In the darkness of the hollow, In the wistful of the day, Comes a gnashing of the Daemon And the trouncing of the Bay. Leaves a mark upon the features; Plants a hook into the soul. Wants for loathing or self-hatred - Wants for wrecking of the lull. Choose the sinews of the monster - Horse of death, devoid of light. If you mount its mangy hackles It will drag you into night. Little solitude can linger At a time depression fraught. Either gallops gloom of gloaming Or a crafty concept caught. Makes for drowsy or for writing. Curl it in or fight it out: Tender tears to taint and tarnish, Fiendish fierceness flail and flout. Choose the dark and dangerous Daemon - Vapor’s Muse of shadow’s glare. Touch its fissured flesh of genius, Share its mind, but have a care. Whirling skirmish with a dark muse. Wrestling pen, now paper stained. Bleeds a vicious prose or poem; Heals the heart and mind, once pained.
down for the count up for the bill water, more water swallow a pill head full of broken shut your damn lips type in my logon man this pain rips check my to do list throttle a yell keep the damn light off Lord, i'm in hell responsibility headache is killing me punch out this deadline now make a b-line sunlight and dizziness throbbing and sleepless poetry rounding forehead pounding oh for a temperate dark quiet room to wrap me in stasis, a comforting tomb.
A stench that was once a curiosity – old fashioned “church lady” perfume. Of course that’s a fragment, but so is the memory. I recall a tiny, smooth bottle with a glass stopper, filled with what would become two dissonant memories. Continue reading
The endless breath of memory until my lungs explode and shards of passion and longing burst like fireworks into my subconscious where my cleaning crew rush to sweep self-loathing under rugs. But the Persians are already stained and cannot hide anymore mountains of repressed guilt and shame. And besides, says the Sweeper, do you really want to forget? Continue reading