A Bloody Merry Christmas

Lights adorn the snow-less homes.

Some drip like faux-icicles,

Some like fresh fallen snow

Trickling down the window.

Cacti bejeweled like thorned

Candy canes, as families raid

Every Starbucks, sticking their trained

Noses in chocolate cup warmth.

Dean Martin sings “let it snow”,

Mocking the topless mountains

Encircling this desert island

The undying sun calls home.

Burnt out ciggies ring ‘n tell

The hungry vampires with bells

Like cattle, ready to slaughter

Their plastic cards soon after

With big red grins they coo,

“A bloody Christmas to you!”

 

 

Empty Sea

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The siren’s sing their ugly lullabies,

Insomniac nights carve deep the ebon-

Circle scars beneath my eyes.

 

I dream of a thousand ways to die,

But I seem to only dream, to dream.

And the churning waves of my roiling mind

Crash in the darkness of an empty sea.

 

Poison bubbles from my hand overflowing,

Down the dry hollow of my miserable throat;

Cutting, burning, gutting, worming, floating

Down the strangling, dangling rope.

 

Knees buckle in protest swinging in prayer,

Bowed in a genuflection of despair.

Butterfly hands fold about my swan-like

Neck, dragging me down to the grass-like

 

Carpet, seizing upon its coarse flesh.

A sea of foam froths from my spouting mouth.

Eyes twitch in twilight between life and death,

And every punishing, labored breath

Is lost in the darkness of that empty sea…

The Window Pane

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I see the fleeting love that

Hits my window pane.

And the autumn leaves

Bid farewell to the tree,

Smothered by the hungry

Snow like distant memories

Lost to the cruelty of time.

My finger traces the tear-

Stained path along the window

Pane, but soon I am lost,

Forgetting where I started.

I see the fleeting love that

Haunts my window pane.

And the profusion of a

Bleeding heart blots out

The very sun and I

Forget where you end

And I begin, because

Such ties can’t easily

Be broken, yet they are.

You cannot pluck this

Timid rose without feeling

The thorns poisoning your own.

No, we stare blankly through

The same caliginous

Glass, through the same splintered

Pain in hopes that the future

Won’t betray our eager hearts.

She Wakes Me

She wakes me

In shrill, sterile silence.

Her pale blue face

Stolid, never aging,

The only thing that

I can call morning.

It must be an unwritten

Sin to have to work

When the sun still dreams.

Dreams still of yesterday,

In that twilit seam

Between night and day

And the phrase “sleeping in”

Has lost all meaning.

Of…

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You gaze through glazed eyes

At the talking head within a talking box.

Your brain simmering

Inside its capacious skull.

 

You awake in dreams

Putting on your pants,

Brushing your teeth,

Defiling the toilet with your

Innumerable expulsions

 

And slowly you feel

A twinge of irritation

Thinking how life

Couldn’t get any duller.

 

Is this what hell truly is?

In a fit of rage you scream,

“Damn this prison!”

 

Fists clenched, fighting to fight

Something,

Anything but this.

Blood sinks deeper into your everything,

Beating, bashing, throbbing, thrashing,

Pounding your helpless ears.

And as the crimson waves subside

You hear it

What?

It.

That dislocated drone

Of a sleepless city.

A myriad of glowing eyes

Gleaming infernal

Below a polluted sea.

You smell its putrid breath sweltering,

Fuming from its numberless

Cracks and crevices

That twist its ugly frame.

 

You can even taste

The dampness on your tongue

The damp taste of…what though?

Sex?

No

Death?

No, something deeper.

Corruption?

Close but no.

What then?!

What?!

 

You can’t put your finger on it,

But you can feel it,

You can sense it.

That bittersweet taste of…

The Boy and the Cigarette

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Amid the derisive humor

Of an Arizona winter,

Sweater-ed birds flock

In leather-bound boots

Wrapped in nugatory scarves

And I begin to question my

Own slatternly appearance;

But then I realize

When has fashion ever been

Practical?

Arm in sling, I shamble over

To the pharmacy to numb

The pain

Of a mosh-pit fender-bender.

Crossing the parking playground

That surrounds these desert plains, I pass

a young tween(er);

That look of contempt

So easily mastered when

Puberty ensues.

With a swarthy countenance,

Stooped on a bench

He suckles

The ash-filled tit

Of a cigarette.

Its worm-like form

Swinging unceremoniously

From his pendulous lips

Like a bear with a fresh kill.

Its tendrils caressing

His hair

Like the ghost of a past

Lover.

Eyes swimming dully

Across the deluge of

Newcomers and old-goers.

A song dangles from one ear

And I wonder

What he’s listening to.

As quickly as I came,

I went;

Skipping along like a kid

Leaving with a bag of goodies

From the candy store,

And I see

The boy and his cigarette

Oblivious, yet aware;

And I wonder

If I ever really knew what a cigarette  actually tasted like.