WHITE SKIN
Cold, dry hands grasp you.
Rotten teeth open white skin.
I drink your hot blood.
SKIN -- inspired by Kathe Koja's same-titled novel
This flesh the canvas, your love the blade...as it
Etches dark desire throughout my skin.
Trapped here, perhaps, though free may I be
In the tattooed, scarred hunt for soul.
Every golden pin, every ring punched through me...Spirit rises, Pain and god are one.
I try for the ultimate in spiritual enlightenment --
Every piercing brings me closer to penultimate confusion and loss.
Soon, in this quest, my body changes...my heart and desire transform.
Power, twisted, as my body twists -- misshappen, malformed.
Less than God, more than Human...my flesh glitters.
The sun licks the silver, the gold which now controls and blankets my will.
Am I a slave or Master to the knife?
Does each scar free this flesh, or tease me with a dream of Heaven?
All is made clear to me here in the end --
The final release, the singlemost singular truth is to transcend this flesh and its succulence.
Only then can I make sense of the sweet venom which is my obsession of the blade.
Only by casting off this rubbery veil can I taste what lies beneath.
This fire for steel dies with me.
FOR THE DEAD
Poetry is for the dead, the cold part, the stiff --
Poems bleed, men bleed...
Men die, and it is poetry.
Time is deformed in the line -- the lie turned to gold, a thing that glistens.
A rape, inscetuous, the word of your protectors.
What's left after the word?
What's left after time?
What's left after the lie?
There's always the great question...what to do from here?
Tears come easier these days, I am more open.
Lies touch me, even the air causes me to bleed.
I want it, gore in my eyes -- a timeline, caught between Heaven and the truth.
Untold desire and expressed repulsions make odd bedfellows.
Darkness covets night.
Truth is the uncoupled sailboat as it drifts,
and is eaten by the moon.
DAY
I am alone three days now.
I wait for her, an echo of my past.
I am not the same.
I am not the same.
I am not the same.
I do not walk that line.
I do not raise my hands.
I do not know the answer.
I am not him.
I am not him.
not...
am.
OPEN PLAINS -- for The Black Hole
Lady alone on the dark side of the world.
All truths shattered, and left in the dream.
Under the lies, and ties, she dies --
Ressurection fantasy.
Informed of her nature by new-burning heart,
Every road now open...those vast open plains.
Surprised with herself, she touches an
Underworld under the world she knew.
Soon to see her light explode
As she tears into her own.
Never again, strong back to the abyss -- she strides across dead, open plains.
Killed the thing,
Left alone with the residue...
Enigmatic puzzle she cannot control.
Intense new world unfolds at her feet and --
Nerve-wrecked and frightened, feet bloody in the debris --
Knowing this place she hath never known,
Now or ever. Crows call her name in praise.
End to the dark, end to the game,
Called forth unto her heart's hearth --
Hell? A miracle from which she survived intact.
Total love and life lie in wait for her beyond hot, open plains.
RUNNERS
You constantly tell me you hear when I talk.
You portend to listen, but that goes away.
And though I think often, how nice if to be heard been,
Time and again, you're running away.
VINE
In a time when I was mine,
I plucked me off the vine.
Ran pulped and wet with care...
Still, can never stare
The sun from heaven's heart,
The Moon from Mother's womb --
Somewhere in between
we nearly met our doom.
WRETCHED THING
a wretched thing am I,
pressed against the sky
with a wicked wonder-eye --
stinking with the lie.
CUNTENT
I am content to die alone,
No one really cares.
I'm hellbent, I stand the cold
No one even dares --
To approach me is futile, I'll cut you off.
You want to take gentle steps toward me.
To affront me is pointless, come here and see why.
All I have stored in me is worth this lie.
I am content to die alone.
EMPTY PAGE...a sonnet.
This empty page takes the ink,
And it fills, becomes complete --
No longer vague and obsolete.
All things must comfort the sick.
I pause to think of its meaning.
There is nothing to justify...
There is nothing to justify
What I feel about you. I'm dreaming.
This shouldn't be a love sonnet.
I don't know what it is, but I'm empty
In all respects that matter freely...
Still, just a baby in a bonnet.
I wish to forty-seven gods I could die --
That would make it quite all righ'.
URN -- for Janice
I can't figure out how this thing fucking operates --
Breaking me down, so low, I cannot contemplate --
Sick and serene in my walls, bulbous magistrate
Placating you with a rotten beef paperweight.
Strained and undone as I wander blind through my fate.
Drained and surreal, though never growing overweight.
Breaking my neck just so you can give half a shit.
Selling my skin for a serious nether-rate.
Bleeding the fist -- raised up -- as it turned on my youth.
Saving that grace that reeks worse than my rotting tooth.
Please forgive this mighty irrationale as it burns through so many smoking screens.
Tempt me toward the strange and banal as I burn into so many bleeding screams.
Rip it apart, rip it!
I mean to show you the Swing-Bats to know you.
I mean to shove you and prove that I love you.
Breaking the fame of a beast with no name as it feeds as it diets and ain't I a riot?
Molding an urn you,
"I'm hear to earn you."
TATTERED MAN
The reek of my bile clings to me, like a lover's sympathy.
I cannot say just how I found this place,
But between my ears lives my greatest disgrace.
Feed the fire obsession.
Spinning tired, loaded gun.
My golden faith, my living soul, I'd give it all away for one night's peace inside my head.
Tattered man, I can hardly stand. What makes a man a man?
Living everyday, trying to forge a way on a path which makes no fucking sense
Search the machine, monkey wrench.
Deadline,
Head on fire, broken back.
The constant buzz, the funeral gong -- I'd live it all again for one night's peace inside my head.
GREY MATTERS
Amorphical, gelatinous, polytruthful wannabe...
Stretch the road out, spread my arms, jellyfish inside of me.
Grey matters in a jar.
My new home, surrealistic empathy.