May 28, 2012

The only lover who ever touched me was the Muse,
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but it stroked me with its asexuality
while all the other lovers were too distant
or imaginary.

And so I drowned in its song,
in the waves of insanity that crucify sound
minds along the daytime shore.
I joined it there, pinned across its T, horizontally,
remembering my future like a distant
past and cursed the sand beneath me
while the other victims screamed beside the sea.

The lover is that maddening melody,
intoxicating, a torturous mind-joined-to-heart
obsessed with ethereal births incessantly rising
and receding, windblown on the page.

But the Siren, the Muse, who subdues passion with rage
killed me on the day I was born.
Yet its music never taught me the
only thing I ever learned -
to release the million billion grains of sand
that spear into us,
to succumb to that sea, to be impervious
with glee.

Instead, it pulls my hand, obliterates lust with desire,
suffocates flesh with dust
and while time passes unseen,
I miss my life for its dreams
and the Muse continues its dance.

It is a lie, you must know by now, that Artists are
born with Chance - we are crippled and chained
from our first instant in the air.
And yet, you take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
although to understand only brings us farther apart.
And yet - you dare to love the absence that is me,
overflowing with the elements of rain and sun.

The worst of it is over,
for we are young,
and the Muse always claims
the best of us before we have begun.
You've undone me, my dear, but the
Must will always have my ear,
and do you think you can dig
deep enough to release me
from the Siren's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?

May 8, 2012

"I am here," says the angel.
"I know," says the Little Girl.
"You should give it a try, being with people."
"What's the point? Pretending I'm happy? Turn myself into a doll with a painted face. What does it matter when it's all going to be over sooner rather than later?"
"Because if you pretend you are happy for long enough, you just might become it."
"Me? You know that's not true. You know I have always been alone and I always will be. They'll discover my corpse days or weeks later because the smell is unbearable. Not because anyone misses me."
"You will be with us by then. Scattered."
"Now would be a good time to take me. Now. Why can't you take me now?"
"Soon, Little Girl. Soon."
"I know. I can feel the poison."
"You can still choose to stay."
"There's nothing to live for. No one to come home to. No life ahead of me. I choose to go. Just make it painless. And fast."

The Incision

April 30, 2012

You are my horizon,
my brand in the dark -
a wish unreachable
but years prove unteachable.

And between us is a string
that we've pulled taut,
fragile as a life
between the scissors we bought.