Duskland
Day's portending glow
divided by the room we're in
                           verted, lit from below
our shadows cast on ceilings loom
disfigured by the self-consuming gloom
of doom we ourselves evoked
in youth
Tooth for a tooth,
In short: revenge: the word we never spoke
As the hammer fell on his existence
Bludgeoning his dull, swollen resistance
Toward a ****** stillness
That, we hoped, would equal calm
But instead has led us
to the
Duskland

another day, another lotion,
sighed, “much rather be making potions.”

tedium, boredom, boil and bubble,
add a spice, then add it double,
stir it well and let it settle,
in a kettle,
made of metal.

what's your fancy, what's your trouble?
basin clogged with dwarven stubble?

make one balm,
you've made them all!
concoct a cream, a cream?—a cream!
one more grog burn,
swear I'll scream!

tedium, boredom, boil and bubble,
add a spice, then add it double,
stir it well and let it settle,
in a kettle,
made of metal.

give me dragons, give me daggers,
give me jewels with emerald feathers!
give me—“what?
what's this, right now?
of course I know exactly how!”

roots to find, true essence to distill,
adventure?
no, but pays the bills.

cheers to all those blasted nights
when in reflected neon lights
your eyes so sadly glow
with lust
                for a future you will never know

fat drips
      fire, sausage crackles—flames
      hiss of steam

Mother make me low
for only during times of sadness
do we know
the warning signs of madness

Father make me scream
for it is only subsequent to rage
we dream
always of a better age

Mirror make me die
for it is solely when we hate
we know the lie:
we can escape our fate

never met a soft-button girl,
one I could keep in my pocket,
could fasten my shirt,
keep my jeans up,
on my hips.

never met a soft-button girl before,
only nylon string and elastic,
no good for stitching up wounds,
only good for lacerations—
she snapped,
again.

winter fir
–ing of a thawing musket
crows scatter