Category Archives: #abuse

THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


SMOKING CIGARETTES AND SPIPPING COFFEE

Many-colored and candle-lights; high beyond the soft trees a fresh country
leans heavily toward the night, far beyond the sea’s shady shore.

Beams, o’er wide fields like a white star, \till from the earth’s crown drops the thunders. With breaths that stay the night, with sounds that never are hushed, with golden night-glories or amber the perfumes that I catch/, and wild nights of laughter: and by the deep sea violets and ladyship’s, with the smelling rose, and perfumes of forest; and rarities that we saw in open Heaven, and the drink of Oia, on the sweet chestnut tree,
with which the feet of Aphrodite might be not shackled, when the lust of Him; as some deem I.

And so we lament over him, with our wreaths Pallid, wan, or but paled by love’s heavy sighs, lovers whose burning lust is over; who shall still desire now thy embraces, or feel the beauty of thy cheek;
who shall fancy even now that the bonds of love are off the tongues of thine; or that all the charms of thy face have lost their force, and are swaying at the wind from thy native garlands?
And what pities the future lover, if even of l’amour’s kiss they have bewailed and of sweet love’s cloying aftertaste they are not ill pleased; if there should still be that sighing longing, that sighing sadness, that sighing passion, that sighing sigh, that sighing waste of life?

And what more pity if I should too that same sorrow too should befall him!

And I see that love weeps, in wailing. till her outstretching fingers take him to her bosom and tie him tight to the heart and mind of the one.
Now then, take thy ease with love’s passion, as a fair angel, whom God makes with an ecstatic gleam and white hair; his love’s upcast bird-chaser,
His love’s lady-mistress, His love’s wife, or maidenhood.
But seek that pleasure not with a partner, of whom one is no more than a plaything. What kind of thing is it, these men with whom we do marry, to whom a common fellow-countryman is no more honorable or good than the butcher or tailor, or shoe-maker. What kind of thing is it,
for whom is it either to worship God, or to lie in death’s burning sands?
If the sweet to taste was here among us, and the earl’s daughter would choose me, and not him, what with the big open eye, with all its blood-shooting sight, the mad gaze of their wild eyes!
And the round forked tongue! and the crazed face!
With the hanging lip! with the snarling teeth!
With the long hair! with the strange uncouth sign of their
Cocks and she-birds!
What would become of my high rank, to be taken, in my home country, as a commoner with one of those low fellows, whose fear stems from the spleen, and whose blood stems from the kidneys.
For I am rather wild and awkward, egotistic and impractical, desirable in their eyes, and hurtful in their lips, but if it were this way, I should be quite happy.
Would he ever require my foot for aught?
For my breast for his belly? My seat for his horse? I think not. Should I have my house, my servants, my arms, and I am well armed, yet I should still groan to see that from some far foreign land was by God taken a young and ambitious kinsman.

To perish so cruelly, so without hope would I ever be glad of any harm coming to him.

:: 10.03.2020 ::


BORN UPON A RAFT

i WAS born upon a raft; castaway upon the sea
many a year ago my birth upon the briny deep
And i know vast waters
all points across an oceanic reality
But once i dreamed i was born
— be upon a land where all i see
::disharmony
all points across vast humanity
where fear and pain delivered a daily dose
now realize birth-induced reality
is far better than human insanity

::01/07/2014::
::REV: 08192020 ::


SENTIMENTAL AND WIDE

SENTIMENTAL AND WIDE

WHISPERINGT GHOSTS
w a n d e r ing souls
eating muffins crazy cats
yarn at your feet — destruction
inside your heart/makes me lay down
throughout the night\ nEVER a
frown — a deadly smile of conviction
within my Cedar Box
it walks crushed & tulips i breathed
in the entire blue skies / –> so
together where you are : and all of
the things i ever said to you girl
makes me feel sentimental and wide.

:: 08.11.2020 ::


FROM HISTORY (Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien)

FROM history a golden step,– among
memories from ancestors, gray
gauzes, and broken bones that
turned back tyranny as bronze
liberated Souls and children
in the sun, no, i regret nothing
No, i regret nothing
so paid for, done, forgotten
i do not care for the past
 pain, blood, and miscarried
hopes — i’m done with the love
and trouble of Life so i start
over with nothing!

:: 08.02.2020 ::


THE MARCHING BOOTS

MET the Light that beats down my face
   a splice of time & space and twelve elders
 when they came the women fainted and livestock too
— oh .  Whoa.       My faith grew unto a forest
of gentle green to kill their unholy kind : we’ve
been blind: there’s no denying
Oh!  yea!  i’ve been crying.
  — walking all i see the sun
just the sun of ‘in my eyes’
  its sane/as i scream these
razor eyes\ come find me come
find me — ooooooh now.

:: 07.25.2020 ::


BETWEEN LIVES & THOUGHTS

between thoughts
such depth
my heart sank
–today.
The widow of Souls
now am i –? or
a mirage of god’s
weaker image?
this does NEVER
matter within my
own heart; i am
any-and-everything
i wish to be.

& MORE!

:: 07.22.2020 ::


DEEP STATE (FILTHY PIECES) ^ EATING YOUR CANCER

FILTHY pieces
of long-forgotten
thoughts i remember
i forgot to keep it
all far inside the die’
ist part of my vibrant
HEART-flower and sometimes
i looked within your heart-
shaped Soul so fragile and
Evil: i ate you all
makes The Tablet by
the firey finger-tips
of my mind : i have never
said go -and-die /you’re alive
| gathering sheep and smelling
fresh air i tripped over mySelf |
its an illusion called
Life — Hey! WAIT! i have a
message /you invited\ …
confusion!\

:: 07.22.2020 ::


MY MUD ARE SMILES

my mud are my smiles
so she asked me
are you lik,e Libra
eating my Soul
from within your
magnet Heart: i
thought and then wrote
precis of illusionary
words and unforgiveable
advice that taxed me:
crystal spine; it’s every
thought of your mind:
everything eating orchids
and placenta-angel breath
i barreled down so i could
confess back! Hey!
every thought
goes through your priceless
mind.

:: 07.22.2020 ::


TURANDOT: NESSUN DORMA!

so now i have eaten
all of you tiny
brilliant throats
of my heart!
i have not escaped
my madness either
: together the morning
and night meet —
today the sun and heart
oh so glory!
i forgot humanity
to live within fantasy.

:: 07.21.2020 ::