barbed the wires crossed
and i... and i...
shut up the inside, waiting
for the winter door
to swing wide open
so i fly
night against white
and stop making sense
to all who might listen
barbed the wires crossed
lacking transmission
wind strumming over snow
to bring out the singing
humming across the moors
building up the drifts
to blanket the whole
wayfinding the fair
following the blood she
leaves for dolmen stones
to mark her where
for come november
when lovers lie claimed
entwined in her river flow
'til whispers call to wander
the burning fields won
under the forests below
unconfidante but for
ravens and crows
campfires and ghosts
gone blind due to reading
gone silent for song
conspiracy and murder
have taken all tongue
broken fingerbones
have stolen all tone
shh, now childe
sleep within sedges at
green gone wild
I’ll admit it: I’ve been binging The Walking Dead again.
If I want to pretend to be an intellectual, I’d say it was research into human nature in the face of an apocalypse. I have not recently seen evidence in real life that suggests that people will act differently than their fictional counterparts if they were faced with a zombie (or any kind of, really) apocalypse. Zombies in TWD might be the overt threat, but the real monsters are other people. The Witcher games and books, fantasy tales about a “monster hunter” mutant named Geralt of Rivia play the same tune. Horrifying creatures are a real threat, but the true monsters are us.
(more…)
not fuzzy
not prickly
more prickly fuzz
or fuzzy prickles
in a world full
of shoeboxes to
put these things
within
those left over
cast sparse
in the backyards
of the dream
forgetting how to read
my books given to tinder
and letters gone to rust
a kiss the only verse
i know
i might refrain your eyes
on hours, if howevers allow
over endless ribbons
on sky's raven road
do your stars
cut at flesh
when caught
on the fall?
tangletown dreaming
arterial roots weaving
entwined, your eyes
chipped onyx flecked
and flint in the corners
windows wide and riding
the tall beasts fell
to that old beat howl
all mouths gaping at
how beautiful you are
No. How could you possibly
understand? You would need
the books and coin-covered
eyes to see. Crossing that river
that seems a stream and, if you
do, you could never look back.
you look skies, but
some say prayers
over a sea of sand
in cities of dust
come the ash driven
like the snow
while i say mine
We are already of the barrow.
A turn of the chamber followed the roar of the gun is all that divides. Or the obsidian’s edge, if you prefer, for that line is silent and cuts the threads fine. Or that final chest rattle in the nadir of night, while kin look on.
Gasping revenants clutching at vapors threading their path through the mists and ways, our hands wither to dust. And for what? The illusion of the infinite when we are but dirt and dust.
We color ourselves with the shadow of our own ash gathered from down there, in the pit. Try to give ourselves light from the shadow, by way of contrast. But few seem to see.
We are already of the barrow.
hollow me wraithly
flitting through moon
crisp tasting & elder
untouching the floor
moving within within
moving within
but… unseen
for all the howl
cold hearth & ashen
still glide the home
given to memento
given to the gloam
into big empty &
sever the tethers
to slip obscure
in those eyes nocturne
i fell in love
with her picture
in the television
i fell in love with
her banshee wail
with eyes crossed kohl
she could not see
even if she tried
given to dominion
i surrendered to her gale
only to be forgotten
in the maelstrom flick
of a changed channel