I thought to those hands that draw my strings
why do ghosts only haunt the living?
Fear slithers down from the stains on my ceiling
coiling thickly around my throat
dripping fetid sweat
from the tips of its' fangs

“To Spur You To Run”

so down the darkened hallways and
out to the *****
downtown streets I flew
skittering fitfully between the alleys
for risk of being seen
before slipping into that same empty bar
great bartend, ferry me from the whispering docks
ducking onto that same crooked confessional
oh holy bartend save us, your sons, we fallen fiends
where I am promptly handed
my glass of Sorrow
deliver us from evil
atop a napkin wrote with print

“All The Better To Drown You With”

it seems I have forgotten
if this sip or the last
was bitter or sweet
but it burns my eyes
cracks my ribs
thickens the air
and in the moment I see that face
out beyond the foamy waves
that shore upon the dregs
oh hallowed face of Judgement,  
it seems blackened ivy has taken root
around your eyes

"Redemption's Pyre is Fueled by the Slow-Burn of Midnight Oil"

every block that I stumble by
drips pooling
orange streetlight onto the sidewalk
which wetted feet find liquor slick
and thus put nose to grindstone, idiom or no
I hear the quiet Fury
when you fall down far enough
when your ears are planted to the earth
addressing me curtly
burning up through the asphalt
stretching and ripping beneath my fingers
she lifts me screaming from the gutters

"To Hell With Forgiveness"

I find none other than Passion
standing under a spotlight
on the next street corner
always dreamed of becoming a star 
 you burned out far below the heavens of the hollywood highrise
she beckons me over with knowing gestures
and still wound up center stage

“I Am Cheap and Love is Dead
Buried With All The Other Fairy Tales”
to which I respond
“We Must Make Due.”

she came and left swiftly,
departing with the last of the warmth
in this empty room
her candles doused in gasoline
burn half as long but twice as bright
after which I rose and went to my window
and listened to the chirps of Melancholy
singing of sin.

The warm vapor of saturated streets
rise and give chase
While she
(a fading glow of plastic cups
and shady basements)
whispers street names
and grins...breathes
“peddle faster”

Gliding on the thickening wisps
of crushed coffee beans and damp asphalt
We rush to fill this empty house
with the fumbled hush of
clothes and carpet,
Showering the floor in lightning strikes
Until we
(a searing flash of static burst
and fireworks.)
no longer whisper
Crying out through open windows
Our dictum of passions
which run thick through the cracks in the sidewalk
and fast through the arms of the trees
to stroke the highest of their leafy tips
and flee.

And in that careful, breathless morning
there is nothing but the moments before and after
to stand as proof
that the brush of ridges and valleys
on our finger tips
Are not the illusion of dream
but tangible, feathered things
Tracing the seams of those quiet places,
both unspoken and unseen.

With measured grace
the dusk burns through blue atmosphere
to cool as lucent ash

Sleep claimed eyes
a tapestry of one thousand
small adventures