I won’t show you what I see
you’re sure not to believe me.
My view is shrouded, clouded,
sad, and sweet and tragic packaged
in goofy, filled with more darkness
ridiculousness. There are dragons
outside my window. Dire wolves,
Huge, haunting, and lurking things,
dragging oversized knives, lugging
pyramid heads. Continuing in their
dreaded existence. Doomed to roam.
Because I caught them and kept them
here. These bringers of death and
destruction set to a sweet symphony
in a minor key. So come, play me a song
and I’ll trade you a tale. One that I
cannot promise you will like.
But one that will help you find something
that you didn’t know you kept hidden.
I am the one at the gate. I am the blue eye
in the window. Come and dance with me
Beneath the waves of my haunted ocean.

23. Gold Plated

I never (don’t say it) I never
had ever hoped to be without you like
I am now. You, sitting high with your God
Praising praises and good works (mother, do not encourage this)
and shit. All of it. You can have my empire of dirt and mud,
because you are so sure what you believe. Everything that was
fed to us (with a silver spoon, do not be unaware of that). So
positive of the mythology (and it’s all mythology) are you.
I want the girl who cursed. I want the girl strung out on conspiracy theories.
I’ll take the demons. I want them. Give them to me.
I want the girl with the darkness before it consumed
her and turned her into a golden plated hypocrite.


22. The Rococo Narrative

Unsolicited elegance. “just paint your picture and be done with it”
she says. Unamused, not impressed. “I do despise this dress with the lowest of my being”
she’ll scoff, and reach for the decanter. “Madame, you mustn’t move, I must capture your essence”
aye sir, you capture her essence, and aye, sir a portrait can speak a myriad of words
But are they mine, sir?
she turns, the writer she’s invited to entertain her on this errand that some father’s suitor has put her to, it’s the writer that has caught as they say ‘the rub’.
Aye, sir, the artist has the eye for capturing beauty in a moment.
But tell me what you see that eyes can’t. (and now he has her attention)
I see
Something wild. And flourishing, like the crimson wildflowers of the banks in the Heart of Darkness. I see a beautiful something that has been harnessed for posterity’s sake (curse posterity and the sake of his libation) harnessed and shaped into something, while fetching,
is more like a cage than a display. She is not to be displayed. Why, the only thing I see that you maybe have put in perspective for the rest of the populace, sir,
(and now for reasons unbeknownst even to himself he finds himself in the throes of a tiff)
is the manner in which she folds the front of her satin! Godssake man! The wildest part of her that we can see is the crumpled fabric held begrudgingly in her grasp. In the whiteness of her knuckles, which, by the grace of Odin himself seem to have escaped the sculpting of your oils on this canvas!
The writer, exasperated, throws himself onto the Louis XV loveseat that pretentiously slides, screeching on the tile in exclamation (the dogs have since started and stopped barking due to the passion of the writer’s exposition). Applying pressure to his temples with thumb and forefinger, a hand accentuates a visor over the eyes.
“just paint your picture and be done with it”

20. 10,000 (vengeance for Felicia)

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades, centuries, Millenia
build and build and build just to see it all taken down to be rebuilt. Upgraded.
lived in. loved in. cast aside. Trashed. Spat upon.
oh, but how beautiful she will be
When she takes herself back.
Towering cast iron skeletons of stark industry decayed.
glimmering glass scattered and shattered cast among giant roots. Greenest leather leaf. Vines reaching, reaching, reaching building, building, building, ruining (how does it feel to be suffocated)
The evolution of things taking growth to an extreme.
that feels, just too good to say no to (the possibility, even)
Massive roots, gorging themselves on liberation. Shattering pavement, scattering concrete, flinging dust into the air as if in some mode of escape (or is it celebration).
Trees. Cities of trees and roots and vines where the captives can roam and roar, and play and run and gnash their teeth (the cages have been pried open by the vines).
Climate instability turning driest desert into a monsoon that brings life. Wiping slates clean in flash floods. Laying it’s upgrades to waste.
And from the solstice comes color. Orchids, lilacs, jasmine, Oh, the jasmine, the jasmine and gardenias, and lilies, wildflowers of such fragrance that would kill a human.
Were there any left.
They don’t deserve it.
We don’t deserve it.
And so she waits.

19. Maintenance

Time to come in, Rog. Oxygen is at a quarter
fuzzy. The com tells me my daydream is at an end. (daydream?)
I finished repairs a decade ago. But the minutes…
the sacred minutes I get as my own spec of dust.
Harnessing galaxies in my eyes and catching novas
in the glass of my visor. I’d spend my life in orbit.
To witness the stars live and die and live again.

18. Evening fog (a revue of the Royal Crown variety)

Hat. A fedora tonight, I think. The air is a white plume on black noir.
Boots. Laced, no, buckled tonight, yes.
Blue-grey smoke, (not like that faggots’ eyes.)
from my cigar, or is it my pipe, no, it’s a cigar tonight,
Dominican, Full bodied, just like I Like ‘em.
A little scotch, just enough to singe, and lite.
Jazz, jazz to a slow groove, with a silky alto.
My soundtrack. Don’t mean a thing, am I rite?
A stray cat crosses my path. Lookin’ like a, you know,
not lookin’ half bad in thrift store frock, hopin’ some
Shmuck gives her more than a night. She gives me the luxury of a
second glance. But with evening fog like this
who knows what I might be.

16. First Moon

it starts in my stomach. Something bad at lunch. Shouldn’t have had sushi. But then that sensation creeps away. Giving way to a flood of endorphins. Like a dam broke somewhere inside. A delicious head rush I’ve only ever experienced when that one girl let me fuck her tits twice in a row. Almost as good as getting sucked off. Almost.
Again. Heavier this time. Burns more. But I almost cream myself in the flood afterwards. I laugh.
The bite on my wrist starts to burn. But the burn you get from putting on too much relieving muscle cream.
All at once, I’m thrown to the ground of my bedroom. The neighbors think what I would hope. Rough sex. That’s what it feels like. So good. S-s-s-ooo goood. All over. Tense. Stretching. My bones crack. And blue-black energy flows through out my fingertips. Out my open mouth. Through my eyes. Something in the canines. She might’ve said. Two lifetimes ago.
my hands, stretch, fur, my feet, sharpen, digging, my back, the power, raw, feral, the best, my laugh, my laugh, I’ve heard it before, from my neighbor’s husky, my eyes. I can see everything. Supremacy.
howl with me

15. Forging of Thor

Ode to the Norse god

Bitter wind whips cloaks and furs as the riders crest the final hill. A fist rises. A signal to hold. Horses wicker, a restless hoof stomps, Words, guttural, soothing and then the wind again.
Below, a village, quiet, silent even. On this, the eve of Samhain, there should be laughter, songs, merriment filling the air next to spiced mead and mulled wine, roasted beef and pork over an open flame, but here, nothing, the wind off the snow, the sound the trees would make if there were any left. The wind cries for the trees. The one with the fist. Removes his helm and hands it to his second, still atop his horse. He dismounts. Speaking soothing words onto its muzzle, guttural, like the purr of some great cat. The horse understands. It’s seen war before. Knows the cost. Riders. 4. Look on as they watch the one with the fist heft his hammer. And march toward the ruins of the town. Dark whispers. Things creeping in the shadows. Slithering. Watching. Nipping at heels underneath ruined houses and charred buttresses. The one with the fist and the hammer marches towards the middle where it must be done. Heavy cloak whipping. Furs against the winters wind. Back on the hill the riders watch their captain march his slow deliberate charge into the blackness of the mist that has since enveloped the village. It knows. Something is here. Back on the hill, eyes shift, under helms. One set looks on, sending silent prayers.
It happens quickly and in succession.
A burst of white-gold light, and a rumble of thunder that starts far off and grows. And grows and grows until the ground feels like it might crumble. Deafening. Then a roar part war cry, part god-like decree, echoes from somewhere deep. A shriek like the casting of millions of unholy voices. Thunder again. Overhead this time. Then the whoosh of great wings. Great raven’s wings on the body of a woman. His shield maiden. His Valkyrie. Gliding. Swooping. Finally grabbing. Clutching. Like lovers locked in lust. Gasping into the skies. Into that velvet swath of jewel encrusted ecstasy.


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