She is ruining you
Ensnaring you just as warned
Looking on at you
At your hands fondly, wantonly
Regarding you well
Teasing and poking and prodding
Yet also caring
Though not often
The hug has ruined you,
And the kiss too.
Who kissed who?
Why do you not care?
Where is your fear?

Oh.
There it is.

What is strength?
You’re not quite sure.

Father taught it to be hardness,
Unyielding fear and distrust,
Screeching, scrabbling, striking out
All love crushed before it spreads.

She teaches it to be rebellion,
Standing up in the face of all,
Tearing down walls, breaking up bones
A resounding no and a fierce affirmation.

Experience taught it to be lacking,
Lost and nowhere to be found
In the possession of others
With you always groping about.

Where is strength?
You’re not quite sure.

Where do you walk?
down those same hallways
old, haunted
ringing with the madman’s voice
the bolt is shot
the door locked
yet he marches on
screaming, shouting
the door does not open
but you cannot bear it
Why do you walk?

You love jokes don’t you?
Clever strings of words.
Pranks too!
As I drank a cup this morning
I heard a light bubbling
As like percolation,
And I giggled on, not knowing why,
Feeling oh so drunk.
I don’t know the joke,
But I understand it.

The old sea god is dead,
Torn open and ripped apart
For science, study.
Villagers maimed
Heads cracked open
Always asking
“Do you have eyes?”
Do we see the eyes?
If Kos is dead then why does she speak?
She speaks of sight,
And I see the eyes.

Perhaps I have misunderstood;
I cannot be certain.
Lost and afloat in you,
Unaware of what you desire,
I can only state two facts.
Barren is my womb and barren is yours.
But perhaps I can be as a butterfly.
As friend or lover or child,
Or all of these at once,
I can sprout wings and rise to meet you,
Perhaps as equals.

The old stones are gone,
Platforms leading to the archives.
The old bonfires are out,
Even the flame in the tomb.
Down the hall the rug is ragged,
No more do knights kneel there.
The last knight is no more too,
Her arms resting in the hall.
They stand their vigil even now,
Ignored by the usurpers and waiting.
Take up the arms, Blade,
Take up the old firekeeper’s pact.

Small girl up in the tower,
Hidden away to draw out shadows.
Covered in downy fur,
Wintercoat of the halfbreed dragonkin,
Children of moonlight serpents, masters of crystals.
She has never lived among her kin,
The Woman of the Painting with scythe.
No, always she has walked Anor Londo,
Towers of the gods
Alongside her brother.
That is the story, that was.
Now she guards city under siege,
Company captain in name if not spirit,
Singing songs of vengeance
Whose words she does not comprehend.
Yet she sings on for her brother,
The sheltered dragon of the tower,
The bell carrying captain.

The fire fades
Father’s fears
Rushing in
Rending minds
Tearing flesh
Men rising up
Calling out
Begging, praying
So easy to rouse
Story falling
From your lips
Pale and shadowy
Telling of flame
A continuing age
The crowning of kings
Of ash and cinder
Stoking on the kiln
And the men come
And you rule
And the fire burns
An honorable son
Hail the sun, and its flame!
Hail the moon, and its flame!

Professor asks what is wrong
I say that it’s my infertility
Professor says oh I didn’t know you were married
I laugh oh that’s not what I meant
Professor is confused
Provost is proud

What does one do when their womb is dead?
You desire a child, as all your kind do.
The want is even greater than ours, we little apes.
Nothing can grow here there though.
Human or kin, nothing can grow in me.

There are others, some might say.
Another can bear your son into my world.
Others instead bring up the orphans.
We could take in a homeless human.
Neither is what I want though, or you.

So what do I do when my womb is dead?
I can see your form at last.
Your voice I can hear too, indistinct as it is.
There is still so much ground to tread though.
You are still so far from me.

And you always will be.

Pressure was tight in the cave,
Feeling as though I were diving down deep,
Deep into the sea, spotting odd fish.
Yet there was nothing in the cave,
Nothing to be seen anyway.
I felt you either way,
Crushing down on my head, popping my ears.
Some left, one asked, I confirmed.
You were there, there beyond our sight,
And as I looked I remembered the proverb.
Blood is not what I need.
Now eyes, eyes are what I need,
I need eyes.
For you.
For me.

There is a pressure, a pressure in my head.
Pushing, tightening, squeezing.
It’s so tense and yet not painful.
Only at the peak of pain.

The caffeine no longer clears it, the pressure in my head.
No coffee, no tea, no pills help.
Or at least not for the time, this moment.
Perhaps the pressure will cease?

I like to think that it’s you,
but really I don’t know.
Maybe I just need sleep,
but really I want it to be you.

Hear that wind singing there,
You can see it dancing too.
It carries messages,
Both important and pointless,
And always with a levity
But a gravity too.
That's just how the wind is.

Why not try dancing with it?
Skipping along as you drift
Through soft breezes.
Spinning along as you’re thrown
By rough gales.
These are the beats
Of an elvish waltz,
Or maybe a jig.

That wind’s holy
Watch it gain its divinity
from its lightness
And its firmness too.
It blesses us and the world
As it blows on by
At its own pace.

I call it to my side
Or sometimes it calls to me.
Either way who can hear it better
Than its Six Sage?
And who can step to its tune
Quite like I can?
You say I’m cocky,
But I think the truth’s in the pudding.
You think I’m fickle,
But what else is the wind but that?

I’ll gladly teach though,
As will the wind itself.
So tell me
Can you hear the wind singing?

Bubble, gurgle, trickle, whoosh
Rush, crash, thunder, roar
Ocean waves deep below
under our school yet above
colored like the stars, so many nebulae
Warm, sticky-hot, and numbing
Dizzying, disorientating, and water-firm
Even though you lay you sway
This is Hello

The words I cannot grasp,
whole dreamscapes painted within me.
Oh, the grand copyist he just might be able,
so much better able,
scrawling pictures of your calls fervently.
Recording hue and thought,
and those oceanic depths,
doing what I can only wish for, pray for.
Yet, I do hear.
I do hear it, hear you
Your words, those words,
and of that I am so certain.
So sure of those words, deep and hazy
and so warm, oh so warm.
The sound, the tremulous tone, makes one drunk
so ruined to hear it even only in dream,
even only in furtive whispers.
Ebrietas you are, Daughter of the Cosmos,
bringer of enlightenment through dumbness.

Sharp shrieks piercing night,
terror or pain, a mother’s worst fear.
Old husband bumbling, fumbling,
but a mother is vigilant.

Rush forth, answer quick.
There is no time when they cry.
What is it, what is it?
Monster, human, or worse?

Child’s chiding tone calms the heart,
but arouses it another way.
Why so difficult, so stubborn?
Unruly and cruel, but so beloved.

Door ****** open, lights flicked on.
There it is, sight not believed.
Glint of metal, shocked face.
A mother’s worst dream not understood.

Explanations falling out, knife hidden.
Less a plea and more an excuse.
“I wasn’t going to, it’s just a joke.”
Why such japes all the time?

The other cowers, child of womb,
cries and crawls back, still so shaken.
“It’s fine, Mom. Really,”
That’s what he says.

Can’t stop, won’t stop. A mother’s fury.
Simply unacceptable, so unthinkable.
“How could you, why would you?”
Scolding stings mothers more.

Knife is relinquished, hesitating, unwilling.
More excuses, more assurances and from both.
A sibling’s honor goes before all,
even one’s comfort, even one’s life.

Father arrives, so late, still grumbling.
Too late for this sort of thing.
Oh, what is even going on.
Shut up by realization. Oh God how?

Talk on the knee while father comforts son.
Scolding, molding, pleas and questions.
But still there’s a hug, and kiss, and tears so many.
A mother’s love so resolute. Always. Always.

Paper cuts make my knees shake.
World goes fuzzy
land swimming
Where are the ****** band-aids?

But gore makes my heart sing.
Wrists all slit
stomachs split wide
viscera falling
Where are the flayed faces?

Blood drives scare me.
White vans all out
hiding away
Can’t they go elsewhere?

But dungeons cheer me.
Tables and crosses
and rusty chains on ceiling
our tools all spread out
Can’t we go play?

Cut, slice, saw.
Crush, smash, grind.
****, stab, pierce.
Make them fall,
all in all.

Manannán I feel you and I wonder,
did you teach your boy to ride the waves?
Did you show him to cut foam
with elegant prow, strong and firm?

Manannán I see you and I feel
there you are, old uncle with cap and pipe,
and there is your boy
cutting the spray on a board,
just board alone.

Waves, they crash and fall,
but also sway and bob.
That rhythm burned me,
deep and thorough.
I feel it on the bus
rolling along, all stop and go,
and I ache and yearn
for the sea spray that I can smell,
though it is not there.

You could have been mine.
You could have been all ours,
we Children of the Dark.
But the Angles came
imposing their own as supreme,
though so tainted by French.

But like our myths you stand strong
in a way.
Few speak you, know you,
but you are you.
Not pure for none are,
but you are you,
just like our tales of old
which you sang so high.
The Angles came, but you remain.

There’s a life to language,
mingling, meeting.
Words all flow
fumbling or fluently.
Structure collides and grows,
changing, combining.
Where many see disrepair
or even death
I see life.

The walls have faces,
so our minds say.
That’s all it is,
a trick of the mind.
Right?

But what if the streets have souls
quite like us?
What if there are faces,
real faces
unlike we thought.
Right.

She is the mother of us all,
were she not grown.
Her son but a brother, a brat,
the world not moved
for her words fell on no one.

She fought and fussed,
wasting away in sociality,
and now she is trapped.
Aware and complacent,
she no longer burns.

She lives in her books,
seeking fiction where there is truth.
“I’ll make it mine!” she cries,
seeking friendship in lie.
To be renowned, respected, revered
is her wish.
No longer depreciated, despised, detested.

“I’ll help you all!” she cries,
wanting to force what she cannot.
If only she’d stop and think,
maybe then she’d earn it.
Their trust.

Watch him creep about,
that Prince of Pleasure.
He sets out fantasies,
digging in deeply.
Nagging thoughts,
aches and pains,
flash of want that feels like need.
Only lions can shake him off.

Tick-tock, I hate your clock.
Ding-****, the dreadful throng,
bulbous and bland
just like your head.

Your head is white,
your clothes are white,
your hands are white,
your shoes are white,
but your house?
Your house is green.

Your clocks are green,
your tables are green,
your watches are green,
your drawers are green,
and your walls?
They are green too.

Even I am green.
My blood runs rust,
but clothes flow lime.
My shoes, my skirts,
my socks, my shirts?
All are green.
But then I am another clock.

A mother’s mourning
first now heard.
Sudden shrieking
tearing cloth and hair
ground beat, pounded,
rage building.
Do you hear it, do you see it?

In heated irons
corpse hangs
wrists burned
through flesh to bone
protruding arrow
pierces chest.
I know you see it, but do you hear it?

Break the bones, crush the souls.
Doctor’s orders, through and through.
Walk the times, turn the keys.
Hatred’s fire, grew and grew.
No respite, no delight.

King over men
Lugh Lamhfháda, my lord,
fill me with flame, great passion.
Give over Imbas.
Smelt me down, liquid ore,
Make me a blade, my lord.

Eyes, six-hundred, staring.
Thousand-armed, strong.
Resplendent and radiant,
the gods tower above men.
Yet men, meek and weak
tear down the illusion,
parting the fog
that gods can’t see.

And the Void comes,
A yawning mass
That sings sickly lies
-- or are they truths? --
Of the coming nothing
Which will pull you down
And never let go.

But the Light comes,
A resplendent sign
Of the Lord of All,
Skills and men,
Who sings of life,
Everlasting and resplendent,
And will never let go.