I am possessed. Hauntingly, Beautifully Possessed...
Call me an angel So I may pray for acid rain. I’ll pray for oceans To run with blood, Or the sun to turn to ash. I dare say it doesn’t matter how, Just let the great scythe come. Let it sweep through our wasteland And leave us with nothing but The embers of an old… Continue reading Call me an angel
Home was a meadow. It was running away, grass between my toes...
They hung around her like flies Too young Too alone They whispered
I feel more at home among the trees, As though my body yearns for grass against my skin And leaves around my soul. Like a weed pretending to be human- Growing in the wrong place- Prickly, green and funny shaped And looking for something to uproot me. So I'll keep pressing flowers between these pages,… Continue reading A weed pretending to be human
We're just two lovers sitting in the park, Waiting for the end of the world. We do not rush- No, instead we linger, In earthy stillness, Just to see if love never truly ends. We watch the grass dance with bumble bees, And the wind play with shadows; All is quiet, until I lean over… Continue reading Just two lovers sitting in the park.
Oh, I long to talk to some old lover's ghost, To learn a little bit of what it's like to fly with angels, So in love you think you see Heaven. Oh, how I wish to see looks of love and malice- So twisted and rotten that I can no longer tell the difference- Hatred… Continue reading Some Old Lover’s Ghost
Does the storyteller aways have a Spirit in hand, Alone in the dark While spinning his tale? Or can it be a wish? Maybe a child? A lover? A hope? A thought? A feeling? One that isn't failure, I mean. Or maybe just a cup of tea- I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.
The Mad Creator Mixing poetry and madness In petri dishes made of cardboard Searching for the perfect drink: Make him drunk, But not so he cannot write; Make him numb, But not so he cannot remember his dealings. Make him learn to fly, So he can learn to live like angels To play God on… Continue reading The Mad Creator
I keep my muse in a bottle. I shake it every once in a while- Or tap it like a kid at a fish bowl- It doesn't move, stir or come back to life; It just idly floats through its own filth. I sigh. Typical, I mutter as I flush in down the toilet And… Continue reading A muse in a bottle