Advertisements

A Supernova’s Discontent

I have never known the peace
of satisfaction,
just the endless gnawing hunger
of want.
Desperate and empty,
with all the stability
of an imploding star.
I crave the hearts of worlds
not my own,
spread thin
across the cold yearning
of my own expectation,
hollow hands with open palms
reaching ever outward.  Continue reading A Supernova’s Discontent

We’re All Mad Here

Writers are storytellers, first.

We are brushless painters, chisleless sculptors.

Architects of new realities and crafters of perception.

We are the hero and the villain and the comic relief.

The inexorable sadists,
the indelible masochists.
We are the light at the end of the tunnel
and we are the train.

I’ve been told that writer’s are little more than professional liars, career procrastinators and champions of solitaire.

Continue reading We’re All Mad Here

There is calm.

There’s calm to be found in the predawn hours,
in the still silence of a world still sleeping.
When the quiet settles into the foundations and even the cracks seem to fill with it, seeping out onto the floor.
Valium laced thoughts tumble in slow motion,
offering rest, relief, redemption.

An invitation for submission,
an overture made in vain.
Sedation has no hold in the face of sedition.

There’s a buzzing under my skin that tells me to run,
to fight,
to throw myself into the abyss to see if
Gods and monsters look the same in the dark.

(They do.)

Continue reading There is calm.

The Midnight Hours. V.

The midnight hours call to me.
Staking their claim with sighs torn from bitten lips.
A hedonist’s celebration of innocence lost
marked, claimed, owned.
Power intoxicates; it’s provocative scent drugging my senses,
a witching hour rose,
blooming in the new blood flush spreading dark across your throat.
The familiar, voyeuristic gaze of a kindred boogie man skulking
in the shaded edges of my own and I wonder
If I too
Am the monster

Under the bed

The Midnight Hours. IV.

The midnight hours call to me.
Silent pleas smothered by the terror of nightmares half formed.
Shivering in the wake of dread’s ethereal touch
Haunting, chilled, reverent.
Blending with the staypleasemore of lovers and the lonely,
a non-believer’s prayer.
I am a vampiric spector, drinking deep from desperation’s veins,
inspiration sweet on my tongue as I twist pain
into prose and I wonder
If I too
will burn to ashes

in the dawn.

The Midnight Hours. III.

The midnight hours call to me.
Beguiling enticements drifting saccharine and feather soft on the breeze.
Lilting lullabies for the dreamers wandering lost,
melodic, tempting, treacherous.
Enveloping me in the invincibility of a landscape tinted grey.
Shades of moral ambiguity.
I am a fateless gypsy dancing with wolves,
recklessly twirling beyond the grasping reach
of my own humanity and I wonder
If I too
can spin fast enough

to escape.

The Midnight Hours. II.

The midnight hours call to me.
Whispers heavy with the seductive weight of promise.
They sink claws into my spine and pull,
taunting, insistent, magnetic.
Luring me in with the indomitable thrill of the hunt.
Beckoning inexorable and enticing.
My heart beating the tattoo of war drums,
a primal homage to the warriors of old,
Gladiator and lion alike and I wonder
if I too
am to one day

be the hunted.

The Midnight Hours. I.

The midnight hours call to me.
Darkness given voice with the siren song of countless sleepless nights
The world looks different in the moonlight,
Softer, colder, kinder.
Laid bare in the lingering light of an unseen star,
Spread naked and waiting.
Muted with the hush of deference beneath a spilled ink sky,
a graveyard of glittering ghosts
telling stories of the powerful and the arcane and I wonder
if I too
will be remembered

when I’m gone.