Year of the Minotaur

A vampire’s rage
was throwing a party
amidst my insides,
and light seemed to
wreak a ferocious havoc
on my brain cells,
just as much as the dark,
in the year of the

A huge sigh
of fucking relief
hit her chest
when the hungry haunted
fed forced her poison,
oh to finally
end this freak’s
grabbing her
by the teeth,
and dragging her,
sputtering blood
and tinsel,
Jack the Ripper’s
streets of
grisly London.

She sat on the frostbite floor and
to no one in particular,
bled oil and ink,
drank far too much
so that the room spun
like a pinwheel,
tried to throw up
the emotions so intense
they overcame her sight,
she shook
from the venom,
stapled her mouth
as to not
wake the neighborhood
with her screeching howls.

I met her doing
balancing acts
down abandoned
railroad tracks on
the outskirts of
Flint, Michigan.
She was humming
a somewhat familiar tune
which took my
sensory glands
back to the night
a few months after
my dad was dead and burned,
and I cut all
my hair off,
at 4 in the morning,
with a pair of old rusty scissors,
in the upstairs bathroom,
with the lights off,
and the panic of
being human
quelled for a brief moment,
and I went back to sleep,
dreaming of sex and angels.


Thrashing your bones
back and forth
like tidal waves,
I confronted the
space between us
with a growl through
clenched teeth,
and gave my secrets
to the delicate horizons
behind your eyelids.
I'm gonna make
your veins pulse
electric chatter,
sex and fire
bellowing out of my mouth,
down your throat.
And every time you burn yourself
on kitchen stovetops,
in steaming showers,
or dripping candle wax
down your fingertips,
you will smirk 
and sizzle. 

Buried Anthem

these broken down
could hold me a little longer,
for I have been up since
what they call
man’s dawn
and I am so very weary.
Doctors and,
giving us
frowns upon tears
as they walk into bleached bellied
hospital rooms
with puppies and rainbows
painted on the ceiling:
you may not get a chance
to witness tomorrow
so say your goodbyes my dear.
Cancer wasn’t only
taking its time
to sneak in and out
of the brain cells in
my brother,
slow pain,
taking him away from me,
cancer fancied 
killing me too,
as collateral damage,
though strange
no one seemed to see
my soul
drained from me
as I watched untold horror
and then laugh at my
silent sobs in the shower.

And friends came,
two by two,
speaking tired odes of
too busy to bother,
scared of their own mortality,
I suppose,
thus rushing away
like the rain to the gutters
after a storm.
my dear kind poem,
I write you out,
blessing your pain
and despair,
clutch me tight
in the everlasting night
until some sort of light
shines within me. 

Licking Fire

The crow’s urgent call
woke me
from my haunted staring
into air and time
bleeding by.
Fits of such a violent melancholy
kept me in a perpetual state
of holding my breath,
waiting for the sorrow to subside
as high tides do
after the ocean’s
been weeping in chorus
with the moon.

Could I not just drift
inside your head for awhile?
Forget my woeful weary,
the horrorshow I’d seen
played out in the daytime.
Mmm though at night,
I watched death and the engulfing fire
that licks her lusty skin,
she flits and twists round,
ripped up fishnets held together
by bobby pins
and a loose t-shirt that fell off her shoulders,
making crop circles
on my clean carpet
with her dirty bare feet.
Between you and me,
she was such a tease,
and I loved it.

After she had her fill of me,
slipping out into the dark,
and just as I was closing my windows,
he snuck in between
my mouthing nighttime syllables,
shaking self loathing,
crawling into my bed after
visitation hours,
and I couldn’t help myself,
craved to hold his shivering bones
until the pain he howled out subsided,
his tears drying on my cheek.
We swapped no words,
just breaths and skin,
for that cold boy
who had lost his way,
tossing in the storm
that he blamed me for,
though in truth,
we were just two hurricanes
bumping into each other,
ravenous desire
to feel something,
besides that dank suffering lonely.

It occurs to me
that I had the habit
of falling for broken angels
sewn up inside
with grit and smoke.
And do you mind?
Stop trampling through
my dreams,
stumbling amidst the scenes,
hungry and impatient.
I beg you for a moment
without your tongue’s wet stutters
gnashing  and lashing out at me.
Twilight took great delight in sinking in between my legs,
just to hear me moan. 

Days of the Heron

In the days
of mumbling saucepans
and sanity,
I was a heron,
drinking down dirty daydreams
and lavender teas,
slurping loudly
through my pointing bill
in coffee shops
while the regulars stare,
squawking out stories
on the subway,
ruffling my
untamed and unframed feathers
like the jostling sounds of newspapers
by the old grey men scrounging round for
the stock market stats
and sports scores.

I tend to creep
in and out of people’s habits,
smuggled in with the groceries:
cinnamon toast and juicy grapefruit,
standing awkwardly
in the cobweb corners of rooms,
watching contagious
hearts bleeding in rhythm,
then slip softly
between the window panes of
dark purple bedrooms
with swords hung on the walls,
red dining room spaces
where the piano sits,
uncaressed for years,
yellow kitchenettes
collecting dust on the picture frames
of happy faces by way of trips to the park
on a fourth of july,
and moldy peppers
in the bottom door of the refrigerator.

and if I could just
be held by the night,
it sinking in between
my shivers
till the yawning dawn.
I took myself
away from here,
in the eerie morning hours,
after getting out from under purple fleece covers
and giving up on sleeping.
Careful tiptoes,
out the window,
face to the forest line
til she sings in my ear,
into the moon’s naked riptide,
inhaling one beautiful
burlesque breath,
exhaling storms of ice.