Tenebrous

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Tenebrous


The bloated, dying sun
oozing red rays
through the tenebrous sky
tripping over particulates floating
that lose their way in sick
jaundiced haze
before falling
exhausted and diffuse
on my skin


So, finding no pleasure in the heavens
I turned to the earth
The off-white cobbles 
over which I walked
(and I dare not call them cobblestones
for here and there I swear I spy
an orbit or a clinging tooth)
lead a rambling path through plains
of iron shards
rusted
desiccated
thirsty
in twisted mockery of grass
if you draw your hand down
near their tips
they strain towards you
like magnetism
or hunger


Scattered across those
Tetanus Fields
were old stone tables
like pagan altars of ages gone
adorned with ram-horned women
who strike carnal poses
beckon and thrust and moan
sweating for the taste
and press
of flesh


and far behind me
the air, it shook
with the sound of
creaky-hinged doors
of prisons and dungeons
as the great swinging arms
and razor wire
and wastebins
of the harvester
trailing its ashes behind
searching
always searching
for what, I do not know


so I followed that
yellowing path
to the crumbling city
since the outskirts seemed so...
insidious


There amid the 
crumbling brownstones
and ruddy clay bricks
all smeared with ash and tar
and saints-know-what-else filth
I came upon
a cheery gentleman


He wore a crooked stovepipe hat
and a rakish grin
a longtailed coat with a row
of bright brass buttons
and a familiar wink
a sharp sort of man
to say the least


He tipped his hat and greeted
"Good evening, Madam."
though I am a sir
and as I squinted in questioning
I came to realize my error


I had seen him before
beside my bed
when I woke
had I woke?


Then I could see the truth of him
every tooth pointed
eight fingers on his hands
Brass irises; eyes of the damned
smokey wisps peeking and fleeing
between his hat and raven curls
and his outline like a migraine
the walls are wrong
the walls are wrong


So I shrank, I'm not ashamed
from the devil before me
and turned to make my escape
down a candlelit alleyway


Lying black and savage
in my path
with the size and stature of a stag
a dreadful thing
like what chases wolves in their dreams
and it chews on a cast-iron chain
like a dog on a bone
dripping red-tinged ichor
and wears a stately collar
like a mans, not a dogs


It looked at me
and I knew it knew
everything I'd ever hidden
and though mine did,
its gaze never left me


Its gaze never left me.


and I ran, I'm not ashamed.


In my panicked state
I caught a glimpse and a mouthed word
from a raven-haired girl
with a white bonnet cap
tattooed with birds
flying from her clavicles
demure and pouting
lips not quite hiding little fangs
and those damned brass eyes
sparkling with lively intelligence
looking back over her shoulder 
down the street that I ran:
Delicious


Thus I awoke
in my bed
with no cheery gentleman beside
But I'm afraid I won't be joining you tonight
dear friends
for it seems in my state
I wrote on my walls:


THEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGT
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There you have it, post number thirteen. (approach with trepidation)

Matador

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Matador


It's a bull
slumbering atop 
blossoms beneath
blue and pink
and green between them
whose nectar I would greedily drink
dribbling down my chin
as such is my weakness


Chestnut and blonde
the taut flanks rise
serenely sleeps the beast
notched and splintered
crimson cloves
the taut flanks fall


Stirring my tongue
to talking
and other things
readying fingers
for action
and other things


I can't be sure
without the truth of the eyes
stripped of protections
just how many bones are buried beneath
the scars are well-hidden too
because the bull will not speak


And yet I have a feeling
if I take up my cape and sabre
I'll end up beneath
left broken and bloody
with those cloven marks
pressed
on my damned matador's heart


because it sleeps
and I do not.
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There you have it, post number twelve. (approach with trepidation)

While the ink is wet

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While the Ink is Wet


pulling back indigo drapes
two moons
full and bright
fight for rulership
of your night
shining such as sun-spared skin
of Oriental women
and these moons heave with breath


keeping them within arm's reach
to catch a glimpse
(just a glimpse)
of those holy tattoos
those winking inks
and the exotic lands they promise
before blindness
off the light reflected
from her belt buckle


It might be a man's world
but we built
it all for
you
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There you have it, post number eleven. (approach with trepidation)