I drift skyward, in a steely grey balloon
lusterless, and quiet.
if someone took a needle,
and burst the fluid filled sac,
where my lungs, lie
...might I scream?
might I disconnect from my body
in a pitchy wail,
shattering the sound barrier,
as I fly, into the distance,
releasing a forced breath,
in a banshee shriek?
Or, would I pour my contents
onto smouldering pavement,
and collapse,
silently inward...?
No...nothing about me
ever expires,
peacefully.
So...
I'll drift,
ever further,
into the choking nucleus,
of sky.
Dragging a tail,
that can never be tied, down,
to nothing.
Until a simple word,
a phrase
a draft, of careless thought
pierces the shiny,
bubbly armor,
of my airy,
fairy existence.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 5:38 AM UTC
Everyone I treasure, most.
Values me, the very least.
...Prizes me,
as less dear, and near
in the MaUSolEUM,
of their wounded hearts.
Their abaci,
click, and clink
like the gavel, at Sotheby's,
but they can never make cents,
of me.
Cobwebs, cloak
the oaken accounting doors,
and darken,
their broken window pangs.
I could be the Hope Diamond,
and each facet,
of my stormy soul, could glitter
against the black backdrop
of evening sky,
like navied fireflies...
but they would never know.
Still,
they would fancy,
the cloudless clarity,
of the Pink Star.
Finding it, favorable by far
to the cursed thread, of my lore.
Holding their throats, as they pass me.
...Will I never know, safety?
Will I never know, the sweetness,
the serenity
of lasting love,
or unbridled devotion...?
...Everything,
that has ever meant, the world
has strayed continents, far
from me.
Either fed, neck-first
into the cosmic guillotine,
or so desperate
to present, their beloved heads
for the court's collection.
...but I only wanted,
a little more
than the corner office,
of your heart?!
I...
d e p r e. ci. a t e.
with every scratch.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 5:29 AM UTC
...I keep thinking, and planning.
I'm laying out the schematics,
for my diagrams,
and my plans, of attack.
If I build a ladder, to Helheim
can I take you right back?
If I come down, the rungs,
will you race me back,
to the light?
...My love for you, rides.
Bound, for war,
on a horse,
through the storm,
at your side.
... and my love for you,
it roars.
With a force,
that endures:
it's the surf,
on the shores.
If I'm your curse, I'm your cure.
my love for you,
is ferocious...
but you should know,
that it's pure.
A Vikingr, born...
I'm not level.
and I'm not gentle.
But I'll pray, at your cairn
and sacrifice, to your temple.
If you crave love,
like its rain,
then, my dear, I will shower you.
But I will chase you, like Fenrir...
and if we come,
to Ragnarok,
I promise not,
to stop,
until I've devoured you.
7d ago
May 26, 2026 at 11:32 PM UTC
Drawn, into the core,
of my mythology.
I am both the serpent,
and the apple.
My juices, shine
on many fossilized sets,
of teeth.
And they come, overhill
swords, drawn
piercing midnight
blades, gleaming
beneath a blood moon.
Harder than flint rock,
as they gaze
with heat, pooling
in their ***** and veins.
But their hearts,
seal themselves,
away
in jagged,
limestone caves
the moment these eyes,
land,
upon their mortal faces.
Soft hands, harden
to smooth jet.
Suede skin, roughens
into forceful stone.
Men, that cannot, be moved.
Men, whose intent,
whose intentions, marble, coldly
into unclean shapes,
that I lack the strength,
or tools, to file
or even chip, away.
My stone garden,
is tall, with marauders.
Burglars.
Seducers, and lovers.
But, obsidian covers arteries.
Pyrite, cakes these still-life hearts.
***
In my lonely existence...
who will ever love me?
Truly?
Is no one immune?
Or are they all, doomed
to calcify,
before these Aegean blue,
and empty, eyes?
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 9:55 AM UTC
I.
At the mirror's edge...
I came, to devour myself
with humbled, human eyes.
I found the feral essence,
of unbridled vengeance, instead.
Goddess...or
Dispassionate collector...?
Apotheosis of divine,
feminine destruction.
War clings, to her Sunday skin,
like blood, and perfume...
an arterial spray,
that douses the pulse points,
in faintly rushing waves.
Her throat, stays ringed
in the crush, of mortal skulls.
Their fissures, and fractures
glitter back, like lip gloss,
and blood diamonds.
Yielding mandibles, caress
the hollow points,
between her shoulders, and neck.
Fingertips, bone-white
traveled the glass frame,
which has held her, in abeyance.
...Or so I had thought...
but the severed arms
which gathered, in skin ruffles,
at her armored waist,
waved back, haplessly
at the ones, encircling mine,
in a cynical disregard.
II.
...Oh, divinity.
At my unguarded back:
a rugged sailor, a soldier
sojourner--
his knuckles, firm,
at the helm,
of a wayward Vikingr ship.
He stands: a warrior, clad,
in a molten Phoenix skin.
In his flagrant proximity,
my senses, zing,
like a lithium charge,
to a curious, probing tongue.
My skin, tingles...all over.
***
...Bring me back, to earth...
take me back, to you.
Roam my burning lands,
with your burning hands.
...Plant your conquering flags.
Overtake my forces,
with sweet lips,
and implacable strides.
***
...Teach me to be soft, again.
Let your tender palms,
catch the scarry curves,
of this ripened flesh.
Falling apricots,
from tendriled trees.
...Teach me to be soft, again.
Wipe the blood, from filthy, filmy cheeks.
Blot the tears, which crystallize
at the corners, of these primal eyes.
***
God, of War;
of Wisdom, you are.
Goddess of Death,
and Destruction...I'll be.
But, I've grown tired,
of amputating limbs.
I want, to be...
the holistic garden,
that heals you.
The subtle stream,
that moves you.
...The sweetest fruit, to revive you.
***
...Teach me, to be gentle.
To put Kali, aside...
and I, will be...
...the warmest rain,
to caress, eager lips...
and the brightest stars...
to dazzle weary eyes.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 4:50 AM UTC
It is TOO ...damn...hot.
Steam rises, and caterpillars
across smudgy window panes.
My lungs, pant,
for breath
through an open mouth
and every exhalation,
feels...scalding
to softly sun-kissed, lips.
The urge to streak, clean
warm, and smoky glass
with slender finger-marks
beats, in my throat,
like coppery monarch wings.
...If I could...
I'd strip off, my skins,
with the remainder, of my clothes,
and dive, headfirst
into a frigid current,
of chilled lemonade.
I'd float, like a dense raft, of bones,
in a sour sea;
clinging to a lemon wedge,
as I drift gently, amongst pink rivulets.
I'd play off, my own body
like a steelpan,
while lounging, in corpse pose.
I'd clink,
as musically, as ice cubes,
in a frosty glass,
every time a wave, struck my rattling form.
But, alas, I am gorilla-glued,
into a sweat-rimed meat suit.
Bare feet, plant themselves,
into burning asphalt.
Ghost white soles,
cook, and sizzle,
like fatty bacon,
on the HOT...summer...sidewalk.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 6:45 PM UTC
Cut, and carved.
Thrown, and broken.
First, an amphora,
that they could pour out, of.
Then, a two-handed cup,
that they could pour, into.
If I couldn't be,
sufficiently hollowed...
I could be rewetted,
and molded, again.
Thrown, into the wall,
and shattered.
Scraps, recovered
and shaped, again,
freshly
with my own blood,
for water.
They couldn't cry, for me.
...I was only clay.
The hands,
that shaped me...
found my curves,
to their liking,
first.
Pigs.
Pygmalions.
They caught me, by the throat
while I was still, raw, and malleable.
...Her eyebrows, raise.
When slapped, and pinched
into a submissive position?
What did, I...what did I do?
How did I respond?
Cut, and carved.
Thrown, and broken.
First, an amphora,
that they could pour out, of.
Then, a two-handed cup,
that they could pour, into.
If I couldn't be,
sufficiently hollowed...
...I could be rewetted,
and molded, again.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 11:27 AM UTC
In the silence, sometimes,
I try to picture you.
Nights, like tonight,
where everything hurts,
because every thing, reminds.
I watch the grey, fill my roots.
I watch the fissures, spread
to underline,
my undereyes.
But, my arms. They stay heavy.
...They stay empty.
You raven-winged, beauty.
I picture you, at twenty.
You stay etched,
in the veins, under eyelids.
...A dancing mural.
Like a painted angel,
adorning the ceilings,
of the Sistine Chapel...
When I look up...I see you.
...I never commissioned you.
You were graffiti, on high walls.
And even still ...
all these years, later
Your fabled face,
chases me down, into oblivion
when I close...my eyes.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 8:29 AM UTC
...She says:
"Maybe you were made, for something greater."
...But her eyes, are sad.
Breathless, as she watches me, weave.
I spin a yarn, or two,
the ***** of my feet
paddling,
at the treadles,
in rhythmic kicks.
My loom, weaves lore
into cinematic panels
and my audience, is
spellbound.
Film noir;
penny dreadfuls, in a ticking frame.
...I don't know if she's come to notice, yet
how all the textiles, are in black,
and grey.
I scutter, across
the tapestry, of time.
The warp beam,
keeps tension
on the swatch,
of cloth.
The nimbleness, of mind...
drawn, into rib stitch
seed stitch,
keeps the observer,
captivated.
The steely exo-,
which has long drawn, the ire,
of men
draws admiration, now,
having taken untold years,
to crack.
But it is cracking, at last
and she's beginning to see, how
just a finger, slamming
into the soft underbelly,
could ******* me.
Does she also see
the red hourglass,
tatted...
on my lower abdomen?
...Life taught me, to craft, the ripcord,
but, never...the parachute.
I hang, in suspense,
on a pendulum swing.
...What hands, will catch me,
should I fall?
...Whose fingers, will untie,
the knot,
if I should jump?
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 7:53 AM UTC
I'm an open book,
if I love you.
You can read me, whenever...
and however, you like.
By rote...by rite...
by favored passage...
...Rough, or smooth.
...Strong, or gentle.
My pages, will bend, to you...
and press, crisply
towards the texture,
of your intimate touch.
They'll shiver, and spin, for you.
Peruse, my chapters.
Absorb, my thesis.
Allow me, to teach you
the rhythm, of me
until you can speak it,
like a second language.
You can slide your fingers,
down the hard ridges, of my spine,
and break me open,
upon your tabletop.
You can laze, in a dim corner
with me, sprawled
across the thickness, of your lap,
begging you...
to thumb the creases,
and to whisper,
over the wall, of words.
I'm an open book...
until you hurt me.
Then the covers, swing swiftly closed,
like French doors...
unmindful, of fingers.
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 7:48 AM UTC