Wednesday, December 16, 2009

finding in the floor a hole the girl proceeded to climb right in.

it was dark and it was dim. there were no friends. it led nowhere. there was no sun at the end and there were no sconces on the walls and there was no wine in any of the bottles that hung from the ceiling of the cave with their necks broken, sharp

tears blurred the candle flames into lines of yellow heat. nothing touched her. she shook from within. it was dark and it was dim, she thought, i know not what state i'm in. anymore.

the allowance of sadness can lead to more sadness and when the tear leaked down her cheek she felt herself slip. all was horribly truly bad. time had been wasted. stupid times had. nothing gained. only sad. and foolish as the day is long.

she paused for the flash of eyes as flat and black as the onyx fished out of the river to satiate her lust. eyes that could only be held when apologizing for some devastating breach of trust. i don't believe in modern love.

stolen, she realized. stolen-- each moment from the dark place used to store everything that is never meant to be. stolen from the lesson vault. stolen from hell. snorting lines off of dressers in beautiful bedrooms. setting lovely. deeds depraved. choking hands followed by words in vain. and then climbing up the orange tree, jacques brel singing sadly, Poeme from a tiny bottle weighing the air. humid summer hell 90 degree days.

he did not ask. she changed the record. she curled into her pain. she knew he was, she was insane. and it all drove her all the more insane. she was very beautiful; it did her absolutely no good. she could not stop her mind from reeling. she found some calm in otis redding. existed as a hurricane

and when the tunnel turned it led to more dark and the dark led nowhere at all. it was, as it were, a cell with walls and she felt very nearly locked in. she slumped to her knees. the floor began to roll

be done, she thought. and disappeared beneath a rising tide. the flood took her under and tossed her around in its grasp.

they hid beneath her own brown blankets. said it would last. i don't believe in modern love . more will always come to pass. on all fours on the floor wrapped in brown blanket he baited a cat. morning rain lasted such a short while; arriving and disappearing just as fast

wine and pills and sick in the bathroom, coke-head teenaged misdirected gunshot took a grazing beauty down. songs and songs

the tide bore her downward

songs and songs, all of my beauty she thought. and all of it wrong. a carnelian and a long time gone. wasted

'dont pass me by' played, perilous curves in the highway 1
big sur moss briefly flashing

i smoked so many cigarettes.

the water level slowly begins to lower, even despite

despite despite. those were dark times but more spent driving
driving ceaselessly. highway 1.

cigarette after cigarette, damned scratched c.d. summer mothered me. you create the circumstances, we'll provide the party

at the end.

at the end what remains is simple. first feeling the walls for a door, and, in finding the door, for a lock. if lock is locked, consulting mind which she finds is the gracious bestower of the key

many thanks.

greeted not by light but by thick obscuring grey. fog covered the clouds but did not distract from the landscape

at the end what remains is simple. a single candle. a blue shawl. hematite bracelet that has seen enough but will see even more. record player still revolves. brown blanket keeps her body warm. time slips

slips and is merciful

Tuesday, December 8, 2009


when i walk no one cares where i go

i’m as free as a ghost here.

i am unconventionally winged and i have been stuck in amber

three thousand years of fog and sun.

i read of a king. the king of ireland when ireland had kings;



he proved to be persuadable.

it occurs to me that i have worshipped

vice and called it character

attempted alchemical madness

with dylan thomas as defense

and everything i touched permeated

with poison

hind sight beholds

the time i’ve spent

tried to defy




there’s nothing to fear any more

(that was not a pretty sight)

what is genuine is much quieter than that

in the middle of the highway it pauses staring

through the night

with wolfish eyes

it’s not nothing.

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