Sleeping Spell

Weighted words whispering slyly,

Constantly prickling your psyche’s core.

Memories and worries trickling through

Like locusts burrowing in your thoughts.

Down deserted paths under dark canopies

Of weather-worn tangled boughs

Wander withering self-identities

Wishing to have been realized.

In ragged grown thickets deep

Between the spires of ancient trees

It sings its honied lament

Like woven shadows through the leaves.

Caught within their passive torment

The shadows of former selves hear

And like a drought of sweet relief

Their worrying whispers disappear.

Soft dulcet tones swaying

Like a breeze offering retreat,

Enticed into enchantment

The wandering mind further sinks.

Awake and unaware,

Walking steadily through a dream

Down deeper in the thickets

Where it salivates and sings.

Weightless words whisper softly

Lulling you into sleep.

 

 

 

Danse Macabre

I can see your skeleton

Dancing wihout skin

Sickly thin but opened up

For anyone’s heart to wander in.

Peace of mind unveiled

Aware and mostly dead

But twirling in your skirt,

Dreaming as you exhale.

Free as dissipation,

Flatenned lungs kissing

Last breaths to beating hearts

Pumping through the intermission.

Roses thrown in jest

Cutting naked flesh,

Smile half-knowingly

Hand to your breast.

Curtsy as you walk

Ignoring all the talk,

Blending in uncomfortably

Till it’s time to dance again.

Pale as brittle bones,

Stepping with your toes,

Peeking through the blinds

To see what life you’re in.

 

 

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.