under twilight longing
restless and wrench ache
ever just dreams slipping
lacuna & moon dipping
blood for the ash given for
palms crossed with silver
time to toss the dice,
wondering at if
they come up
twin death's head moth or
showers pouring over
with a sighed name
on the northern wind
wisp whisper am
breath sigh on wind
crisp and have shatter
slender parchment thin
unseenly and obseenly
ghosting of wing
tok tears am pale
scene at the fading
screaming on howl
lack beginning
stoic the stone &
cold the rain
quench at flame &
seek the space darkly
under wave nine
quell, quell
the fever for that
inside remembrance
forget the old
forget the old
i am lost and
i need to get
more lost to see
a way through
for the forest and
also the trees
on a long and
winding road
is where silence
begins
only ever illusion
seclusion the only
solution to retain
a sanity amongst
all the confusion
burning acres of
this heart, if one
might be found...
can we speak plain
cos i have forgotten
how to speak
and the words lost
all meaning in
the fog of dream
anyway
we needs must find
them again
we sought meaning
in rootsoil and mycelium
turned over understone
beseeched the sky
(i think you know why)
and whispered to crows
for their insight
and as for our meddle?
we still sit speechless
about all the things
under the oak tree
under the wings
come, kiss me
to spoken, my dear,
under a turquoise sky
The following is a lightly-edited fragment of a what was intended to be a longer bit of fiction I wrote in January 2015. I found it while looking for old files on a portable HDD to see how hard it would be to recreate “Rust” from my post yesterday. No dice… yet, anyway. I may be looking for the wrong filename and it could be under another name entirely. The song I referred to as “Myrrh” (which is only one of many “Myrrh”-titled songs I’ve worked on) is actually fully intact and on my modern DAW, so I might have to share that (with vocals!) once I decide what those lyrics should be. But, on with the story… I’ll say a bit more about this piece after the fragment.
The smell of excrement, rot and chemicals rose from the waters as the barge Vivienne and Llewellyn were riding floated across the River Strife to the slaughter yards south of the river. The copper smell of fresh blood drifted over the other smells and Llewellyn had to choke back a the bile that threatened to add to the miasma of roiling in the dark twilight waters below.
“Good gods, how does anyone deal with this stench on a daily basis?” he asked no one in particular, and didn’t expect to get a response. He covered his face with a handkerchief.
(more…)
i rest my head at
the hill of dreams
waiting there for
the ghost of you
in that slipshadow
your hand on my hip is
my hand on your hip
cutting the twilight
of midnight under
a lazy summer moon
hanging low enough
to grasp if but
for only slender hours
before is slips behind
an ashen veil of dream
i am inside her inside me
and you cannot cannot see
for the fog obscured of her
mists and dark moon we
both dance naked beneath
as i am her of inside me
this is not a broken
this is just how the we
under red the apple tree
to come with her as
she comes with me