Unanticipated, as I showered
today, I watched long black strands of your hair
coil like water snakes toward the drain,
whipping their muscular way
toward the sewer, slipping through
the surge, singing silent songs of entropy
as they left me to cry
over the scent of your shampoo and the pitted
razor blades that did not leave with you
when death came to take you from our house
and, before the kitchen felt
my feet and fingers searching for
routine, before the bed unmade me
more than yesterday, I again
turned down the frames of you Id
set atop the shelves wed hung
to hold memory unanticipated.
Born from the kiss of a goddess
And drenched in the cauldron of lies.
He emerged as a being of entropy
Bearing the mark of flies...
His wings were made from crow-like feathers
Black as the dust of the night.
His fangs were laden with horrid infection
Made from the stone of blight.
A single bite, was poison enough
And soon they began to change...
The children loved by the lady in white
Soon they became deranged.
Powerful beings of might and magic
They soared through the moonlit sky!
They flew amongst the twinkling stars
But their gift was a burning lie...
Falling to the ground like choking insects
Crawling in the dirt with a painful thirst.
These creatures needed the taste of blood
And their friends would be the first.
Neighbours, comrades, it mattered not!
Survival become an instinctive drive.
To bite and feed was a natural feeling
And horror came when night arrived.
Men or women, children who slept;
Through windows and doors they would slithe
This Will is not the standard. This is not the meat of cookie cut legal fodder. No potato, vegetable, or other filler present for my lawyer to consume. This is for you all, my closest comrades, companions, and, dare I say, friends. This will never be seen by anyone. I hope it's never seen by you. But if these words are leaving your lips then I'm afraid that I have fallen on these to say the goodbyes that I may or may not have had the chance to say.
I wish nothing more than to be with you always, to live another day and to breathe another breath of Berlin's exhaust air, but chance has rendered this desire impossible. So here I am in the basement of the shop with this rusty old typewriter. Typing. I can hear you now, Ophelia, with Rowan laughing over
ever expanding while
trace icy paths down
my spine -- the ghost
of your fingertips
against my skin
even after your memory
seven days in a darkened room chainsmoking
like i know what i'm doing,
box after box of wine, splitting headaches in the morning
(from sleep deprivation. i can handle my liquor in both hands),
the first chill of autumn.
everything before has been an excuse,
shutters to hide the existence of windows at all-- blinders
for the horse, so i could lead it to a poisoned well
without complaint. i told him it was vodka
and he gorged himself. in the morning
i brandished my newest whip to a sky grown strangely,
viscerally vivid, saluting the sun
before beating the corpse to shreds.
when my arms were tired i used my head.
i suppose eventually i will grow exhausted.
i felt the first promise of autumn in a frisson of breeze
at my back that dawn, and i remembered:
hope is the only thing truly capable of reincarnation,
as evidenced by the single branch of lemon-colored leaves
amid the clinging green of late summer,
lavender mist in the corner of my be
Morning is cold, lonely and gray
Can never let go, of this memory's glow
Happiness lost, sends me deeper into sorrow