No more bread for the priestess,
she's praying for a taste;
those charcoal eyes that stain a porcelain face.
For virgins under cherry trees
give them lacerations,
because the hues in my iris are affliction
I'm the hate in a hot wind,
tangled in funeral lace

Climb up the steeple, gun in my hand,
I'm confessing my love to the dead
Our pretty little pictures, the notes
in our hands, all but ashes in the end
A great white death, and hold your ear to my ribcage,
nothings precious anymore

Forgetting what the need is
while looking to fill it
the minds now distended like the stomachs
arms like dying birch trees, and when I wake up
claw my way into the nightmare
where clemency is worthless
to wrap the skies in electrical tape
Every breath is an escape;
I'm the hate in a hot wind,
tangled in funeral lace

Climb up the steeple, gun in my hand,
I'm confessing my love to the dead
Our pretty little pictures, the notes
in our hands, all but ashes in the end
A great white death, and hold your ear to my ribcage,
nothings precious anymore

The moths can come and kiss our hands
like flies can gather round the dead
I'll name the constellations in
your eyes and hope I don't forget.

Like machines that stall,
we'll sleep together like the dead as
butterflies lay motionless in halls we painted red,
paper faces on our walls, our languid fingers on the bed
staring at our china dolls, filthy secrets in our heads
your pelvis washed in blood, and then

"We'll lay here in love" I said
"maybe later fuck you dead"
just a crystal clear oblivion
and now we're swallowed whole

And like a knife that penetrates
I penetrate you hard and cold
playing out in master role, emotions flow a crimson road
A sprawled out beauty derailed,
black blossom on a bed of nails
gentle abortions of my mind, so depraved but not deprived
exhausted now with legs between, as you leak pleasure like gasoline
in crystal clear oblivion.
Our crimes have us swallowed whole.

REVOLVER

Without a beginning or an end, as always, I stand at the edge of a birch forest.

    The grass is a shade of yellow; either autumn's kiss or winter's decay has licked the life from it. I walk a short distance past the tree line, and feel reminded of graveyards, as trees like brittle bones erupt from the earth. The overcast sky above me is dull, save for the foggy golden rays of light that pierce its clouds. The weather never feels natural here; some un-named element negating the otherwise beautiful scenery, giving the surrounding landscape an ethereal, sickly tone. An uncomfortable silence lingers; the whole scene itself about as beautiful as an archangel, post-lobotamy.

    I continue walking, not aware of the clothes on my back, or who I really am.
        The only thing I'm sure of now, is why.

    Although unaware of their identities and the meaning of their business, here in this desolate plot of land acres away from civilivation, I approach them. Making my way closer - listening to branches crack beneath my weight, I begin to understand the purpose. The two men stand in their usual spot, like two black smudges on an autumn canvas. The taller man, with blonde hair neatly swept backwards, wears an overcoat. There's nothing peculiar or interesting about him at all. Not young, not old. Clean shaven, well mannered, and unemotional. His facial features are those of every man -- although his skin seems pale in comparison. The only colour he ever wears is black. He speaks slowly, and nothing about him causes me to question his motives. In fact, if anyone's motives should be questioned, they are mine.

    The second man is repulsive. He, much like the blonde man, goes without identity. I'm sure he's seemed much more charming in his past, but at this moment, I know that he will never be -- nor aspire to be -- charming again. He is bound and gagged, and kneels before me. Above the neckline of his ratty shirt hangs a sweaty face, his visage severed in half by a black blindfold. They both, for better or worse, await my arrival.

    And in a few very short moments, I will commit murder.

    Without introduction, the blonde man explains to me his terms. He begins by telling me that the creature held before us is expendable. His death wouldn't affect the world in any significant way. It would effect his family and his loved ones, of course - but they too are expendable in relation to myself. He tells me that the man has a name, a life, hopes, and fears. He feels love and emotion -- pure or impure. He is fully capable of pain and anguish -- the most depraved and sickly guage of anguish any near-death creature could bear. Our  hostage has both killed and created life -- being just as virtuous as he is corrupt.

    He is equal in every way to myself.
        The only difference being that he is not me at all.

    "If you kill this man, you gain whatever it is you desire. You will not be punished for ending his life, just as there is no reward for sparing it."
        The blonde man pauses, his grey eyes meeting my own. "This is the power of your will."

He hands me a revolver containing two rounds.

    I stare down at the hostage, who looks nothing more than weak, and afraid. His muffled screams keep coming, and coming, and coming - each successive one sounding that much closer to damaging his vocal chords. The man grows desperate as if those blindfolded eyes had seen the revolver trade hands, and a whimsical part of me would shoot him just to have silence again. I lose concentration.

    Two rounds.

    I ponder for a moment, and place the muzzle against the back of his head, watching as the cold steel grips his scalp. I take a moment to imagine how it might feel. Not his emotions, or the dread - not at all. Simply how the gun feels against him. Another moment passes as I weigh the pros against the cons. It's simple math; there are no cons. I can think of only one phrase, and I feel it begin looping over and over again inside of me. Natural selection.

    For a moment, showing mercy is an attractive idea; that moment is then followed with the realization that the natural world doesn't thrive on mercy at all. As I begin to dig deeper for a reason to spare him this time - something that should stop me, or some outcome that could hurt me - I remind myself of the prize. Beautiful and sudden, Lenore's face tears through my conscience like a brick through stained-glass. The thought of her fills my mind with promise - my actions with conviction.

I squeeze the trigger. The first shot is when I usually wake up.

    I was lucky, I guess.
    This time, I manage to pull it twice.

Autumn of Angels
Eyes in tragic seeing,
fixed on heavens burning sea
Come now, fade upon the pages,
all things go away ,
and sometimes angels fall.
Sometimes angels fall.

Landing in the fields of gray,
to sleep with lovers pained,
at dawn embraced by memory's rain,
The heart's abandoned, pale.
As great trees of silence grow within,
these eyes that close in vengange bring
black tears in deep release.
Watch the angels fall.

To walk alone
through gardens stone,
and crimson skies above me.
A love like fleeting suns,
beset by stars that scorn -
like blessed evils born that now ensnare me -
Will not answer to the poison in my heart.

In a waltz like hard goodbyes
we the damned can share in laughter
with roses painted black, remember,
before these ends that bind us tight,
in winter's eye to watch
frail beauty torn asunder
within my hearth of sorrow, embers fly
my waltz like hard goodbyes
I watch an angel fall.

Clutching shadows ribs,
the palest virgin theighs,
riding through a graveyard
where the beautiful could die
Scatters thorns before me now
as lust impales my soul,
and if she enslaved denies me
I'll impale a thousand more

That temptress has a face
eyes crying memory's bruise
The holiest of tastes
like blood and autumn's kiss
That virgin was a whisper
in silence of the dead
In serenade or sorrow
we all can die alone.

She clutches onto me
with a heathen hunger, sighs
I, a martyr for her beauty,
this priestess of depravity
Fairest of the broken,
most blessed of the sins,
she kneels before the alter
where the others burned alive
I bleed her dry again.

Clutching onto loneliness
that sacraficial bride
under winter's tearfull sky betrays me,
with promise like pages burnt,
and hair in raven's shade,
who rode beyond the grave
in which I sleep

In lover's dreams by day, they now entrap me
between agonizing sleep
As I ride among the graves she keeps
upon a pale horse reigned
through her thorns and fallen leaves
I share the bruised and hollw gazes born
in remorsefull want,
the beauty torn.

Now lay me high upon my spear
My bride in silence so dear to me,
that in lieu of goodbye kiss I see
the earth that dies beneath.

black widows like revelations catch me
the sweet curse in their winter eyes
we break glass with a bloody romance
and suffocate returning night
too broken for open pages, so
starves the raven I hold inside
detatched and dislocated with
no letters to burn,
Nothing to burn as we cry.

Slit holes in the future like
one thousand throats,
no moon to cast upon this
endless road.
I pull the bullets from a fading hope,
and the sutre from my side.
No hand removes the spear like..
and no kiss can bless the wound like...
No apology for suicides or my
solitairy silence.

Follow the dead escalators to now,
of course he knows why, if he only knew how,
he's crossing the street but he can't kill the fear
he's just blood on her vanity mirror.

He'll make you stay, and he'll make it rain
'cause waiting is all that remains.
He'll make you stay, and you'll make him pay
as long as it's not all in vein,
he'll be ok.

A year about now, and he's wondering how,
the places he's been have lead her to him,
if she could begin at the state he was in,
she'd be chasing him right from the start

He'll make you stay, and he'll make it rain
'cause waiting is all that remains.
He'll make you stay, and you'll make him pay
as long as it's not all in vein,
he'll be ok.

Veins of mine dying like a Sunday
vining their way, vindicated,
Can I smile in a jaded way?
My legs dragging chemical washed stairs
waiting for accidents,
like blood on corporate floors
apathetic escapism, an allure,
my slow inhales like crushed Azalias,
my traffic in bloodstreams
flow corrupt.

Pay attention now, dear,
to the downbeat downtown
pay attention to my nowhere
Between cigarettes I'm watered down
to a staggering vignette,
as ghost horns quartet
play whispers in my ear,
their excuses in my gramophone
crying pieces..


I am relaxed like forgotten,
happy like dead,
brought back by a matchbook
You're a gun to my head
in the whites of my eyes
you're the red
Oh, how I miss you.

Days die slowly, darkly
in oncoming day, scorching
marching bands and like battery acid
burns the sky,
as the city says goodbye.

Hot days marching like sleep
and beats at night, I write
with knives in mind
At peace for the interim.
Now burns the sky, as I wait
for war and release, reunion
and finally passion's fusion, so comes
delusions of heart's grandeur.
I found her in a sleep walk.

Cavities christened in my mind,
just casualties to time as
clocks mock my composure,
such lovely pressure,
like Cheshire cats
through static on the line
he hides behind his eyes
and finds a waltz, her song,
a scarecrow to scare those jaded
crows away.

Grips his transfer, their prologue prolonged,
in the city like a culling song.

Clouds gray pass the day,
and pass behind a scaffolding.
Machines on high
beyond all reckoning these words of mine,
I contemplate her gaze, far away
as this city says goodbye.

Wet cement and power lines
weave through my mind,
the smoke gets in my eyes as I write,
just a lament to myself,
Heart's death disrupted when her smile interrupted,
bindings broken by three words spoken,
she puts me to the flame inside.

Now the ride in silent resplendence
now I'm bruised and distressed
and like the rest with nowhere to go,
I watch the skies.

A staggered breath,
while the city says goodbye.

He's got a cigarette
walking streets in the thick of it
he's folding flags up in his head
while it rains and his veins pump lead, he says
Here's to Juliette

Very Much alive
But not one of the souls you'd think survive
there's a vendetta let that he can't forget
and she's the end of it

They concentrate
The pain is sweet
As they COLLIDE x3

She's the death of me, says he
She's taking up with the enemy
a bruised daughter on a killing spree
she's a dangerous dance and a sick romance
she's a mystery

Very much a curse
Like a passion from the backseat of a hearse
she's a violent set by a string quartet
and he's loving it.

As they concentrate
The pain is sweet
As they COLLIDE x3

Plunged into the gray,
I escaped this place.
Now everything's in reach.
A rellocation of body and soul,
as soul was without choice.
Just wait. You'll hear my voice.
Just wait. We'll make it.

Finding us in songs about the
rights and the wrongs in us
Oh, it won't be long for us.
Doors can stay unlocked.

Lastnight was perfect.
The air was perfect.
The sky was perfect.
The smell of a woodstove sweetened winter.
I was perfect.

Somebody said the moon doesn't shed light,
and that night I knew, they were full of shit.
The sky was so bright, that night was no longer black.
The ground was humming, and the stars were crystals.
The moon was a halogen bomb.
However painfully poetic that may sound.

I stood on my porch smoking a clove cigarette,
listening to a song off Saturday Night Wrist.
I can't remember the name,
But this song was my life.
I can't remember the words,
but they were the only ones spoken.
To me alone.

I was full.
I was happy.

My right knee pounded out the beat slowly,
and gently, invisible under my overcoat,
my body exhaling the sweet stinging smoke.
I did not shiver.
But I was alive.

The day before was said and done, and tommorow
just didn't exist yet.
For once, nothing mattered but the moon and its fingers
reaching down like The Presence,
Like a fucking arm driving down.
And the clouds,
sliding over like ghosts...

A harsh inhale that felt like nails as I smiled to myself.
a creature of the universe that's mine -
dragged my pen across this paper and scribbled an answer
to our skill testing question.
"Are you really alive?"

In that moment, I was.
Just smoking,
and listening to Saturday Night Wrist.

Kidnapped by the chambermaids of guilt
loss, and lust for the
perverted precursors to what never comes,
and never to be noticed again.
Eyes, lips, and a head full of unconcern
certainly, I've discerned the end.

we can't escape the end times.
with aching bones and cracking lips.
I'll dig in with my fingertips
and I'll destroy you.
Oh, I will destroy you.

I Find myself lost in trying to find nothing at all,
and all I have left are the fumes
rising off this carrion of passions.
these heathen ruins unhealable.
All I have made are crosses
across the valley up to a church
nor more than a pool of blood.
And the victim's names enumerated on the walls like lamb to the slaughter.
None innocent, and none worth a seperate box.
None left alive as none were worth inliving.
Not that they were living anyways.

So now I'll turn to this keyhole of mine
and attempt a bigger
brighter
end.

adding condemnation on the inside,
and marching love's vanguard into a chasm
full of gears and chisels.
A well oiled heart-ache machine.

And everything gray in between.
Everything broken in the fall.

Bestowed with secrets and
fantasies of finality,
your fricative words created sweat on me;
tempting screams out of me.
The hurting that could hurt so sweetly.
Dreams of blood
coursing through arteries
and my sad artistry
as I draw lines on you.
Seething with passion and
Teething on the razor
in my mouth.

I stared at the light
falling off billboards tonight,
thinking of what is not.
As bodies on them like yours glow white
and rot the skyline like a rash.
Not as beautiful as yours, as
Beauty becomes so much more
potent when destroyed.

These ones lacked luster,
for the lines, our lines,
they would not have drawn.
The lines we prayed to
in coarse breath at dawn.
While our chimera's collected like
clouds connecting in a storm of
macabre want.
There was a safety found
in our static pauses,
and the bodies you'd only show to me.


I found something there,
amid our chaotic affaire de coeur
A courtship between surgeons.
My eidolon birthed in you.

It's dark, It's wrong,
and it's in me too.
But only with you.

My aphdrodite in a body bag.