Don't mind the weirdness...

...Recompiling poetry into this blog. It's like a scrapbook. Scroll past it all if you don't want to see it/have seen it before/just want the good stuff.

Fruitless Harvest

Squeeze tighter and she
might just disappear.
Her body deep within your
private embrace,
Explain why she wants this
so much?
Strip her down
and view her bare,
are we speaking of the soul?
Or the flesh?
Lead her deep out to the wood,
and harvest the lust
contemplated this season.
Over and over
her cheeks begin to flush
.....And then she wakes up.
Again.
-2007

I Promise I'm Not (THAT!) Crazy

I love you.
I hate you.
You annoy me.
I'm slowly falling apart.
I'm slowly falling apart behind my eyes.
I'm slowly falling apart in front of your eyes, and you don't seem to notice or care.
I hate it when you say there's nothing you can do.
I hate it even more when you say that you don't know WHAT to do.
I hate to admit to anyone that I am infatuated with them.
I love you.
I may act like a hardass, but I need affection.
I want your affection.
I need a hand...can you save me from myself?
Just let me self destruct.
I want to hurt you just as bad as you want to help me.
I want to sink teeth and claws into that pretty little skin of yours.
I want to rip you apart limb from limb.
And I want you to cuddle me,
and whisper all the things you want to say
but can't usually admit,
all while I rip out
Your amazing throat.
I want you.
I need you in my life.
Baby, don't go.
Why are you looking at me like that?
Well, I've gone and fucked that one up. Again.
I'll never grow into myself.
I will never accept responsiblity.
I will never be happy with myself.
All the therapy in the world couldn't cure these feelings.
Just learn to deepthroat life, and we'll all be okay.
Because if you can choke down life, you can choke down anything.
Let it slide.
Let it go.
Let me have someone else.
Let someone else have me.
Will you watch?
Give me a hand, I'm drowning in myself.
Give me a hand, I'm drowning in your eyes.
You feel so warm at night.
The smell of you on my sheets makes me cry.
Not because I don't love you,
But because I know like everything else in my life,
eventually you will leave me, too, if by your choice,
or God's.
Everything expires. I just help it along,
and it will always come to a point where,
you aren't good enough, you can't take enough, you're not
young or pretty or skinny or lovely or smart
or talented or funny or amusing or even just right
enough for them.
Because everybody loves you when you're easy.
And when you put yourself out there, when you put IT out,
You don't have to open up your heart,
and you don't have to show any real emotion.
You can giggle and laugh and flirt and touch
with only the slightest efforts. And you're good at it.
So damn good. Because when you see the desire burning in their eyes,
You know in that moment that they want you. They want to tear you apart.
And use you like a trophy. Another freak fucking lay on their fucking wall of
shame/fame. And that's all you are to them,
But your smile smolders with a nearly dead ember when you realize
that they will never know your secret. That you've stolen something from them.
A photograph in your mind, a glimpse, a moment of time.
Everything you touch passes from spring to winter.
Do not pass go, do not collect money. Go directly to death.
Because everything you touch falls apart.
But conversely, everything you leave falls apart too.
You're like duct tape....no, too redneck.
It's like a threesome. Yeah. That's it.
It's like a threesome, where you've got two guys,
who are scared as all hell to be in the same room with another dick.
You're stuck in the middle, between these two, and you're the only thing holding them together. Anything more transparent than you would be disaster. You're just right. They fit just right. Perfect fucking match.
But when you leave, all hell breaks loose. Because there are two guys. In one room. With both their dicks out.
Face it, chica, you just fuck things up in general.
Are you talking to me, or yourself, or him, or her, or someone else? I don't fucking know anymore. At this point it doesn't matter.
I want you to mark me. To claim me, to make me yours in a way that you haven't even done yet. I want you so badly that I wouldn't give two shits if you carved your name on my ass. So many have done it before.
The names, the initals, fade after time. But catch it at just the right time,
when the air is hot and kind of
dry. And the scars spring to life, and all of a sudden
You're aching for them. No, because of them.
And the painful reminders of youthful indiscretion
flash before your eyes, and on your ass.
And you want nothing more than to be taken over,
owned completely, controlled, used, claimed. And then held.
But you know you're never going to get it.
Because he's just not that into it.
And you can't really find anyone who is.
And you wonder, for a moment, what life is like for the people
in the car next to yours, as you glance down into their window,
and kind of smile to yourself and know that they're not even close
to as miserable as you are.
Let go. Just let go.
Sleep, perchance to dream.
What the fuck, Shakespeare, you didn't know one GODDAMN
thing about dreaming. I've dealt with things for years that would make
your pansy little bardic ass scream in terror and run for the nearest gallows.
Dreams? Yeah. Fucking right. I'd kill for a dream.
Instead of the shit that I'm "blessed"with. Fuck you, buddy.
Embrace it? You don't know what the fuck you're talking about.
Fuck you all.
Speaking in cryptic bits, dead languages, pieces of metaphor and stories.
I don't need the dramatic bullshit. I know what I am.
And I know what I do. And I don't give two shits how you can help,
or how you want to factor into my other self. You had a chance.
But it's past that now.
It's way past everything.
And it's past my bedtime.
I love/hate you all.
-2007

Frostbitten Butterfly Wings

Sugar's fading in the basement
seeing red starry lights.
Drowsing in the remains of confetti
in strawberry pinks and periwinkle blues.

Mama's in the backyard
In the blood stain'd orchard
with her feet resting
in a pile of gold and glitter sand.

Sugar's mind begins to wander
to the time she kissed him,
the countless thousand and one times,
her black emerald, pulsing in the midnight breeze.

Burn the world, as it melts away
Into a seafoam hued watercolor painting
And take this sickly bile colored sky
away from here.
It doesn't belong here.

And neither do I, Sugar thought,
her legs beginning to pull her up,
ripping flesh from the viscera beneath
as she pulls herself from the honeysuckle floor.

Mama's languishing,
in a pink cranberry lace nightgown
and a bottle of Jack in hand,
watching the horizon
for the next atom bomb.

The flowery ghost of the old chintz wallpaper
grinding to a halt,
the whisper and echo of countless screams
a million and one screams,
holding her to the floor.

Sugar left that night,
Sugar left that night,
but not through the front door,
But not before,
the frostbite came on butterfly wings,
making her unknown again,
unconscious again.

Sugar left that night to a land of sepia hued dreams.
Dec. 1 2009

Make it Break so I don't Have to...

In a dream I shall feel the world.
Through splendid cities pierced with light;
mad with love, my tears float very slowly;
It lies in wait! for more than a thousand years!

Contained in the vast ether, floating
and waiting to reach you on the dark lilac waterways.
- with a cloak of ignorance, to place love in the rose, and not the thorns.
My heart has murmured its ballad.
Whence does he come? The sky is hell red where all the stars above
between here and there are sleeping,
coddled awake by the ferocious howls of She
who has lost He.

Slowly he turns his head,
Body streaked by the heavy wave
of sorrow that emanates from her every soft sob.
Under the light of this darkness, with barely enough
of a glow to make the tracks of tears
glimmer on her cheeks;
And the pain that holds her heart, sparkles.

Weep on her shoulder,
Mount her very soul.
Your love will; in the end,
devour her again.

Into the ferocious tide a scream that could tear you apart rips the tide
whose sobs realize incredible, far away vistas
of sour apples pale-eyed pretentious pieces of ass
The hookers on south Main, and the mothers of the world
Don't weep. She was stupid.
Didn't she realize that
in antique dreams that were scented twilight,
and flavored with the dust he left her in,
I hung there, watching it all.

Together we waited,
waited for him to realize
That she was the best he could wish for,
the most he could hope for. With her, he would want for nothing.
But he'll always want more.
And she'll always have less.
Dec. 01 2009

Erotica of the Darker Sort

Not everything I write is forlorn and in love. Sometimes it's a little bit more on the edgy side. Sometimes it's full of grammar mistakes. Sometimes it's all about the squish and squirm. Sometimes it's about that gut feeling of lust. Sometimes it's just about a good old fashioned fucking.

If that's your thing, go ahead and check out the short serial, The Breaking of Katherine.

Channeling Annabel Lee

Nobody sees
The tears of she,
who weeps softly for her love.
Though they may try,
precious few spy
The sorrow of she who mourns.

Come with me,
said to he,
I'll carry you 'neath my heart.
I cannot be yours,
said he whom she mourns,
he who pierces her thoughts.

Deep in the winter,
her thoughts they do splinter
Upon hearing his voice in her head.
Come with me, says the man
taking her hand
and leading her on into dark.

She follows and prays,
for all of her days,
to end with this one final thought.
Love isn't a game,
not meant to cause shame
For those that feel in truth.

Beauty must die
And for this she will cry,
the girl who is gray in her heart.
Hold swift to your love,
and with one final shove,
twist the blade into your flesh.

It isn't the end,
Not for her my friend,
Her memory lives on in pain.
Carry this thought
The heart is not caught
Unless she can give it away.

Under the sky
Filled with love's lost refrain,
Lies the ghost of a beautiful girl

Tucked 'way neath the stars,
Not mine and not ours,
Cries the soul of a girl
had and lost.

Cry not for me,
Said he to the she
As he carried her body to warmth.
I'm not worth your time,
You'll never be mine,
could I change it, I would take it back.

Her eyes slipped aside,
and death could not hide,
a world full of fury and hurt.
I never loved you,
Though I thought were true,
Were the last words whispered
By the ghost of a girl
Who cried 'neath the wintr'y stars.
- Jan 7 2010

Photo Update Of the Week

This....this is the woman behind the madness. Quicksilver, otherwise known as mercury, evaporates into a fine red gas. So do I, sometimes.



Though I'm sure the red hair isn't what you're staring at. I'm likely to chop your arm off for that, you know.

But it isn't all bad.... Then again, all work and no play makes me a very unhappy kitten.....

The Journey of Sancta Sophia

The sorrow I felt was ever constant, bubbling just beneath the surface of my heart, my inner landscape an uncertain world, quicksilver ever evaporating and reforming in a mercurial menagerie. But this sorrow grew less as the days wore on, and I replaced each living piece of myself with a hardened block of stone. I killed myself, the self that I once knew. I sat content among my rocks and admired my stones, my boulders and my cliffs. I ached, but I sat alone.

One day, carelessly, I allowed a small weed of compassion to begin growing among the cracks in one of the smaller rocks.

And that was my mistake.

I did not tend to this little plant, but sat by with idle curiosity as it grew, content to sit strewn among the pebbles of my undoing. I watched and took no action as this tiny little flower blossomed, grew and strained toward a sun that hadn't touched that land for years. The flower grew. The flower lived. The flower died.

A swift and chilling breeze came soon after, blowing the skeletal remains of that little sun-seeking flower away. I sat and watched. I took no action as the seeded remains of the petals flew on the wind.

That was the first night the rains came. And with the tiny little droplets, a cool and subtle breeze stirred the warm, cloying air. The raindrops felt sweet, so sweet. The warmth felt good, suddenly not as oppresive as it had once been. I turned my face to meet the spray. As those raindrops, warm with the first kiss of spring showered my body and caressed my face, I came to realize I was crying.

And I did not know why.

With a loud crash and a startling clap of thunder, the largest of the rocks was swept away in the crash of a salty ocean wave that arose from nothing, springing from nowhere to shatter my existence. This ocean arose, the bitter product of tears long left unshed and pain long left untouched, buried beneath the stones and waiting to one day re-emerge.

I cried to the sky. I beat my fists upon the stones. All those emotions came back to me, with a rage, the kind of which had not been seen. Self hatred, and hatred toward those who had hurt me without ever even knowing. The ache inside my heart was immense. I scraped my hands on the sharp, rocky outcroppings that formed when my heart of stone broke into a million pieces.

I ached.

I screamed so loud to be heard, the winds no longer touching me with gentle fingers and a soft caress, those once sweet winds and rain now a bellowing gale. And for the first time in a long time, I felt.

I felt.

And what I felt was fear and anguish. The loneliness of a thousand nights spent in solitude and the hopelessness of a thousand more to come.

I do not know when I heard the whisper in my ear. I do not know when my tears could no longer fall. I do not know when they ceased, for they seemed endless. I did not know where my tears ended and the rains that wracked my heart began. I did not know her name, the kind and gentle mother who rescued me from the edge of that barren cliff.

She held me there for a time, and nestled me to her breast as though I were a small child. She took my tears, and kept my pain. She took all I had to give and more.

Sancta Sophia.

The name of the divine mother. She who once sat beside God himself, constructing the world with He in a playful manner and the compassion of all. She who walked beside Christ and she who was forgotten just the same. Sancta Sophia, a figure long since relegated to the worlds of fairy stories and child's tales, remembered only in darkened corridors and dusty manuscripts. Demonized and vilified in the eyes of her children, all of whom sprang from She, the first to be loved and the first to be hated.

Be Not Afraid.

Her whispers came in soothing murmured tones as she carried by battered and broken bod across the ravaged landscape.

Do Not Shy Away.

I awoke the next morning in the landscape of my heart, that same place where I began and the same place I felt I would end. Where there had once been stone, there now existed a spray of fragrant blossoms. Where there had been a sea of salty sadness now sat a fresh, clear well of hope, compassion and love.

Her light was blinding.

And I fought not to squint against the harsh light of day. My eyes long unaccustomed to her illumination. I cried out as the warm rays touched my tender skin, shielded so long from the warmth by a layer of stone, dirt and cold.

Drink of me.

She said, an unseen force guiding me to her well. I kissed the ground, marvelling at each living thing, my hands touching the ground as a child does, exploring the world in the only way it knows how.

I knelt.

And drank from the well of Sancta Sophia. I realized for the first time I was thirsty, so thirsty. I was parched, my tongue rasping like the scales of a snake against the bark of a tree on which it hides. I was thirsty. I had not known what was missing, but here I found it.

I drank.

I lapped at the cool, clear waters, as gentle as a lover and as tender as a friend. I drank from the well of Sancta Sophia and felt as she.

Pure.

Unknown to all but those who seek her grace and wisdom. Known, but not tainted. Wise, but not spent. Bold, but not spoken. Kind, but merciless in her justice.

Renewed.

And my heart began to break once more. But this time there was no rock on which to break, there was no sea in which to drown.

And in that moment, I lived only for her.

Sancta Sophia, guide my hand.

"Sophia brings up her own children, and cares for those who seek her.
Whoever loves her loves life.... for though Sophia takes them
At first through widing ways, bringing fear and faintness to them,
plaguing them with her discipline until she can trust them,
and testing them with her ordeals, in the end Sophia will
...lead them back to the straight road, and
reveal her secrets to them. (Ecclesiasticus 4:11-18)"