I stumble into an empty room,

Riddled with artifacts from young past.

A sanctuary for a lover’s heart to rest,

Lies beating upon the floor

In a plaintive rhythmic drone.

Your perfume still lingers here;

Like deadly nightshade, it dulls my senses.

And in a somnolent state, I see your spectral form appear.

Your auburn hair strewn about the pillow,

Like a brilliant sunburst, cradling your comely face.

I hear the joyous song of your laughter

echo in my mind, like the flutters of a butterfly’s wing.

And in the mourning light, I wake to no goddess by my side;

Just the ghostly fragments of a dream.

And as I begin to weep upon your pillow,

All I can smell is the sickly sweet scent of loss,

Forever paralyzed in your memory.

The Magician


His countenance betrays nothing.

His eyes focused and unyielding.

His hands flutter, like wings of a bird.

Disappearing and reappearing with languid precision.

His hair leonine; wild and untamed.

He takes a goblet, turning water into wine.

He takes his staff and tosses it into the air.

And at its zenith, transforms it into a mighty sword.

With a deft hand, the Magician

Tears it from its impending descent.

He takes the blade and cuts through the air

In a big arc around him.  Encircling himself.

His eyes now ablaze with fervent vigor;

Propelled by some cosmic force.

He sweeps the blade faster and faster

Around him, until it almost appears

As though he cut through the very fabric of time.

And a circle of white light surrounds him.

Vitruvian in all his splendor, he spreads

His limbs out as if he were spokes in a wheel.

Slowly he begins to turn inside the circle of light,

Spinning faster and faster with hellish speed,

Until a radiant flash bursts into a million stars.

As above, so below.

As it is on earth, so it is in heaven.

The Fool

I jump at the chance to spread my wings and fly

Over that steep ledge; where life and death

Wait with eager hands to take me with them.

I carry the weight of the world in a small bag, tied to a stick.

My life swinging back and forth, like a pendulum on a string.

I dance upon the edge of danger; its jagged teeth nipping

At my heels with emphatic pleasure. And I smile.

Taking that leap of faith or folly; I do not wonder where my feet will land.

For it’s landing is inevitable, not debatable.

No abstraction divides me from my purpose;

Whether known or unknown. It does not matter.

Men do like the chase.  The hot pursuit.

The kiss of cold steel in their hands.

The taste of hot lead in their mouth.

So I take that chance, because I must;

For the folly of man is not taking a chance at all.

Mind Slave

I feel your arms around me;

They choke me with vise-like ferocity.

I wrest my wrists in shackles I can’t resist,

Bleeding beyond the bone; I bite the pain.

Though leagues of time have passed between us,

I still feel you near. How? I do not know. But

I can see your face as clear as day;

See the malevolence, see the debauchery, see the end.

The end of an abject existence.

As I crawl through the muck and mire that is my life.

I find nothing, but you.  Poisoning my mind.

Haunting my every step.

Noose dances around my neck then pulls me up

As I gently sway from side to side.

I see the barrel pointed at my face and the trigger’s pulled

And I fall down into a bed of stars.

There, you sleep right next to me

And I feel a breath of foul things whispered into my ear.

Things I never knew, nor wished to know.

I scream for death to take me on swift wings;

To an end that meets no beginning.

Free from Life’s curse of living in yesterday.

Freed from my memory.

This Old House

This old house was young once; lithe and free.

It stood against all odds with fire in its eyes.

But the rock it once stood on has turned to sand.

The bitter hands of winter rending nails from the board,

Like thinned flesh tearing from the bone.

It’s been burglarized and vandalized so much,

There’s nothing left inside.

Its door swings ajar; slack-jawed in its mangled frame.

Its windows boarded up; blind to the outside world.

As the wind moans through the empty house

like a dying man’s hallowed screams.

Why Write At All?

I wish I could write what I want for a living, but then reality sets in.  Now, maybe that is a defeatist type of attitude but it crosses every aspiring writer/blogger/poet/playwright’s mind every so often. And perhaps these are barriers that I have programmed myself to believe. Like the little devil in your ear telling you, you can’t do it.  I, all too often, will have dialogues with myself that sometimes go like this:

“You can’t! You can’t! You can’t!”

“But why not?”


“But why?”

“Because you are unoriginal and have nothing new to say.  You’re not depraved enough, ugly enough, handsome enough, smart enough.  Need I say more?”


“No buts!”

“But I can try-”

“Try and what? Fail?  You think there is an untapped audience just dying to hear what you have to say?  Waiting to hear your endless drivel of your stupid day and your stupid thoughts?  Really?”

Okay, I think the devil has been punishing me long enough, but how true is it?  So I’m not as lecherous, slimy, or debauched as the late 19th century Parisian poets who loved running their fingers through anything that would get them dirty; Do I really need an alibi to speak my mind? The answer is no.  I can write the filthiest thing you’ve ever read and never have to live the terrible things that curse my poor little mind, but does that make me a poser?  To some, they would say yes and some would say no.  Do you need to be raped in order to understand how traumatizing it truly is?  No. Do you need to get shot in order to write a good murder mystery?  Again, the answer is no. Stephen King doesn’t live the torment that he dishes out on paper, so why should I have to? And guess what?  Being a writer means being a poser!  In fact, the word “writer” should be the synonym for “poser”.

Now does it help a story sound more authentic when the writer has actually experienced it for themselves?  Absolutely. But I’m not going to shoot up just so I can make a paragraph sound more “authentic”.  No, what I need to do is start writing how I talk and not write vicariously through the  pen-goggles of somebody else.  That’s no way to live or write.  So find your own voice and talk about what really matters to you and eventually you’ll start to sound like your old self again.  You can’t really talk until you find your voice.

The Truth

I see the demons swimming at the bottom of my glass;

Jesting and jeering me as I swallow the rest.

And I feel them tumble down my exposed throat,

Kicking and screaming in their descent

Until they land in the flaming pit of my stomach.

Feeling them inside me, running amuck.

Like a growing fetus in the womb, they feed upon my hatred.

Suckling on the tits of my own humiliation.

They are the weeds that push through my subconscious mind,

Planting the seeds of doubt into every unborn dream of mine.

And the sad reality is that I come crawling back for more abuse;

Drinking another bottle as I have come to know as the bitter truth.