Pleasant Springs

I don’t know why,

But cruelty always lived in that town.

Maybe it was in the water,

Regularly dosing the inhabitants

As it was swallowed every day.

Perhaps it was under the influence

Of some madness inducing parasite,

Indifferent to it’s casualties.

Or maybe it was cursed

By the remnant of some spirit,

Exercising wrath against the living.

Or maybe it was just cruel.

All I know,

Is that it was hardly innocent.

Behind the pleasant persona

Of a quaint woodland town

Lurked a sea of illness,

Brutallity, and active hate.

To walk the streets

Was to be exposed

To those who stalk the weak

For hardly any cause at all.

Stories of random beatings,

Robberies, and rape

Would circulate so often

To be an ever-present rule.

The law,

The real law evident to all,

Was the Melian Dialogue.

Never spoken, but even so,

Obvious to all who saw.

Small town America,

Christianity and moral life,

Those superfical platitudes applied

So heavily to disguise

The ever-present disscordance

Dancing before their eyes.

The same persons clamoring

For prayers in church gatherings

Walk out continuing

To prey on one another.

Maybe it’s the water,

Some parastie, or spirit.

Maybe it’s a culture

Of sickness they inherit.

I don’t know

What caused the place

To be the way it is,

But cruelty lives there

Nestled deep

And all do as it bids.

 

To Never Be Preyed Upon

To never be preyed upon

I learned

Either hunt or be hunted.

Be the breaker or the broken.

Swallow your sentimentallity

Or suffer.

Locked away in vaults

Of cold cruel steel,

Behind bitter dispassionate bars

Biting empathetic hands

I live

Looking out

At everything that’s kept away.

To never be preyed upon

Is to sever all your heartstrings

As each one tugs your veins,

Pushing them away

Before they draw you out,

Exposed, vulnerable,

Easy prey.

And every broken heartstring bleeds

In the buried vaults unseen,

Untouched by any hand

The writhing wounded psyche

I identify as me.

To never be preyed upon

Is to never be free,

Looking out to see pleasures

I wish I could’ve been

Open and tender

In such a way as to be

The delicate flower

I’ve sheltered to keep

From being preyed upon.

I weep

Behind locked steel doors

Ashamed of myself,

Afraid for myself,

In solitudes keeping

Too weak to be anything but

Never preyed upon.

 

 

 

The Sinking Razor

Back and forth

Swings the razor’s edge

Cutting every second

In perpetual rhythm.

Sleeping in distress,

No syllable expressed

Of the grinding apparatus

Against our bosom.

Frivolous in deeds,

Expedient in needs,

As the pendulum swings

Deeper through the chest.

Insouciant appearing,

Lacerations searing,

Tickling tender nerves

And numbing all the rest.

Revelry in laughter

Midst superficial chatter,

Ticking ever onward

And bleeding fibers pale.

Gaiety and madness

In masochistic gladness,

Sinking through the heart,

Defiant shallowness impaled.

 

 

 

 

 

My Little Ghosts

Ghosts, vivid as any indelible memory,

Opaque characters complex as any pain.

Whispering phantoms of fancy and debate,

Debased to be displayed within me.

Fragments of former friends and foes

Haunting the pensive moments of my mind.

Frequently visiting my somber silences

To stimulate my passive passions.

Enticing my impulses to aggravation,

My bitter hates and petty joys,

And long past my solemn recompense

They goad me into fits of familiar disillusion.

The remembered and imagined coalesce

Into perfect torments for my indolence,

So whatever quiet moments I acquire

Inevitably fill with vexatious rants.

 

Leave me be, but never go too far,

As long as I need to fill these voids.

As much as I move on, you’re still my ghosts

And I need your stimulation to survive.

Maybe once I’ve passed along

From one sad form into the next,

I’ll fill the quiet with better voices

And forms that leave me better vexed.

Necromancy

Deep breaths,

Resurrecting past emotions.

A litany of shit and shame

Deliberately targeted on the present moment.

Tangent upon tangent,

Trauma upon trauma,

Surfacing up to swallow

The security of my bondage.

Like the restless dead

Shrieking as their unearthed,

Naked in the light of day,

Tortured by the slightest sensation.

My life hurts.

All the painful memories replay.

This is My Hell.

This is everything I’ve tried to escape.

Keep breathing.

Wait for everything to bleed away.

Hold onto nothing,

Give it up,

Let it go.

Fear Of The Darker Half

The savage half that lurks

Within the sensitive little child.

The rabid ravenous wolf

That hungers for revenge.

The blinding red rage,

Demanding fresh sacrifice.

The violent satisfaction

Of devouring any threat.

Any perceived aggression

Like a beckoning full-moon,

Distorting the human form

Into malevolent mutation.

A child’s broken heart

Like the inner bleeding soul,

Nailed in and buried

Under cruelty’s creation.

The ferocity of retribution,

Destroying enemies and friends.

Offenders of the self,

Worthy offerings for the fiend.

Survival of the fittest

Gratifying primal urges,

The fear of being touched

And suffering more pain.

 

October: Black Coffee & Jazz

Chill October, the delight of my year.

Black coffee and jazz in the bitter autumn breeze.

The quietness and stillness of the dying season.

The rush of freezing winds and coldest rain.

The scent of spice, hazelnut, and cider.

The newest bad scary movies and costumes.

The mega-packs of sweet processed sugar.

The haunted houses and classic horror films.

A cup of coffee, a blanket, and Mary Shelley’s novel,

Curled up listening to melancholy jazz.

My favorite month, my favorite season.

Delight of my year, for all the little things.