Love’s Mortal Wound

“He sees death in the prostitutes who have witnessed the death of honor, and daily multiply the death of love, who bleed away their own lives 50 times a day beneath the relentless stabbings of countless conjugations” – Ed McBain

Our love has suffered a mortal wound

Feeling your name pulled from my chest
Stumbling thoughts, its you I kiss
Waiting for the next heartbeat
Feeling it deep in my bowels
nothing like it in the world
earth shaking my heart unfurls
Cant seem to find the easy forgiveness
Its costing me, running like a blood stream
I wait for you, like a passing cloud with no rain
Promises left unfilled, I break for you,
Inescapable vines, my love
bears a mortal wound
Distant hopes like mirages,
disappear in the change of your light
Promises like the morning fog, quickly gone in the light of truth
Strange though the pleasure you bring on the wings of pain
Surreal your gentle touch on the stroke of punishment
I sway under your movement, you never break your stare
I ran once but found you everywhere
I can’t help but feel the passion 
that gave love a mortal wound


Also published in Broowaha


09072011 

Love’s Mortal Wound

“He sees death in the prostitutes who have witnessed the death of honor, and daily multiply the death of love, who bleed away their own lives 50 times a day beneath the relentless stabbings of countless conjugations” – Ed McBain

Our love has suffered a mortal wound

Feeling your name pulled from my chest
Stumbling thoughts, its you I kiss
Waiting for the next heartbeat
Feeling it deep in my bowels
nothing like it in the world
earth shaking my heart unfurls
Cant seem to find the easy forgiveness
Its costing me, running like a blood stream
I wait for you, like a passing cloud with no rain
Promises left unfilled, I break for you,
Inescapable vines, my love
bears a mortal wound
Distant hopes like mirages,
disappear in the change of your light
Promises like the morning fog, quickly gone in the light of truth
Strange though the pleasure you bring on the wings of pain
Surreal your gentle touch on the stroke of punishment
I sway under your movement, you never break your stare
I ran once but found you everywhere
I can’t help but feel the passion 
that gave love a mortal wound


Also published in Broowaha


09072011 

Frankenstein

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein

Loneliness, dissatisfaction, and depression are all signs that my heartbeat sits in the background, flat-lined and breathless until I use it. Then I see it’s deformity. During my socialization, the malnutrition of nature and nurture led to a distorted development, an immature birth, an aborted process of creation. I patch up these defects with anything I can grab until I, a zombie Frankenstein, could attempt to imitate the living. It’s very obvious that something’s not right in this ambling beast. My expressions of adoration are awkward and stumbling, and especially given to extremes of violence and overcompensation. I’m quite adept at camouflaging their deadness with faked kindness and sweet articulations. In the world of the living dead appearances are deceiving. 
I use many things to stimulate my undead “love”. Money, words, drugs, and appearances can all be used to bring in the deformed masses that they may “love” me. I’m well aware they love my gifts, leading this Frankenstein to once again, lay on a mad doctor’s operating table to perform more abortions as I attempt to fix what can only be transformed by a power much greater. I felt real love once, when I sought a God that could deliver me from this horrid process. After I feeling it, it disappeared in my religious ideals and ceremonies which produced nothing of the vibrant love that I longed to possess. I know my last hope is in a divine intervention, and as I lay down on a stainless steel table of deliverance,  I wait for Elysian lightning to strike a real heartbeat in this Frankenstein of love.