This is where I was born.
Cold stone and metal were my womb.
Electricity was my mother, and my Father isn't one.
I travel this world tormented and alone;
searching for answers I'll never get,
and companionship I'll never have.
I yearn for understanding and peace,
but I've only ever known fear and pain.
Am I being punished for the sins
that belonged to the men that I used to be?
I long for the day when I can put an end to that monster of a man,
the one who bestowed my hideous being with life.
I feel as though I have existed for an eternity.
I fear I may never make sense of who or what I am.
I search in vain for my creator,
and for Death,
and I am terrified that I may never find either.
The roe buck was dead.
The snow mounded around his lifeless body half concealing him.
His antlers grew out from his sad head,
an echo of his power and strength in life.
His legs lay out at awkward angles,
white tongue lolling from the side of his mouth,
out from between his flat teeth and lips stretched thin and pale.
He had fallen into death some time ago;
his fur falling from the hide in piles around him,
unto the ground and the snow.
Rough naked patches of flesh spotting his body,
the skin ripped and shredded open along the spine and ribs.
The remnants of coyotes feasting upon the carcass for their dinner.
The bones still had meat clinging to them in places,
and the rotting sac of organs beneath the rib cage exuding no smell,
frozen in the mid Winter chill.
It seemed that all he was,
everything that made him a deer,
was slowly falling away into the snow.
The only remaining legacy of life; his empty black eyes.
And in the Spring,
all that would remain would be his bare bones
scattered across the ground.
At night I hear the crickets talking to me,
their black backs
slick and reflective
against the moon.
When the sun comes up,
I leave the doors ajar so
they come inside to hide
under the chests and in the corners of the room;
their Morse code of clicks and chirps
a metronome for my writing hand.
It has been centuries.
While I have found pleasure in the work,
and have gained much skill through time,
I no longer get the satisfaction.
With every **** I make it gets easier and less fulfilling.
I am always searching for that perfect prey to give me what I want,
more than the things I need.
Eons pass and men fall before me.
Hopelessly bound by my love.
Rendered paralyzed by my gaze.
Wrestling internally with themselves to figure out if
I am real or only a dream.
If I am a goddess or a daemon.
Their blood is my life,
their love feeds my soul,
but they never last long;
can't hold up against the intensity of my existence.
They worship and bend and beg for my love,
and eventually they withdrawal or attack or run.
And that's when they are ended like so many before them,
and I begin the hunt anew, in search of another.
I grow tired, and wiser, and stronger,
but they never seem to change.
Mortal men are weak,
bound only to themselves and not built for eternity.
I eat their hearts and collect their souls.
Use their bones to build my armor
and that's all they're ever good for.
Their names drip like spells from my tongue,
and after centuries it seems my magic still isn't strong enough
to find a thing I cannot eventually destroy.
The morning broke upon the valley, light illuminating their home, smoke curling from the top of the tipi. Symbols of omens dancing across the rays of light. The birds awoke, their song in time with the murmuring of the stream.
They slept on inside; Naked bodies pressed tight for warmth and comfort. Wrapped in fur hides and each other. Dreaming of plentiful game and an abundance of children. The dogs stretched and sniffed for bones and game. The man stretched and sniffed for her, burying his face into her long hair, warm with the scent of skin and flowers and dreams.
He pulled her tight against him, his hands grasping at her curves as one does for the fleeting memories of a dream. He slid himself between her legs and pushed into her deeply, she awakening with a soft gasp, her eyes sleepy yet alert, her body willing against his, her kiss upon his lips tasting of the morning dew. She opened herself beneath him as a flower opens itself to the sun, and he filled her with his seed. His skin smelled of fur and smoke and his eyes promised her a child.
This bathroom buzzes with the sound of a fan whirring.
It's blades loom and spin with a constant rhythm.
The dim, ultraviolet light on the ceiling,
Bleaches everything out into shades of cream and khaki.
I lay in a calm and murky pool enclosed in cold white walls.
Steam rises from its surface and fogs the room.
The water condensates in mirroring beads on the walls,
Making the tiny bathroom seem colorless and infinite.
I want to go home to my own aqua green bathtub,
Walls crawling with tiny square tiles of burnt umber and burgundy.
Where my silent meditation in the bath,
Is interrupted by your call on the telephone.
Oil pumps dot the fields for miles,
Like giant metal bison.
Rust for fur,
And shoulders of rotating turbines.
The half smoked cigarettes lay decapitated from their cylindrical ash heads like mummies, crinkled and dry and ancient. The paper is wrapped around the strings of tobacco like rags around bundles of herbs and god-like jars. Their neck stained brown with nicotine; a ghost of my inhales. Laying quietly like cast of ammo cartridges on the windowsill, nothing but paper and tobacco without my hand and lungs.
There are wolf spiders in my room,
and buzzards are constantly overhead.
The crows see me and signal warning,
and the cats always come crawling.
I burn herbs to ward off
the scent of loneliness.
I light candles to scare away
Autumn is here,
and everything is preparing to sleep.
I wear black to blend in with the night,
so my dreams can't find me.
The moon is full
and my heart is empty.
These mushrooms are poisonous,
and I grow more hungry everyday.
Everything else is already ready,
for me to take a bite.
5 The time came at last
7 To defend their ancient land
5 Men making arrows
9 The council making preparations
5 Their magic was strong
7 But their will was much stronger
5 They forged their weapons
9 Wove their Mithral armor with old spells
5 The animals knew
7 Smelling the fear in the wind
5 Fitted with barding
9 Ready to ride and die in battle
5 The Elders silent
7 They had seen wars here before
5 In ancient times past
9 The young do not remember that war
5 The old don’t want to
5 They stood solemnly
7 Stringing their bows and waiting
5 They could smell the fire
9 Enemies would soon be upon them
When you sing, the smile lines around your mouth come out, curving along with the sharp lines of your face. Your eyes closed in passion and concentration, brow furrowed, your profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights. A vein rises, running like a river from behind your ear, down your neck, and disappearing behind your collarbone. I trace my fingertips lightly along the skin of your neck while you sing, the muscles and tendons tight from your exhalations.
Your taste in music is intelligent. The taste of you is divine. The way you sing when no one else is around, makes me feel as though I'm witnessing a miracle, or something never seen by human eyes before. Your voice fills the cab of the truck and my ears and my heart.
I can't look away from you, in the way I imagine, people stared up at saints as they were on their knees in awe.
A tequila sunrise and 27 pesos later
I am sitting, balancing myself
On the plastic, graffiti-covered bus seat,
Listening to the cheesy Mexican radio
And feeling the eyes of those three men
On my body from two rows back.
We make our way
45 miles an hour
Down the narrow boulevard.
My drink splashing side to side
As the bus races around the bends
And slams its breaks on
Outside the busy gathering
Of dark skin and fruit stands.
in the dark;
like a spider yearning for a fly.
and I swore I seen you there;
standing in the place where the streetlamps shone through the broken windows and stretched out in diamonds across the floor.
Everything I've ever loved has died,
or caught fire,
I cannot seem to keep things, or people;
or being destroyed,
or running away.
I want love and only give destruction.
I want a good life yet have only been dealt in ruins.
a series of inverse cards on a table,
the taste ashes in my mouth,
and the feel of blood in the hands.
Pain can always be found hidden within the pleasures,
and more oft than not,
I get great pleasure from the pain.
Some days I rule in Hell,
and some days I serve in Heaven,
but in neither duty am I ever completely satisfied.
— The End —