"I love you the planet full," she said.

******* the hem of her cloak
all fur, feather, sinew, and bone
with a scent of the wild and prey

"I will carry your best parts with me"

drawing the hem to veil her face
a single dark eye gathering in the light
to peer through a ragged hole

a hole shaped like myself

"Don't you find me beautiful?"

These people are so thankful,
these thankful people

and when they have all passed away,
every plate of cranberry-lacerated stuffing
and bowl of marshmallow-strangled yams
and that dish you always forget,
swearing not to next year:

I'll sit again the oaken throne, alone
face distorted threefold in mirrors
held in the trembling hands
of empty plates, yours most of all,
laughter pealing down
down
down
striking into an orb of blooded wine

home. again. still. never.

It happens under a clear but crying sky

frosted fingers tracing lines
interfaced to the void

another image, clawed
scrabbling it's way past your eyelids
a numerical movement, venomous
winding it's body across your scalp

you cannot unsee them
paradigm shifts
situational perception overhauls
in an already chaotic nothingness

It happens under a clear but crying sky, realization

you are not the predator
watching, waiting
but remain the prey

Indigo spilled through the arid cradle

across scabbed lakebeds
their life long ago robbed
by errant dust devils
sniggering back to their grottoes
in the barren foothills

through seemingly dead hands
eternally arthritic
arched up, and into
the earth-filled wind of creation
scouring the impurities from the land

past the aeon-old titans
clinging to thier final mountainous footholds
weary from their trek from the Tide
ready to descend into the valley
to die with the dawn

in every hidden oasis of life
every subtle warren and clandestine nest
where the small things, with every painful breath
prove that existence
is worth struggling for

and out, under the broken edges of the sky
whose shattered glass fell ages ago
a septillion points of light
ground by the endless cycle
back into the loam


but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper
mounting the cradle, flooding the valley
hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts
the small things bowed thier heads,
and the land fell silent


the malevolent sentinel had come


monarch of the pit, lord of the ******
soaring to his azure font of judgement
culling by flame those creatures found most wanting
for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river

until he dies once more
his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon
trickling down the desert's spine
followed by the silent chime of stars,
and a resurgence of life,


waiting for thier own lord to rise


it's here you will find him
atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor
the man with evergreen eyes

having found when facing North

the Moon is always at his back

she laid her hand
upon my leg
that mating dance
that fingertips
sometimes do
was this
a house of spirits
a house of music
or just another house,
no, just another night
that breeds regret

a voice
she practiced
in the mirror at home
predatory
in its trappings
that ebony banner of intent
gripping her tightly
showing off the perfect amount,
all the parts she hated most

tilted thoughts
that swung on pendulums
of midday,
or was it midnight?
it doesnt matter
nothing matters here
where we are all drowning
just to stay above the surface

shes back again
tugging at me softly
a shark
testing its catch
or a child
crying for attention
breath acrid from the water
shes been drinking
to wash away the trash
of men who littered
her life

we all lose ourselves
somewhere
in that slurred translation
swearing we're ourselves
but friend, you know
were really not
we never were
as only those parched recall

I am one such
numbered man
I reach for her hand
but my fingers meet glass
swirling crimson
a color for secrets
my other hand draws her
close, draws her
how she was as a child
before the world killed her

she pushes her face near
only scent and hot breath
deeper under the water

But, with a finger to her lips,
I whisper


"I'm sorry darling, I'm just here for the wine."

Humanity is...

seven point two billion spiders
creeping towards the light

not because

it provides comforting warmth
nor
any measure of illumination

but because

like those
silent
patient
lethal
denizens of the dark

we know

in the light,
where life is brightest,

the prey is thickest.

Full of life
the fire surged through the glade
hips swayed, lips splayed
pushing up leaves and leaving
a smile that found a better home
at forty than at twenty

those castaway eyes
glistened with hopes
two Lost might cling to,
broken flotsam
on the heaving chests
of hurt youth

We met our end,
eyes shut as tightly
as a loving mothers tuck,
burnt in the glade