As seen through amber in the colors of Venus and Saturn;
Sun opens upon her face as gold spills in spun blonde,
And the rose’s thorn brings about liquid rubies
That drips on the youngest lily of the valley.
Butterflies aligned with the unseen Mars on the horizon
Scatter as their wings seem to burn away in the
Brilliant firelight, touching the water that reveals
Sapphires in liquid form; an affinity for Neptune that
Dangles on her fluttering eyelashes alive with what she sees!

More rubies fall in the emerald vast as her fingers move
Across the vine, and the crystals tear through the dahlias
Like the storms of Jupiter this canopy veils!
They rest among the pink rhinestones that resemble
Cherry blossoms in perfect discord when the last one
Is drained of its color under a wooden bridge at
The foot of the forest; an old bridge covered in patchy moss,
Showing its long years of absent footsteps.
They are only distant memories to the *****,
Who emerges from the brush and drinks
From the stream in constant relief.

I watch her majesty fading her vibrant colors at sunset when
Uranus drifts. The colors fall into onyx when the sap of
The trees resemble amethyst in the moonlight.
And Mercury holding more silver falls in the stream with her
And all of her plume that we cherish as much as
Her earthly leaves, for we use both as covers for sleep.
Daydreams entwine with nightmares and become as cold
As Pluto. Ice lingers as tanzanite tears in those bright eyes;
Diamond eyes that cut through the towering clouds to discover
Stars that are made of everything here!

There in the vines
running down my spine,
are overgrown vistas,
and rooted enigmas
of the mind.

At my wrist —
the burning kissed;
pools in my palms;
red water of painful psalms
shrouded in mist.

Heme-less, desired;
nature, devoured;
draining forget-me-nots
won’t clot.
My nymph has retired.

Apparently she was a mermaid;
there wedding was
to be a plastic Malibu affair.
Her dress, a bedazzled, gaudy
sarong with leis for a train, and coral
bits for the rings…

She said she was addicted to pearls, –
ate them like candy,
until about a year ago when they plucked
her from the ocean,
and gave her pills instead.

“Entertain her for a bit,” the other nurse said.
So I picked up the Ken doll,
and let Barbie buy another pet dolphin.

Baby-dolled eyes,
and glamor velvet
encircles
with a cruel femininity;

the darkest pin-up
of your
diamond-dazzled
dreams always takes
it up a notch!

It’s all burlesque
and whispers
when you come into her
world of mirrored
desire that
plays just behind
her lips;

that dances just behind
her rhinestone mask.

The vampiress of
merlot, cigarettes,
and lace
always remembers
her prey;
a black-widow’s
striptease, cold
and calculated.

Again, she delights
in the fact
that she has broken
another man
she invited
in to her ruthless
masquerade.

she

(her 2am moods
were monotone
dialogue
on the receiver)

is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
in-between
cheap perfume
bottles on the
night-stand.
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions

(empty, jejune...
hushed
frustrations).

with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words

(embellishment,
a waking hour's only
comfort...
an insomniac's
internal monologue).

i will siphon you desolate
and leave a desert
inside your veins

and the oasis that was
once your heart
will become a tomb
sand-flailed
eroded
buried

the same you
did to me

When his familiars’ pounced
a little too roughly on the davenport,
the mysteries of the cosmos
flailed about as his soft,
satin bag took a tumble…
Citrine and agate tap-danced
under the bed, as quartz
whizzed wildly through the air
like a shooting star. Opal spun about
like a fiery pirouette, and amethyst –
finding it’s way on the windowsill,
bloomed a kaleidoscope of larkspur
in the sun.

i didn’t want their
endless white
with their
cold rooms,
and cold coats,
and cold pen-tips

i didn't want their
sunken IV bags that
resembled
Jesus Christ, or
Mother Theresa

i didn’t want the
pale noise
hammering about
inside my head...
i didn’t want it’s sterile
sadness
humming a lobotomy

She, —
lace papillon
who sits motionless
behind the
glass.
Perched atop
lacuna wire,
ran through wings
handled by
gears.
I lift her glass
confinement
and
I touch her while
she's still. Clock-
work ballerina;
lifeless
until I wind
her up...
I let her
go on. "La danse!"
Create
steam halos
as you
twirl into
the night where
envious moths
tap the window
above
my bed.
------------------------
Papillon — French. Meaning "butterfly."
La danse — French. Meaning "The dance."

An autopsy would reveal that I
swallowed too many stars,

and every incision would look
like hideously-done cursive.

The busing inside and out
would be treated like ink blots,

and my congealing blood would
scream about how cold the room is.

My liver would float up like a dead fish
covered in alcohol, and bad rants,

and my eyes would roll sideways,
and make the med students think
that they were following them
around the sterile-white of the room,

or they’d direct them where to put
the next piece of the leftovers as
they dissect me like the post-suicidal
frog that I am…

Like a frog? They’d probably bathe me
in formaldehyde…

That’s found in cigarettes, ya know?

I feel like cancer anyway, so
I gave them a shot or two, or three.
They’ll probably find those too in my
lungs; pickled, puffy, and black
with helium soot that made me fly
when everyone around me refused
to hold me up any longer.

then i don’t mind not remembering my
name, or what year it is,
or what new ******* styles are in…
i don’t mind mumbling, cross-eyed
with **** running down my leg
for the rest of my life…
i don’t mind a dilapidated hospice,

because it’s like you’re some angry
******* god who demanded more
than a ****** sacrifice.

so take this mass of jumbled ****,
make angels cry,
make the devil envious,
and make the specters of yourself get
ghost as i demand ice-picks through
the eyes that you lied and said
were beautiful,

because i don’t know what to
do any longer with the botched
******* you’ve left me here with.

the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.

just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.

Antidepressants and gin
Made me feel like a fairy again;

Fragmented bottles protrude
Through my wings, off-color and crude!

My life to lose;
Ode to *****!

Hallowed lantern of abhorred things,
whose presence on the horizon speaks of ire!
Illuminate the paths of this glorious pestilence,
and grant me a beauty that only twilight can bring!
I worship you with the tainted hymns of funeral pyres
as a loyal disciple seeking your guidance!

Fill me with murderous glee as I stalk my lesser kin,
whose lives are devoid of any remembrance!
In this nocturnal air, I’m as ravenous as fire,
so I’ll banish all of my mortal sin,
and savor your essence!

This silent sentinel haunted by time,
Unearthly screams and violent crimes!
Abandoned; decrypted, this barren womb.
In darkling corners, a petrified tomb,
Where unbidden echoes hammer at the walls
As the wraiths creep on their hollow foot-falls.

Butterflies dissolve like honey-colored lacquer
as I wander the insides of this bright amber moon.

I look for Mother behind a shaded glow-tree.
It is there that I find her folding clouds while bluebirds
dance in the hollow of her heart…

She’s redolent like star-oil from a night-blooming cereus,
With hair never-ending like shadows
sealed from the palest of light.
Her eyes are like tanzanite orbs set ablaze.
She wears robes made of koi scales, and silk from the sea.

As I gathered pearls for her from the mouth of lapis lazuli
shores, my feet touch the chilled sands as shells scurried
from my foot-falls.

As I fetched gossamer from a crystal spider
hiding in a nearby constellation, gold web danced through
my cramoisy hair.

With all of these things, I sat beneath a niveous dune,
out of sight from Mother as I made her a necklace that
resembled the remnants of a galaxy that she once lost.

When I presented my gift, she smiled, then gently
whispered:
"The bright galaxy standing before me is more than enough."

Guide me;

in every breath you take,
there’s a nightfall waiting
for me on the inside.

Engulf me;

in every moonlit corner
of your soul, promise
me the stars you hide.

Lead me away;

I feel your pulse in the
darkness; my lips move
with the beat of your heart.

"It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me."*
—William Shakespeare — Othello, act II, scene I.

She, veiled in night-breezes of darkled hue;
This cream Inamorata as you've called her.
She wishes to calm the seas; your eyes a turbulent blue.
The remnants of a broken heart she hopes to stir,
With the enchanting embrace of her halo-like arms.
Like you, this angel sought heaven all along.
Enthralled by her and all of her innocent charms,
You now cling to her and chant every love-song!
If World be willing — if malignant stars never shined,
Then she would fly to you without any fear,
And she'd cradle your heart; a widower's heart that pined
For this dusky form that you now hold in your thoughts so dear.
But tonight she waits for you in after-curfew dreams.
So luminous is her light, though the darkness it gleams!

“I broke the fangs of the wicked and
snatched the victims from their teeth.”*
— Job 29:17

O’ vampiric devils cast out into the night;
abhorred by the sun, and shunned by the cross!
Forcefully banished by the Lord’s great might,
O’ vampiric devils cast out into the night!
Your ravenous nature; the forefront of our plight,
so hang your heads low, and mourn grace’s loss.
O’ vampiric devils cast out into the night;
abhorred by the sun, and shunned by the cross!

i wanna be a ******* superstar
on the late night news.
i want front page all to myself;
an old-fashioned penny-dreadful
surrounded by fairytales,
and auto-accidents!
i wanna pop up on that *******’s
newsfeed.

beauty is pain, not old-age like
the morgue extras. so lacerate my
ugly face, force lead wishes
into my skin like botox for prey,
and draw up my modeling contract
where i fall…

i wanna be the femme-fatale
that no-one wanted to save…
the star he couldn’t bare
to finish… the star he
meant to make me in to.

In marble, like moon; encased and cold,
I linger where you sleep. Long shed of decadent
purulence, your pale caress holds me still,
and I dream of your bones atop my
bones; our veins dying of thirst; the
worms making love to our oblivious corpses.

In amour, like rose; blackened in rust,
I shiver where we kiss.

Our lust becomes the dirt; our soiled souls moan.
We’ve become immortal inside the wood-rot.

Glide on dark tempest and frighten the skies,
Above blooded lands, lamenting past battle cries!
Valkyrjas of storm; born of thunder.
Warriors of gore; bodies torn asunder!

O’ Blooded maidens; princesses of death,
Descend on these fields with hurried breath!
Pillage strong souls of frenzied conquest.
Gather them now at Odin’s behest!

Herd legions of wraiths behind Valhalla’s cruel gate.
These sleepers of ire; of wars they lay in wait,
For Ragnarök shall roar, so revel in glee.
Delight in this violence, thy mote it be!

I.
My maiden voyage
on these waters, unbidden;
blood flows out to sea.

II.
Winds conquer my sails,
skin peels away in the waves,
my diaphragm floods.

III.
Marooned bag of bones
stripped by the sands of a tomb;
the ocean’s edge sleeps.

in sticky drops
ink runs down my
paper skin
blood-flowers grew
as I wrote by the
windowsill

a gloomy Sunday
more tainted verse
up and down
there was a stinging
as I wrote
and a drenched earth
peered through
the foggy windowsill

wind caught the
curtain
petrichor rests on my
tongue
as rusted pain
sat atop the windowsill

according to King Nothing,
father’s day phone calls
are restricted…
i live in a world where
foot-rest make better supports,
and broken beer bottles fight
the most perverts away.
i’ve been homeless
three times, and "abortion"
was crudely drawn
on my forehead.
my love for
Frankenstein’s monster
knows no bounds.

the whole apartment
was gutted of its copper
two years after that.
the ‘first woman on Mars’
dream he had was sold for scrap;
threw out half of my books,
called me the reject.
a childhood tomb, raided…
the Queen was pleased.
she doesn’t believe in aliens,
and most stars are dead
according to light-years anyway.

O’ Maiden of jeweled Elysium,
kissed by golden moon;
Iridescent skin swathed
in radiant, silken plume.
Come silently through
the darkling visage of shadowed dune,
And bless my turbulent slumber
with your ancient tune.
Linger here in redolence
with the nocturnal uraeus
Wandering through your hair,
amidst night-blooming cereus.

The violence of roses tangled
In redolent blooms throughout her hair.
“Forgive me,” Venus said to herself,
As she struggled with the piercing layers.

She parted her tangled strands
Like the turbulent sea had parted her shell,
Within this brume around curly waves
Of blood and blonde so frail.

Cold sunlight fills my
room today. Coffee
from the night before
stains the corners of
my mouth and I
remember to fold the
laundry. I am not
missed when I touch
the same stained
white linen shirt
for an hour. But
someone said they
thought they heard
me crying from the
upstairs window.
Its lunchtime, and all I
have to eat are
complaints about what
someone else did.
I feel as though I
should pass the sugar,
but that may cause alarm.
I only touch what
I am told. I only touch
what I can control. I
think about eating the
dish soap as I show
you the contents
of my stomach
and see the surprise
on your face.
I think its
evening now.
I lose track of
everything now and then.
So forgive me when I say
I don't remember
your name, and which
room of the house
you stay in.
Quit yelling at me
when I'm face down
in the baby's bath
water.
Please quit assaulting
me with IVs
every time we
take unexpected trips
to the ER.
I hate how cold hospitals
feel. They make my
nose runny.
And that doctor needs
to stop telling me
that I should go
away for awhile.
What does he mean anyway?
I'm watched for
several days after.
I think they like
the way I do
the laundry now.
I cleaned out my
drawer and I
fell in love
again with my
station in life.
Its evening again,
and I can't remember
why I was crying
at all.

Spinning on a top of color;
The balloons are inflated in the desk,
and the rainbow streamers gave me a paper-cut.
I thought the red make-up was blood.

Running and jumping up and down
on a box of inflatable candy,
that turned my lips purple and blue.
My dad thought it was lipstick,

so he gave me an old ***** magazine.

When the animals morphed into balloons,
I petted them with grass stuck to my hand.
And POP! – goes the poodle,
in the parking lot next to the splattered juice cups.

My friend cried and wiped his eyes with icing
as a clown grinned, showing his orange teeth
that was the same color of the cheese-curls in the bowl,

that the three year-old just poured into the kiddy pool.

I got lost in the ball-pit.
I remember every color, then nothing;
Gray had became the fun
to a depressed clown wishing he’d got the hang

of life’s circus.

Fat and swollen like a pearl;
translucent, and engorged on
blood, you hung there in
my curtains until I pulled them
down. You hit with such force,
like a rock tumbling down a
black mountain, or a comet
falling out of a web of stars!
You looked like varicose veins
throbbing on the surface of an
egg loosely wrapped in molded
tissue paper, or cloth-hairs stuck
to a family heirloom. So I
left you there until you
collapsed in yourself like a
dying star, or the soft spot of
a newborn’s head frosted over
by gossamer silk that dug
its pale-white hands
in the wood-rot.

I loved how hollow the nights were after I crucified them to my walls.

I sing to them when I tap the glass,
my fingerprints smiling on the dust that reminds me of their empty shells.
How many times have I touched their caskets?

My shadowboxes of happiness.

Urban Nights, 2009.*

I’ve walked this city and saw such life,
But I regret to say that I didn’t see yours.
Hand in hand, a husband and wife,
Whose open arms swing like those open doors,
In this city where music spoke,
And where stone broke
Under my heels!
Where lights blinked,
And where jewelry clinked.
Such vibrant thrills!
Where the crowds gathered,
And where the cold beer splattered.
A kinetic spill!

And I walked this city.
Saw some birds, who dined on breadcrumbs of pity,
As my lips half-pressed against the glass.
A fog around my mouth and a fog around my heart,
As I saw some kids sitting in a small patch of grass,
Where the city cared enough to remember the flowers blooming
Under these steel and concrete buildings in the dusk, still looming.

And I’ve gathered the sights and sounds of the city at night,
But I don’t have a photograph of you in this dim light,
Where the stars twinkled under handmade pieces of art,
And where the couples from earlier gather
Not yet wishing to depart.

And now I’m sitting in a booth
Feeling alone, although I’m not in this ongoing affair,
With my quick glances back and forth to see that you’re never there.
And while I’m nibbling on my nails and hard bread,
A single thought stays there in my head;
If you’d only knew
This city is dead without you.

"Listen for the stream
that tells you one thing."
— Rumi.


How long can the perched Nightingale sing with a slit throat?
An iron taste in each bitter note; hard to swallow, —
Harder to quote!

And it rose because you entertained those thoughts too.

The honeydew rots beside that spill;
Need not these feathers remember the thrill?
Bitter with each taste, the beginnings! This deafening shrill
In false embrace, touching rapture's fiery red with a burning haste!

And it rose because solitude remembers everything I wrote.

The white faded under the scarlet smear of inky Sanskrit; I write about
You as if I'm a Dervish writing about their love walking along the sky; the brink
Of sunrise,— sunset!
And I'm never too far behind without wine.
Its the same I write of you every time!

And it rose because I can't touch a god the same as I can't touch you.

Upon seeing you with your own sweet Halvah,
I no longer prayed for Qais and Laila,
For they shared love, but never touched. Just like the Sufi poet and Allah,
Where one can only see, and one can only dream,
While floating along the stream.

And now I know I'm the fool for letting the feathers touch the wine,
Because it rose; those feathers rose too with time.

Because it rose, —
And rose,
And rose.

I set adrift a funeral pyre
once. There was blood
on the waves for days after that,
and the sun seemed to cringe
whenever their reds
touched…
The stories were once beautiful,
like old letters bound together
by a scarlet ribbon.
Faded pink stationary, –
a redolent salt and Clair de Lune
mingling in the folds of a
paper cut…
The sea burned with fury
around them.
They were wayward bottles
filled with pearls,
and love notes so envied
by the her; they’d just never seem
to grow old with her.
She hated that, I suppose.
I would have too…
“You’re too far inland,”
some would say…
"Not even a lake for miles
to skip stones – not even a river
to lose a wedding ring too!"
I suppose the sea was my
only true love after that,
then I remembered that ghost
on the shoreline, –
salt falling freely from
his palms.

In anatomy class I took notes for you,
while 3am still had it’s way with your bones.
While labeling the patella on a diagram,
I remembered your skinned knees from last Friday
and the way you tricked everyone into forgetting
that you ever had a favorite pair of jeans.
As I jotted down the word ‘femur,’ I imagined
your own shadow straddled over you in
an endless edge of streetlight and crooked blinds.
The way you shuddered each time the teacher said
the word ‘coccyx’ reminded me of the night
you lost your virginity in the back of the library, and the
fact that your ***** stamp was the only thing
that your ******* ex ever loved. A car engine
from somewhere near-by muffled your moans.
Remember how the classics romanticized them
back there? Remember how they also lamented
over the fact that you bombed your midterms?

I. Supernova.

Once, in a raining wasteland of sulfur,
You greeted me where there was sky
And mourned for me where the sun first set.

Your veins in my veins.
Your bones in my bones.
Everything we once were
Nebulous and burning.
Dying and changing.

In your abrupt departure,
Collapsing stars expanded outward
Like the bloated fingers behind my eyes
Trying to crawl out of the graveyard inside of me.

Astronauts have long since forgotten this sojourn satellite.
And you've stop weeping for me eons ago.

Your knees in my sides.
Your lungs on my spine.
Matted and congealed.
Bulky and deformed.

Heat cracks open the splintered ribcages.
Flames lick at your irregular heartbeat,
And a black hole takes form.
Your memory tears me out of orbit.
So I scatter you like ashes across the cosmos.

II. Eulogy.

Somewhere far away,
A moon's glow caresses a frozen planet,
Singing this barren womb to sleep.
Cold blood pulses beneath the dead,
And every silvery melody
Calmed the torments inside.

Suddenly, the melody stopped!
My bones contorted in pain when the secrets
Of a dark universe awoke suddenly and angrily
To the sound of your breathing!

You still live somewhere.
Somewhere inside.

And all the gravity,
And all the gravity of that life!
A fallen lover,
Like a fallen star dislodged from the hole
In your heart.

And I bury everything we were again,
Because you are everything dead inside of me.

Floral limbs paint pictures in these woods,
Overlooking the garden where evening now hangs it's hood.
Dwelling among the stones where we used to sit,
Longing and loving, I shall not forget!
And I'll always remember where your impure heart may lie.
Where the loveliest did bloom, and where the blooms did die!

We took this path once when it was green and blue.
We counted the flowers and beheld this picturesque view.
We also walked around my favorite tree, so tall and so old.
It still flourishes over the weeds, truth be told!
And I'll still remember where your impure heart my lie.
Where the loveliest did bloom, and where the blooms did die!

The ivy hangs itself around these gates so artful.
A dove slipped a vine around it's neck ever so mournful.
And I wish I could have stopped it and made it wait for the sun
To shimmer about this garden tomb to make these curses come undone.
But I'll always remember where your impure heart may lie.
Where the loveliest did bloom, and where the blooms did die!

Held captive in hell by memories of thee,
And every deceit that has befallen me.
I’ll break these chains like damaged bone;
Fractured clean and broken free
Like a corpse flung from the throne,
Cast aside cold and alone.
With this blood from boiling vein,
Your pain I seek in echoed refrain.
I elicit the shadows in ravenous streams;
The unhinged ire of fallen dark dreams!
My abhorred soldiers shall win my new throne
Whilst I extract my new crown and twist swollen bone!
For every torment that has befallen me
Will be ****** upon thee, times three!
With nasty chains formed from the bone,
I’ll restrain haughty might no reparation can atone!
This chanted bane is most fitting for thee,
As your pain will fill me with sadistic glee!
So mote it be!

at the desk,
a Cytherean lover,
with tobacco stains on his
fingertips —

his affinity for
parchment paper
soaked in bergamot
and sandalwood
left me alone
with the cosmos.

on an eclipse,
a cigar graced his lips…
my favorite trick was
the halos he blew around
the moon.

the constellations were
yellowing notes
by antique tapers
(“years and years,” the
telescope hums),
and the Scientist paints me
another Jovian lullaby.
coffee lives in Starry Night
because of him...

That familiar redolence
as I browse the bookshelf.

I.
We’re always waiting
for ghosts, even as
we hide from them.

We are stars
burning ourselves
out, wishing that
things turned
out a bit different.
.
II.
But now you’re so far
away;

like dawn from moon,
we sleep in different
lights, even as we
both live on the moon.

III.
We are mirrors at
midnight;

(Why are we so empty?)

I look into your eyes
and feel what
I’ve felt for eons.

IV.
Everything falls,
and I know you’re empty.
Let one more in before
you say “farewell.”

If all else fails,
and I’m still empty
I’d still fall in love,
even if it meant that you
might not be mine.

You are an aura; iridescent,
aglow with elemental purity.
Aether is your kingdom;
it’s subjects are the mists!

You are the day; bright,
possessive in your surroundings!
The prism is your charm;
it’s colors a decorative chain.

You are the night; mystifying,
obscure tempest of shadow.
The moon is your crystal ball;
you scry using the stars!

You are the seasons; ever-changing,
abundant, frail, and demanding.
The spring is your gift;
the winter is our atonement.

With my cold hands,
I wash the sepulcher,
As the flaxen widow
Crudely set aside her
Floral wares.

In all black, she saunters
Along. There’s a tiny bell
That snickers in her petticoats,
As well as a pocket watch,
Unfamiliar with the folds
Of a silk handkerchief.

The stones were oddly
Quiet that day, but I do recall
An uneasy sermon…
The Earth wailed to me
In the rain, and I became
Inebriated by petrichor, and a
Light sneeze…

Her bony hands fingered
The bell in her petticoats,
And the pocket watch fell
To her feet.
In silence, she knelt
To retrieve her late husband’s
True love; how he loathed
To waste his waking hours!

Scarlet lips done in roses. She kisses
the sun goodnight, leaving crimson
smears on the horizon.

She ties black orchids to her ebony
curls; copper-colored hands weaving
redolence into midnight gold.

The night holds her close. She caresses
the leaves and play in
shadows that move like smoke.

Her amber eyes catch moonlight like
glowing drops of honey. The tears from her
eyes always the sweetest.

Operatic tones held in drifting
petals; zephyr notes from her
soothing voice played by trees.

The sun lights a bonfire on the horizon;
she gently kisses the embers
and recedes like the tides.

Fire drains into blue light.
Orange seeds dot the sky. They look
on and see him kiss her in the morning.

Leafy loss born of the sunset;
The clinquant remains before the frosted evening
Encircled her form of jeweled pirouette,
As summer sighed with peaceful dreaming.

The fading firelight shimmers out again,
As she wades through the diaphanous aether.
She wanders slowly through the darkling glen,
As her feet pressed upon the crinkled embers.

The skeletal limbs of the trees welcome her.
Divine, yet earthly in grand rufescence.
She delights in their desire as harvest moon stirs,
Awakened and humbled by her elegance.

because even
I couldn’t
reach through death
to love again

Claret-stained kiss from maiden impure,
Cruel, burning pain, she craved more!
Hath taken my life from heaven’s eye,
Thy cankered night, in which I’ve died!

i.

you were petals i once
submerged —a fistful i let
go of under a foggy sea
when i was succumbing
to myself

you were the surface tension
screaming my name;
a diaphragm’s lullaby —
old thunder in the rain…

i’ve been fond of storms
ever since


ii.

no one told me
how slow clouds would be —
i would have held my
breath a bit longer…

charted constellations
a bit better before
i spoke of love in light-years

and there you were
on a shoreline,
carrying salt in your palms


iii

how many times
will I walk here, —
a wreckage of bramble
in my side?

“the sea is much too old,”
i heard someone say…

and the wind was salt
on my brain

it left a hole;
a stain,
and i felt a burning
behind my soggy
ribcage

can stars erode
in the tide?


iv.

night adorns it’s veil —
scallops tug at the lace

and i toss inky petals
in the sea

nocturne’s dreamboat
a dead man’s float; —
how i’ve internalized
my hatred for romance

“the sea is much too old,”
i heard someone say…

and i realized my
lungs could speak
for days about sunken
ships returning home


v.

i ignore a
distant moon  — inertia
rocking my cradle

but she stays there
all the same…

there’s stardust
on her breath — whiskey
on mine

“you’ve grown much too old,”
i heard her say…

so i closed my eyes,
and felt sand between
my toes for the first time

it will be eons before
i swim here again

Childlike glow
of thy radiant
skin, pale like
snow kissed
by sunlight.

Rufescent lips;
like flowing blood on
thy porcelain face.
The same of
your cheeks,
and
the ribbons of thy
veins…

Dost thou know ye
art not real?

a candle’s small flame;
a quiet star, flickering,
dimming in my sky.

many light-years were wasted.
wax melted; beacons in-vain.

You weren’t willing enough,
so the job got botched.

Blood pooled at my toes,
and skin hung from my insides.
I felt like an abortion…
I still do.

The smeared fingerprints
you’ve left all over me
were shaky at best.
I looked at them in the mirror
for days.

I wanted to call you and say I’m alive,
but I would be lying…

This time, hindsight is skin-deep
and somehow, I think you knew
what you were doing all along.