Silent hill casts a shadow on the moon,
Even beauty has a dark side.
Pale face aloft in freckled night
Feeds me with random musings
As I meander along the quiet pasture.
Excavate the fertile earth and
There you’ll find sterile treasures
Outliving all that’s alive.
I stumble on my clumsiness and taste
The dirt on my tongue.
Strange how life’s ambrosia is so
Distasteful to its offspring.
Just like love, a cloying sweetness
That turns bitter over time, and
When it’s gone, an aftertaste dwells.
Still on the ground, I roll over to look
Upon the freckled night sky.
Fascinating how constellations
Are merely imposed order
On senseless disorder.
I bet the stars laugh at our attempt
To find reason where there is none.
And then there’s the moon,
Indiscriminately shining on even
The foulest of creatures, underserving
Of its generous light,
Although without the sun, it’d just
Be a tenebrous chunk of rock.
Alone, we’d be just as unglamorous.

Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.

Tomorrow night, you’ll sleep walk into your lover’s dreams.
You’ll open the gate to hell, where you’ll find the poor ******
souls of a lost generation. Their lust, recklessness & drunkenness
will come as no shock to you. You’ll find your people trashed;
***** bottles smashed & abandoned, intoxicated girls balanced
on their Jeffrey Campbell Litas floating through social groups.
Boys, barely men, will be seen beaten down to the bare bones
of their existence, cigarette blunts piercing their open chests;
stinging & burning, red & yellow ash sparking flames on
the black lingerie of their lover’s.  

Tomorrow night, you’ll wish you were not sleep walking into
your lover’s dreams. In the days you spend there, you will not
find the lover you know. You’ll find a lover who is invaded
by body snatches; emphatically dominating every white cell.
You’ll find a lover, cast away with the ghosts of his past.
You’ll bear witness to pendulums of excessive desires
swinging to & fro – where time stands still, & not even
the ticking of a clock can be found, to count the days til
the grave he will fly.

© Sia Jane

Deserts are the color of her hair
Gold and bronze her skin

Silver veined salty rains
Tears a color never named

The ocean tries to please her eyes
Reflecting blue onto the skies

Or grays as gray
As the coldest days

To ever grace my way.