Fantasy

Devil’s breath

Devil’s grin

and puff!!

Devil’s breath

And just like that

he was in her head

 

And what do you know

but her eyes

turned red

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How I’m spending my Valentine’s day

How am I spending my Valentine’s day? Sipping echinacea tea (because I am sick), listening to some Mazzy Star (because I love 90s wrist cutting music) and writing about demons. (because it’s one of my favorite things to write about)

I hope your Valentine’s day is as killer as mine.

H

 

Goblin King

Tied up in the tangles

in these broken guitar strings

we were lost in the labyrinth

of alka-seltzer dreams

Make haste!

We ride the manic froth

of frozen waterfalls

we crumble with the mountains

we sigh inside the breeze

Be wild, be free,

Be mad!

Cut your hair to match

the sway of the trees

We’re running on empty

we’re running out of time

Make haste!

And whatever you do

don’t be boring

for the Goblin King

can smell his own kind

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.

 

 

Whiskey Philosophy

He had a knack for revolution

over coffee

and chainsaw negotiations

after midnight.

I enjoyed whiskey induced philosophy

and talking to the dead

inside my dreams.

I had my playlist for the end of days

at the ready

Paul, John, Ringo, and George will be there

Morrison

Simon & Garfunkel

Reznor and Keenan as well…

For we ate the strawberries in the fields

and found the image of Jesus

in the patterns of the dogs butt fur

and knew we were saved.

He’ll ask me later

what inspired this one,

and I’ll say dumbly

I don’t know

I just liked the way it all sounded

and there might have been some whiskey

involved.

I can still dream

None of this is easy

the things we cannot live without

are slowly killing us

Spilling us out into the radioactive

sea

But I can still dream

The Blacks of his eyes

are not black at all

but burn like lit cigarettes

I will wander inside those tiny embers

and wonder 

Can we live forever?

All the teeth gnashing

and regrets

Didn’t do a single thing

I’ll snort whiskey out my nose this night

and put on another ring

(I’m fucking kidding!)

But I can still dream

Although my heart is stone

my heart is dangerously sentimental

For you

I gnashed my teeth together many a night

crying “this will not do!”

And it did nothing

for me

Because he was vile, after all

and I fucking loved it. 

But I can still dream

He writes poems from the future

it’s the strangest thing

Perhaps he chased a lucky albino’s foot

right into the fire

that decorates my wall

He’ll return to me someday

covered in soot with adventures to tell

For I can still dream. 

Crow

I was once told 

I write too many jaded love poems

But I can turn that all around

if I can turn him on

But perhaps my dumb luck has run out

I’ve still got some of that stoopid inside of me

(You didn’t have to agree)

My dreams were all razor blade fantasies

Where he was pretty as a peacock

And I was just 

a crow