on the cut
nail etch i
to wash of
salt words
in the colony
i
machining sin
every part i
flow the laws
of nature in
sting blood
i
’my dear,
that is not an
act of love’
everything is just
incidental music
i was sick, sick—
i
i ||: colony
No comments on i ||: colonyDrone of ice
I drone of ice. Crystal. Pale luminescence.
I show him how I shuttercock the gun to skate the lake in tin flechette under a neon sky, dancing somewhere between Nijinsky and ictus rigor, near both wolf and dog on the Betweens.
In a word, I say: They cannot see me.
In yet more: They cannot hear me, save for the hollow of my entrance.
And: They cannot taste me, for their screams.
Explaining: They all have sharp ends, just as I will have a sharp end. It is the only way we can be. When you waltz with knives and cold eyes blue, everything becomes razor cuts through the gloom.
“And you never tire of this?” he asks, knowing the answer.
Of course I do.
I shrug. But I know nothing else. I only know the northern cold.
An exchange. As agreed, fifteen in advance. To hold me, to unspring my aching need. There was crimson spilled the last time, the time they thought to give me mere seed instead of what we had agreed.
Word travels, as they say.
“Fifty more when it is complete?”
I stare. He knows. I have no desire to bleed him for more. Yet anyway. Perhaps later. In his mistress’s boudoir, as I smoke his expensive cigars.
He does not know it, but he is lucky.
Ahh. Now he sees, coughs. Chair screech, standing back from my obsidian eyes empty.
“Em. Hum. Contact me when you have done the deed.”
I knappedflint smile. Only a smile.
It is already done, this job. Before we met. For joy. But he can wait for that news. Make him wonder.
He stumbleleaves, does not even finish his drink, does not count the jack he leaves on the table for the tab for all his hurrying. Out the door, letting in winter.
I am tired. Yet, I have pride.
I am drone of ice.
all lost boys
we're all lost boys
living in a purgatory
of our own make
dreaming
cardboard fantasies
of tin foil swords &
steel-painted armors —
a princess eager
behind a veil of thorns
we still boast song & glory
in a mead hall of ruins
shoes sticking to
ale-washed floors
slipstream still,
i sit between
shifting throngs & smiles
wondering what lies
all lost boys, we
will tell nowGravity
Okay, grab something heavy and lend me an ear.
No.
We will not be losing gravity for seven seconds within just over 30 minutes as of the time of this post.
I almost wish we were.
But we’re not.
Stop it. You’re making damned fools of yourself. It makes me sad.
tagged:
conspiracies about conspiracies that are conspiracies themselves, gravity doesn’t work that way folks, le sighfiled under:
Last gasp from the past
The friend I met up with had converted the video of our first gig at an (im)famous bar , Fernandos. It had a reputation for basically letting anyone play at the bar on Sunday nights, so take that as you will. Two local goth bands, Shadowspawn (mine) and Saint Cry (the headliners).
The hicks at the bar hated us and made it known; both loudly and drunkenly.
I’ve decided against sharing any of the actual footage from the show. It would be cruel to show anything more than the above still.
(more…)tagged:
filed under:
Campfire Sessions — 11aug26
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash I emerged from the bramble gate, crawling out on my hands and knees the soft loam giving way to my weight before springing back, erasing any sign of my passing. Thorns teased at my clothes, my skin while rending neither.
Part of me wished the thorns had taken more liberties with both fabric and flesh.
You survived, They said as I stood, brushing off decayed leaves and detritus from my palms and trousers. Excellent.
(more…)casting runes — 10aug26
dagaz i shadowwalk
the barrows gloaming
neither flint, nor flesh
nor song, nor substance
a wraith tethered between
neither a living, nor a dyingA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is dagaz, which has been translated as “daybreak”, that transitional moment between night and day. By extension, it might also be interpreted as “twilight” and is representative of liminality, transformation, the space between worlds, and suggests walking in both the material world and otherworld.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
Speechless in Purgatory
Photo by Bui Van Dong on Pexels.com I have lost my mojo.
It started about the time I quit smoking, so I always joke that if you gave me a cig, I’d talk your ear [edit: that should be “your shirt”] off while attempting to sell you your own shirt back to you. Or: I blame it on the lack of a smoke, anyway. Either way, it feels like something about smoking made it easier to talk to people.
My other jest: if you put me in front of a microphone and expect me to give a presentation, hand me a guitar as well and I’ll knock it out of the park. It’s more lie than reality, but I could probably give better presentations with a guitar in hand.
Now I fumble over the simplest chatter.
Was it that cigarette? Or was it just having a prop in my hands? A drag on the cigarette as a visual semicolon, gathering my next words before speaking with dramatic tension built up before the exhale and finishing my thought?
Or was it something that helped me focus? I’ll admit my mind is a restless thing, that smalltalk tends to make it wander. I’ve not made it a secret that I’m impatient with extended smalltalk. Was smoking what made it easier to keep my mind on track for social niceties?
Perhaps I should try holding a pen when I go to social gatherings. A toothpick? A fidget toy in my pocket — only someone is apt to notice the movement and think you are diddling yourself…
If I could only manage to avoid putting my foot in my mouth for an hour and then never managing to extract it, but just switch the position as I blush more an more with it sitting there for all to see. Ha ha ha. Ugh.
I’m still one-day-at-a-time with the smokes after well over a decade. I might be an alcoholic still, but I rarely think about finding a drink after roughly the same amount of time. It’s all: Smoke smoke smoke, how can I justify a smoke?
Maybe that’s all this really is, if I’m honest with myself. An excuse looking for a problem.
Maybe all I really need is some more practice being social. Shudder.
Maybe not.
But, man, I do miss that little extra bit of income from selling shirts.
tonight tonight
scraping old bones white
with gathered barrowflint;
a toast on the graves to
old friends gathered tonight
they whisper, crisp as leaves
and as thick as thieves
bloodless, aimless, shambling:
telling old tales of stones tonight
there is little reason, These Days
to wander out the wood
old crow, he cousins for a waiting
on the gathering snow tonightMild rant
I recently had a lengthy discussion with someone who wanted to share with me their amazing mind-expanding experiences with psilocybin. This person had “an awakening” after the experience and wanted me to hear their version of “the good word”.
I won’t go into the details of their belief system, as it is really unimportant. People believe what they will believe and I try not to judge what they believe, although his awakening is based quite heavily on the use of hallucinogens and convoluted conspiracy theories treated as science by merely applying the word “science” to the material.
Anyway, I think he was trying to get me to join his psilocybin community. Most people would jump at the chance, honestly. Not interested, personally.
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