult impulse given name and a destination
At the cold, embittered heart of speech grown loud, or maybe else
The burning ambiguity that helps the cripples on the street shout their lies.
As the withering sun turned its head over onto the septic, selfish horizon
With its arms laid neatly beneath the seething mass of clouds and polluted sky
Airing out whatever pleasant theme the faceted, belligerent populace could bear
To hear, to cry for the bothersome, ponderous, dry gargling
Spat forth into the night, breathing copiously and heavier
Than the pulsating, writhing combines could bear
Than the onerous, apathetic will of the people, of the nations great could bear
I counted ten thousand, intent on meaning more than what they could see
Before their eyes, before their hearts gave into the grudging plod
And there I sat watching the flies consume garbage behind the malls
And behind the temples I watched naked skin flay its own fears into nothingness.
As our vicarious lovers lay weeping in the courts of law and trust
They made hovels into homes and called them theirs as they sat pouting hopeless
Weary and breathless in the cold darkness of lunacy and perjury, and there, nude
Skins to the smog and the cigarette smoke drafting in from every crack
In every window that creaked with the walls, snapping in the windy embrace of cold
Tethered by the limitlessness of love and light they were told were present
Even during their blackest horrors and their most terrible mistaken impulses
Painless and pining for the frosty winter to come faster than the glorious spring
So in the ice of new sprouts they could crash cars and explode in righteous faith
Though their pins poked and their shins snapped between metal and teething bones
They crept along silently through their insane, godly wanderings.
As the pointed, poisonous resin of transience slips carefully between our saintly ribs
And the tips of glass slide precariously into the first layers of tissue
Which our crusty exteriors of posturing have held so tight and delicate and close
This cursory affection that has been seamlessly mastered despite ages of turmoil
Becoming as effortless and useless as chipping stone from stone
Collecting the sharpened pieces in canvas bags and heaving them away
We should drop these sacks into chimneys, over jagged, abysmal cliffs
Build homes below the stacks and cracking boulders, an asylum, labyrinthine
Instead of row upon tortuous row of pre-fabrication and incorporated insatiability
Allow our smoke to gust freely in intricate tangles between the mineral fissures
Only in a place such as this might I feel peace despite the fleeting conditions of life.
As the foreign signs and roadmaps gave everyone their potent direction
Their fragrant possibility, their fragile and tenuous importance
I sat, tearful, milking the anger with which I strode across the boundaries
I sat and stared belligerently at the copulating majority as they bred
Incessantly and without modesty, pleasantly and engorged with joyous freedoms
Mounting their wreaths on certain dates and ignoring the rest of the year
That passes without trace or vitality or significance or longevity of moral thoughts
I crouched under the passive concrete bridge and held my yelling breaths in
And I was patient but for the roaring of automobiles and trailers that buzzed
And rang, and blasted my senses with tremors and asphalt, entombed
In their lacking permanence, I discovered my raining doubts and spilling pleasures.
As my weathered, watery heart decried its pathetic, lonely estate
I strode among blizzards and buildings covered in sheets of fabricated wind
Expanding my contempt and swelling tongue, speaking angers of lightness
And the numbness that held my mouth strictly in the presence of failure
I watched passively as the fires of lust and agony consumed my wearisome body
Singing high halleluiah, singing high harmony, singing sacred sanctimony
And brutal determination that washed into a bleak, starry expanse
Quivering with smoke and sparks and delirious infernal discharge
In the tempest of consummate greed, in the heaving breast of failure
I watched the contest of the complete and competitive oath-takers
Dream of catastrophe and bombs, of exploding cars and towers of envy toppling.
As the corpulent rosebushes stirred in the smog-coated breeze
Washing in from the tranquil sea and merging desperately with effluent waste
The spineless worms towed blissful dirt back and forth above the hill’d plains
Metal containers lifted by metal machines, metal chains, iron-clad, forlorn
And the flagrant, youthful howling of curled-back fathers and mothers and children
Who brought fortune and moonlit ruin to each narrow city street, draped in oil
In the shrines of a deadened, lifeless god, a dreary, worthless, loveless god
These disastrous familial groups vanished frantically into a hole in the floor
While their hallucinating, vicious god gazed down in scorn and tired pride
At most an empty husk, at least a long-lost and circular pattern of imagination
And I pushed and I shoved my way through the crowd to the roof, where I fell too.
As the giant mechanical politicians stir emotional discord and bleat “Pity!”
One hundred thousand citizens or more breed and scrape up wooden ladders
In a misguided attempt to climb higher than their brothers and sisters, graven
At the top of each rung is a mausoleum of clutching hands, separated from arms
And shoulders, and bodies, for the rest of these have fallen down, crippled
Sunken beneath the asphalt, beneath the concrete, beneath the dust and the soil
Sunken beneath the layers of bone, piled high from all those shrunken souls
Who called and who culled their meaning from worthlessness and vacant boxes
Wrapping paper, birthdays, blank celebrations and dinners that devoured their own
Trapped inside with fears of death, fears of dark, fears of living free and living fast
And I parried blow with blow, steaming and incensed, filled with rage and liberty.
As viral, pathogenic beliefs were bought and sold by street vendors, small carts
Colourful lips spoke precious lines and bright secrets that only the shadows knew
Off to the side, off in the corners of the alleyways where drunkards slept, cold
And where all the addicts never went; no coffee, acetaminophen, no pacifying falsehood
No peaceful, ignorant, heavenly comfort or wishful, fictitious promise to satisfy
The anxious ecstasy, the restless frenzy of reassurance at Death’s swift approach
For the graceful passing with which, as it hovered adrift, made cycles of life and time
O, reverent bereavement! O, demented mortality! Make martyrs of these shells
Drown these ashen sailors of distress and entomb these embracing liars in mud
Let the Reaper’s claw sow clarity among these belligerent, sadistic men and women
Whose methods and manners I so despise, whose covetous fingers I would break.
As the pillars of dogged temptation are driven deeply with nails into splendid coils
Of twine, of splinters, and of shavings, I pushed over those drowsy crosses
In favour of stony conception and hollow originality, and laid a formless foundation
To rally and to wrestle my deadly impulse, my ragged sense of purpose, into shape
To ravage my treacherous lack and instead exist in both logic and feeling
Rather than succumb to beaten, worn ideologies or gleaming interpretations
And so hopefully assume an overflowing of significance, far beyond capacity
If it is not too lost for us to regain our clutch on the spirit born in dead languages
Then I would nod my head and raise my brow, spitting at those drunk on perversion
Clenching until my knuckles turn white enough for me to strike, hard
And trembling with the stormy bolts of wrath, as they swirl frantically even now.
As the birds built weaving nests from scattered bits of the frames we left behind
And the isolated ribs, clipped fingers, and polished teeth from the lake’s bottom
Diving below the depths, swirling and grey, to break the surface anew
Sending spirals of ripples to collide, bursting and shifting, disturbing the surface
While howling dogs shook their throats and sent out mad wailing shrieks
Sleek black cats rubbed against the bark of drooping willows, dying slowly
And they too were all skin, all bone, all tiny, blistered tracks left in the dirt
All contorted and convoluted, their bodies bent, withered, blank, and blurred
A deliberate progression towards the valley’s edge where a bright demise awaits
In a capillary trail, a pulmonary divide, and the measured stalk of melancholy
That I caress and nurture, fervently holding an inferno for the end of cheerless days.
once, i knew these things
I watched your temple collect dust
As sand fell from your cracking walls,
And I understood the meaning of temporary,
Yet knew I could not raise my head
To pass through your roof or see through your windowpanes,
For they were both stained and yellowed.
I heard the sudden melody shake through your rooms,
Passing through like summer’s sweet light,
As if it could inhabit my heart,
But I was not persuaded,
For I knew how it breaks apart so easily
As plates on dirty marble.
I tasted your barren earth, self-aware, reminiscent
Of days lost and hours spent in murky silence,
Motionless and curling about in the pit of my stomach,
As copious and fulfilling as the golden radiance of your sun,
The rays of which were packed tightly to fill the void
That I knew could not grow more empty.
I could smell your weary autumn air, exhumed with rain,
Your drains filled and your streets flooded,
And when your glow came crashing out from above the clouds,
And I stayed outside your house, in doubt,
For I knew that your deluge would reach me,
Though I had built my dam.
I watched your horizon transition from blue to orange and back,
Each shade passing slowly onward,
And when you went, I knew it would be a momentary event,
As quick and fleeting as cut wicks
From candles that keep the same colours as your skies
Before the wind blows them into smoke.
I heard your rumbling thunder, resounding in the distance,
Your sharp crack and your brief wave
As the air vibrated in agitation for an instant,
But I shook for far longer,
For your storm lingered inside of my mind,
Though I knew that it would end.
I tasted the corporeal expanse between skin and sheet,
The chemical heat of two pulsing, beating shells,
The salty sweat of obligation and desire,
Embodied and as physical as stones in a swift riverbed,
And so my thoughts turned to the beauty of rushing water,
For I knew that love could be neither curse nor promise.
I could smell the mountain pines, covered in snow,
Perched high up on resonant peaks,
Each a slim rod, forming banks of antennas,
Pointing out to the universe,
And I knew that I too was both stem and root,
Though thoughts of death still made me shake.
Once, I knew these things,
And I did not feel the weight of darkness.
But I was a child then,
And I am not a child now,
And now I am not certain of anything.