"The falling rain is quick in her embrace of senses, and yet she is not you."

The swift movement of the curtains, swaying on their own with the breeze, cast but the most perfect shadow on the canvas of her whispered song.

"There is no need for ghosts,
no need for shadow figures or creaking doors,
or branches knocking upon windows and sills-
when your absence is my only haunting."

"Somehow I do no mind that you remain nameless,
so long as I can forget that I was ever reckless.
There is no fury in these words,
no passionate disregard -
and yet, if only you were blind enough,
if only you were gone.

Carve you out, erase you,
numb the spot,
and bite;
Carve you out and burn you
for those saintly eyes,
within those narrow walls."

---
So much for wishing through smoked screens.

Desert

Steering away

taking them down;

bones put to rest

salting the ground.

---

She got home a little after midnight, and there are so many dolls to destroy. Undress. Forget.

Her skin crawls as she thinks of the cold sand inside the sewed-up cloth; the putrid stench of spent dreams filling up the cornering clay pots.

"Anything you need." Like young gods in the making of a nebulae, riding horse heads while clinging to the smallest of dust particles.

"Why?" Her senses elated and the crashing of the moon reeked chaos only upon the waves -

"When?" "How?" "...but now?" Fragments of failed sub-organic formations. He had indeed penetrated her skin with fingers like needles, meddling in her vein pattern and concave chambers.

There was so much silence after he crossed the ivory gates.

She had sat. She had waited, but at 36 degrees, she felt as though life could not be waited upon over the underground.

Not hers.

She had to dig.

She had to retrace their steps - those skewed lines,

in order to understand the sunset.

She had to sew.

And,

One morning, there were dolls.

And,

A night like tonight, she undresses them.

A night like tonight, she forgets them.

Sub-organic organisms are truly not complicated at all.

You see,

They simply pretend to breathe.

In the end,

They simply pretend.

And then I realized: it was irrelevant;
that it would not matter if, instead of me being the spent idealist,
you were the one reciting my name in lyrical ballads at midnight
and broken verses in the early morning
because in the end
you would still stand behind every table
and I would always watch you collect scraps of paper
that resembled your soul.
You, the in-vitro Joker,
And I, the Infallible Lover of True Madness.

Gallery of Mythos

I could feel it, disguised as panting -

consumed by drops of rum and the faint smell of incense -

the otherwise cold and soothed skin

scratched on the surface with spent cloth and concrete;

horror vacui.

His eyes darkened,

the room spinning - counterclockwise,

shunned against, beaten, black against black,

like arms, embedded on the walls.

It was 7 and 5,

or 6 and 4,

1 burnt cigarette per lip,

and the unwelcome morning.

"This is the story of vampires,"

I thought:

"never to walk in sunlight,

never to be acknowledged,

never to be known

or be seen again."

After the encounter,

only a faint notion of reality remains.

As a survivor,

you are now the sole possessor

of shattered images

and bruised limbs.

Necromantique

I read you.

I read you well for about three full hours this morning -

trying to decipher the lines in between

and the lines you omitted,

the ones I deleted,

the ones we forgot to forge.

I read you and my laughter bloomed -

the lovely randomness,

the unequivocal sarcasm,

the gleaming metal,

the monstrous front

and the quivering whispers beneath it.

I read you and my back was on limestone.

I read you and the air grew heavy.

I read you and daylight went dim.

At last,

you have grown spikes for a spine

and serpents hiss on your behalf.

Lullabies

And she heard the sweet tunes escape through those lips, while she was quickly becoming deeply immersed in darkness, solaced by that shoulder and the nape of that neck. The piano, the viola, the violins, the guitars - all strings intertwined and converged with her voice.
"Lullabies," she had said the next morning.
"I heard you sing lullabies while I wore a cherry mask;
while I was away - even from sunless lands."

Patagonia

Her lips stretched and spontaneously curved into a smile,

first in the darkened room,

then in the warm bathing of afternoon sunlight -

as though the foundations of my favorite bridge were being laid out again;

her sweetness overpowering my own.

Everything

The day greeted her with logical ties and binding grips of reality:
the woman and her soaking garden, the children playing at the park, the seemingly unnecessary sirens of ambulances on the nearly invisible street.
She got up and stretched - loud *crack* and *pop* sounding movements sprouted from her knees and arms.

This was it. She was up. Her jaw had somehow managed to survive yet another night of intense grinding; she knew - the pounding reminiscence of a headache still hovered over her and her gums felt swollen again. Her hair told the stories of unkept warfare fashion in the 1920's, while her stare was as vacant as bombarded lots.

But she was up. She opened her eyes and she faced herself in the mirror. She faced herself in the mirror and the blank stare followed her - every terrible, obligated breath; every fleeting memory of subconscious matter back into its cavernous socket; every hope of abandoning the tangible.
She was up.
She was up.
She. Was. Up.

"One more day," she thought. Within a couple of minutes, indifference began to carve itself upon her like festive Hallow's Eve lines on a pumpkin face, like the internal rings of trees.

She tried against her utmost will to search between the newly settled dust particles in her mirror for laughter and sighs and tears - the shape of a face in all its grandeur. A good part of the hours belonged to them - their smiles, their anecdotes, their care-giving, the overall binging debauchery - all of this was theirs to share. "All of this" she had, finally.

And she was awake, now.
Her eyes had opened this morning.
She faced herself in the mirror and followed the trail of an aching echo in her chest. She saw herself explore this cavity. She saw herself unbound and yet she felt the gravitational collapse of stars resting upon her shoulders, the implosion causing her to float and fall at once.

And, so she was able to dictate the direction of one final line:
"What is wrong at the end of the day?"
Everything.

Glance

I can still hear the echoes of those words -
those last words -
they have been here before:

and how well they gnaw on my entrails
and spit them out,
only to lure them back in.

I let those words lure me back in.

But see, those words are not twisted and horrendous in the beginning;
no, that's how they get you - with gliding glances of wonder.
The first glance is exuberant sweetness,
a touch of tropical fruit and earthy warmth.

The second glance - ample awe,
completed with thunderstorms and the aching sea.
The third glance - stars under a canopy
of ripped cloth and salty rock,
foreign lands and heathen tongue.
The fourth glance - locks of embrace -
how you had longed to be Persephone.
The fifth glance - a stare,
completed with mind-reaping unbearable heat,
dark alleys and wasted streets.
The sixth glance - a nightly visit to the woods
with blasting music and dancing wheels,
obnoxious seconds through the dawning eclipse.

And the last glance - those words,
carefully beaten, mindfully shaped -
the broken silence,
the twisted thread,
the eminent farewell.

It was not the first time I had bled.
Oh, no - I had bled before.
But this time my blood was blue
and it was heavy
with you,
and me
and the Sea.







---
Perhaps this is a box best left alone.
Perhaps I am.
There is no knife known to cut through this thick nonsensical adhesive.

----------------
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