#noir
Sleep has been replaced by the void of night,
Thoughts from the gut keep stirring till the light,
A sticky fear trails from thoughts I bear,
My wrinkles filled up reflections anywhere.
Final countdown — the numbers in reverse,
Final salute — the last solemn verse,
The lost joy to feel from each sunrise
Has disappeared, and dimmed my loved eyes.
The memories are mixed from clean to soiled,
I wait each dusk for sleep to come, embroiled,
The morning’s sunrise to only others lighted —
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 3:12 AM UTC
Soul in shreds — fire trembling in my hands,
Heartbeat redlining, chest begins to seize,
Miracle descends from nightly strands,
Star has fallen from its orbit to my palms.
Blinding light was searing through my sight,
Hands are burning — yet I hold the flame,
I believed that star of ancient night
Would inspire me and give my soul a name.
Darkness now — a blind and handless man,
White light of the world is lost to time,
Cradling my stumps as best I can,
Flogged by fate, instead of rivers of rhyme.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:56 PM UTC
Love to hate,
Hate the love that he never touches.
Why make a man taste love at all?
Did Aristophanes write this twisted joke?
A man willing to die for any cause,
Given the choice of a splendid death or a pathetic love.
Having the numbers of society control his every choice—
Machine and man working for the same boss.
In the end, he falls to the commerce of Lady Luck,
Losing all bets to any passing chump,
Calling death to end the show,
And for God or Satan to weigh his worth.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 7:24 PM UTC
The shoreline was never against them
it just answered to the moon
The sea erased their steps
not out of spite
but because water moves
They thought the horizon tightened
because they were breaking
But it was only the weather
constellations drift
not to confuse us
but because everything
is in motion
No one sets out
to bruise a heart
we bruise
when we are tired
when we are afraid
when something outside us
pulls harder than we know how to name
the water changes temperature
with the year we are remembering
warm where we felt safe
cold where we did not understand
but even the cold
is not cruelty
it is distance
it is pressure
it is unlearned language
we all want to be well
we all want to touch
without breaking
we all want to leave
footprints that last
the sea keeps moving
not to harm
not to punish
just following forces
larger than feeling
and we are like that
soft
resilient
trying, always,
to do no harm
even when we
don’t yet know
how.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 6:39 PM UTC
towering shoulders
disappear in your arms
gentle touch of rough hands hold me
clouded scent
oak cologne and Marlboro smoke
the allure in your eyes so film noir
sinking lips
a smile that kills steals my breath
that spark of your words ignite my heart
your slow burn
i meet
with wildfire
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 4:50 PM UTC
I am a daughter,
I have never thought about that role before —
I have always looked at the other,
Up there on the pedestal, seeking attention more.
But now I see,
I am a daughter at my core.
You held me for nine months,
kept me safe from the world’s horror,
When I opened my eyes,
You said: “You are my daughter, whom I adore...”
I demanded protection,
But the world’s ill-fated dice rolled; furor.
Devestation didn’t take long,
To slip through, rip into the dreams swirling in embryonic fluids and birth a noir —
My pain came
From the generations before,
The error from Adam and from Eve,
From Satan and his tricks to deceive that penned this score —
Dec 24, 2025
Dec 24, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC
She came in out of the cold with a hungry look.
She’d been hunting a bird - the stuff dreams are made of, with a rich coat of bourbon-honey, like newly applied lipstick.
The bird that turned up, a butterball, was in fact murdered.
The signs were all there - decapitation - done by a pro - ligatures and the corpse was stuffed, like a defendant's bad alibi.
The whole holiday was a crime scene, but there was a gravy, dark as a back-alley deal, to obscure forensics, and while the witnesses all talked of blessings - like a cult - there were knives everywhere.
Motives abounded, like place settings - was that cranberry sauce - or blood? The room had a rich smell - roasted bird, dressing and complicity.
The way everything was being passed around - there was nothing for it.
Someone was going to take the fall - not her - she wasn’t having white meat. She was hard-boiled and had had it dark - and you know what they say.
In the end, she got what she was looking for - she almost always did. And it tasted like apple-cider-bourbon and family togetherness - her favorite flavors.
.
.
A playlist for this:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_19.mp3
🦃 🍽️ Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! 🍽️ 🦃
Nov 26, 2025
Nov 26, 2025 at 4:53 PM UTC
August, the Red Line,
connected tanks
of bolted plastic vertebrae.
Every seat gone except
five rows up, where a sea lion
sprawls across two,
stuffed backpack, yellow jacket
spread out like caution tape.
His grunt a wet bark
at the glow of his screen.
Middle-school deer slip into the aisle,
chatter clipped when the sheriff drifts past,
their ears flicking, smiles bitten shut.
Not a predator- just a gelded ox,
chest puffed, badge sagging, glass-eyed,
chest rig clattering with blanks.
Two lemur-children cling to their tortoise elder,
her shell steady against the sway of the car.
She shepherds them from the surge of riders:
loud Dodger blue parrots in cholo socks,
moth-women with plumed lashes beating the stale air,
a stray dog, gutter musk dragging at its haunches.
And one gray bear
muttering alone,
arguing with her reflection.
Between Koreatown and MacArthur Park,
somewhere the sea begins to breathe again,
then, feathers forcing through my skin-
an alley gull knifing into this clamour,
scavenging inside its exhaust.
The car rattles, its ribs plated with blistered posters:
museum wings open to no one,
‘register to vote’ fading into graffiti script,
flu shots promised by smiling ghosts.
A bruised hatchling staring out beside the words
See something, say something.
The warning lights glow
like eyes hunting in the dark.
From its flanks the train
unfurls iron claws.
They rake
the tunnel walls,
the city’s bones,
the dark itself.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
She left Reno
in a satin slip
the color of hot coins
pouring from slots,
wearing chewed-up tennis shoes,
mirrors multiplying her,
the marquee burning out
letter by letter,
a hush pressed between her teeth
as if saving the last note.
I followed,
a gangly shadow,
mother’s voice in my ear:
"life is not a freeway exit."
But she was the exit.
She drove west
through a glittering throat.
In Tonopah she was a waitress,
red stains on her wrists,
sleeves tugged low,
coffee pouring thin as blood.
In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna,
halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass.
At a gas station in Needles
shimmering into a coyote’s shadow
and slipped behind the pumps.
Then movement along the fence,
low, quick—
gone again.
Casinos blinked like electric relics.
Truckers called her sugar,
greedy hands counting her ribs
as if she was the paycheck
sweating in their fist,
but she slipped away each time,
her silhouette already moulting-
a serpent skin, a smoke-trail,
a saint’s shadow burning off the wall.
By Malibu, the night
had softened to velvet.
The pier at Zuma
leaned into the Pacific
like a broken bridge.
She sang to me—
low, cracked—
then let the slip fall.
Her body cut into the dark tide,
no disguise.
I waded in after her,
ankles bruised by rock.
Water lit with jellyfish,
each pulse a warning.
I stopped where it deepened,
felt the pull take hold.
No exit left,
just the Pacific’s mouth
closing around her.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 8:08 PM UTC
You—
you’re the snowfall I stagger into,
pure, blinding, merciless.
My breath burns black against your skin,
your lips open like a gunshot in winter.
We collide like alleyway saints,
kissing hard enough to bruise bone.
Your hands are knives wrapped in silk;
they cut me into something worth keeping.
Love, with you, is not gentle.
It’s cigarette ash and blood in the snow,
the taste of iron disguised as sweetness.
Every embrace leaves fingerprints like bruises
I wear as scripture.
We are both wolves,
both hunters,
and still we bare our throats,
voluntary victims,
devouring while we’re being devoured.
If the world came for us,
we would meet it with teeth.
Two shadows crossing,
a fairy tale told in black ink,
red accents,
and the violence of a kiss
that refuses to end.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 5:21 AM UTC
Harry bends over the grill,
beefy with years of drink
and culled anger,
scrubbing until silver shines,
a bullet waiting for my shift.
He believes if the French Toast is perfect,
she will appear in a halo of steam,
peacoat and Mary Janes,
ready to forgive the life they never had.
Outside Brother Juniper’s,
Peachtree Street is a kingdom
of late century's lost:
druggies, rent boys, drag queens,
pimps preaching Jesus
to the homeless in Piedmont Park.
The smell of grease stitches it all together.
Inside, fluorescent light
makes faces soft as wet clay,
ready to be remade by morning.
French fries sizzle like whips,
blintzes bleed cherry onto chipped plates,
and Tati, round as a blessing,
delivers soup to the sobbing girl
whose mascara becomes a confession.
I clock in,
busting knuckles and boots,
young, stupid,
just trying to keep up with him.
I know he wants her to return.
I know she won’t.
I know he’s getting older.
I watch Harry’s grace and sweat,
serving a city that believes
in one last plate of salvation.
At dawn,
he walks out slow, grease still on his arms,
orders a drink he won’t finish,
lets Ray Charles sing him home,
searches the sidewalk
for her red hair in every stranger.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 1:49 PM UTC
He crawled through seven weeks,
her voicemail still unplayed,
burned letters on the stovetop,
and brushed the ash away.
The mattress holds her perfume,
her hair still haunts the sheet.
It lingers just to gut him,
then breaks beneath the heat.
I gave you what I carried,
a key, a ring, a name.
You marked it as a chapter,
the ending never came.
Streetlights blink and stutter,
pulse yellow, white, then blue.
They gnaw beneath the ribcage
and press on every bruise.
He heard her laughter echo
through gutter sweat and smoke;
coins scatter on the concrete,
a rimshot to the joke.
He cut this trail in whiskey
left dents along the floor,
no battle flag, no anthem,
just shrapnel from the war.
Her glance, a flint and trigger,
still burns behind the eyes.
Not love, not even fury,
just silence split with lies.
The bottle knew its ending;
its glitter salts the ground.
No sirens in the alley,
all bodies have been found.
He slips the lock in shadow
and drifts beneath the gray.
The gospel wilts by morning.
He never meant to stay.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 11:43 AM UTC
. (or: the slow mercy of being forgotten) .
I keep the lights dim now—
not out of mood,
but because shadows are gentler
when you no longer belong to the future.
The watch still doesn’t tick.
I wear it anyway.
Not to remember time,
but to remind myself I once commanded it.
His coat is still here,
draped over the back of the chair
like an exhale that forgot to finish.
Some nights I sleep beside it.
It doesn’t smell like him anymore.
I replay our first conversation like a hymn
missing half its words.
I remember what I said.
I don’t remember if I meant it.
The bed is quieter than it should be.
Not empty—just echoing
with choices I let make themselves.
I heard he’s moved on.
Young lover, new city,
same crooked smile
twisting someone else’s orbit.
And good.
Let him become legend
in someone else's story.
I already built a temple
he burned into blueprint.
I tried to write him a letter once.
It became a list.
Then a poem.
Then silence.
I left it unfinished.
Some things are meant to haunt,
not conclude.
There’s a thunderstorm tonight.
I sit by the window with a glass of nothing
and watch the sky argue with itself.
For a second,
the lightning looks like him.
And for the briefest flicker—
just long enough to ache—
I believe I was loved.
{fin}
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 2:47 AM UTC
. (or: the night I vanished while still in the room) .
He stopped coming home late—
not out of guilt, but because
there was nothing left to hide.
I watched him re-enter
like a man returning to a house he built
on land that was only technically¹ mine.
My scent had faded from the sheets.
His cologne now lingered longer than my voice.
He called me darling
in the same tone I used to use
when I meant goodbye.
I touched his back one night,
the way I used to trace stars across it,
and he flinched—
not like it hurt,
but like it meant nothing.
The watch on my wrist had stopped ticking.
I hadn’t noticed in days.
Over dinner,
he quoted my own stories back to me,
trimmed for elegance,
rearranged for effect.
“I don’t remember it like that,” I said.
“You weren’t meant to,” he replied,
not cruelly—just… correctly.
The eclipse doesn’t apologize for the sun.
In the mirror,
I saw only one of us
reflected clearly.
And it wasn’t me.
I asked him what he wanted.
He said,
“Everything you’ve ever had.”
And smiled like he already did.
I laughed.
He didn’t laugh back.
I told him I loved him.
He said,
“I know.
That’s why this had to happen.”
And somewhere in that moment,
between my mouth opening
and his walking away,
I became myth—
the kind they misremember
on purpose.
Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
. (or: when I heard my voice come from his mouth) .
At first, it was flattery—
the way he wore his collar the same way I do,
the way he started lighting my brand of cigarettes,
the way his laugh hit the same register
I used to throw like a knife across rooms.
I caught him reading my journal once—
not with guilt, but reverence.
“I like the way your thoughts bleed,”
he said, closing the leather cover like scripture.
He stopped asking me questions.
He already knew the answers.
My shirts disappeared one by one.
Then my habits.
Then my silences.
I watched him pour bourbon
with the same three-count I perfected in 1994.
Watched him cross his legs just so,
quote my warnings back to me
as if they were lessons he taught himself.
He ****** me like a rehearsal.
And I let him—God help me—
because some part of me believed
that to be repeated is to be remembered.
But memory is a shallow grave.
One night,
he answered the phone with my cadence.
“This is he,” he said—
voice dry as an autumn branch.
And for a second,
even I believed him.
I didn’t confront him.
I just started talking less.
He filled the air like a flood.
My presence became parentheses.
In bed,
he started calling me old man—
not as a kink,
but as a countdown.
I smiled.
But it tasted like rust.
The boy I devoured
was digesting me back.
And prophecy, that silent ******
licked its lips
and kept watching.
Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 2:53 AM UTC
. (or: how I taught him to ruin me properly) .
His mouth was a chalice filled with thunder—
I drank from it like a man who’s forgotten
how to refuse ceremony.
He said my name like it was a title he meant to inherit.
Not whispered. Not begged.
Claimed.
I took him the way ruins take ivy—
slowly, wholly, letting him crawl through my cracks
and make green what should have stayed dead.
He undressed like it was a coup:
first the belt, then the silence,
then the smirk that knew it had already won.
I touched him like I’d memorized him in a past life
and forgot I was the one meant to teach.
My hands shook.
He steadied them with his teeth.
Skin against skin,
I forgot which of us was ancient.
His body: a question I answered with every bruise.
Mine: a confession disguised as architecture.
I marked him with softness.
He returned it with hunger.
“Slower,” I breathed.
“Why?” he replied.
And there was no answer
that didn't sound like surrender.
We moved like two wolves trying not to pray.
Every gasp a liturgy.
Every ****** a reformation.
I let him trace my scars like roads on a forgotten map.
He said, “You’ve been here before.”
I said, “And I never left.”
Later, he wore my shirt.
Not out of affection—
but to study the shape of power
from the inside.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 2:48 AM UTC
. (or: the god who called me “sir”) .
He entered like a prophecy mispronounced—
storm-soaked, sky-buttoned,
his coat dragging dusk across the floorboards,
eyes lit like stolen copper.
My drink was a cathedral of neglect—
neat bourbon, no ice,
echoing the taste of promises embalmed in dust.
I drank the same way I pray:
sparingly, and to a god I no longer trust.
He didn’t sit; he disrupted.
Barstools shifted like tectonics,
shadows coiled around his boots,
and the jukebox skipped a beat to watch him move.
“You look like someone who’s been patient too long,”
he said, voice lacquered in soft thunder,
vowels curling like smoke from a burnt vow.
I gave him my laugh—
a cracked heirloom I no longer polish.
He wore it like cologne
and leaned in as if to inhale the ruin.
His hands were myths retold badly—
trembling between gentleness and guillotine.
He touched the rim of my glass
like it was my mouth,
and drank it wrong—
reckless, like he’d never been told no
and didn’t believe in scarcity.
The night flexed around us.
My watch stopped ticking.
Time, the faithful beast I’d trained
to lie at my feet,
lifted its head and whimpered.
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 4:19 AM UTC
Black is all I see ,
For the world is made up of other colours,
Red , yellow, blue and green
But yet
All I see
Is the darkest shade of noir.
No matter how much I beleive
The world will always be black
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 12:42 PM UTC