Some days don't
want to be loved
as the clouds move
with the dead of grey
my mind shifts within
a mist of questions
they are written across
the night sky between
the stars and my
blinking eyes in those
dark and lonely spaces
of the heart
some days don't
want to be loved
with the last slice of light
I'll feel the
sharpness of its edge
I'll drink wine with the
anxious gods and the
ghostly strangers in this
mirror of memories
I’ll find words that are
worth remembering …
Clay.M

I am a writer
I write novels
I have no time
for silly poetry
she said
her eyes were a
shallow blue
her face was
pretty although
failed to show
expressions of
sincerity
her skin was
lightly tanned
her legs
flawlessly slender
her hands were
manicured
cold and lifeless
just like her writing …
Clay.M

Lately I've been haunting my ghosts back
just as much as they haunt me
visions of silhouettes against stain glass
crisp autumn air in our mourning
I keep an iron grip in my mind
of every texture, every scent,
every feeling, and what everything meant
The darkness of November always sneaks up on me
and even without light, it's blinding
November always rips away at me
sometimes in a way that hurts me
other times, in a way that's healing
I don't always have the time to dissect it
I don't always find a way to understand it
I just feel it
and let it wash over me
because there's always art waiting
on the other side of the misery

paisley prints and ripped tights
early mornings and late nights
small pockets of the world
that feel like they partly belong to me
from how often I'm frequenting,
arriving, and even after departing
I've got the muscle memory
but there's some streets
I'll never go down again
unless I'm transported against my will
with a sharp scent that rushes nostalgia
and transports me back to the trauma
or just the melancholy
of a time in life I'll never get back
time has fallen off it's tracks
and I'm somewhere in the middle of the crash
between the beginning and the end
sometimes I feel like I'm playing pretend
looking at myself from the outside in

Cannibalism starts with a kiss,
but I want to
offer him my blood,
and as cherry wine
pour it into a fancy glass,
I want to be served
on his dinner table
a three course meal,
save my heart for dessert,
and the only favor I will ask
is for him to use my fingertips
to clean the corners of his mouth.
A final act of intimacy,
for a fatal love.

let's cover heads with winter hats
and criss cross fields with winter tracks

be quick to  claim  this winter scape
the early bird new tracks will make

long before the last chimney smoke
The wind will craft a winter coat.

across this land a blanket bright.
concealing blemishes winter white.

as the sun appears to try its hand
at waking up this freezing land

the bitter chill will win this fight  
between bright  blue sky and coming night.