brainbits

Now every gentleman in Rome
is wearing Saigon cologne--
and the farmer in the dell
has gone to Hell, gone to Hell.

no title

Heaven's just a fathom high—
with olive skin and darkest eye—
while Hell's two fathoms further down—
and I, a dead man on the ground.

new year 06.01.011

your belying eyes—circumspect, ring-scribed
in light—fire my insides, blister my lips
and sizzle my skin.

kiln to my earthenware, you glaze me
in love most pearlescent-white;
I deny you nothing.

we are; you are mine; you quake at my fingers' behest.
your plushsoft lips quest, seek presence and rest
within the fleshy pulp of my heart.

covered in blood, you plunge.

sweat rimes your soul.

your agate-eyes flash green and gold;
myriad bubbles, pinfire sigh—

take me down this time,
down inside your light.

scry into my soul, leave me half of Whole.

small deaths 9.12.010

he's not telling me something
(you're not telling me something)
his snowy smile kept my heart cold
(you don't smile at me anymore)
he called my name; ice filled my veins—and I was happy
(you are hurting inside)
I can't feel his touch anymore
(you are sick, you may be dying)
I should have known
(you're not telling me something)
I saw this coming
(but how am I to know?)

The wind is blowing, and the snow collects inside my chest;
(you're not telling me something)
filling my lungs; lips and eyelids frozen shut
(it is Winter here, and you're nowhere to be found)

you are sunning yourself
(he's not telling me something)
on a beach somewhere, with a better man
(he's not telling you something)
and a warmer heart.

(he thinks nothing of you)
I am nothing to you.

Leading Me On 17.11.010

Here:
so close
to the end of the year:
things
.
.
are fall
in
g
.
.
.
.
.
.
apart.

Dread Mirror Fear 13.11.010

I sometimes worry that—if I get too close, too physically close to a person—the images which I cannot remove from my head will burst forth. They and I will be exposed; naked; and visible to everyone.

That is what I fear most: the images even I cannot face. The images that haunt me in the endless witching hour that is Winter. Images which will not leave me, but which grow more vivid with each passing year.

The years are getting darker; the winters are getting longer. Like Filris, staring at a small soapstone statuette cradled (or was it clutched?) in her bony hands: so too will I come to realize that what I've been seeing for all these years is real, and that I am soon to be a part of reality no longer.

That will be the longest winter.