Aftermath II

Darkness overtakes us now;
No longer able to flee its heavy burden,
We are numbed while you nibble carelessly at my ear.
Exhaustion of the spirit resumes,
Revealing itself a little fuller and fouler once more,
Reflected in your face and mine though we may yet try to hide it away.
I grow weary of you and me all of a sudden,
Our toils now seem vain and inadequate for our purpose
And the online dating service smiles sadly, expectantly, inwardly.

Aftermath I

Readdressing your wounds
I find myself wandering
Across the vast mistake that led us here,
To your bed.
Its size now diagonal to the depths,
It beats over our glistening vessels,
Frolicking in the mystical vapors coming out of our pores.
Reaching for breath, you untangle yourself,
Free once more to roam the bedroom,
Poised like that hunter of old.
And I, a simple gatherer by your measure,
Tend to the burning fire of the hearth and my ankle,
So sprained in our exploits as to defy the notion.

Second (The second episode)

There must have been thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. He
couldn't count them all even if he tried. Well, at least not out loud. There were moons and
forests and brooks, songs and parodies, lost and familiar, snowy peaks and silent deserts;
kings along space shuttles and strange looking insects ("are those things doing what I
think they're doing?” he mused. "Eww"). Crisscrossing the "platform" were rivulets of
dynasty mixed with ketchup, which was the best way he could describe it, or try to
comprehend it for that matter. His old master told him of these moments and warned him
of the danger the hid behind their sheer sense of "overwhelmness", as he termed it. He
claimed that the 'unknown is generally feared among mortal men and that this is but
natural. But the real dangers lurk in the places and moments where the unknown meets
the familiar, mates with it and gives birth to reality. For that reality is never quite what
you'd expect. Some of it may look familiar and comforting', he pointed, 'but look at the
gaze in its eyes and you'll find terror there, if you seek it'. Knowing about these moments
beforehand hadn't really prepared him for this, he had to conclude. So, finally, only slightly
holding his breath, he took a small step in the direction he thought was forward.
The lights, even those on the platform sides, seem to flicker for a moment and then
returned to normal. In fact, he realized, the lights were pretty much the only thing that
was normal around umm... here. That somewhat curious and rather obese ogre at the
entrance for example was unusual, but he decided, trying to control his breath, not to
think about that one too much.
What did bother him at that instant, however, was how the floor seem to turn slimy
somehow, though he didn't see any apparent reason for it. It looked the same
mesmerizing red-blue-and that other color he couldn't quite name tiles that accompanied
him since he entered the chamber. Of course, he wasn't particularly good with colors
anyway, but somehow he felt that wasn't the main issue at the point. The lights were
somehow... friendly? Certainly compared to that welcoming committee that awaited him
at the entrance. Teaching the acolytes how to smile did not seem to be a high priority,
he mused, though they did seem quite courteous and polite. At least those who didn't
pout quite so blatantly at him. Adrian didn't have to use their services, of course, but they
were the most readily available under the circumstances and that stood for something.
There was also the small debt they owed, of course, but he was also courteous enough
not to mention it. At least not out front anyway; he did allude to it in the most general of
terms. They didn't seem to comprehend all his hints and allusions, only the least bit
inconveniant ones. Even then, though, he'd --
"Lord Adrian?” a voice said.
"Yes?"
"If you're quite ready, sir. We are assembled".
"Thank you".
They stood next to a long rectangle table, the embodiment of a committee on earth,
though they would, and had, denied such accusation rather fiercely. "Please, be sitted",
said the Chair. There were only two of his brothers there, he saw, as he was sitting
himself, mumbling the Blessing. The others were a woman, her hair tied neatly behind her,
making her association a bit more difficult to discern, and an elderly man in acolyte robes.
"Lord Adrian", said one of the Brothers, "May I introduce Lady Clara Shift, head of the local
order, Adam Arkand, head of ceremonies, acolyte Joseph Kley and myself, Peter Yone of
the memorial fund".
"I am honored", said Adrian. "May the Muses bless us".
"Indeed", responded Lady Clara. "I trust the accommodations were... satisfactory?"
"Quite so, thank you... again. You were most kind". Adrian thought he heard a stifled yawn
out of the acolyte, but he let it pass. "You know why I came here", he said quietly after a
few too many seconds of loud silence.
"We do", said Lady Clara, obviously not too happily.
"And?” Adrian inquired.
"This would not be easy. Do you realize the importance of such a relic, especially here and
now, just a few days before the anniversary?"
"I do".
"And still you ask it of us as if it was a trinket", said Adam, rather angrily.
"I'm afraid I must insist nevertheless. The Plectrum will be returned unharmed, I assure
you." Their looks suggested quite a bit of mistrust. "And the Yellow Cloud itself, of course".
That didn't seem to improve their attitude. "I will leave you to your deliberations then".
No response.
"Err... Could you direct me to the exit please?"

Contention

I often ride this not-so-tall a horse,
Back aching, leaning crumpled,
Dashing to the rescue of the forsaking muse.
Smelling of the tides of war,
My faithful dog bites itself,
Trying vainly, discourtesy aside,
To reach the common goal.
My armor is light with feathers,
Tempting with the bull's eye
Of its elegant V shaped neck.
My sword rusts there in indignation,
Forgiving as natural to it as believing,
But I smite it just the same; just.
I often amble in these burning pastures,
Speeding at impasses and slowing at the gates of hypocrisy;
It would do no good to challenge that one in this weather, surely?
The mills drive by, now fully content by their wheels,
Spinning giants atop, lowly dwarves whispering behind their noble brows,
Chit-chatting in the easy breeze of mid afternoon strife delight.
Circling the florid mound, the mare recruits the stony aperture to her aid,
Casting swift slippery shadows across the ravine's edges and into the crowded center,
Frightening sleepy scorpions long not in use and dreamy emo children,
Whinnying as I caress the reddish mane, gawking at dark slit within.

You Called

My hands ached with sweet agony,
White, skeletal, splintered with bony fingers,
They yearned to hold it out from in;
My eyes, which once devoured your image in my stead,
Now sought to drown in it a-whole,
Occupying the mind's third fully,
Only to discover they were already scorched with it;
My temples, hammered by your treasured voice,
No longer seem to note the piercing feeling they there underwent -
For brilliance, your own, has sated them
And brought burning comfort to their midst.
Aye, and then you called;
And senses shifted and blurred across my bosom,
My heart there raced and cantered like a rabid dog,
Turned loose upon the world in some muddy mire,
Dark as night and hot with flames that burn and burn the flesh away!
Aye, you called and ended life;
You smiled (for I sensed it in your voice) and folly flied;
You spoke! (And I could still hear it) and clove the heart right out of me.

"Hello?"

Dark Fire

Your golden hair now flecked with white
Shining eerie in the pale moonlight;
Come sit beside me, my dark fire
Let us sing and tell tales to befit this mire.
Your cauldron is so hot tonight
Steam rising to fill us fright,
Scents of honey spiced with wine
Peppered to perfection ere we dine,
Hollow shadows dance around
Driving light out of our grounds
For tonight, my dark, we feast
Upon the offerings of men and beasts!
Your icy touch so burneth me
That I relentlessly agree
To walk with you in your own path
So shaded, so doomed, so full of wrath.
O, dim sun, shall I compare thee to a rose?
Nay; a flowering fragrant black Lilly is thy pose!
Cowled with your beauty you walk
Gliding along the fireplace without balk
Mirrored in the gilded stand lamp
Your reflection flares in my eyes vamped
And so I can finally make flesh my plan
To spend my undying nights behind the sun
Here, with you, in mists we'll drift
Our swirling stygian cores to lift.

Crossing the Byway

Skewed, I list across the sideways
Lilting through the courtyard,
Hanging by a thread
Of a rose's bloody thorn.

She is gone.

I float again in the grieving wonder
An empty flame in thy midst,
Hovering and winking in the husk
Of what's left.

She is gone.

My troubled eyes see the image
As an omen for the crucified;
I lean against my Mary Magdalene
But she is gone.

I whisper to my self.

Failing to grasp,
I construe the light without the dark and thus I'm blinded;
I hear nothing but my old broken self
And she is gone.

I cross the courtyard once again,
Attempting to complete the journey for the last time.
Her enmity fills me
And I am gone.

Staring Blankly Across the Ages

I
Waiting on the arrow's uncouth edge,
The tinker lays her hopes unto the dead man's weight,
Stalling, in the corner,
While across the yard the smith wipes his brow,
His apron brawned by white hot flickers of fire.

Thus was our village, long ago.

II
The harlot wails for the stranger,
But I can find no peace there;
The church bells toll for evening succor
But my bed is empty like my mind.

III
Riddles form on top the clogged fireplace,
Its mantle dimly reflects her bloody breath,
Consumed by the analogies and future hysteria,
Ebbing silently to the foggy street outside.

IV
Brother, come with us!
We march tonight against the dark foe,
Liberty and Reich, emperor and redemption;
We face our own mirrors, O vanity!

V
Daughter, don't go outside today;
The acid flows freely out there, as it does here,
Nimbling across the attercop's creation,
Devouring foundations and fermenting the grander stage,
Set willfully, desperately, on the isle's fancy.

Writer's Block IV

Constructed, constricted,
The hand lies down unannounced at the side of the curb.
Where has Calliope left her bread crumbs for me?
It all connects upon this finely honed dot,
So light that a mountain would waver before it,
So small that the ocean forbade it,
So inexcusable that I cannot sleep;
Not anymore.

Obstructed, obliterated,
My mind takes in the surroundings in a long flaying motion,
Now undertaking a dodgy worthy task,
Now burying its outcomes deep in the upheavals of the past.
The foggy moors call out loud,
But if a man hangs to dry at the city,
Who will hear the call?

Petrified, pitied,
I sulk again at the now closer images that threaten to run down
Pillars of ribbons and scaffolds of grey,
Towering within my empty self,
Single, unique, lost.

Sun Beam

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
The bee asked the dark spider.
"I do not know, small prey", he answered
"But it is most unnatural to me".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Squeaked to herself the honey bird.
"I do not know, rose petal", she chirped
"But it is clear as clouds of rain".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the lover of her mate."
I do not know, beloved", he replied
"But it is all over in your hair".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the goddess of the stars.
"We do not know, our queen", they whispered
"But the deep wine flows freely in our midst".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked himself the ailing poet.
"I do not know, bloody lips",he moaned
"But at last I see it in full bloom".

A begining (a story in the making)

His knee ached again. It always bothered him this time of year, of course, but that wasn't what troubled him, he thought. His skin was slightly irritated, especially where it used to touch hers, but that wasn't it either. It was a sunny day, as most were in these parts. Well, mostly sunny, he thought. He was sitting sprawled in the shade of Symbol's Street's Excelsior Cathedral, trying to take in a rare quiet moment. The grass here was certainly greener than his old home. In fact, almost greener, which was pretty good given the fairly steep water prices. That wasn't what bothered him either though. No, he sighed inwardly. If it were only as simple as that.
"Your grace", a voice said.
"Yes. Is it time then?" he asked.
"Yes, your grace".
"Very well. Here, help me up, would you?"
"Of course, your grace".
Damned mannered bastards, he thought. Sighing again, this time not as inwardly as he would have preferred, he allowed himself onto his feet. Grasping hold of his staff, he began his march, starting to surround the familiar water pond.
"Not today, your grace", said the voice.
"Oh? Why not?"
"After yesterday I'm afraid we've had little choice, your grace".
"Indeed. How unfortunate". He'd rather longed to stroll by that pond a bit, finding it quite soothing. An uncommon calming effect on him, he mused. The bile was only mild this morning, thank the goddess. That wasn't what troubled him either, of course. That feeling was a matter of fact by now, a constant battle to be fought without giving it too much thought, or at least to appear as such, he smiled bitterly to himself.
"Well then... lead on", he said.
The Cathedral's side gate was looming to their far right, beckoning occasionally as the sun hit the decorative signs and notes. The gate was actually leading to a separate hall linked to the cathedral, he now noticed. You can say whatever you want about the guy, he thought, but his remains have secured a rather splendid mausoleum for themselves, unlike so many others. He paused for a moment, examining the wood carvings on the door, then, swallowing a sigh, clicked the intercom button. The first few bars of "When Doves Cry" chimed, surrounding the opening entrance. "Here we go", he thought.

It Is

It is life, coming to a screeching halt.

It is a growing sensation of numbness
That stills and readies me for what's next.

It is only deep within the nebula
That the words are liberated
And once again receive their lost meaning.

It is only my side-tracked mind,
Seizing at the opportunity to speak
That draws me near here,
Every now and anon.

It is by this pain that I feel
That I am able to navigate
These starless surroundings,
Desperate feelers ahead
Catching the void in the act.

Echoes

There are echoes between the songs
Marking my way along the causeway,
Now dusty with rustling leaves,
Now swimming in bright ecstasy
Nourishing the anemones below.

These echoes do not remind me of the past,
Like the rest of their kin;
Nay, they come from the present itself,
Hiding in the plainest sight
Of the self blind,
Marked by eerie colors that spin
Only when you wish it.
And you wish it.

They, like the consciousness within,
Hallow the wild distances of the soul,
Now clear of obstacles and remnants forsaken
And yet unforgotten in their course of familiarity
With the distant and disdained.

The echoes are melodious in more than
Any single way I can relate;
They resound the sweet hollow of the walls
Of my existence as easily as the bitterest
Freedom bell of a lost libertine.
They signify the long road's narration
And equate it with its meaning,
Spelling both desire and remorse
In their fading and their longing.

I wish I could hear it all,
The music of the echoes,
And between.

At Lunch

Once again I am enshrouded with that white mist,
Encompassing my vision and blurring sensation
Like an evil trip, spiraling in all directions, howling, howling
For the dark moon;
I freeze, unable to think except in numbers, adding, adding just
To keep it there while it lasts.

The table grows far and the salad turns unto the happy isles next to your hand, your face.
I cannot swallow, cannot dream, cannot feel, cannot...

I am paralyzed here in this shabby light,
Crucified by your imagined glare, the steak stares back butNo,
I cannot think just yet. Adding is safe, yes. Safe.

My white shroud dissipates and I, a neonate Wight in lunch,
Descend upon my wooden throne to swallow last supper's remnants; a little stale, I sigh.

On an on I wait it out,
Not knowing where or who and when, I endure my tears and music,
Consuming myself in order to live out another day, yet I do not live in a single hour.

I crawl out of the wreckage, smiling at my lovely strange world,
Clinging to distant hopes of past deeds, once resembling the semblance of normalcy.
There I am one of the ignored. Here, there is only the void.
So who is staring back at me?

These Days

These days I am constantly angry,
My fury flows and splashes around,
Heaving its red and green tentacles
Around and around,
Amassing in great celerity
At the borders of my sanity.

My field of vision narrows
At the two butterflies
Twirling in the sun,
Forever spinning and dancing
Aloft the grass-not-greener,
Copious with yellow wasps.

Prodded by the doubled edge fork
The bile in my mouth builds
A thorny tower of disease
Not easily averted,
Nor lightly illuminated
By my moonless spurn.

These days the darkness claims me
And I cannot escape;
My chaos is making good
On its premise to deliver;
My anger flows back to its source,
That crumpled shell of me.

Undulating Field

This is a work in progress as I feel something is still missing with it, though I'm not sure what or how...

Desertion has its virtues
Upon the golden corn field
As the scarecrow backs away
Into the get away car.

Lone guardsman on the pole
Observing the yeast go down
And up and down again,
Pretending to be free.

The mindless wheat
Fulfills that which it sows
On the hard brownish land,
A stool to rest the splinter soles.

The crucified has vacated
The post no longer there;
Rot and decay dawdle
At the tall pillars of hay.

On the seasons press
And the agony recedes,
Tumbling down with the weed
Of a forsaken effigy.

On the Bridge

I saw the future once
Walking the bridge
Above the train station,
Phased onto an alternate
Anime world of steam
And electronics.

But the future merges
With an unforgiving past
Only to give birth to an
Apathic present,
Its presence lucid in my
Vision but for its reality;
The present, I deem, is
A conjunction moving
Between us by being us,
Separating and uniting
The undivided, calling
Our names when all we
Seek is the forgetfulness
Of olden days or
The ever illusive promise
Of aftertime.

Aftermaths replenish themselves
On our lost hopes in this future,
Feeding on repercussions we
Dare not avoid and nightmares
We close our eyes against,
All in vain.

The future, you see, is
Already here, lounging
At its pleasure, sometimes
Cuddling, sometimes stinging
Our expectant souls.

What will I see when I get to the other side of the bridge?
How many full circles are there in the void?

Let's Talk

Ok. This one is titled "Let's Talk", though I'm not too sure about the title.

To save my self
And that's not half
The matron must be told
Ere the going gets tough.

I must tell her what is known,
What is long lost and long ignored;
That which I readily fear
Yet here so anxious to reveal.

That which will save me
Will be ignored;
Of that I am sure, mostly,
If truth be told.

I must reveal it all and hide none,
Forever being the obedient son;
Alas, this deed cannot be undone
As I yet favor moon to sun.

The City and I

I wrote this one thnkinh I may enter it into the "In the end" contest on deviantArt. The point is you have to use the given closing lines, in this case written by John Burnside.

I have been to the White City
Though it is cowled in grey;
I have strolled through its peaceful side-walks
Along no cherry lane.

Memories of serenity fill me
Though now I only long
To lose myself in Sufjan's notes;
I remember it just the same:
Young ones riding their bikes
Shouting enthusiastically
What they'll rue in an hour,
A pair of elderly women
Heatedly discussing yesterday's remorse
Telling-tolling today's gossip
And prophesying tomorrow's.

No, I don't have a cigarette,
And neither should you.

I come back,
The city lingering at the doorway
Pausing shyly at the out of place
Refrigerator in the hallway. Finally,
It entered, bringing some grey
And sand and smog and life
Into my room.

Our time together now spent,
Now passing onto new heights
And lows I cannot fathom;
The city still speaks to me
Her voice half heard as something overhead
-- A splash of white against the wavering sky --
Drones through the clouds, mechanical, bereft.

Wondering during Atonement Day or Writer's Block III

So I walked softly
Through the sinful city,
Now silent for the
Agreed upon duration;
Hoping to find inspiration at its mer
I could only find there myself.

The sand is soft and white;
It graters at my skin
Trying desperately to find
A more suitable position.
That salty smell of froth and starfish
Evokes a longing I cannot accurately recall.
Instead, I’m filled with the usual trepidations
Of being.

The sea does not seem a worthy cure for my woes,
Or, perhaps, I am not worthy of the sea.
In here I feel like a second grain, or perhaps a fourth,
Just like in real life.
The sea cannot save me;
Perhaps the rain can.

Afterimage -
The roll of the waves
And its vast thunder
Shall remain with me
Even ere I am torn asunder.