Wednesday, November 20, 2019

The knowing of darkness

No stars in this night sky, the moon forever dark.  Tides run on their own as does my blood.

You’ve pulled me close.

Fight rises in me, fire and white hot rage. I struggle, push, squirm, but I am no match for your strength.  I have never been more ineffectual.  Powerless.  My fire sears only me.

Surrender then.  On the other side of freeze, collapse.  Blood returns to my center and pools there, extremities are no longer needed.  Not here.

Aware but not awake, I feel warm sweet lips brush across mine.  You’ve pulled me close.  To embrace me, not kill me.

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

The end of opposites

Shimmering and sinuous, wrapping up around your spine, a snake you do not fear - the only one you do not fear.

And speaking of fear, how is it that you have always been the hunted, never the hunter?

But back to that snake, what is she doing here?  She calls for parts of you to be danced, now.  How odd to be dancing when the music is screeching and you are alone.  You feel your way beneath the screeching, seek a pulse to follow.  All you need is a pulse.

You find the answer in that quiet space between breaths, the one that waits and listens.

Are you flying or falling?  Can you be both?  Not do both, be both.  Be star and soil.

Saturday, November 09, 2019

In you

Black earth so old and deep its minerals sparkle in the dark night, their nourishment the only light to be seen here.  Only perceptible out of the corner of your eye, it disappears if you look straight at it.

No permission or access granted, not to this place.  Sacred and solitary, this terrain welcomes none but you.  An invader then, ruthless and cold, merciless and relentless.  You choke on shock, your own claws grown feral rip and shred at the very essence of you for hope of a breath.  It does not come.

Revived but not renewed, you review the dénouement of your own expiration.  You find a note written with the blood of your wounds.

This season is one of violence and brutality, you feel their echo still, their bruises and gashes landmarks on you.  An echo so strong, your teeth rattle with resonance.

Alive still, you can believe the intent was not malicious.  This violence and brutality are just a stage, the place where this ballad will be sung.  You let them whisper to you in the fading echo, you listen.

Ever in character, they ask brutal questions.  What would it take for you to soften your edges around my brutality?  To sink back and down into your darkness and your silence when faced with my violence?  To surrender to the harsh tones of my echo? To cherish the relief you feel when I am gone knowing you only get to feel it because I was here? 

Thursday, November 07, 2019


Draping, sweeping branches hanging low to create a hushed canopy of safety and secrecy just for you. Only dirt on this ground, no grass - the shade is too permanent, too effective.  But you like it here anyway.

Inside that house though, the one behind the tree, you've seen the door to the locked room and you've seen the key bleed on more than one occasion.  There is no safety there.

Cartoons on tv, an open cereal box, a stack of napkins, a dainty teacup that can't be put in the dishwasher because the flowers were painted by a skilled hand. You see these on the counter next to clenched fists holding a rage you cannot fathom.  Your neck could be inside those fists, he wants it there.  You know this just like you know that teacup can't go in the dishwasher.  Black shadowed eyes on a face that seems to heave.  Angry spittle flying, those eyes drill a lifetime of hate right into you.

What do you do when you meet Bluebeard in real life?  Just a child, you run for the hills, you have the good sense to be terrified of the void you see in those black eyes.  You saw the skeletons stacked behind the door the minute you walked into the house.  The whip of darkness in that void reaches for you, you feel the blood before see it, but still you run.  You're still running.

Tuesday, November 05, 2019

Hunt this

The napkin goes here, the wine glass there.  Proper ways of doing things.  Pretty is as pretty does.  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.  You are what you do, not who you are.

Cobwebs that have collected more than dust line the walls of this cave.  Grime and filth have covered anything worth anything, masked it all.

A hum of pleasure, yes pleasure, seeps out from your throat as you put that mask on.  Wearing it for a ball is very different from having it on your face and thinking it was you. You take out your favorite dress, the one that makes you want to dance, and you wear it with the mask.  You feel the snake in you rise and unfurl, black as night with silver eyes, moving you, dancing you.  You are art in this mask, and not the tragic kind.

You've stumbled upon a treasure hunt.  A bold and bloody trail of wicked and wild gems awaits.