Today is the death of hope.
It sees these leaves fall to gloom
and all that was spring
loose its sweet perfumed softness
as bright white blooms disintegrate,

Watches the clock tic tic tok
till time collapses and grief stops,
all moments ceasing,
all beings no longer being seen.

As all winds carry in
the burning stench of carrion,
and bitter stinging rays of radiation,
clouds spitting sickening poison
as mother nature screams in frustration.

Thus, the memory of humanity
recedes in embers and ash
burnt so quickly
and gobbled up as fast.
Till, only the void remains,
to mark the space where we
once rose and fell.

Listen to the sounds of drumming,
that is coming through.
Baby, I am the predator
that is hunting you,

super serial killer,
crazy ****** hummer
of a creepy tune.

When you hear the sound of knocking
you should runaway,
cause toe tapping maniacs
in the carnival
are coming today.

See the sad clown,
and watch the ****** carousal.
When the lights go out
we will all fall then crawl.

The melody is haunting
like those glowing eyes,
semi-circles spinning
in the darkest night.

If it was the devil
that would be a relief,
but this is something darker
then an ancient angelic creep.

Hunger and jagged teeth,
congested growls,
nipping at my feet,
fur so thick it engulfs everything,
when I turn around
and look into the mirror
I see that the beast is me.

It’s a circus of terrors
with too many tops to count,
and there are new nightmares
in every brand new town.

Little zombie dwarves
that claw the ground
riding decaying ponies
with flesh that falls
from their ribs,
while bits of viscous mucus
slides down the strong mans
chiseled vampire grin.

Steeped in all of this horror
how will anyone survive,
and to top it off this is
Halloween night.

Goblin fingers grab you,
laughing at your terror.
You might get a way
for a moment,
but running
will take to nowhere.

Sleeping eternally silent in the void
where no one comes back from,
a place no one can avoid
forever.

like a small speck
of dust
that floats in the air

if that flying snow was me,
I could
reach you faster

They murdered the romantic in me,
cut him so deeply he had nothing left,
no blood or organs, no hopes or dreams,
leaving just this floppy lifeless thing.

One knife at a time, in each point
his heart’s affection would find
pure ******* and devastation,
stuck like a pig and drained

put on a hook of pain to be hanged,
one big heartbroken meat sack,
one more rejection like a sword
larger than expected but he took that.

The proffer of perfect prose and
presenter of poetic affection,
princely pauper pushing daisy daydreams,
with rose petal cliché schemes.

Pink prickles, portly pokers
that poked holes in his swollen
but oh so hollow heart.

Then in the end
this sloppy sack of skin
just up and blew away.

the sequence is always
lurking on the tip
of my tongue:
vintage film that
tastes like bottom
-less honey
     mead.

three eight year olds hover on the front lines,
each in their own corner of forest. an older
boy throws his rusty longsword
with a frustrated, huffling yell into the
blackwater. a summer god doused in
sun dips an ear into the stratosphere
and listens through the trees, his
presence crawling through the dirt
as he watches the three children
fight lovingly against each
other.

three cousins draw a
treaty in the mud. they’re unsure on
the details. their hunched forms
murmur against the sunset. they meet between
tree forts. they hate each other a little bit still,
though they’re not entirely sure why. the sword
of the blackwater is a rusty pipe:
sleeping in liquid tar,
tangled in seagrass.

we finish our alliance written in mud.
fingers later smell of pine smoke
and homegrown moss.

three explorers linger on over
trembling planks of crimson
wood, peering through the
docks. they seek a longsword
made of backwoods and amethyst,
dozing somewhere in the murky water.

(even now
i don’t think i
could pull it out).

valiantly
(like some kind
of fantasy novel)
we tip toe across miry sand
and velvet rockweed. (small
fish probably sleep in it now).
we give up, and every summer
i scrutinize the cloudy water:
nothing there but sunfish
and unresolved tension.

before the war we swam beneath
the crimson planks and we were
mermaids, pirates, knights - all
at once and one at a time. the
years blend together and we
hate each other in different
ways. now we’re so old (none
of us taller than the sword
still). we’re never here at
the same time anymore,
and the summer god may not
have his ear to the earth
as he did so long
ago.


i hear three eight year olds
back at the docks, voices rising
from beneath warm obsidian.
there’s yelling through a dense
thicket: we’re screaming our
heads off - (they roll into the water,
turning into fish made of sunset
and memory). some summer god
somewhere rolls over in bed.
we listen in our daydreams
for another battle cry, galumphing
through shallows and ocean shores
until we surrender, making ourselves
forget about swords and tree forts
made of earth and twine.

yet i still hear three eight year olds
howling their heads off
somewhere in the back
of my mind, arguing in
sing-song voices
over who had won
the war.

summer quietly creaks open the back door
slips from beneath your skin
records shattering
as you stare down from the
attic, living in
slow motion.
it's gone before you can
remember what warmth even is.
sadness warps an old yellow novel
you used to love, holding it close
as it twists and moans.
  now,
  rip the
  best chapter out
  because
  it belongs to
  you.

My devil is in a spire,
of desires climbing higher,
of passions that inspires
strands of humanity
too burn in the same fire
that is my ever-loving ire.

My angel resides
on the other side
of my dreaming demon mind,
passed parallel dimensions
as specters whisper
their spiritual intentions
to haunt me from
kingdom come
and back again.

Vipers spitting poison,
while lesser men
are poised to win,
but I take pleasure in
always struggling
to gain a single inch,
always crawling,
and scrawling
little bits of brilliance.

Sitting in some strange setting,  
but I am not a man for betting,
the books are closed,
the dice predisposed
to poorer roles,
and all the polls
are filled with ill-intent.

Here I am
somnambulant
sleeping, but moving
in minor increments,
so I can grasp the dreams
that stir within
my weary mind,
jot them down before
they fade like autumn leaves
crumbling in the breeze
and exiting.

In this writing you may find
a treasure chest or a pile of ****,
a bowel of bananas or more excrement
it all depends on how you look at it.

It is a sea
of insincere
smiles living here.

Shades of
shady intent,
false compliments
and hidden
under them
bitter lashes.

It is anxiety,
and a lifetime
of learning
that everyone
else maybe fine

but because
those I love
hurt me
I will never
trust easily.

Thus,
I reflect
on the pain
of a suspicious mind,

hoping that
my past’s
bitter heart
has lost
the painful edge,
and I can
make a new start.

I know
its time to go,
even though
I wish time
would slow.

I know
that seasons
change,
and summer’s
elations
will be
winter’s bane
as I recall
them
in the heat
of a cold fire
pain.

I know
that you are gone
bone thin
goblin
elderly
grandma,

and the guilt
I feel
is still
a very real
***** deal.

I know this
is a cheap verse
but I only got
a few minutes
to jot it down.

I guess that is just
the gist of all of this
amidst all I know
I am certain
I have lost a bit
of bliss
in aging.

So, now I know
I miss the past
and feel like
replaying
the memory footage
of old days,

But I know
that this is
lazy writing,
and I won’t
get back that way
anytime soon.

This life must fail
In order to pass
Successfully on.