O, somber sonneteer of midnight’s hour,
Who wove the velour shroud with silver pen,
You found a throne within a crumbling tower,
Far from the waking minds of mortal men.
With Raven’s plume, you painted stark despair,
And chased the radiant ghost of lost Lenore,
Amidst the gloom, you found a beauty rare,
And taught the heart to weep—and dream—“Nevermore.”
You dove beneath the surface of the sea,
Where shadowy dreams in silent waters dwell,
To wake the spirit of Annabel Lee,
And toll the bell in sorrow’s deepest well.
A mind of terrors, madness, yet so bright,
A tortured soul that sought the star-lit shore,
You turned the deepest darkness into light,
And hold us in your melancholy lore.
Oh, Poe, who sat on Pallas’ sculptured bust,
And felt the horror of the phantom wind,
You transformed ashes, longing, and the dust,
Into the finest music, refined and thinned.
Though you have left this world of pain and fear,
Your shadow lingers, haunting evermore,
A master of the strange, the dark, the drear,
We bow before your lonely, haunted door.
Spectacle of a Trumpian stump speech:
Showmanship at times maudlin, at times macabre
Purple Hearts aplenty, Congressional Medals of Honor
Tales of American heroes to stir even the yawners
110 minutes of non-stop vaudeville ~ a true marathoner
We live in the now, not in past tenses,
vibrant, detached, free from fear and desire,
bliss magnetism heightening our senses,
no worldly objects for which we aspire,
essence of our being in heart afire.
As thought forms dance, we watch them with a smile,
wisps of smoke to amuse us for a while,
spasms of ego dead by which they are led,
as labours of mind no longer in style,
for we dwell in our heart, not in the head.
a single heart
thick as wax
pressed into the earth’s embrace
it does not wither
does not break
only waits in silence--patient, watching
its vines creep slow
twisting tight
coiling round the throat of time
whisper soft
it calls their names
a voice like wind through hollow bone
come and see
come rest your hands
upon the leaves still warm with breath
they lean in close
they never know
until the roots have found their skin
wrists entwined
by tendriled veins
soft as lovers’ fingertips
no cries escape
no struggle holds
it drinks them deep--it lets them go
but still they bloom
from blood-wet soil
a heartbeat pulsing in the stem
one by one
it claims them all
until the plant becomes the man
his lips are leaves
his eyes are dark
his hands are reaching from the vine
he whispers now
with every breeze
and lures the next one home again
Crack! I lay, beneath me creaking
Hath it taken from me? What to give?
Mayhaps yesternight another seeking
For not many there is to live
It approaches, shaking, floors creaking
To thee I will never forgive
The black, slender arms reach
It thrashes! THRASHES, thrash–
Follicles, it pulls, off me, I screech
With many a fang, I faintly see a gnash
Holding me, gripping such as a leech
Of my being, will you bash?
Desires faintly protruded, of a glare
I wanted to feel an embrace so warm
Instead, I long, gasping for air
Of my strangled state, you aware of enorm
Thirsted for love, endearment not there
Just us, our state one described deform
Despite conditions, not a sound shall hang
As I know we are bound to meet again
Bound, bound beneath thee embrace and fang
Thy body, slim and slime, gets off now then
You’ll return, but you go with a bang
As I am left to wonder when
When what I wrote is hard to read,
the crowd goes, Whoa, not touching that.
Perhaps someone should intercede
to edit out the ghoulish splat.
It’s not clear why my mind goes there;
the childhood fever might be it.
My mother often voiced despair,
but I prefer macabre wit.
Beneath calm seas, menacing kelp
ensnares the otter fleeing Jaws.
My wife’s convinced I should seek help
to find the underlying cause.
Though I in earnest sometimes try,
the animals just seem to die.
she resigned herself to feeling morose macabre and melancholy
determined to be miserable, was our cousin, Miss Harriet Holly.
Focusing on wretched negativity, and all things bad.
Tossing good things out of her schemata said my friend Tad.
Determined to be solemn, depressed, angry, alone and sad.
It was a keen observation from the self-absorbed Tad.
Creepy crawlies and heebie-jeebies
raw ripples on your skin kafkaesque;
You peek at that dark monstrosity,
cannot tell if it’s a trick or treat;
Nerves taunt with chimerical spectres;
Weepy eyes are stung by angry bees,
‘Pshaw!’ escapes a story so grotesque;
Flew through your mouth unable to flee,
caught swelled saliva starts to secrete;
Serves well scripts of macabre directors.
In the alleys of mirrors, reflections stare back with faces I've yet to covet. The cacophony of screams and whispers, a post-coital slack-jawed pause, the aftermath of endless nights and getting lost in vorpal holes of unwritten rules. Where pornographers masquerade as poets, sacrificing Eros on the altar of analysis. I squirm on the auto-da-fé of your ardor, land of disco balls and dementia shops, every step a temptation to drown in this make-believe proposition — lost prostitute histrionics downslope. Where lies persons end of having no escapes— ?
In vacancy lots of mind haste, I find a faze in the scars of my past memories, ghosts of my mistakes, the lingerings of taste and lust. They're the only constant in this toxic haze, the only truth I can hold onto.
In the underbelly of the behemoth,
where darkness devours the light,
lies the truth - a macabre cotillion
of vice and virtue, forever swirling,
a maddening waltz of the dualistic kiss.
I detest cowards who cower at night's darkness,
afraid of shadows and their own demons.
Fear is a thief that steals courage
and leaves only cowardice in its wake.
Be a warrior, not a weakling.
Face your fears,
and let the darkness fuel your lights fire.
Weakness is not an option.
The rot of humanity's shadow is not in the ink,
but in the darkness that fuels the pen,
gruesome daggers, dripping honeyed poison.
crimson mixes of love and rage,
a cauldron of heartache bubbling,
memories shared, now a tribute,
to the venom in my pen writing.
fueling our past, surviving tonight,
amongst the stars and the sky,
a love lost in time, a phantom limb,
echoes of what could have been.
colliding paths, a spark of passion,
fate and chance — two stars torn,
nova hurricane, supernova rain,
our own lifeforce, we remain.
dawn's warmth awakens,
and night's secrets whispers their final sigh.
the crescent moon, a lover's lingering glance,
blinks farewell, as our midnight circle mists,
leaving only dawn's promise,
of another paradoxical gaze from the stars.
As I look into the vast ocean of wight,
here in the shadows of wont right,
left amongst the myriad mellifluously,
will you still hold a monstera like me?
To be this maiden fair — to care about myself,
ore not to mine — opals rainbow in black skies,
heralding a new plateau of what you know,
breaking the shackles of the winter cold.
As I gaze into the bleak sea of night,
hearing sweet edicts of your final rites,
left turning into an arrow without a quiver,
wilt lullabies still paint my death in color?
To sweven this ounce of decadence in my beloved,
my amo mia, my final goodbye to you,
gould by the expire in hot vermillion — and blue,
kiss blew in the mind with lead — me and through.
Sometimes we need to be — golden silence.
whistling
in the rain
how I love you
so they say
a dream is not
a nightmare in a play
a tragedy but whose to say
halved misery the other mystery
milks silken
savvy
ergo
me
yue
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