walls

the walls were compacted sponge; harmless should she desire a concussion, but lethal to any breathing soul; for light and hope were sucked in, like bad chakra to a dream catcher.

strictly business, limbs were bound by hydrocodone chains and thick restraints. They feared her ability with the plastic dinner knife; looking at the carved ridges in her arms rather than the fresh ink on her heart.

it made no difference. cancer won the coup d'etat; her soul was fading like the paint on the walls.

præ dolore dolor est

for c.
because i miss you
more than usual tonight.

there is something painful
in the recollection of i love yous
said and unsaid,

an exquisite agony
that somehow coats my ribs
in mother-of-pearl and my heart
in gold.

the world says that i
am more beautiful
for having loved you
in the new moon's night,

but reason says this ache
is not to be desired
and i am a goddamn fool
for having ever loved.

i wish i could see your face
in the glowing constellations,
but i survive on smog
and forgetfulness.

i do wish it worked.
but it doesn't.

elle volera par des arcs en ciel

She crawled
along a branch, looking
for a protective shell, a pupae,
something or somebody to keep her
body warm during adolescent twilight, a time
where we need love, hope, and a kiss of true love,
from family, from friends, from a lover here and there.

Like so many of us,
she didn't get what she needed.

Even without a diet of sugar and smiles, one can grow;
a diet of bitter water and stale melancholy,
watering her shell with tears and lies,
(for that is all that fell, by grace
of God or unknown fate,
who knows?)

All I know is that she's a butterfly
with wings of rainbow steel, able to
fly upon her own two wings.

For the Muse-Touchèd Souls

It seem’st that from the stars, he shines ‘pon thee,
O gentle chann’ler of the poet’s muse;
a halo ‘pon thy brow -- by most unseen
for dusty words do oft their minds confuse.

Them -- I speak of groundlings, eas’ly captured
their minds enchanted by patches of skin,
with children’s charms their minds lost, enraptured,
simple minds not comprehending sin.

Dear poet, artist, I beg’st thee -- still shine
and breathe God’s love into the agèd words;
Shut thine ears when the unenlightened whine,
thine thoughts are rich, not fodder for the herds.

And, perhaps, when beneath the sod you lay
thy dusty words will see the light of day.

for K.H.
Ms. Condor Pride 2009

& j'aime tes beaux mots

Love is whatever you can still betray.
Betrayal can only happen if you love.
-- John le Carre

The way you kiss my inner ears
and evanesce my garnet fears;
the chords you strike, on strings so thin;
a tender melody within;
the key that melts my secret cave
and leads to death the frightened knave;
the warrior who tries to shield
emotions that would try to build
and blossom brightly, sun or rain;
believing both will summon pain.

This onion’s heart does know the truth
that you; so sweet, but so uncouth
have screens of smoke before your heart,
a spider’s web -- we’re split apart.
But this is love? So I’d believe --
this friendship does naught to relieve
the hours I spend counting time,
nor does it make my heart sublime
from toxic gas to trusting gold,
nor does it make these new wings bold.

coup de râge

still,
an iron lake in my heart
that swallow the fisherman
who try to catch something of worth.

I'm cold.
My bed is empty,
the other pillow is cold.

Midnight again,
I watch stars, sleeping;
tracing constellations that never were,
dreaming dreams that will not be.

Hot once, now cold,
the iron lake devours all.

eighteen going on forty-five

dearest angel,

our eyes met, somewhere on a street corner. Blue and green met the same wavelength; and I could see hearts rise spontaneously from cracked concrete, rising above the white clouds, where Jesus smiled brighter than the pearl gates.

i'm an old soul, spontaneous and sad, in love with stagelights and braced staves, but unable to carry a tune in the bucket, even though the well overflowed with quarter notes. my ears and feet resonate with old tunes, preferring Rodgers and Hammerstein to Rihanna and Rap; life is too short to hate the world and slander Fate.

my soul is a window, shattered by an errant baseball thrown by miscreant children who simply wanted a game. Baptized by the chronos shock wave that bled the Columbine flower; I celebrate two birthdays, with August brighter than October.

i'm young and learning, but aged and weary; eyes fixed on heaven but learning to love life. I'm an foundational paradox, beauty and ugliness playing tug-of-war over my very flesh and soul.

but none of that matters anymore.

the first night

With heavily stilled fingers, a stream of fragrance and light is invoked in this room. My flesh, coated with pitch and viral repulsiveness is sighing; weary after a day at the circus; listening to clowns in white gowns play mathematician; trying to find the combination of three numbers to be branded on my flesh. Breathe.

I call upon the name of the Father, the blessed Son and Mother; the Beloved Apostle, and the Protomartyr, whose story has rested on my mind heavily of late. The spirits of the holy Little Bear and her beheaded ladies, all five-hundred fifty score, are already in my in my mind, singing hymns in pure harmony while tidying the mess of scattered thoughts; little Post-Its now to be discarded, because this tree will not fruit again, only wilt.

I would sell my soul to melancholy, and let the Fallen Angel reign; but all of Heaven and the most precious of the world refuse; drawing crosses of me; standing me upright. I would set these moving lungs in a coffin, but none would hammer in the nails.

This coal heart shall change to diamond, with the promise of Jerusalem, brilliant and reborn. But even the caterpillar requires a moment to accept his new wings.

Tonight, every last cell of my being shall deprive itself of liquid, watering the pillows that support this burning head.

With time and grace, I shall smile again; Home beckons.

she flowers on the hillside of her heart

to pick a pretty flower is divine,
the rosy hues that blossom quite sublime;
the way she reaches gently 'round this vine
to share her fragrance where the shadows shine.

She grows as light -- her petals though are pulled
her heart remains wide open -- never folds,
her colors sing out steadfast; bright and bold.
Her spirit never freezes despite cold.

In winter still she shouts the joys of spring;
the fire in her voice makes flowers sing.
The passion in her voice makes everything
in shadows fade away; they pain they bring
is gone forevermore by acts of love;
o precious little flower from above.

ilvangurë

for Amanda Todd

"and i got you, i thought that
i got you. now i'll ruin it all.
feeling helpless, acting selfish,
being human and all.
& they're jumping, & they're jumping
but they'll never get out.
just keep touring, just keep ignoring
be a good little trout."
-- Amanda Fucking Palmer
Trout Heart Replica

i understand
the need to find
a way
out
of this mortal coil

to find
a fucking way
out!|away
from the smell
of pain,
the miasma of
desperation,

to avoid
lacerations
spoken by idiots
that aim to kill.

i know
that deer-
in-the-headlights look,
facing the medicine cabinet
and serving as judge,
jury,
and executioner.

though i
cannot understand
the universe of
your choices and thoughts,

i can
wish you on at godspeed.
may you find
light in the æther
and hope, somewhere.

mythrandirs

i.
sonata in f minor, she bleeds
across staves, awakening keys
and chords that lay
dormant for far too long.

the mournlands echo through
in exotic fugues, she knows
exactly what it means
to break and ache and never be
quite the same again.

ii.
sonetto di nuovo voce, he sings
a versified paean to the new morning, he brings
healing and light in his fingertips;
not just for others, but him,
oh battered soul, deprived for far too long.

a lonely girl reads and finds her heart
somewhere in the staves, she slips away
from sadness -- “sweetheart, find your star!”
She’s searching but maybe not
searching anymore.


iii.
to be or not to be, the question crosses
the 30/90 playwright at a junction in his life.
do i matter? do i have anything to say?

he writes and lights the stage
for other stars to shine, but he
wonders if he gets to shine, too.


iv.
weary myth-randirs, their eyes
absorb the world and look beyond;
mapping twinkles in tired eyes,
finding stars in sheltered places.

they write, sing, compose; graft
the divine verse into mundane days.
imagine a world sans sunlight, without voices
to pierce the smoke and smog.

celebrate the song of the wandering hearts.
they hurt and yet create so we might heal.

grâce pour elle qui aime le ciel

We say grace, a tired prayer upon our lips, looking for some kind of outlet, some kind of shooting star to bind it to, in hope that it will reach God's ears. We hope. Dear God, we hope.

We have lived through years of acid and wine, of miracles and unanswered prayers. we are confused and lost, and simultaneously found and loved. We are blessed and cursed, and torn between two worlds.

we seek you. through all hardships, through the sacrilege and calluses on our hands, our eyes inevitably seek the unfractured light. in a world of darkness we recognize salvation; though it is immediate and undeniably far off. We live to die and die living, oxymoronic creatures such as we are.

we are no masters of the nuances of heaven, no diviners of holy whims. we simply live. and that must be enough. we simply live.

dream catcher

dream catcher
with inversed polarity

letting nightmares
shape the night.

caught fantasies
die at dawn

before I
can hold them.

Stoneheart's Sonnet

"She wailed, and leaning back her neck breathed Hypnos who walks with Thanatos; for verily it was ordained that both should have all things in common and pursue the works of the elder brother: hence women, weighed down with sorrowing eyes, oft-times, while they weep, fall asleep." -- Colluthus, Rape of Helen 365ff

If purity by name is my own right,
then hearken to my hatred. O pure blade
by which my life-blood spilt -- behold the night,
behold the ranks of angry men arrayed
sans banners, leave your honor and your crowns
to kings and prideful men, I have no use
for fortresses or moats, I need no towns;
I shall not plow the fields, I make no ruse
of normal life, I walk not in that land;
I tread The Stranger's way, this herald cries
for vengeance! Lordly oaths aren't writ in sand
for men of evil temperament to spite.

With Death, my second spouse, I keep my first,
a brand upon my heart; he feeds my thirst.