No One Can See

“It’s just some instinct as old as fear: you seek the dark when you hide, you seek the light when the need to hide is gone. All the animals have it too. (“New York Blues”)”
Cornell Woolrich,
Night and Fear: A Centenary Collection of Stories 
 
i3 – ytimg
Flee my soul into the tide
Dive my soul into the night
No one can see
 
Float again, soon to be
The flavor of lust again in thee
No one can see
 
Something beyond calling to me
To gather my strength and give esteem
No one can see
 
Hiding alone amongst the trees,
again I rejoice in the fallen leaves
No one can see
 
Flying through the depths of seas
in the caves are heavens keys
No one can see
No one can see
12212010

The Fall

“[…] as if the next thing must quickly come along to occupy her, or the abyss might open. What abyss? The abyss that waits for all of us, when all our actions seem futile, when the ability to fill the day seems stalled, and the waiting takes on an edge of dread. ”
Anita Brookner, Latecomers

 

 

I fell. Deep. Down a dark hole. Some call it love, some call it hell. I prefer a nomenclature of a different sort, “Abyss”. I keep falling, there’s no bottom, no end. I throw up ropes hoping they catch on ledges of sanity as I slip past in a free fall. There’s no reason, no understanding of this mystery, and still I fall. Controlling my fall is a crazy act of futility. I spin, float, and turn. Why? When I see her, my soul feels the wind of my descent. Is this free fall into love supposed to be a good thing? I stood on solid ground once, I don’t recall being happy there. Spinning out of control, I find contentment in that I’ll hit bottom one day; this hole will kill me. Does it wish me to be slain at its feet? Still I fall. I watch the faces of companions, wishing I fell for them like this. They are blurs, rushing by, in years that are seconds in the fall. The fall is only a moment, a blink, and yet, an eternal life is born and dies in that moment. Still I fall. It’s peaceful when my body supersedes reality, except for when the touch of my lover crashes through the dream. If she had hope that secured her, then she could rescue me. Still I fall. What’s left as the light grows smaller in my eyes? I smile, warmly feeling the embrace of the fall. It’s a leap that I’ll take again, given a second chance. Or would I? The Abyss waits for us all, will you take the plunge?

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine 

02252012 

Stinger – Fighting doubt

“The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser men so full of doubts.” – Bertrand Russell
Tickle in my brain, flying around in there
Nettle from the wings, wings without air.
Brother to it’s flight, a needle of doubt
The sting will be sure, no way out.
I flinch from the pain, it pierces my defense
Pushing without mercy, sparing no expense
I feel the poison rush, numbing as it goes
Fiercely it corrupts, putting hope in death throes
I shake myself aware, knowing I won’t let go
To pull this ugly thing out, to stop the ebbing flow
Strength from the deep, I brace once more for pain

Doubt resurrects, it’ll keep coming back again.

Also published in Wingposse, September 2012 


02212011

Serenity’s Storm

I think that the ideal space must contain elements of magic, serenity, sorcery and mystery.”
Wash away, all the same
Breezes blow, I will trade
Tranquil bows, some not all
Pass me through, I’ll not call
Feelings so smooth
 
Like rocks worn, by the waters rush.
Feelings quelled, by the hush
Cascades of warmth, not ambient
Inside it burns, not transient
Easy comes the calm
 
Many searching, souls exist,
In this world, of gentle mist
A serenity that, cannot be trained.
Never before, traveling this lane
I’m now savoring
Tempest you will, draw my attention
Pleased I fall back, there’s no tension
I turn again, to the lonely sound
Never having, to leave the ground
Lost in the moment
01162011
Tempest you draw my attention
Pleased I fall back again
I turn to the sound
Never having left the ground
Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

Tempest you draw my attention
Pleased I fall back again
I turn to the sound
Never having left the ground
Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

Tempest you draw my attention
Pleased I fall back again
I turn to the sound
Never having left the ground
Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

Tempest you draw my attention
Pleased I fall back again
I turn to the sound
Never having left the ground
Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

The Dust – Apathy exposes your cracks

“Even when I try to stir myself up, I just get irritated because I can’t make anything come out. And in the middle of the night I lie here thinking about all this. If I don’t get back on track somehow, I’m dead, that’s the sense I get. 
There isn’t a single strong emotion inside me.” ― Banana Yoshimoto
 

 

 

You see beauty everywhere, your supposed to be happy. Your not.
You see people laughing, your supposed to be a part. Your not.
You see tears falling, your supposed to feel. Your not.
You see beauty everywhere, your supposed to be happy. Your not.
You see people laughing, your supposed to be a part. Your not.
You see prayers offered, your suppose to do that. Your not.
You see tears falling, your supposed to feel. Your not.
You see life passing, your supposed to do something. Your not.
And worst of all, you just don’t care. I mean you really, really, don’t care. About anything.
It’s death you feel in every little crack of your soul.
Like dust collecting, this death accumulates in the small areas of your life.
But wait you walking dead! Be encouraged!
There’s life again, a spring cleaning as it were, rising from the dust of death in your life.
You must quiet yourself and stop running to the next thing that will numb you.
You must quiet yourself and wait to hear the voice of your maker calling after you.
You must quiet yourself and pray to the one who has the love that will make you whole.
I’ve felt the death that living life can bring, and I’ve felt the arms of my Father,

Those arms have made me strong enough to live and be safe from the dust.

 

Also published in Broowaha Magazine
01082011

Skin – Yours feels good on me

Be forewarned: This is a creative application of an analogy
“The finest clothing made is a person’s own skin, but, of course, society demands something more than this.”  – Mark Twain
 
“It’s a sad man my friend who’s livin’ in his own skin and can’t stand the company.”                             – Bruce Springsteen

 

ad libitum

Pulling out my favorite skin, one of the many I’ve gathered over the course of years, I pushed one foot through, then pulling it over my head, stood up and turned around. There, now I’m complete. I looked in the mirror, this skin is tight, it doesn’t quite fit. “After all my hunting to find the perfect fit, damn.” These things change you know, in the night while your sleeping, they shrink and grow taking on their own wild destiny. It’s hard to pull out the men, the women, from their skins. I yank and tug, making little cuts to release the flesh, loving when it just falls off, but that usually meant someone else had the same idea, using it to hide, or rather, to enhance their look. My collection is extensive and ever changing. I pulled some off of religious fanatics, some from thugs, some from pretty boy hair bands. I yanked a couple off some bikers and even a lawyer couldn’t escape my scheming thievery. All skin is beautiful by virtue of hiding mine. I sit looking in the mirror at my latest acquisition. I sure look good in it, wish I could move though, it always rips when I go outside. No worries though, I’ll keep yanking and saving them and perhaps sew them together. I’ll find one that fits and works eventually. I wish they wouldn’t leave marks on me, it blows my cover when you see pieces that obviously don’t fit on me. I’ll make excuses and hold it on while I scurry to pull another skin over the unfinished parts of me.

Also Published in: Wingposse Magazine, April 2013

12202012 

White Noise

“It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.”
Don DeLillo, White Noise 
killedtheinnocentpeople

 

Always company to the old scenes,
a noise it follows,
a voice alone in the streets.
Blankets of sound wrap me tight,
with no comfort noise,
in the blackness of night.
Garbled whispers nothings clear,
except the noise
of failure and then fear
My blurry mind is all full of snow,
white washed noise,
an emery pain makes it glow.
Flipping the channels all in vain,
the hissing noise,
Will come back again.

Permutations

“The life of the dead is set in the memory of the living.” ― Cicero, Philippics
taliesyne
There’s something hidden, a suffocated wish tucked away in a forgotten cobwebbed corner. The gray green tints of death work their magic in transforming the wonder to a wasted sticky mess that’s never the same. A smell of the once alive, again persuades the living. We’re fatefully committed to the peer pressure of dead things and that without prejudice. A moment that died many years ago…it lives still, kept alive by the artificial respirator of my mind.  It then remains that the only way to kill it, is to kill me. Damn the longevity of dead dreams! Of dead love! May death release me from their vice, and if they were to live on, this will be the hell of the underworld.

Also published in Wingposse
02192014

Hooked

 “Assure a man that he has a soul and then frighten him with old wives’ tales as to what is to become of him afterward, and you have hooked a fish, a mental slave.”
– Theodore Dreiser

The following is a poem from an exceptionally talented new friend, Arne Tornek. Enjoy.



 
fantasygoth
The hook slicks in.
How easily she snags.
How tightly she tugs.
 
She knows no surrender.
Long in exile, she returns,
To lead you to forgotten rooms.
 
In a careless moment
She sucks the tongue from your mouth.
Coils it round your demon need,
Slips it back behind your lips.
 
You swallow her hard.
Scornfully, she sniggers at you.
Knows that you can’t do without her,
In spite of your painstaking
Hopeless attempts.
 
She washes over your mind like an old friend,
With the comforting allure of a new lover.
And she’s back with her pedicure
In the ring of your desires;
Your powerless soul at prayer
Under the Gothic arch of her painted foot.

01312012

Beyond

“It is impossible to suffer without making someone else pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

twindle
“You’ve such kind eyes sir, full of sorrow not all your own.”
Thank you kindly, but you don’t see, all that rages beyond.
A slasher lives, who wants to burn and pillage, watching
those who are proud to suffer humiliation and pain, like
what they did to me and to my loves. My innocence
ravaged, I only want to burn, my slashing blades edge
finding their neck. To see their flesh bubble and burst,
their tongues swell with pain and heat, just a little
revenge on those who with violence reign and terrorize,
I’ll burn their Babylon with brimstone and hot black oil.
The trouble comes when, without expression on those,
someone will pay and perhaps not one who deserves it.
An unsuspecting soul, who in a fit of unlucky anger,
raises a fist to the slasher and the fury is unleashed.