The Kind

made myself a mask of stone
a lover for the heart of glassreprieve from lessons pastinbred cynical, I tend tokeep the curtains drawn to mask theorange light, the dawn ofstorybooks and fairy-talesmade real somehowillicit wants rehashed, reborntraversing the valley of the dolls forstrange times with stranger strangers and then...
crushed velvet sheetshot and flourishing as therain outside, the kindinked under my skinsweet nothings across pillowstwo lovers whispering secrets, the kindonly they can hearpretending their voices arehurricanes, thick and fastelongated shapes curled into oneromantic love, the kind that dies
bed linen dresses, that burning silkeventually, unfortunatelyalways ends with bloodshot eyes andviolent cries
only maybe, who knows, this timenever knowing, if it's never ending

The Morbid Haiku

Death becomes them now
The night is silent and calm
I'm alone at last

With the pools of blood
lapping underneath my feet
my fingers stained red

Those with broken hearts
and ruined dreams with no hope
They are not without

Feet First

Unable to ignore the call
from the wild
from an unknown voice

some mystery siren song

calling me deep
into the dark
without a stick to prod

the muddy surface

I go blindly
following the
enigmatic shepherd

whose cane taps at empty spaces

Keeping the foxes at bay
from the bloodied cuts
on my ankles

by running faster down the hills

with no time
to smell the roses
An upturned beetle

legs exposed

Blush.

I would blush when you sat by my side
on those hot languid nights, smoking
in a red wine haze
or whatever else
was lying around at the time
Legs piled in heaps
on the coffee table.

Little prickles
from my hair standing to attention
would itch my neck
Goosebumps creeping
from your arrival
I would blush when your arm touched mine
but you couldn't see where.

Clever.

Whilst patiently waiting for others to speak, their words become foot soldiers -- tiny uniformed syllables with their inflections raised in combat. Their fullstops mock you in pretend victory, claiming this verbal landscape as their own.

As their lips close, you breach the gates.
Your voice erupts, and the cavalry is released!
You lance through screaming commas and dangling participles, pools of bloodied tense on the ground.

You hang opinion not your own in the gallows
and the noose is made of mockery.
You imprison debate in the town stocks and
the locks are made of ridicule.

And when all is said and done, (and they cannot be unsaid or unheard) you raise your sails, prepare the cannons, and clean your pistol... ready for the next onslaught, the next jousting, constantly waiting to spar your next opponent in the ring.

Constantly waiting, to place a head on a spike
so the whole world can see
how clever you are.

How clever you must be.