The CityThe City
Elektra and time-twister, hear my distant cry
out of past beneath Apocalypse waste sand of a land which almost died
of spirit-traps and ancient vampires
transmogrifying life to bitterness.
Of a world where precious love
is sold for plastic and piss.
The streets flow with human flesh, churning in black ichor oil
drowning in sludge, choking on burning rags
Some of our brightest work in the streets
- paladins covered in filth, sifting through garbage
for lost love lights
- healers and caretakers of refugees cast as defects from
towering factory mechanical spires
The City burns a crown of a billion lights, each a brilliant star
of artificial bright
All we have here is this little lamp --
its cold outside beyond its pale glow
The City has heat without seeming end, boiling energy from the meat that
Thousands die in the City every night
- hearts gorged on young blood, spirits burnt with Hellfire,
drunk with the glory of impossible suicide
In vain they offer themselves a
untitled :-faith and love?-:searching is pointless
fate shall bequeth you true love
just open your eyes
Autumn Snowwill anyone wish to share my heart
before the icy death of winter?
it is already late to wonder
it is autumn
and have i just felt
the first snowflakes
fall upon my brow?
cycleFox eyes shine
A glimpse into the dark
Pools reflect sparks unseen
of closeness and melding
Through the veil of time
Are you calling for me?
Wind rattles the leaves,
Pulls the dark cloak about the sky,
Stars and moon dissolve into black velvet.
Wet dew blankets the forest,
joining life with mist's night chill.
Lightning cracks the atmosphere
Awoken drenched in icy sweat
and saguine warmth.
A mirror shines amidst nothingness --
a window to the world outside,
or self-reflecting infinite oblivion?
Ensconced in darkness,
a pale flame smeared with ink.
Glass shattering on the floor,
falling deep in water,
in harsh white light.
Blazing corona burning high
cleansing all in fire.
Sparks escape into vacuum,
damping to ash as they're blown,
carried from the tempest
on currents like cold metal.
Floating in auroral ether
amongst prismatic thought
painted with brushes
immersed in every perfect moment.
half remembered...only nostalgi
House Vey~House Vey~
I was working as a tax agent for the British government in the Year of
Our Lord 1999. It was then that my supervisor approached
me regarding the matter of House Vey.
``It has come to my attention,'' he said, ``that there is a real estate that
has been evading tax law for centuries. It isn't on land-survey maps and
has only come to my attention due to its recent acquisition of
materials from certain sources.''
He handed me a file that described several transactions in metals
and rare minerals by a House of Vey, location given.
``I want you to go down there,'' he continued, ``And make the books
So I did what he told me. Not that it was easy. There was no road that
led to the House of Vey (a house left off of the British Royals' list).
Instead, I took my auto as far as dirt roads allowed. Then, equipped
with a hand-written map superimposed on the GPS grid, I wandered
through the British countryside in search of t