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Description
Nix
The wind
melancholy tufts
of hair shifting
like a down
pillowcase torn open, tied
with a visceral tourniquet
to his starving artist's mind.
And in the dusking gloam
his shadow struggles to breathe; gasps
a gasp such as would swallow
The whole of humanity, every beautiful drop
, distill its essence to a fractured thought
, slither through his veins, kissing every fear clean
, until his soul is as silk, so smooth
and fragile that the veil of heaven itself cannot
sieve away the darkness half so well. Thus pondering
, he feels the hollow steel slide into a blackened vein
and there upon the precipice, melts away, oblivious, all alone.
Nirvana.

Infanticide
Angels dance
on pinheads
punctured through invisible
crepe paper universes
. Stars, glittering, iridescent, shine
like scarab eyes, and
burn through every layer of
her piecemeal heart, which in
some distant memory, some stupid child's
affection, burns still with an innocence
once found in life--now in eyelid
, downcast, enlashed, averting from those distant eyes
, those stars and faux celestial bodies that sear
and vitrify, as melted quartz, her every defense
. Jeweled excuses, mute figurines, translucent memories as clear as
amber revealing a parasite, the horror, caterwauling then still,
empty and soundless as all her nightmares, her pretty distractions
,useless now as the child in the wet, cloying mud.
Daydreaming...

Stricken
Gray sleet
in iris
patches collects, ricocheting
in starbust explosions
,the way her heart
feels--empty and obscured
by a colorless wraith of
Concrete, of Solid, of Common.
And yet now, at this brush
of her lashes, she paints watercolor
fireworks with the tremolo of a heartbeat
, and her breath, her blood, every trembling
fiber of self seems to sense a sympathy
in the still Chicago air. Though it burns
no more than a flash in the pan, still
her lungs climb high in her breasts to scream
while her insides claw up her throat, desperate to escape
And become entangled within the silhouette of her daydream lover.
Incendiary.

Grail
The moon
Exhales its
Icy whispers upon
A pale skinned
Ghost of a man.
He pauses to rest
His legs, his aching heart,
And debates the one remedy,
The silver balloon in his hand
. Yet this, too, is a figment
Of the moon's imagination. Of another self's
Longing for self in the form of
A dream. That in this miserable shadow of
A sleepless life, may come a salve, nepenthe
, to awaken his gentler body, safe inside a plastic
Cylinder, hermetically sealed like a soul preserved in counterfeit
; white like old innocence beneath a lunar glow. He whispers
Back to the moon, breath as icy as its own,
"goodnight."

Striving
Live in
mothers of
deadbeats like blankets
stifling the vibrant
color of your blood
controlling its course, diverting
shielding from what life awaits
like a glass penumbra, transparent
Unforeseen and invisible. Cling to anything
,cast tendrils to graft upon a
quilted pattern of skin, of cardboard homes,
those Potemkin villages of childhood, that yet
comfortable in myth, serve now to destroy you.
Nevertheless, this coffin, though confining, is paper only
Live in others, in dreams, in memories, Lose your
mind to gain it back again, unveiling the crisp
unyielding soul. Live chained to the warm affection of others
for therein lies your true reflection, like a mirrored star.
Mantra.

Ghostlights
Wedged between
two worlds
as he lies
in an unknown
alleyway, shivering, uncertain whether
a dream can ever
graft a being unto his
crumbling shell of existance. Love
, elusive as an argent minnow flickering
in eyelash streams in morning's light
, becomes as much a craving as the
Need to breathe--or for sun to
illuminate the earth. He feels erased, partial; why
reassemble oneself when it's so easy to disappear?
And so he hugs his fractured mass to the
greasy steps of the terminal, yellow lamplight dripping from
the awnings like the tallow off a defunct candle, just
the static reminder of warmth touching this cold city pavement.
Embers.

Description
Nix
The wind
melancholy tufts
of hair shifting
like a down
pillowcase torn open, tied
with a visceral tourniquet
to his starving artist's mind.
And in the dusking gloam
his shadow struggles to breathe; gasps
a gasp such as would swallow
The whole of humanity, every beautiful drop
, distill its essence to a fractured thought
, slither through his veins, kissing every fear clean
, until his soul is as silk, so smooth
and fragile that the veil of heaven itself cannot
sieve away the darkness half so well. Thus pondering
, he feels the hollow steel slide into a blackened vein
and there upon the precipice, melts away, oblivious, all alone.
Nirvana.

Infanticide
Angels dance
on pinheads
punctured through invisible
crepe paper universes
. Stars, glittering, iridescent, shine
like scarab eyes, and
burn through every layer of
her piecemeal heart, which in
some distant memory, some stupid child's
affection, burns still with an innocence
once found in life--now in eyelid
, downcast, enlashed, averting from those distant eyes
, those stars and faux celestial bodies that sear
and vitrify, as melted quartz, her every defense
. Jeweled excuses, mute figurines, translucent memories as clear as
amber revealing a parasite, the horror, caterwauling then still,
empty and soundless as all her nightmares, her pretty distractions
,useless now as the child in the wet, cloying mud.
Daydreaming...

Stricken
Gray sleet
in iris
patches collects, ricocheting
in starbust explosions
,the way her heart
feels--empty and obscured
by a colorless wraith of
Concrete, of Solid, of Common.
And yet now, at this brush
of her lashes, she paints watercolor
fireworks with the tremolo of a heartbeat
, and her breath, her blood, every trembling
fiber of self seems to sense a sympathy
in the still Chicago air. Though it burns
no more than a flash in the pan, still
her lungs climb high in her breasts to scream
while her insides claw up her throat, desperate to escape
And become entangled within the silhouette of her daydream lover.
Incendiary.

Grail
The moon
Exhales its
Icy whispers upon
A pale skinned
Ghost of a man.
He pauses to rest
His legs, his aching heart,
And debates the one remedy,
The silver balloon in his hand
. Yet this, too, is a figment
Of the moon's imagination. Of another self's
Longing for self in the form of
A dream. That in this miserable shadow of
A sleepless life, may come a salve, nepenthe
, to awaken his gentler body, safe inside a plastic
Cylinder, hermetically sealed like a soul preserved in counterfeit
; white like old innocence beneath a lunar glow. He whispers
Back to the moon, breath as icy as its own,
"goodnight."

Striving
Live in
mothers of
deadbeats like blankets
stifling the vibrant
color of your blood
controlling its course, diverting
shielding from what life awaits
like a glass penumbra, transparent
Unforeseen and invisible. Cling to anything
,cast tendrils to graft upon a
quilted pattern of skin, of cardboard homes,
those Potemkin villages of childhood, that yet
comfortable in myth, serve now to destroy you.
Nevertheless, this coffin, though confining, is paper only
Live in others, in dreams, in memories, Lose your
mind to gain it back again, unveiling the crisp
unyielding soul. Live chained to the warm affection of others
for therein lies your true reflection, like a mirrored star.
Mantra.

Ghostlights
Wedged between
two worlds
as he lies
in an unknown
alleyway, shivering, uncertain whether
a dream can ever
graft a being unto his
crumbling shell of existance. Love
, elusive as an argent minnow flickering
in eyelash streams in morning's light
, becomes as much a craving as the
Need to breathe--or for sun to
illuminate the earth. He feels erased, partial; why
reassemble oneself when it's so easy to disappear?
And so he hugs his fractured mass to the
greasy steps of the terminal, yellow lamplight dripping from
the awnings like the tallow off a defunct candle, just
the static reminder of warmth touching this cold city pavement.
Embers.