I thought to those hands that draw my strings
why do ghosts only haunt the living?
Fear slithers down from the stains on my ceiling
coiling thickly around my throat
dripping feted sweat
from the tips of its' fangs
“To Spur You To Run”
so down the darkened hallways and
out to the dirty
downtown streets I flew
skittering fitfully between the alleys
for risk of being seen
before slipping into that same empty bar
me oh my, what dim corners you have
ducking onto that same crooked confessional
oh great bartend, what clouded eyes you have
where I am promptly handed
my glass of Sorrow
deliver me from evil
atop a napkin wrote with print
“All The Better To Drown You With.”
it seems I have forgotten
if this sip or the last
was bitter or sweet
but it burns my eyes
twists my ribs, thickens the wind
and in the moment I see that face
out beyond the foamy waves
that shore upon the dregs
oh hallowed face of Judgement,
it seems blackened ivy has taken root
around your eyes
"I Tip Your Service With A Nod"
every block that I stumble by
orange streetlight onto the sidewalk
which whetted feet find liquor slick
thus put nose to grindstone, idiom or no
I hear the whispered Fury
when I fall down far enough
when my ear is planted to the earth
addressing me curtly
burning up through the asphalt
and stretching uncomfortably underneath my fingers
she lifts me screaming from the molten gutter
"To Hell With Forgiveness"
I find none other than Passion
standing under a spotlight
always dreamed of becoming a star
on the next street corner
you burned out far below the heavens of the hollywood highrise
she beckons me over with knowing gestures
but you still wound up center stage
“I Am Cheap and Love is Dead
Buried With All The Other Fairy Tales”
to which I respond
“We Must Make Due.”
She came and left swiftly
departing with the last of the warmth
in this empty room
douses candles in gasoline
burning half as long but twice as bright
after which I rose and went to my window
ans listened to the chirps of Melancholy
singing of sin.
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
I am getting tired of the sea
every morning, whispering, “duermete”
like we are lovers
who kept each other awake all night.
To wish her goodbye…
say, I am leaving Miami, him, not you.
Reminded it is not just love that can sweep
someone off their feet –
also thinking I left some of my food
in his refrigerator, two gallons of milk gift.
I believe I will return,
not for liquid, not for anything tangible
just a redo of our last embrace
without an ocean of salt lulling every
and I believe I exist in there somewhere –
sea-wide, seaside, we rest just us.
I only miss you at night.
That's where the absence of your arm around me is painful.
Even the warmth of your body next to mine is gone.
That gentle glow of heat that pulsated off your body onto mine has left,
Leaving me cold with only blankets to wrap around me.
The simple pressure of your fingers locked with mine is gone as well,
Leaving behind empty spaces.
You left holes in my life.
You ripped down the wall I had worked on for 20 years.
The comfort of that boundary around my heart crumbled when I met you,
And though it felt right when you were around,
Now that you're gone my heart is raw from exposure.
The hurt you've caused creates holes,
And I can't build up my wall fast enough to prevent them.
I miss you more than almost anything.
It's such a different sort of longing than what happens when you actually lose a loved one.
I didn't lose you, you pushed me away.
Even though you're alive, you've killed your presence in my life.
This yearning to have you back is pointless,
And yet night after night I find myself hungering to hold you.
But it's only at night.
That's when I miss you most.
I wanted to lay for awhile
in the incomprehensible darkness,
eyes needling all the things
which they could not see.
I'd imagine I was on Mercury,
where the hot, hot sun once turned the ore
to slag rivers carving up the surface
now the miasma of heat roams
the barren hilltops and plains
for there is nothing left to consume.
weighted down and cooking me,
hotter even than Mercury,
where I'd watch the lightening play
across the saffron sky,
from the calderas of spent volcanos.
where I lay awake in the night,
digging up fossils,
searching for memories in the broken rock
and bloody soil
Olympus looming in the distance.
where my heart would break,
amid all the thunder
shouting itself against the gales
There is Ganymede,
silent above the endless storm
floating in the shadow
of those celestial rings
where Titan guards over them
ready for thieves in the darkness
where there are oceans of liquid diamond
through the alternating
decades long days and nights.
beneath the sky so blue
and torn apart by the winds
over the burning ice.
Or lonely Pluto,
where I'd forget myself,
there in the dark.
I was searching my pockets for a story to tell my daughter on the night before Thanksgiving when she was looking especially nineteen, shouldering the immeasurable weight of being nineteen, and I couldn’t find one with a good three-act structure, but I started to tell her about the kind of vaguely existential warm knot I always used to get in my stomach when I went home from school for Thanksgiving, and how I couldn’t decide at the time whether it was happy or sad, but now I knew that it was happy for certain, and when you think about how once things change they are not changing back it can be kinda heavy, but you don’t have to think about it too often, and we had this new recipe for cranberry sauce this year and you don’t even have to get up early to watch the parade.
When I went downstairs at nine the next morning to put the turkey in the oven, she was smiling in front of the TV, sipping a cup of black coffee with her dad.
Hands ache when I write,
but I do.
I cling to the screen.
Like a brain dead body,
Then desperateness kicks in.
My Parvati is dead,
like Siva was slowly disappearing.
Can I hold on?
For how long?
Will this longing drive me mad,
or is it planning on sparing me?
Tick tock tick tock,
the clock goes,
blick block, blick,block.
Tv sounds are jarring,
the commentary is blasphemy,
often with misleading sounds.
I can feel my brain dying.
So it has,my darlings.
Searching through his bloodied clothes.
Searching for what is left.
With the rage, I cut into his chest.
I want his heart, for safety and comfort.
I rip it out and cradle it
I want it for others but I shall never reveal them now.
I love very bit of this heart.
You say I am a beast?
Look at you, I know you have done sins.
I am a dark being.
I love the screams and moans of pain and lust.
I just don't know what happened to that little girl you had once seen.
Now crying and imbalanced.
I have made a doll.
It has the heart that I cradled.
It looks just like him.
He talks to me.
Calls me "Little Dove"
At night 'he' comes alive and kisses me with those sharp teeth.
Killing me with his poisoned kiss.
That wretched smile drives me insane.
His a demon, bursting out if my chest.
Putting his bloody doll like hand on my pale white cheek.
I am paralyzed in time.
I love him ever so.
He says to me that me can make me a world of blood.
He makes me dream of haunted things.
Wounds, stitches, knives and more lovely,
I am happy that he can make my world come true.
I love that I am crazy, because he makes me feel better.
I love you, demon of my dreams.
He has left me.
Without no warning,
just left me in this tattered white dress stained with our blood.
He said he will come back.
He never returned.
I still hear his demotic voice at night yearning for his kiss.
Wanting to feel his warm body against mine.
Feeling his doll-ish hand caressing my body.
I awaken to a ear wrenching noise.
I found him dying on the ground
He said he loved this dark and damned side of me,
and to let go of this love that we had.
I went to the window and started sobbing.
Harder and harder.
No tears slid down my face.
I saw what he was dying for.
He had made me my world of hurt.
I love you Abaddon.
Thank you for loving me.
As each day passes the sun sets sooner in the sky,
Lifted above us each day, never going awry.
We long to share that light; we live to see,
Alone, standing waiting to feel free.
Away from the pain, the torture we endure,
While time leaves us to mature.
As the sun rises, we count down the days,
To feel something even if it's just it's rays.
The warmth keeps us going, until then we wait,
Wait until there is something else to set us straight.
Until then, we're here to live the life that remains,
Fighting through what gives us sadness and pains.
We struggle through the fires and trials of life,
But in the end everything always ends in strife.
One day the sun will no longer rise or shine,
The stars slowly dim; planets cease to align.
In the darkness we will find it; a guide, a light,
That will show us the way through the darkest night.
It's not me, it's you
these words they haunt beds
but I can sleep at night.
Rather be cold, covered, and neglected
than hot, naked, and rejected.
Yeah you're winning cause you have feelings
but nothing is ever what it seems.
Crying and purging at the thought of my body
but I won't let you see me because I'm shaking.
You're so far away from my tree that I appear
to be still but my leaves are trembling.
I never asked for thunder and rain,
you were supposed to bury the pain.
Instead I watched as you endlessly shoveled to find
the root, so the the thorn in your heart can be extracted.
But I won't let you get soil deep
chained and held in my hand
curled up defeated
a snail in a shell.
Sicker everyday.... all because I didn't wish you well.
and they blame
Libra weigh the scales
I'm tired of the lower hand
I want you so bad it's stupid
It's stupid that I want bad news
Yearning centuries now for something new.
I want you so bad it's stupid
it's stupid that I want you so bad
so bad, my want is bad,
but I'm stupid for you.
The Victim and The Villain
interchanging between the two
chemistry ignited in red
but now we're entering the blues
The positions they change as frequent
as lies that transform into truth.
The Victtim and The Villain
they live inside of us;
and they live inside of you.
Upon the crumbling moss-streaked wall,
A single shephard leant,
As he sadly counted peaceful sheep,
His mind on unpaid rent,
his loving wife, and doting son,
this cool sweet scent of night,
and now we leave the fretful shephard,
He’ll go to war and fight.