take my body as sacrifice and victim
for your divine machinations
reap the marrow of my broken bones
and hang my soul to dry
in the unbearing heat of eternity
sail down with all that remains of me
to the ancient halls that you call home
bury me in your holiest place
and let me never know rot through your visage
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 10:01 AM UTC
i am tired, i am wretched
and my bones are made of drowning fish
unfit for the supper of Christ
with whom I shall suffer
the ailments of man
white worms ascend through my marrow
and sow rot into my contorted fingers
that will never again bear fruit
"reap"
i hear the voice of an unloving god
booming from behind a crescent moon
"reap that which has been sown into your flesh,
reap and be released"
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 10:00 AM UTC
in what remains of that solemn woodland
an old willow creaks in memory of winters past
her withered leaves fall in the summer
and scarcely return come spring
her branches like the fingers of a bedlam
crooked, twisted and bruised
an empty nest where once a yellow warbler raised her young
now visited by robins, curious and brave
like ancient celts as they looked upon old roman columns
abandened and forgotten, slowly turning back to dust
many trees the willow knew once
but how quick the woodland disappears
she stood for many years, as a daughter of the forest
yet she will die, as a lone ponderer upon the solemn plain
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 4:31 AM UTC
Your eyes
are the early sprouting buds of april
Your eyes
Are two cathedral towers
And the light of stained glass windows
Your eyes
Are dancing figures in smoke
That rises from a worn-out chimney
Your eyes
Are two thistles, growing in secret by the road
Your eyes
Are the first snowflakes of November
And crickets in the quiet night
Your eyes
Are the darkness receding from our window
Your eyes
Are the fingers of the Sun
Shattered by the canopy
And scattered on the moss
Your eyes
Are the end of the road and its beginning
Your eyes
Are the secret of a woodland witch
Your eyes
Are the music of moonlight
Your eyes
Are the waves beneath a pier
Your eyes
Are a lonely shepard in the plains
Your eyes
Are the first lightning strikes of summer
Your eyes
Are the hands of the Redeemer
Your eyes
Are the kisses of a Goddess
And your eyes
Are more than I can hold
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 6:51 AM UTC
On the last night of the year, I turned eighteen
I dreamt of my grandfather.
Dead nearly a dozen years then,
More now.
That fraction of him in my life growing ever scarcer.
He was there, real as the sun and the moon and the stars,
In a white, gleaming city on the hill.
And I heard his voice so clear,
Just as I remembered
From memories of old family moves,
Memories of memories,
Honey diluted into water.
And maybe his face was not his real face.
Just a scrapbook of photographs
I had no part in.
I was young and carefree then,
And did not bother myself with remembering.
Memory is a burden I am not fit for carrying.
Time bleeds me.
Don’t hold onto me.
I can’t hold onto anything.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:28 AM UTC
My veins run cold with the cursed blood of Desire
And as I hang upon the rope, my boots are weighed with lead.
All days of yesterday and all tomorrows share the same ancient name - Regret.
This plague of Adam inflicts my wretched tissue,
And twitching, trembling, through the night I bleed.
My wavering voice echoes through the empty halls of long-dead kings,
Who painted their world in the colours of Malice.
My lady War, I claim thee, as you’ve claimed my bones
And fed my marrow on the Wildness of man.
I shall cut off my arms and gouge out my eyes,
And my tongue will wave as a flag.
I shall walk until my skin wears off.
I shall walk until forgetting absolves me.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:27 AM UTC
Stare at the painting on the wall
Encased in its lathered chestnut rim,
Look closely,
Find yourself, somewhere in the undulating landscape,
Drinking the cheapest beer,
Your favorite.
Do you love it so for its taste?
Or for how little you must sacrifice to get it?
Find everyone you love.
It’s a warm mass of acrylics out there,
All the colors of autumn congealing as one,
Like the afterglow of convalescence.
Find yourself again,
A little further now.
The paint’s run off, but not too much,
And the beer’s still there to keep you company.
Are you still walking?
Or have you jumped and let the earth spin on?
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:27 AM UTC
My voice is a storm-stricken sailor
Begging to float,
But there are no ships on the waves
And no light on the shore.
My heart is a flickering ember
Praying for flame,
But fading fast in the cold gales of December.
My house is a long hall of echoes,
And shadows, worn by no body.
My windows are painted, and the light overhead
Is a poor imitation of sunlight.
Outside, I can hear only the winds,
As they cackle and hector all night.
I sleep as a prisoner in my own cavern of rest,
And dream of blossoms in spring.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC
My bed is a warm, motherly place,
My bed is a bright-red bench on the street.
All the alcohols mix in my blood,
Exchanging small talk and all sorts of chatter.
The ***** and redbull announces: “you’re done”,
The Jager booms with his baritone voice:
“achtung, achtung, ich bin über allem”,
The cider and kriek that I downed, at the end of it all,
Hectors me: “this guy’s not coming home,
Bet a fiver on it, but that’s all he has”.
And the nicotine, man’s greatest soldier,
Puffs up his chest, pops his collar:
“Son, get on up, Dover awaits, you’re going home.”
I stand, shudder and stretch,
Accept death in the November cold,
And come home, in spite of it all.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC
White sheet, now reddened,
Covering a mound once living.
Glass shards making puddles on the pavement.
Candles on every turn and every roadside,
Everybody dying, every light grown dim.
A ghost of decades past,
Rumbling to himself in my backyard,
Halls empty, windows shattered,
Blackboards black with mold.
A pack of trash bags, soaring in the wind,
Look like lost dogs in the rain
And the old crones looking out the windows,
Look like ghosts of saints and martyresses
The place where I was born is now buried,
Down there with Pompeii and Cahokia,
As all things here come to rest.
And now I see,
All the omens that have followed me out here,
Their fingers point to nowhere.
And now I see,
A white horse on the hazy plain,
Watcher of the cemetery gates,
Where my grandfather lies dreaming.
And now I wander these streets,
That he painted so vividly,
The rain never stops, the clouds never part,
And the sun never shows me her face.
The place where I was born is now buried,
And soon here I will be buried too.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC