Month: December 2015

Cyclops

An eye

for an eye

and the whole world becomes

a plethora of blundering Cyclopes’ 

The only thing that remains

is to bring back the saber tooth tiger. 

Advertisements

The Epitome of Splendor

He said the only cuts worth having

are the ones that scrape against bone

the ones that grind you down

and build you back up

He whispers through the bitter-blood taste of the Cabernet

Do you know pain?

I etched it into the skin on my wrist

years ago

the night of delirious bowling

I made myself vulnerable

only to swear never again

I have paid the price for this oath

For apart we were a plague upon the other

Together we were the epitome of splendor

Do you think this is true?

His grin is cocky,

knowing

and he tells me

My writing is the epitome of spendor

when he is the muse. 

in between chords

Dusk brushed the building tops

I saw the twinkle in your eye 

within the city lights

A sigh formed in longing

the memory of a frosty kiss…

the smell of leather

the scent of you.

These are things I will forever miss…

The music played

and I liked the sound his fingers made

sliding across strings

in between chords

But nothing could break me from this melancholy trance

I was sad about the news

the man on the moon 

needed a space suit to breath

and all mountains will crumble

into the sea

eventually.

Boys passed me in ski masks

but payed me no mind

except a nod and a peace sign

The wind blew back my hair

my skin became ice

I stood on top of the mountain

caught in between chords

and waited for it to crumble.

fast car

I was born, and the whole world was ugly. I was told not to worry, for it would burn soon enough. Just wait. Just you wait. So I waited and we all prayed for fire. Like devout little jokers to a prankster God, we called down the fire.

Only the waiting grew tedious, the prayers rather dull. I only wanted to paint the blues, and write about my sorrows in the margins of the holy bible. Don’t you want fire? Remember, the world outside is ugly. 

I knew ugly. But it wasn’t outside. It was inside of me. I saw it in the pale reflection in the mirror.  I heard it when I opened up my mouth to sing. I felt it in my exile.

Is this what you want? To die in the fire?

No, I wanted birthdays with decapitations, and pagen Holidays.  I wanted music. I wanted good fucking music. I wanted whiskey and clove cigarettes and his hands all over me.

I needed a fast car. I needed an escape. I needed somewhere to belong. I needed to believe I could be somebody. I needed his hands all over me. Don’t look back. Just drive.

There is no outrunning the fire. But I had to try.

 

 

Grind

Noise. The machine, just like the other six machines, hums a low drone. That’s not loud. I look down on it, seeing the pink gray wheel rotate before me at how many hundred times a second. Entering my vision from the apex of its rotation and disappearing below the silver, beaten tool rest that sits perpendicular to my stomach, perpendicular to that rotating stone. Threatening to grab my finger or hand and pull it down into the quarter inch gap and maim me for life. What would happen? Would I be able to pull my hand out? Or would it pinch me in that little quarter inch gap slowly grinding away my flesh the way it does my life? Stop, stop! I’d scream. It’s too late, life says. “Use it until it burns up,” I’ve heard my boss say about our tools. Am I just his tool?

It was sound I started talking about. Sound. When you take that piece of iron, whether it be gray, ductile or ni-hard, whether the carbon in it is nodularized or not (that is, is the carbon spheroidal, or in natural flakes), regardless of the copper or tin content, it screams. I would guess it’s a soprano. Metal dying, melting again mere days after it was melted before (solid to liquid, liquid to solid, solid to dust), an unending cacophony of metallic symphony. I finish my part, much like the other five grinders finished theirs at various points of time, and I start another one, much like the other five grinders will do at their own various points in time. In this we create our own round, but instead of “row row row you’re boat,” we sing, “arrrrghghggggggggggggh.”

Meanwhile our souls are silent. They don’t scream upon the grinding wheel the way iron does. Yet they are being ground. Our lives melt away. As we grind this iron removing the chaff from the wheat, it grinds us, somehow instead removing the wheat from the chaff. What made us noble disappears, and what remains makes us scoundrels.

I’ve often looked at my wheel, and thought about driving my hand into it. I’ve wondered what it would be like. The flesh ripped off almost immediately with a spray of red, and then maybe a puff of white as the bone is initially consumed. Then it’s just like any old thing you might grind; only the bone and flesh melts faster than iron.

I talk about my soul being consumed by this wheel as being inevitable. Then I talk about driving my hand into this wheel as being a choice. Might I choose to drive my soul into this wheel?

The End

I had promised to post this piece some time ago. Funny how time gets away from us. This was not written by me, but a writer friend, back from my days in my black and white photography class. Those were the days of combat boots and flannel and Nirvana. Ah, feels like just yesterday. Perhaps I have not changed so much after all…The author prefers to remain anonymous at this time, but I hope you enjoyed this piece as much as I did. If you will be so kind as to give him a round of applause and inspire him to write some more. ~H.M.

 

 

Proverbial jokes

In the darkness

we seek the fire

the ashes of our mistakes

proverbial jokes

this life is just a hoax

this bleeding ink stain

a damned lover’s paradise

Yet still,

There is a wink left in my right eye

stardust under my nails

I’ll stuff poppy seeds inside my cheeks

I feel safe and I feel numb

I feel old and I feel young

and I can’t let go

I can’t let go

I can’t let go

fuck it all

I’ll drink melancholy freedom from a bottle

and let them all laugh at me

I’ll spew regurgitated whiskey and poetry

into the streets

This is me!

This is me!

and I know you fucking hate it

I have only the echoes of ashes from my proverbial jokes

and one last wink left in my right eye

and the knowledge

it was the Devil

who hung the brightest

star in the sky.

merry f@ckn’ christmas

He wanted me to suffer

a little

I sat with a faked cheshire-cat grin

that the best you got?

A severed head for the win

my black magic will make your bones dance

Must be my birthday

Naw, merry fucking christmas

 

I curled my hair and no one knew me

my eyelashes bought me

an invite for “intellectual conversation” and tea

But I am not yours

or yours or yours

I have always belonged to the reaper

and I have always been his keeper

but I suck at these things

a ripped out heart for the win

Must be my birthday

Naw, merry fucking christmas

 

 

The sound of your breath

A quarter till midnight

and I listened for the sound of your breath

although this was an impossible thing

You see, it hurts to care

I think I’ll just stop

If only it were that easy.

I never wanted anyone to bend for me

I just wanted to be

It was never enough

It was always too much

It was an impossible thing.

So I wiped the spit from my eyes

and I saw angels

quivering and frothing

like wild horses

descending to crush me beneath their gallop

a violent kiss

to fatten my lip

a whip across my eyes

I slid my fingers up the Devil’s thigh

and pulled the blades out

from beneath his skin

Now this time

I think I’ll please myself

bleed myself

Take a ride

with these dirty wings.

I know all the answers

were to be found in bedtime stories

of vengeance

of rages

of murder and rape

And all the questions shall forever remain unspoken

I’ll close these tired eyes

under the midnight skies

and listen for the sound

of your breath.