A Seasonal Affair

There is something special about

a summer day

that adorns itself in autumn's clothing.

It will wear the wind like a melancholic perfume,

leaving its fragrance dancing gently in the leaves of all trees.

There is a silence

There is a sadness

There is a slowness-

almost like a funerary waltz.

Yes, the summer will slide on autumn's dress,

and will play pretend-

dreaming of being and envying that season,

for the summer is in love with the winter

and autumn will always be closer

and more near to him

than she can ever be.

Solubility

There was a slowness in the summer city's air--

like a transparent oil gliding over the city streets.

It was the heaviness that I've tried to shed myself of,

it was the intuition of the abscense of your love.

From my window at the break of dawn I used to pray

that this lonesomeness under the northern sky

was indeed certainly not the art work of fate

that though time must pass, it wasn't too late.

Now when I wake, I make my way down the stairs

then through the hall and out the front door,

I step onto the streets below and fight my way

through the oil that traps me and still makes me stay.

Cars pass by -- my eyes are fixed at the horizon ahead,

and the emptiness guides me without a single faulty step.

Onlookers whisper and murmur, "surely she is dead!",

and I am hypnotized with emotion as I am further led.

There will never be any way to make sense of a lost dream,

it's known there is always a risk for ever even having had one,

the mysteries of love will always be what they shall be,

whether something beautiful is forever lost or won.

And as I haunt these foreign streets

My very own heart I still cannot understand-

maybe it's because I was raised by a man that loved the bottle,

because I was raised tough and without mercy by the hand.

The blooming flowers are something my eyes rarely see,

the only organ that works anymore is my heart,

which leaves me to continue walking toward the sea

as I feel us being distanced further and forever apart.

Dine to Die

Tonight they dine to die,

dressed in their Sunday best

across from one another at

a table lit up by gentle, twin

flickering flames-

And so were they!

A love fiery and consuming,

and hearts full of blood 

viciously beating within their chest

masqueraded by the cloth of said

Sunday Best.

But tonight they dine to die,

with a poisonous laughter permeating

through the air,

smiles as wide as the horizon,

and conversations that moved

like a locomotive-

They were all but safe in

one another's keep, and

the wine ran down their throats

as violently as the lies that had 

come deceitfully dancing

out of them.

Their kisses and carnivorous 

natures were all to be for naught,

for though it was love that lived

there at dinner in that space of time,

Aphrodite had now all she had dreamed

and cast, 

"Tonight they dine to die."

Love Through the Static

We were going nowhere--

I stabbed you,

then you stabbed me back,

and we were by that point a hideous, bleeding mess.

But I had something to say,

and you knew I wouldn't listen.

And I cleared the table

and ran back and forth between 

the kitchen sink and the table

with a coldness that couldn't be found in the freezer.

And trapped within our own heads

we wondered,

"What the fuck are we doing?"

But the truth was,

I was just waiting for the sun to set,

I was just waiting for what hadnt happened yet-

when the ice would melt,

and the night would fall,

and we would turn the station of our emotional radios

to the same channel,

and get into bed so that I could be

once more lying safely in my baby's arms.

Crazy Bird Girl

I’ve always been somewhat like a gremlin:

Don’t feed me (or give me alcohol) after midnight

Or I turn into a monster.

So be it if it is, I am me, and seldom do I share drinks with another.

To myself I am ice,

and everything and everyone I wish to draw near 

would turn away if they touched me.

To the world I am a flame:

Enticing, a beacon, seductive...

Destructive and the maker of ash.

Nonetheless, I cannot escape my inner Crow,

and I fly around wildly,

squawking, sailing, viciously pecking

and always,

always

watching.

The Widower

He could still hear her laughter

resounding like a million flickering butterflies in the air-

the scent of her perfume swaying into the

windchime on the porch in the evenings...

O Lord! How she still danced there,

O Lord! Where had she gone?

A chance once more to dance with her near,

One more time to carress the grace of her neck-

He longed for one last chance to rest beside her

For one last chance to have her at her best.

O Lord! How she still danced there,

O Lord! Where had she gone?

And this was the song of the Widower.

The Purpose of Life

Soft pillows and scented sheets

of a love that only two know,

laughter that is incessant

and continues to grow.

Quiet whispers that with breath

pet another's skin,

sweat and erotica that the

most pure wouldnt call sin.

Mirrors only reflect that

of a true lover's eyes,

and joy is the only thing

responsible for one's cries.

Hands held while walking

through the winter's snowfall,

landing into love is the only

place one would ever fall--

and these things, to me, are the purpose of life. 

Dirty Place

Late in the night,

I took my shovel...

The moon shined bright,

and the air was brisk.

I proceeded with my walk.

And on I went, to hallowed ground,

Where I had been before,

the dirt I knew,

the trash I was.

And in this town, 

there are graves for the unknown

the non-memorable

the emotional villans...

and I was one of them.

To bury

To bury

To bury

Whom?

And in the moon’s light,

I stabbed the shovel into earth

thinking of the crimes

thinking of their worth.

And a shallow grave I started,

but ended rather deep...

and somewhere in the middle,

I had a relentless weep.

But when the fathom was had,

and the task was then done,

I fell deep into the pit

To feel what I had won...

And the dirt rained down upon me

By a night time ghost working overtime

and the earth landed all upon my skin

and I felt a final sublime.

Thank you, dirt shower...

It is here where I feel safe!

It is here where I have put myself!

Where I belong is to this space!

Goodnight, my broken hearted...

You see me not now as I say farewell...

And the hurtful place I have left you in

Is nothing compared to this hell.

Wound

When it hurts so bad

that you can hear pain scream,

When tears sting like fire

When it aches too much to dream.

When it hurts so bad

that there is no description for pain,

When your cries for help are muted

When it cramps your heart in vain.

When it hurts so bad

that there is nothing left to wound,

When a welt becomes a heart beat

When your soul feels as if it's ruined.

When it hurts so bad

that your spirit becomes lacerated,

when sadness is cut adrift from itself

when your heart becomes incarcerated.

This is when, my friend...

you'll begin to finally really see-

and the veils and mysteries will disappear

and all that's left underneath will be me.

Amorous Aquarium

The last time I let

the wave of his ocean

course through me,

we were lying in bed.

Sharing the same pillow,

fixed on his eyes,

I found myself suddenly

beginning to cry...

the type of crying a tired one does...

I dont why.

Perhaps I knew just then

that I had finally drowned...

and now my bedroom has

become an underwater tomb

by which in the dark

I rest alone,

and the ominous silence

falls thicker

and

deeper

than any fish

could ever handle.

Afterhours

When the world sleeps,

I do not.

I dance with the winds of the afterhours,

under the night sky I sit outside...

smoking endless cigarettes...

costumed with mascara 

messily about my eyes.

I think what the restless do

before they fall into slumber-

only I stay awake...

I search the stars 

for comfort,

for answers...

I spend my time with GOD.

A girl and her dog

under the veil of the night

sit silently

feeling an orchestra of emotion within,

wondering where

the sadness stems from-

when it will leave...

and if it indeed does...

where she will be without it.

A heart dissolved within melancholy

waiting to be revived,

yet still on the brink 

of death.

The Anti-Housewife

I could never be a housewife.

I do love to vacuum, but I detest dusting.

My fingernails are not strong,

and they always peel.

When a baby is crying,

I can only come up with 2 solutions:

1. Run.

2. Give them whatever they want until they are quiet.

And speaking of quiet...I like the quiet too much.

I could never make dinner right, either.

Pizza anyone?

"Check, please!"

I'd much rather be reading in bed

than making the bed--

and I think I may even go as far to say

that I'm rather self absorbed.

(I like myself. I cant help it.)

I could never drive an SUV,

or be part of the PTA,

or live in a neighborhood with an HOA...

but I have no problem

spending all of my time with my D-O-G.

(And even if you were to ask him, he'd tell you:

"She wouldnt make a very good house wife.")

Billie and Me

Billie knew what she was singin' about when she sang,

"You're mean to me, why must you be mean to me?

Dear honey, it seems to me...you love to see me crying"

She knew how it felt, and felt how she knew it...

and I do, too.

Now I sit alone on a dark and cold January night

listening to Billie relive her pain

as I live my pain of you.

The wind blows hard, thrusting a chilling mist

from the rain that steadily descends

alike your love for me.

The rolling thunder then breaks the monotony

telling me and Billie that indeed

''The evening breeze, caressed the trees...tenderly..."

and maybe if Billie and I are lucky,

the breeze will hold us tonight, too.

Dancing with the Devil Again

I want to be 

locked down

locked in

locked up

within your evil graces.

I want to wuther in 

your heights

your hell

your hedonism

centered by your haunting.

I want to melt within 

your fires

your fucks

your flames

until I can feel again.

Anti-Bravery

I cannot wait until you die.

It is only then that I will be avenged.

It is only then that the truth will unravel.

It is only then that you will face your judgement.

I dont want you to die.

You are all I've ever had.

You are the only one who played music for me.

You are the only one who sang songs to me.

You were lucky no one heard us that night.

You were lucky I didnt scream.

You were lucky no one walked into the room.

You were lucky that CHRIST didnt strike you dead.

It was unfortunate that I was home that night.

It was unfortunate that I complied with your evil requests.

It was unfortunate that I loved you so very much.

It was unfortunate that I didnt love myself enough.

These days hold:

Fear of the dark

Fear of showering with the curtain closed

Fear of being touched in my sleep

Fear of you returning to my room 

Fear of every insignificant sound

Fear of going outside

Fear of being forever trapped inside

Fear of squeaky beds

Fear of secrets

(Fear of being asked to keep them)

Fear of bedtime

Fear of myself

Fear of YOU.