Hung with My Own Illusions

Dipped in liquid

fire,

you tore me

from my

stupor,

and hung me

with my

own

illusions,

until my eyes

had cleared

once

more.

 

7-7-19

* Written for Loki… the god, not Tom  Hiddleston’s Marvel character

 

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While the World Erupts

Clover fields

and sun-drenched skies,

wispy clouds,

they are but lies.

 

Everyone

is shrill, is cold–

nothing’s real,

they’ve lost their souls.

 

Smiling kids

with viper’s fangs

ring their bells–

for death, they clang.

 

Lovers in

their secret rooms

turn to dust

inside their tombs.

 

Nations rise

while others fall

but this time

death comes for all.

 

Shadows play

before my eyes,

whispering

what next will die.

 

Go along

and play your games

while the world

erupts in flames.

 

7-7-19

The Journey Home

The silence

burrows deep into

my skin,

soaking right through

to my veins.

 

The air is

tight,

anxious,

as if it fears

the coming

storm.

 

The highway

stretches out

before me.

A painted sunset

reflects its light

on wet

pavement,

casting a blood-red

sheen.

 

My mind feels

muddy,

thick,

as I contemplate

the road

before me.

 

The sunset fades

and a fingernail

moon,

almost dark,

begins its

ascent.

 

I pick up my

soul

from the highway’s

shoulder,

tucking it

deep inside

where no one

can find it–

the journey home

is never

safe.

 

7-4-9

 

Thought Control

A needle

pierces my flesh

and contortionist memories

begin to twist

through my

mind.

 

I try to blink,

to open my

eyes,

but am pulled back

to the phantasm display

whirling

behind my lids.

 

Real and unreal

blend,

then separate,

then blend again,

like a kaleidoscope,

and I try to focus

on one single

spot,

like a spinning dancer,

to keep steady.

 

The imagery

swirls before me,

challenging my

past

and taunting

my future.

 

I try to scream,

but my saccharine

coated tongue

rests heavy,

like a sandbag,

damming up

a river of

sound.

 

The world seems

off balance,

tilting,

and I fear I might

roll off  the

edge.

 

I can feel

the other bodies

in this living graveyard,

hear their moans,

and smell

the sour

of their frightened

humanity.

 

I remember

when they brought us

here,

or I think I do,

and I try

to hold on

to their reason–

their lie,

amid our

threatened truths.

 

They said

we were dangerous.

A threat

to order.

Enemy combatants.

 

But that

is absurd,

for the only weapon

I’ve wielded

was a

pen.

 

7-3-19

 

 

 

 

Shattering the Looking Glass

I have shattered

the looking glass.

The haze clears

and I see the ruins–

smouldering

and wasted.

 

Loose, waving curls

of acrid smoke

lick at the sky

like serpent’s tongues;

they seem to dance

above the burnt out

sanctuaries

and hidden vaults

that I

laid bare.

 

It’s all exposed–

the useless trifles,

the rack,

and the rusted chains

which bound us.

 

Shadows slide

between burnt-out rooms,

wandering

with unknown purpose

towards emptiness,

and away from nothing.

 

Everything is gone–

prison and home,

secrets and promises,

truth in lies.

I have shattered them all

in the looking glass.

 

7-2-19

 

Dance Club Prince (or The Prince of Area 51)

*Area 51 is a club in Salt Lake City, Utah. After Confetti, the old 16+ goth/industrial club in Sugar House, closed in the late ’90’s-early ’00’s, the scene migrated to Area 51. Some people from the old days still hang around there, from what I’m told. I wrote this at a sticky table near one of the dance floors many years ago while particularly intoxicated. On a napkin. There was a glitter covered, and very pretty, boy flitting around. What can I say? I blame Jack Daniels.

 

 

Very charming little boy,

You must think you’re quite a catch.

Helium head with a pretty face,

How you sparkle in the strobe light,

Little prince.

 

6-14-06

 

 

Launched from the Past

Unknowingly,

I launched a

missile

from my distant past

to my unlucky

present.

 

Now I run for

shadows,

gasping in the smoke

of burning

calm.

 

The flames whip the sky

as I dodge the flying

shrapnel

of my obliterated

mind.

 

3-24-19

 

 

You

A thousand miles

or more

stands

between us.

I should be

safe,

but somehow

I can still feel

your pull.

 

Echoes

of the taste

of your skin,

they stay too long,

for such things

that should be

forgotten.

 

I lie here

mired in memory,

unable to be

released

from your

grasp,

while a tightness

grips my chest,

pulling everything

inward,

and away

from a world

without you.

 

It is cruel

for you to

linger

like the taste

of a crabapple–

that bitter-sharp

temptation

of regret.

 

I want to

pour you

from my mind,

to scour you

away

with the remnants

of before.

Yet here you remain,

giving me no

respite

from your

hauntings.

 

A wail rises up

from my

core

and flows

from my

long-neglected

lips–

I will never

be free

of

you.

 

7-2-19

 

The Foundations

It’s all

crumbling.

We ignored the cracks,

now rebar whines

somewhere deep inside,

and the foundations begin

to groan.

 

A cloud crosses

before the moon,

and I wonder how close

Hati is to him now.

Someday he’ll be caught.

The wolf will

devour

the moon,

in the end.

 

Even the music

has faded.

Each note blurs into

the next,

as they all rush past,

without notice.

 

Everything reeks of mildew

and rot.

Neglect.

I hear crows

in the distance,

and the foundations

groan louder.

 

It’s time to wake up,

dear ones,

or we’re lost.

 

5-12-19

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