Friday, November 27, 2015


In my own storyline
My own frame
My own place in this plane
The sound of the drums triumph into the darkness
The dank and unknown places
Reverberate into the endless tangle
Be meek for it will save you
Come heavy, laden with import
The might that reigns over this land
Like thunder mumbling in the distance
Devours the weak
Like crustaceans picking at a carcass
Fumbling, boxy movements that persist and persist
removing the meat from the marrow
Endlessly, I am separating the prime from the scrap
Relentless and compelled
Deeply loving and yet devoid of affection
Come as you are
the adventure beckons
like the sensual whimper of virgin flesh
as a towering mountain that calls out from the sky
it is a beacon of bravery in fearful places
I am but a dream
Made visceral

Tuesday, November 24, 2015


It is times like this
the frost of the night
dividing ourselves into constituents

like leaders to their realms,
men to their batteries,
regents to their thrones,

like these moments where our realities separate us
for I am getting older and resistant to nostalgia
I yearn for you at my side
As a Hera to my Zeus, as Persephone to my Hades
-and all of the mortal spaces between
I wish to rule this land. I wish to pioneer into all of its unknown places
And I shall need the help of hands I trust.
One such as yourself.
Of my realm It is manifestation without focus
The textures of my landscapes are boundless
In heart and implication I reach so deeply
Through the many dimensions not everyone can feel
& I have none to share this with
My world is very loud

And I have had to learn
that the worlds of others
tend to be much quieter.

but I am tired, and getting older, and in you I feel something
it does not make me any younger,
but perhaps a bit more ageless
more classic and heartfelt
our beast—
subtle and strong
ripe with the vehement strife
ravenous, with an appetite to rival hundreds of years of violence and assimilation
hungry for the taste of flesh
enduring as Datura lusting beneath thunderheads
nuanced as mesquite chattering in the wind
in all of the dreamscapes I have
you are always there in my most prescient

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

The Lion

Tightly woven around this idea
As if to break in your virgin senses
Don’t make me-
My hands to your face
Orgasm after orgasm of pitiless violence
Plundering your land of all of its worthwhile resources
You need to understand
The extent of my rage
I would have to come ‘Down’ to your level
There is a reason why-
I feel obligated
Not to hurt you, though I would easily
I would willingly
But it is not the way—
This is not how things are done in my plane
Though it might be easier
I want to injure you in a way that fixes your crooked stride
I wish to maim your old world of thought
I would like to cannibalize this,
this recurring delusion that your kind has so cheaply woven into a banner and folded over their eyes.
Or is it I who has woven a banner?
Is it I that folded these ideas into nothingness
Reduced them like origami until a perverse esotericism took hold
Or did I hammer them, with rage into stilts to lift myself above others?
and yet, I am still in chains.
I am still as powerful and hateful
To imply that my world is different than yours
We are Locked in place
In whatever obscure force brought us-
mired us together
in this filth that makes mortals of us all