When that star explodes I want to be at Stonehenge
howling in the falling snow.
The wolves will bay, heard half a world away
singing-  Saturnalia!
Invade my dreams,
invade my dreams  with songs of the dawning age; 
like, a jealous king has it in for the sons
first born     as told in prophecy.

I wait for Rome   to bless us all   with another pagan holiday:
a lie to pass  for a convenient truth 
in hymns for the occasion.
Gather the sheep,
and praise the wolves 
discovered wearing bloody wool,
as we place The Book   back on the shelf
reserved for all the fairy tales.

The son is born, Romulus!  
Celebrate!
The sun is dying:
a gift of smoke!   To you,
no cigar,        
but thanks for trying.

When feral children   speak their words of wisdom,
we know the dying time is near,
for the ones who rose to say that they could lead us
keep that wisdom near
to the heart,
and to the heart   the sons of wolves will always speak. 
Say:  “compassion is not   
a truth for the strong,   just
a lie to feed the weak.”

Love the way you grin at me-  wanna keep that smile forever,
but you insist on wasting away, and I’m stuck to the wall of never.
Lost my train of thought   when the spike went through the tracks,
but I always like to journey out    like I ain’t coming back.

You gotten like a bad jam; you’re stinking up the joint.
Don’t think that you could ever play, but that’s beside the point.
What I think I’m saying-    what I say is, thought
I sold my soul to the lowest bidder, and he hates what he bought.

There’s me    and you
don’t know what to do
because I still like it when we dance
but you refuse to move

Maybe I misheard you say:   “Pass the black eye, please,”   
so I put one on you, and you dropped to your knees.
One thing leads another, until nothings what I got:
except a low-fi needle and you, here, left to rot.

Three days is forever-   locked away with you
in a hundred buck apartment   as we both come unglued:
you, melting in that crazy way like everyone who’s died-       
me, trying to write a cryptic note that hints to suicide.
                                   
There’s me    and you
don’t know what to do
because I still like it when we dance
but you refuse to move

Monochromatic moon lit waves of lawn,
decades unkept, flow in whispering breeze like wild wheat.
Car stalled in a failed attempt to violate the law: You can never go home.
The old gray shack of my youth is barely discernible
behind the growth.

Presence detected- something creeping in the overgrown-
Can I make it to the car before- ?
Swift answer: “No.”
Path to car has been intercepted, leaving no choice but:  run.

Not looking back, feeling the thing gaining on my winded old carcass,
I know I will not survive. 
I feel the warmth of its fetid feral breath
on my neck.
Guttural growl-

So, I take from the fridge
one pint of stolen blood.  I don't care the type.
I sip, and convince myself that I'm sated.
Animal blood, because of its warmth, would satisfy;
still, brutality is involved, 
and theft is the lesser crime.
On occasion, I'll flash my razor blade smile
if only to warn a would be victim:
"Yes, I am a monster-"
but I don't want to be a sociopath.

Comedy is a drama queen;
Tragedy    sighs over her shoulder:
sisters beneath a   vandalized    circus sign
placed over a church.   They’re not yet a trinity.

Her face is rotting: the greater smile
of a cadaver that jests   it is still breathing.
Clown makeup applied does her some justice;
she waits to be summoned by the ring master.   

Love is not always             laughing,
            not always               the joke’s on you
Love is       leaving             with seasons
Love                                      possessing
is not your possession.


Self mutilating angel,
take razor to wing doesn’t change anything:
need more than you’ve learned to be human.
Wait until you experience   these things-

Love is not killing             your lover
         not ever                     trying to own anyone
          never                        stalks another
Love is not possessing.
Love is                                possession.

Awaiting your call from the master:
too late you discover you could never serve two.
You set out to make the human church holy;
its trinity awaits
completion with you.

For the commemoration of the 62 anniversary of the Roswell incident (7/8/47):  A song revisited, and some other things to ponder-

Considering the Imaginos mythos, the lyrics of Blue Oyster Cult , upon examination, take on yet another context.  Example: the Canadian Mountie in BOC's Red and Black may not be  just a cheeky reference to S&M, but could be Imaginos in the role of Desdinova, which would cause one to wonder if Mr. Bloom, the lead singer, intentionally mispronounced the words:
"Frontenac Chateau", to sound like,
"Forteanac shadow."

Frontenac Chateau, baby, I cross the frontier at ten...


So Would Say The Xenophobe

Touched down this morning; it'd been a flight.
I swear I had been up there for the longest night.
Your man in black stood by my limousine.  I said,
"Don't spare the gas, James,"  then I slapped him a fin:
five, my fingered friend!

So we moved on to the Pentagon, thought I was running late.
Still, you eagle boys just love me so.  Hey, what is there to hate?
The deal's okayed, I got yours, I hope you'll give me mine.
This cultural exchange is sure to bring the end on time:
So would say the xenophobe.

Call Roswell forgiven,  and we'll forget.
Just play those light shows off as weather.  
Tell your girls not to get wet
by the thought of my technology I'll trade   for your art.
I hope you all enjoy the toys; let's toast the atom heart
Mother-  don't start!

Well, I've been spotted everywhere,
but no one's heard my name.     I've been  
pointed out by those who crave their Andy's share of fame.
My future's bright!  The shades, at night conceal me from all crime.
When the day is done, the end will come when I'm on the front of TIME.
So would say the xenophobe.

And I say:
With all that's been misunderstood,
who can distinguish bad from good
when the wise men tell you: nothing 's what it seems?
Face the unknown with a blazing gun;
well, there's some of that in everyone,
but when a stranger knocks, it just could be
that golden opportunity!

Take me back to Rachel, man, it's time that I take off
to my place beyond the sun for the comfort of my loft,
where I can dig those crazy skies
while you remove a few new lines.
This timeless transaction 's
sure to bring the end on time.
So would say the xenophobe.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia: Xeno- is a prefix based on the Greek word "Xenos", meaning stranger... In science fiction it has been used to refer to extraterrestrial life.

Books by the blameless and by the dead:
King in Yellow,    (reference to Robert Chambers)
Queen in Red...   ( reference to Lewis Carroll)

ETI (Extraterrestrial Intelligence): Blue Oyster Cult

(check out the New Mexico state flag)

A shadow danced around her window-
mesmerized, she embraced the bad and dangerous.
“She froze, unsuspecting, before the presence
of that smooth criminal.”
So recurring fleeting images tell us
when sound bitten by a hundred talking faces:
“Vampire intent is always rendered by the shadow
dancing off the wall     when  Peter Pan smiles.”

“The boys were never lost, nor were they missing,”
voiced the sentiment of our darling, Wendy,
“but it just could be, Miss Westenra will bleed out
before the Neverland you once called Transylvania.”

You’re my last drink of water before a hundred mile desert ride
from another room, abandoned, before the second    worlds collide.
Spent your last tank of gas before the moment you realized
that the highway is abandoned and the buzzards are circling the skies.

Last chance.
Last chance
before the die is cast-
Last chance!

We’re the last romance in a world that is loving to hate.
We’re the last ones early enough to see that it’s too late.
The last mad pair to take the pain and give it away.
We’re the last civilized delusion that was left in decay.

Last chance.
Last chance
to make a righteous stance-
Last chance!

Call it senseless?

I smell fire on the mountains;
I see blood drowning the trees.
I hear locusts ‘round the pharaoh’s defiled grave.
It’s just good taste to feel what’s going to be.

I’m the last hope and promise of a secret that was put into play.
I’m the last damned ride you’re gonna see on this    fuckin’ highway.
The last shot of whiskey before the moment you realize
I could be the reason why the vultures have blackened the skies.

Last chance.
Last chance
before the demon’s out to dance-
Last chance!

I hear a better nut is made    from better psychology.
I’m sure it helps when   they get a push     from lousy TV,
but Nancy’s here to help, and make everything clean.
She parades all the guilty past my television screen.
She throws all the dirt into the public view.
If she tells me that you're guilty, then I’m coming for you.

     Chorus:
If Nancy says you’re guilty, then I’m taking you out (4x)

Legality looks the other way; and justice can shout:
“Nancy says you’re guilty!” So, I’m taking you out!

I heard what Nancy said, she told me personally.
She looks me in my eyeball every night on TV,
makes a case that you’re evil, and her argument’s sound.
It’s the only reason needed for me taking you down.
I’m doing it for Nancy and society.
I’m just the executioner;
                              she’s the jury       (and judge).

          (Chorus)

     M8:
She taught me, and I learned how you psychos think;
I can cover my tracks before you begin to stink.
I’ve been taught the mistakes, so I know how they’re made.
I know when   to appear,   and I know   when to fade!


Since God appointed me through the voice of my dog,
and the beacon of Nancy brought me out of the fog,
I bought a load of bullets, and gave each one a name,
then got a noose made of hemp; it’s my new claim to fame.
I’m sure you’ll hang around if I want you to.
Ain’t what I do best, it’s justice-  what I do!

If Nancy says you’re guilty, then I’m taking you out (4x)

Ain’t dinner and a movie that I’m talkin’ about.
Nancy says you’re guilty, so I’m taking you out!

(Spoken):
Down for the count, Dracula?
Our lady of Grace has just upped the vigil ante!
(I’ll tie a flag on it.) Tent-hut! Ready.  Aim.  Aw, shoot!
‘Night, yall, and may God bless.

She rests in Autumn leaves with a smile of spiders;
they have replaced all the lullabies and her kiss.
I lie beside her and beg resurrection,
and whisper to her heart how much she is missed.

She wont get warm.
She wont get warm.

Blood is falling from the family portrait.
The stain- coagulating on the floor.
The hammer fell and I still feel no justice;
I can’t feel anything any more.

She wont get warm.
She wont get warm.

Father’s image is a wolf stalking the stairway:
a portrait, hung in a web    when mother would speak.
It contrasts everything I thought was worth saving.
Now, vertigo, blood, and the stench is making me weak.

I can still hear her speak,
but she wont get warm.

Outside the church I stood in the rain.
Something is calling me into the wild.
When I feel the sacrilege,  I scream at the heavens:
“Mother is the name of god to every child !”

She rests in Autumn leaves with a smile of spiders.

His old truck was starving for oil,   
but ate the dust off a Death Valley road.
He drove    aimless- directionless.
It’s senseless, but life goes on:
drifting in and out.  Delusions fed
by the dead (well meaning in their twisted way,)
to his open and vacant mind,
said: “transformation is on the horizon.”

He heard it on the radio: a little girl lost.
Sometimes, it’s got to be a mother
crying for the wasted    yesterdays,
and no tomorrow to fix everything.

He can’t remember when the California
enchantment entered his mind:
that witch calling from the west.
Know, he’s nothing but another familiar.
Inspired by that Matheson prose,
he read it’s somewhere that you gotta be.
So, he kicked the truck into gear
and rode that sunset into his daydream.

He heard it on the radio: a family gone.                
Sometimes, an unwelcome stranger
wont ask anything,  taking what he can see,
like your tomorrow,
and leave      nothing.

The note said:

“I will remember you;
I keep your picture in my grave yard heart.
I’ll always think of you
when I look at my reflection in that bloody pool."
The transformation is about to start.

They say the dry climate is good     for sick things.
Just as well, his truck gave up the ghost.
Home is nothing but a place for your hat,
and this abandoned ranch is better than most.
Nothing has grown from anything he’s planted,
and his garden brings a cold satisfaction.
He could never be a face in the crowd,                            
so he hikes the desert highway long after sundown.

The night sings of the coming messiah:
holds a sacrificial knife, wears a blood stained robe.
The stars are witness, and their voices sing,
but only he can hear them on his radio.

He joins in:

“I will remember you;
I keep your picture in my graveyard heart.
I’ll always think of you
when I look at my reflection in that bloody pool.
The transformation is about to start!”
                        

I thought it was an elaborate April fools joke, even though I got a T-shirt in the mail.  I really didn’t believe that R. Scott McCoy was going to go through with it.  Last night I saw it to be true, and real.  McCoy, the editor of one, way-cool small press online zine (scheduled to go to print format with the next issue) Necrotic Tissue, actually dropped his usual high standards and published a little wise-ass piece of mine.  I wrote the thing to a forum called the lamplight poets (@ www.choateroad.com/ ) as a little joke.  The piece violates just about all guideline standards, folkways and mores that the editor holds.  It’s a first person, experimental verse/story  about an unicorn, and a vampire.  McCoy stated his prejudice against such things on the blog radio madhouse called: The Funky Werepig, hosted by Greg Hall.  It’s on live every Friday at 11:00 pm.  Come on in and pet the piggie, or you can listen to past pod-casts at www.blogtalkradio.com/The-Funky-Werepig.  I believe, if memory serves, McCoy stated that if anyone could write a story about a unicorn or a vampire that he actually liked, then that would be one great writer.  McCoy may not have actually said that, but that’s what I picked up and translated through the white noise of my wrecked radio of a mind (a lot of white noise when one has traveled through many altered states).   Anyway, I got paid and published, and a nice T-shirt.  The cool thing is, in spite of my little poem/story, the magazine holds a lot of high caliber writing by many folks that you just might hear of in the not too distant future, if you haven’t heard of them yet.  Names like Natalie L Sin, Gregory L Hall, Zombie Zak, Dov Preminger, John P Wilson, Matthew Phoenix- Just to name a few.  

Being included in the last online version of Necrotic Tissue is in its own little way, something historic.  Makes me proud.  Anyone interested in some real horror, that is, things that may be a little unsettling for mainstream, check out NC @ www.necrotictissue.com/   Click the archives and download any issue that strikes your fancy.   "Dark is not enough!"