Yea! though I walk through the valley of the
  Shadow.

  ‘Psalm of David’.

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write
shall have long since gone my way into the region of
shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret
things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere
these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will
be some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who
will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven
with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more
intense than terror for which there is no name upon the
earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far
and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the
Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens
wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among
others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation
of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the
entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with the
red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of
the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest,
not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls,
imaginations, and meditations of mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of
a noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at
night, a company of seven. And to our chamber there was no
entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was
fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare
workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies,
likewise in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the
moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets—but
the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be so
excluded. There were things around us and about of which I
can render no distinct account—things material and
spiritual— heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense
of suffocation—anxiety—and, above all, that
terrible state of existence which the nervous experience
when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile
the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon
us. It hung upon our limbs—upon the household
furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank; and
all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all
things save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which
illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender
lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and
motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon
the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the
unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we
laughed and were merry in our proper way—which was
hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are
madness; and drank deeply—although the purple wine
reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of
our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full
length he lay, enshrouded;—the genius and the demon of
the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that
his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes in
which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the
pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment
as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are
to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the
departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive
the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily
into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and
sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teos. But gradually
my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off
among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among
those sable draperies, where the sounds of the song
departed, there came forth a dark and undefiled
shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,
might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the
shadow neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing.
And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room it at
length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of
brass. But the shadow was vague, and formless, and
indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor God—
neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian
God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and
under the arch of the entablature of the door and moved not,
nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and
remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested was, if I
remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen
the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared
not steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed
continually into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at
length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of the
shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow
answered, “I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the
Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of
Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal.” And
then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and
stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one
being, but of a multitude of beings, and varying in their
cadences from syllable to syllable, fell duskily upon our
ears in the well remembered and familiar accents of many
thousand departed friends.

“I may be grown up but I’m only seventeen.”
The faded blue chairs were in rows, as could be expected. The building was old and the air was littered with dust; just like you would expect. The light shimmied through the draperies and tapestries and slithered across the floor in tiny slits that cut the room into pieces. The dark worn floors boasted years of scuffs and scratches. They were no longer mahogany for they were nearly black with age and dirt. The whole place was frozen in time. Even the air was reminiscent of years gone by. When you walked in you could expect to find memories nestled in corners or peeping out from one of the many books strewn around. The place breathed nostalgic fumes. Some might have called it “stale,” but many others would prefer to call it “alluring” or “curious.”

This was not her case. The door ****** the life out of the place as it slammed shut. The reverberations could be felt throughout the entire structure. Her anger fueled her along at a violent pace, sending chills up the drapes and swirling the dust into tornadoes of chaos. The floorboards rumbled and squealed in sheer terror under her feet. If you were here you would likely have tread softly and listened carefully just because you hoped the place was talking to you. But since this is her story and not yours, that is not the case.
She threw her body into the nearest chair and the force almost sent her backwards. The girl and the chair hung in time for a single moment, teetering on the edge of balance, but nothing happened. She kicked her feet up on to the chair in front of her out of utter disrespect.

Each breath that she blew carried venomous thought. Every air molecule expelled from her nose was laced with despise until it fell to the floor, devoid of life. You could feel the place shuddering with every breath. Or maybe she was shuddering. But it wasn’t important.
The girl let one lonesome anguished tear roll off her face, but since she was too strong for crying, she ****** her body out of the chair with every ounce of hatred she had inside. In one swift motion she swathed her face with her shirt to obscure and erase the tear. She stood there, filtering the air through her shirt, refusing to acknowledge everything the place had to offer. She dropped the weight of her head into her palms and bit her lip against the pain. She pulled her face back only to check the shirt. She knew it would be stained. She knew because every other time before it had been stained. She listened for a moment before she glided across the floor toward the nearest window.
When she finally came to a moment of rest, the place sighed in relief. The dust rested and the floorboards managed to quiet themselves. The drapes relaxed and everything paused again, settling back into a time of long ago. The place embraced her like the wind embraces a leaf. It helped her along gently as she was carried away.

Not wanting to be discovered, and not wanting to overstay her welcome, the girl carefully hid her soul behind the heaviest drape and emptily marched towards the door. She traced her finger along the scorch marks that marred the wood. The scars ran deep, evidencing a strong fire that had ravaged the place years before. The door oozed sympathy as the young girl shared her pain. Her heartbeat pounded out her sadness and resounded through the door and back to her. She clutched the **** in her hand and pushed it open. She slid through to the outside. She did not look over her shoulder. She did not carry a glimpse of hope within her. The flame in her heart was extinguished with the closing click of the door. She was outside. She watched as the place got smaller as she walked away.

His name was Devlin. “Dev” for short. It could’ve been “Devil.” It should have been “Devil.” He was the one who called the shots. This was his game; his rules. She was just a player who could be benched at any minute; suspended from the league in the blink of an eye. He knew the world. He had been learning it for years. As if the world was something that could be learned; that could be acquired. He missed the most important lesson for he never learned how to love. He had mastered affection and words spilled off his lips like honey. But love was not yet something he had come to possess.

Regardless of his material possessions, Dev knew he was missing something. He didn’t know what it was or how it could be acquired, or if it could be acquired. He only knew that the gaping black hole inside him was consuming him. There was no fulfilling this insatiable hunger. There seemed to be no solution. Only temporary fixes could easy the longing but with every dose the hole grew deeper.

           She too, knew that beneath his smile there was blackness. Not emptiness. Just blackness. There was no value, no gradation. No. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to hope for. She would have enough black to cover the entire world if she had wanted to paint. But she was honestly looking to survive.


                Time had gone by, but only by the measure of light. Time had not elapsed to heal her wounds. She had covered miles on the feet of one thought. She had traversed only into one idea during her journey and yet she had already reached her destination. It was easy to fall to your subconscious when your body was tattered. When she stepped through the threshold she almost imagined the place. But she stopped herself because she didn’t want to take the chance of contaminating it.

                Her eyes were closing and the soft carpet looking appealing in all its graying and deterioration. The couch and bed looked inviting but that was suicide. She was fighting the urge. She had too. She had tried to purge her mind but one insignificant monstrous thought plagued her. “Don’t go to sleep until I get back.” Her eyes lingered closed for a moment. How beautiful and welcoming this blackness was. It was gentle and comforting. Her eyes jumped open. How long had they been closed? Surely no more than a few minutes. Fate laughed in her face once again. “I told you: Don’t get to sleep until I get back.”
                The first one was the most painful. Even though her eyes were blurred from pain she could still see the look in his eyes. She had to look. The simple thought of closing her eyes would earn her several more. She clutched the threadbare carpet with all the dignity she could muster and stood like a soldier before a firing squad. Every wince squeezed the tears in her eyes closer and closer to escape, but she held on through the miserable pain. It wasn’t even his hands that hurt anymore. No, it was the iron, or the bat, or even the brick that hurt. When it was his hands, he sympathized with the contortions of her body. He felt her pain. When it was some other object, there was distance between them. Six, five, four, three, two… She could time the blows. When he wasn’t so angry they came faster, just to put the girl in her place. When he was enraged, they came slower. Each hit was followed by an explanation or justification. “You have to learn the hard way.” or “How dare you get blood on your clothes?” The indignation in his voice made her sick. “Don’t look at me like that!” “I love you.” Over time she had learned to smile over time. To lessen the pain.

                …Her face was burning. Every fiber in her body wrenched with pain. Every breath brought tears to her eyes. The shaking was uncontrollable. She never should
have fallen asleep…

                You see on the inside he was just a child who never knew love. But that was her job. To love him. He was one of those “monsters,” or rather a vortex, something to be awed and feared. A display of powerful destruction. But that was the point. He was ******* up everything good while furthering his own self-destruction. He would eventually collapse in on himself. It was inevitable. It was not a matter of time. It was not some probability that fate would determine. It was not plausible to think, no matter what length of time you were thinking for, that time could, and would, heal all wounds. This was not something that would fade into the background and blend into a dull gray. This was not something that could be fixed by a miracle of God. There was no twelve step program with guaranteed results. The only thing that could happen was the elimination of time. If this happened, then there could be change.  


                She had figured it out some time ago. A long while back before she knew the place. The only answer was destruction. You might even call it ******. But since it involved no bloodshed or munitions or hatred, it seemed to be a good idea. Even the victim was ultimately willing to go through with it. The only factor stopping the girl was love. Her love for him. She did love him. She truly and justly loved him. She loved everything about him. She loved him for chaos and instability. The only solution was to destroy time. Without time, there is no way to measure. There is no structure. There are no rules. The only structure is what you make in your mind. That was the easiest way to escape, the easiest way to ignore the pain, to ignore the love.        


                  However much she thought about it, she never thought about it enough. The hours she spent on the floor in utter stillness were useless. When her breath was shallow enough, she nearly died. Her shirt was stained with blood. It was severed from her hip to her elbow. Her face was swollen purple and blue. Four of her ribs were shattered. Her left ankle was swollen. Her eyes were sealed shut by dried tears. Her lips were pale and chapped. She could not breathe out of her nose. It was filled with blood. Her pants were a rolled in a crumpled ****** mess several feet away from her. Her legs were patched with bruises. Her fingernails had blood under them.


This was love.


Eventually. Not relative to time. Not relative to the beating, but relative to her. She crawled over to her pants and began to restore her dignity until a foot crashed down upon her hand, jarring her body into a fetal position on the floor. She forced her eyes to stare at her hand turning from pink to white to purple. She hung her head in shame and hoped for mercy or forgiveness. The crushing weight of the foot began to ease the slightest bit. “You didn’t learn. You never do.” She stood perfectly still, waiting. The foot lifted. He pulled her to her feet and bestowed a kiss upon her forehead. “That’s why I am here: To teach you.” He took the crumpled pants from the floor and removed her bloodied shirt. Then with **** of his head he motioned to the floor. “You will learn the meaning of humble today.” She lay back down and tried to glean warmth from the carpet. She was cold. Desperately cold.

Too far away, oh love, I know,  
To save me from this haunted road,  
Whose lofty roses break and blow  
On a night-sky bent with a load  
  
Of lights: each solitary rose,          
Each arc-lamp golden does expose  
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows  
Night blenched with a thousand snows.  
  
Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,  
White lilac; shows discoloured night        
Dripping with all the golden lees  
Laburnum gives back to light.  
  
And shows the red of hawthorn set  
On high to the purple heaven of night,  
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,        
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.  
  
Of life for love and love for life,  
Of hunger for a little food,  
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife  
Long ago, long ago wooed.
   .   .   .   .   .   .        
Too far away you are, my love,  
To steady my brain in this phantom show  
That passes the nightly road above  
And returns again below.  
  
The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees        
  Has poised on each of its ledges  
An ***** small girl looking down at me;  
White-night-gowned little chits I see,  
  And they peep at me over the edges  
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call        
  Them down to my arms;  
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small  
  Your little charms."  
  
White little sheaves of night-gowned maids,  
  Some other will thresh you out!          
And I see leaning from the shades  
A lilac like a lady there, who braids  
  Her white mantilla about  
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight  
    Of a man's face,          
Gracefully sighing through the white  
    Flowery mantilla of lace.  
  
And another lilac in purple veiled  
  Discreetly, all recklessly calls  
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed  
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed  
  In her voice, my weak heart falls:  
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering  
    Her draperies down,  
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering        
    White, stand naked of gown.
   .   .   .   .   .   .  
The pageant of flowery trees above  
  The street pale-passionate goes,  
And back again down the pavement, Love  
  In a lesser pageant flows.          
  
Two and two are the folk that walk,  
  They pass in a half embrace  
Of linked bodies, and they talk  
  With dark face leaning to face.  
  
Come then, my love, come as you will          
  Along this haunted road,  
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall  
  Keep with you the troth I trowed.

~
atop the Manhattan skyline
her similitude descends as rain
we see her wonderwork
we see her water-standing
her very abandonment of draperies
unassuming and artless
where the heedless moths settle
with bodies of mystic warmth
colored with rose and a dash of flame
~
– for Audrey Munson

(For Harry Clifton)

I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-***** in
Until the town lie bearen flat.

All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
Camel-back; horse-back, ***-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.

Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.

Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty ***** where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.

A title, from the "Best of the Alternative Press"
After reading
I realize I'm not a woman after all

She can talk about the cruel things
men do to women
**** and ******

Then discuss draperies
in the next breath
how to organize your closet

Female Genital Mutilation in Africa
and her favorite appliance:
a Panini maker
I am supposed to rush into my kitchen
to make sure I have the same brand

"She understands how much women care about their houses"
I look around
I am happy here but
A new cake of soap doesn't send a thrill through my body
A fresh towel doesn't make me ******

I could make a grilled cheese sandwich
The way my ancestors, male and female have done
In a skillet with bread and cheese
If I squish it it, it becomes Panini

I check the mirror
I'm naked, and I see
I am a woman

sitting in a bar unawares

sobriety is relinquished

incoherence

voicing hallucinated delirium

sweating profusely in distress

disconnected

without identity, without form

a long and terrible descent

into the effects of derealization

staring at nothing

listening to imaginary sounds

that cling to the dark draperies

that hang upon the walls of the mind

charting the outer geography of life

with invested inner humanity

Crystal is once again, up the draperies.
She has a veritable path of claw marks
leading from the floor to the curtain staff.

I have decided to ignore her when she does this.
But, as she is lurking behind me, atop the draperies, it is not an easy task.
At any moment, I expect her to pounce.
Ah!  Like father, like daughter.... in a sense.

I realized tonight that I excel at being a Vampire.
never a drop goes to waste.
Never a witness spies me.  Not one that lives, that is.
Never do I go hungry.
Never am I bored, or boring.

Why only earlier this night, I went to the Ballet.
A spritely tune was played by the orchestra, while dancers ran hither and yon upon the stage.
I was dressed all in black.
Bland I know.  But "Society" demands somber dress
at the oddest occasions.

I have my own box, from which I enjoy my privacy, while enjoying the entertainment.
Oh, not the entertainment on the stage.
The entertainment of playing the gallant host to my next meal.

I wine and dine them.
Regale them with lively anticdotes.
laugh at the right moments.
Look regretful, when called for.
Show shock, when due.
Outrage, when warranted.

In the end, they leave my box and my company, none the wiser.
mayhap a bit wan and listless.
But, always grateful for a lovely evening.
They always blame their condition on the wine.
Ha!


~Lord Kellington

how odd, to be a woman and a girl
to wear the dresses but concern about cleavage
more than meets the eye: because.

and so we waddle for the men –
twisting straps, my petticoat drawbridge

i am over-aware of myself: know the pulse and
when to tug draperies from ‘part thighs
they only see what i am okay with,
which does not include exhaling.

i am like a drum, drumbeat
i punch my body until the purple softens
and it sounds beautiful, but incomprehensible:

me, this woman-girl and child cheeks
placed upon petals that flap
with attention, not the old storm breezes –
every april shower molded me into a flower
i rise above each season, gay spectacle

the men that believe hurricanes so enigmatic
must lust me for such a reason –
i have been through many in girlhood
that i bleed one as a woman.

because of word infidelities, the muse
april said that i am only as big as my body

and i grew, grew, grew
until my stem became caught
to where it grew no longer, a woman-child
who took the wind like salad dressing.

Eating habits that resemble that of a bird
I don’t want to touch you   I fear you will break
That girl. She’s anorexic. Haven’t you heard?
Throw some sparkles and clothes that resemble draperies. Quite the model she would make.

Whispers waiver between the walls of weight and withering away
Strut your stuff, Walk the walk
Break a leg! Don’t worry. It’s jealousy they say.
Words of concern, gossip, rumors, backstabbing..it’s all just talk.

Thin as a rail glancing down at the scale
Feed me numbers of perfection
Strung out on diet pills and caffeine-not the ideal fairy tale
Cries of control and misdirection from my flawed reflection

I am me, one of a kind, beautiful they say. Just look in the mirror.
Loosing this fight tear after tear, year after year.

--To D. F.

I watched you saunter down the sand:
Serene and large, the golden weather
Flowed radiant round your peacock feather,
And glistered from your jewelled hand.
Your tawny hair, turned strand on strand
And bound with blue ribands together,
Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather,
That round your lissome shoulder spanned.
Your grace was quick my sense to seize:
The quaint looped hat, the twisted tresses,
The close-drawn scarf, and under these
The flowing, flapping draperies--
My thought an outline still caresses,
Enchanting, comic, Japanese!

Gossamer draperies swell
with heat, eastern winds
push daylight
over tangled bodies.

Fingers travel up
and down your naked torso,
my hand caught suddenly
in yours as you stir,
a sleepy god awakened
by the warmth of morning.

Your body, a sundial,
keeps perfect time with mine;
two lovers cached in silken strands,
our sacred place now fully lit
with the hunger of summer.

The solstice lingers past its prime,
drifting over equator
and into southern skies
as autumn patiently waits
outside the bedroom door.

If ever you resided within a chamber of my heart,
Know that it still wears your decorations of affection.

The crafts we built of time,
The wrinkles in the draperies,
The tearstains in the carpet,
That used to bring us comfort.

I may have changed the locks.

Shuttered it to yesterday.

But late at night,
When all is dark,
When silence falls upon my spirit,
My inner child,
A forgotten hope,
A life we birthed and buried....

Cracks the door,
From time to time,
And sparks a whispered vigil,
So light can touch the splinters
In the plaster of my soul.

A faded house of love...

A place we once called home

goaded by a stereophonic monotone:
a flumine voice waxes with lovelorn dregs.

i heard the plump word of rescue
dangle from the heady decibel of song,
winterward, blue-veined and stillicide.

no more, shall the wind traverse the impasse of the verdigris. the incertitude
of beginnings sigh ultimately.

o people, your darling children soldered
to your denims. o rosefrail and sightless
bannerets — we mourn such coming.
it sleuths with a tangle of fingers
underneath fringes of flesh-warmed
draperies with a different temperament
as moderate as climates in squandered tropics, flows with a truth wishing it
more of the untruth:

never shall return, in faraway lands,
never shall look back and lay in prairies
attenuated, continue to sing oblivion.

I waited in one of the cities dark and dangerous alleyways.  The vile odors.  The Gads knows what forming puddles around my best leather boots.  The ones with the shine to blind the eye.

There she was.  A common strumpet.  Drunkenly making her way towards me.  Jingling her purse of meager coins.

Blood money.

Obtained by logging men on the heads whilst they took their fill of her.  Only to have her sell them to sea Captain's that do not ask questions of where their crew came from.  Or whether they were willing.

I could feel the evil in the air about her.  I heard her heart beat and felt her blood pulse.

She was delicious.

Not a drop wasted.  

As I sit here, the thought comes to me, that I shall
be ******.

But wait!  I am already ****** and I thrive within it.  I not only thrive...I revel in it.

Now where is that odious, rangy, mouse burping kitten gotten off to.
GADS!  She is up the draperies once again!

I will calmly go get the ladder, which I had to buy just for these occasions.  I will place it up against the drapery staff.

I will climb up.  Gently coaxing the little flea bitten darling to me.  She will hiss and claw like the ***** she is.

But, alas.  I adore her so.


~Lord Kellington

a green silhouette of grey,  towering in secret turmoil
where shadows shuffle past clothed in draperies of U
like the front door of a public house at night time
on moments they stop and peer through windows
as if searching for themselves
and seeing themselves not within
place a hand on each others shoulder
with slender tapered  touch to life
and wander on looking
for the fresh warm rain of belief, any belief
they just don't care
dark as unforgiven justice
neither divine nor temporal forms
shadows that reflect no change
ensure no truth, show no energy to immerse
and this applies no effort to pick their chaos
nor specialised catastrophies
though do marshal devils of distinction
from the ramparts of the night
who dance in crooked form
twisting around the indolence of faces
peering through others windows
howls too for they make such howls
as such the shadows dismiss them
to their own oblivion
the shadows in their old humiliating story
move on still peeping, peeking and peering
but they languish in a wander land
always calm and reasonable
they move on like gassed first world war soldiers
but trembling inwardly with a frightful rage
cursing priests veined with age
who have told everyone's confession
and doctors slowly losing their hair
who never confess their secrets
not even to veined faced priests
and sometimes in a few seconds
these few but precious seconds
before the next window
it is remembered, yes remembered
shadows are the colour of light

I don't believe it!
I, the blood thirsty monster
of every nightmare!
Who fills the night time streets with
a true evil unrivaled!

What am I to do
with a tiny white kitten?

It followed me home...truly.
A pathetic little thing.
Probably full of fleas.

I have to buy milk!
I have to buy stinky fish!
What else will it need?

It does have cute ears
and the tiniest pink nose.


IT JUST WENT UP MY NEW VELVET DRAPERIES!

It will not come down!
fine.  It can stay there and starve.
See if I care.

Now I have to go see if I even own a ladder.

My dinner is getting impatient.
He thinks that he is here for a job interview.
As if I have the needs of a butler.

Hmmm.  Maybe I will let him get
that flea bitten thing down
before I partake.


~Lord Kellington

luna lolled a tongue of light through the cottony
bifurcation of fluttering draperies
licking her window with shimmering
spittle
refracted by the pallid idea of her flesh
she seemed a glowing angel of bone
wreathed in this incandescence
i took her sharp words and sewed
her love in the fabric of my being
oh god how i love her virginal
vessel
please won't you give me that gift
let me make your clean all grimy
with my ***** fingers

alas how can such an ugly thing as this me
ever lay in the proximity of a her so achingly right?

i am a nothing and she an everything

please don't leave my sheets this morning
i want to sing your song
bending my tongue about its fragile melody

in the distance a chime murmurs

I do not recall the day
When my hand stumbled upon his
Like a lost puzzle piece
Among countless others
I don't remember that sincere sensation
That filled my soul
As I looked into those cool brown eyes
That looked back at me with such passion
The infinite hours discussing our dreams our hopes
Till the morning hour light shines through the draperies
The dearest words of affection
Whispered sweetly
That made my cheeks scarlet with delight
I dont recall just exactly what went wrong
We were...picture perfect
I dont remember ever thinking that it was my fault
I don't remember that pointed dagger
Spearing my heart
To let it shatter against the floor into a million fragments of love
Scattered upon the ground like the fallen leaves
And like a wounded soldier
I fell
And cried soft tears of anguish
I dont remember ever finding another
All I remember now
Is just a shadow
This shadow of true love

outer, inner what are realities

conscious, unconscious

differing thought that gives

tangible form to such as that

which has only existed in my imagination

when voiced indicate the delirium

of those dark despairs

that hang pitch black draperies upon the wall of my mind

in continuous distortion of ordinary motives

amplify my feelings, implosive and apocalyptic

forming an agonized arena of anguish

whose illusion is a disguise of perplexities

in a deployment of destrubing exchanges

of dubious sense that sit like a petulance

upon the mind

while I in patience stand smiling at my grief

I drink of the waters of sinner’s delight
Smooth to the taste I believe
Washed up ashore on a moonless lit night
Much more than one can conceive

Poured in a goblet of yellow and blue
Butterfly patterns a’ shine
Wings in the vestibule, blinding the view
There only destined of time

Here at the stairway that leads to your heart
Spiraling up to the sky
Winding in tapestries, threadbare to start
Whimsical fabrics now sigh

Taking each step as I breathe in the change
Shadows about do compare
Absolute beauty of love rearranged
Finding the most in each stair

Hallways extend each direction a’ flow
Candlelit beacons provide
A knock on your door in the midst of their glow
Whispers now call me inside

Therefore my eyes as a silhouette fine
Loveliness clings to a smile
Chantilly lace in the garments a’ shine
Filling my eyes all the while

Heavenly scent of magnolia bloom
Fresh as this hot summer’s fire
White opalescence in shades of the moon
Painting my soul with desire

Touches of satin, so smooth comes your skin
Breathless endeavors soon pour
Hoping on hope of the welcoming in
Of what this night has in store

Lips of chiffon in a raspberry grin
Porcelain shimmering thighs
Desperate these thoughts now awash in a sin
Breath comes a sonnet of sighs

Reaching I stumble, my balance unsure
Shivers, my toes to my spine
Stuttering nervous of this I adore
Formed of the sweetest design

Then with a wisp as the draperies wave
Flames flicker quick of the flow
Smoke from the wicks meets the ceiling once more
As I cry, where did you go

Standing here holding of one dozen roses
Cellophane wrapped round the stems
Seeing the window so quickly it closes
I was but this close again

I was feeling a little lost so I started looking for myself, I checked under all the couch cushions and behind the books high on the shelf. I even checked the laundry and behind the draperies, but I came up empty handed, it seemed it wasn’t meant to be.

I couldn’t be found anywhere, at least anywhere that I could see, but I knew that I would soon find out, I had too eventually. When my persistence paid off, then just maybe, if I kept looking there I would surely be, I had to be around somewhere, but for the life of me, I just couldn’t remember what I had really done with me.

I retraced all my steps so I could try to see, if I could find a clue or catch a glimpse of me. At least a little something, so I could have some peace of mind, but I didn’t give up looking, because I knew that in my mind, I had to pop up somewhere, I would, it was just a matter of time.

I knew it was important too, the me that I had lost, I knew that it was something that to me was beyond cost. So I scoured the whole house, from top to bottom, looking for what was mine, and wouldn’t you know it…of all the places…I was right here the whole time.

Whenever a voluptuous moon,
radiantly brimful, looms low
and gilds the tops of the trees,
The hills, the sprightly streams,
the languorously reclining lakes,
She appears to me from nowhere
Like a dream,
Like a flash of inspiration
to a muddled mind.

My Muse glides gracefully toward me
like an elusive wreath of smoke
and gathers me in her embrace
like a silken robe,
hovering around me
like the perfume of roses.

She appears as a stirring
source of fantasy and vision,
Like the magnificent Northern lights
displaying luminous draperies
on a star-spangled polar nights,
Like the spectacular rainbow burst
after an intense shower,
Like a shooting star,
Like a blessed apparition;

I take her
as one would a reluctant bride
with gentle persuasion
and resilient arms!

Dear diary, today is the day-
The day of communion,
The day of impregnation,
After a series of cursed sterile nights.
So, dare not to hoist any **** excuse
To stay behind the draperies of modesty
And hide your immaculate flesh
From the ferocious tip of
My hungry dying pen.
Let your voluptuous pages
Woo the ink out of my pen
So that, its strangulated wish
To scrawl a masterpiece,
May finally get materialized
On the contours of your *****.


©Badee Uz Zaman

Spare no expense tonight
my dear,
to dissect my agitated heart
and strangle
every complaintive syllable
Sprouting in it.
Let the merciles lances of
your scornful blushes
Haunt every corner
of this ruptured flippant.
Let the rapacious looks
of your aggrieved eyes
Squeeze out of it,
the remaining drops
of inauspicious hope.
let the vulturous howling
of your choicest curses
Suppress the tunes of
unfulfilled promises.
my dear the prestigious
draperies concealing
the agonising tale of
thy inclemencies
are about to fall, come
Save the face of love.
Come my dear as my breaths
Await thy last appearance
Come before my sick beats
Will divorce my pierced *****.

Will not you come?

Do people still blanket their walls with pictures

Of family members, framed and hanging like draperies

When I walk in my living room,  

I see a lonely couch, a 55-inch television

And memories of people who once lived there:

Sometimes I smile, sometimes I pondered,  

Sometimes I just want to say,

Where are my children,  

Why am I alone, then I smiled and speak?

It's good to be alone, with my poems, my thoughts

And my broken table, the one which she broke

After sitting on top of it. While chatting on the phone



I wondered if the years would change like Tik Tok video clips

Like a new outfit, with a clap of the hands


To grow old is to lose everything?

Yes, or no? But the worse part ..

Is when you work your whole life

And nothing to show, that **** per say

Just old memories, and piled of bills

What have the years thought us,

Never take nothing for granted:

Never put all your eggs in one basket

Never, allowed the bank to control, your

Pennies and dimes, never lend money to your friends

Keep your personal business, bottled:

once, you stood tall and bold
against the sky
and said, in all simplicity,
that we are forever stuck
misunderstanding the threads
that run through our lives.
i feverishly agreed, and
already could not make out
sand or sky, and
knew that i was no exemption,
but never to be
cursed or normal, either.

and the sky opened up,
and, steady we,
as we'd prayed for rain,
whispered of continental drift
and the draperies of unseen
seasons. but nobody knew or
knows, and aperture of eyelid
makes no difference. evidence
in broken glass, run smooth
again, that pain can turn out
pretty.

so, we outstood clashes & contrast
patterns in earlier lights, twenty-
twenty ways to unlearn the wrongs
burnt between our sinews. and i did
believe. and i did believe. but time
barrels back and forth, and belief
structures erode out, for better or
for worse, from under
our feet.

I stealthily stepped
Along dark and intricate corridors
Walls lined with somber tapestries
Led deeper and deeper
Into the ebony blackness
Dark and eery chambers
Black oaken floors
Comfortless antiques tattered and unkept
Dusty draperies adorned the walls
I breathed in an atmosphere of sorrow
There was decay in the air

I would ask you to clean your staff
Before embarking,
The plebs don't want to see you
With dirt on your draperies

Give them a show and a favorite name
Give them a home and a place to claim

blue stones aligned to be a sign of fictive
internalisation, distanced, wellsprings polluted of genuineness
and consanguinity, remaining true means being incestuous as to acquiesce
to intense reflections of puzzling mechanical motions, predictable
cycles, cluttering, stuttering, dysmorphophobia, beating
being a habit of recommendation, pica, a craving, pleasing finesse
of those at stake, hope and sufferings, scenes of the sun's successive ingress
into Capricorn that are pernicious, indiscriminately
observed, related in a sentiment of losing, a burnoose draping
and draperies, an absence of fear and reverence
for blue light because of an acute awareness
of passing consisting of fits of modesty, escaping
no one's lips, of poshlost or cruelty told with reticence
generously, generous earthly names, unkind fairness