The CityThe CityElektra and time-twister, hear my distant cryout of past beneath Apocalypse waste sand of a land which almost diedof spirit-traps and ancient vampirestransmogrifying life to bitterness.Of a world where precious loveis sold for plastic and piss.The streets flow with human flesh, churning in black ichor oildrowning in sludge, choking on burning ragsSome of our brightest work in the streets- paladins covered in filth, sifting through garbagefor lost love lights- healers and caretakers of refugees cast as defects fromtowering factory mechanical spiresThe City burns a crown of a billion lights, each a brilliant starof artificial brightAll we have here is this little lamp --its cold outside beyond its pale glowThe City has heat without seeming end, boiling energy from the meat thatlives within.Thousands die in the City every night- hearts gorged on young blood, spirits burnt with Hellfire,drunk with the glory of impossible suicideIn vain they offer themselves a
Autumn Snowwill anyone wish to share my heartbefore the icy death of winter?it is already late to wonderit is autumnand have i just feltthe first snowflakesfall upon my brow?
cycleFox eyes shineA glimpse into the darkPools reflect sparks unseenMemories distantof closeness and meldingThrough the veil of timeAre 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 atmosphereAwoken drenched in icy sweatand 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,passion explodingin harsh white light.Blazing corona burning highpermeates,cleansing all in fire.Sparks escape into vacuum,damping to ash as they're blown,carried from the tempeston currents like cold metal.Floating in auroral etheramongst prismatic thoughtpainted with brushesimmersed in every perfect moment.Images gone...eventshalf remembered...only nostalgi
a dead twiga lone brittle twiglongs to be snapped in the windthere is not a breeze
reflectionssparks on the watersparks into the windmirrors facing in darkness
House Vey~House Vey~I was working as a tax agent for the British government in the Year ofOur Lord 1999. It was then that my supervisor approachedme regarding the matter of House Vey.``It has come to my attention,'' he said, ``that there is a real estate thathas been evading tax law for centuries. It isn't on land-survey maps andhas only come to my attention due to its recent acquisition ofmaterials from certain sources.''He handed me a file that described several transactions in metalsand rare minerals by a House of Vey, location given.``I want you to go down there,'' he continued, ``And make the bookssquare.''So I did what he told me. Not that it was easy. There was no road thatled 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, equippedwith a hand-written map superimposed on the GPS grid, I wanderedthrough the British countryside in search of t
Lack of timeIt´s a good excusebut if you really want toyou would find the time.
Living the Everyday Haiku1climbing the first verticalit comes to—a snail on my shoe2leaves falling everywhereI look, how easy it isto let them go3I marvel at everyrose bush petalholding fast in the wind4seed packets in a drawer—dormant dreams of an herbal gardencome spring5sharp-edged cloudscutting the moon in halfbut not the piercing wind6still in bed—winter scrubbing the remainsof autumn from the trees7 (seen on local news today)king tides—waves scattering cliff sidespectators with sea foam and awe8how cold the night—no sound of cricket or birdyet his breath in slumber9late morningpulling taut the bed sheet,outline of my tortoiseshell comb10lace curtain patternsfrom a kitchen breezefill the empty fruit bowl11chopping winter vegetablesfor stew—my thoughts of summer plums12reflection of my rouged lipson the window sillthrough a water glass13jelly-making day—pomegranate halves, redon half-read newspaper14freeze
Hakuna Matatano cares in this worldsing hakuna matataand just fly away
available nowlove is like a bruiselurking just beneath your skinbegging to be born
February Haiku 09-1-flakesflitting in the windthe swallows are far from home-1.5-clothes fly by the dryer window,backgrounds in a Roadrunner cartoon-2-trees paint their nails;everyone elsewears gloves-3-frozen pavements,streets wrappedin cling film-4-crumpled tissuesthe remainsof a snowman-5-virgin snowtrampledby a girl in hot pants-6-cryptic crosswordsand newsprint;not everything is black and white-7-buying frozen mincein a knitted red jumper-8-personal adsstackedwindows in a block of flats-9-snow wilts into the mud;umbrellas continueto bloom-10-gingerbread sky,midnight humswith sirens-11-bloated riversqueezing under bridges;roads fat with traffic-12-snowflakes on lashesplastic bagsin the branches of trees-13-blackout;streetlamps diebent old men lost in the dark-14-pigeons scatterin front of a cyclist;diners fling crumbs-15-unsteady rhythm on the roof;rain invisibleagainst the sky
i will delete thisi keep dead flowersin my window in hopes thatthey're just pretending.
untitled :-faith and love?-:searching is pointlessfate shall bequeth you true lovejust open your eyes