words mean more than
the wounds we wear

[ .little wings. ]

little wings
beat against
pane & ventricle
against frosted edges
but little is still to silent
little is sacred
in your varied
hushed tones
as words still spill
out of your lips
and past your mouth
so set for drinking
little words you think
that I cannot say

[ .cadaver.secrets. ]

claws at my dried lips
once meant for kissing
prying my mouth open
from the inside out
to crawl & gesture
jabbing out through
broken cheek & chin
clockwork beetles,
moths, and millipedes
love, each and every one
seeking out the heat of light
escaping the warmth
of an internal night
where rushing skin
has now gone cold

[ .nite.and.skin. ]

all the lights
out in the night
are watching slits
(observers watching)

lamp posts preen down
seedy traffic &
guttural tail‑lights
feasting and burning up
heavy sky to wet street

far off dirty dull bulbs
in apartment kitchens
look questioningly
at you and me

all these cuts glaring back
their sharpening sentience and
spear‑like eyelashes are hungry
prepared to rend meat from bone

impatiently waiting
their stark naked glare
so fresh on your supple
nitemare skin

[ .night.demons. ]

slick and wet,
the highway lords,
swallowing sacrifices,
wet blotchy eyes lured into
the traps of lamps
and traffic lights,
old gods still here,
nested in the feeding lines
of each and every new facet that is growing,
glowing hotter,
as the yellow to
white lines count by.

[ .the.night.is.always.young. ]

am, free standing and small,
nightstalking neverending,
alone under darkened branches,
staring back down,
the striations etched into pericardium, thundering muscle,
those lines matching
the crevices on her trunk,
and her skyworn thorns,
match the crowns spiralling
out of my foreskull,
shadows pooling,
at her feet, at my feet,
now distanced from
the lamplight cast,
or inverted is the black
succubus lines,
reflecting future intentions,
as her branches
shift in the breeze.

[ .night.treads. ]

I live at night
in the wet streets
in the dry
whispering trees
and in the echoing foot treads
that I leave behind

[ .one.hundred.of.
one.hundred. ]

i.
storm claps count away, as the tearing begins in the long road, and stepping away, are sensibilities, notions of latitude, their disannulled static, resonating the hum of earth, water, and air, motion that is ceaseless, proof of natural contingence, in its wake, the life it leaves, populating.

ii.
the soaking grass, fields in shadowed greens, tones are ready for our eager bodies, ready to roil and roll about, within its fingered fur. hearsay from the threatening sky, and the smiles worn, are now cut across cheek, bone, and lines, ever aching, for the rebirth and cleansing, that washes, from sky and skein.

iii.
here now, in sparks all semblance, the strange or charmed by proxy, but the wet night calls, wanting to play, the white cracks in the sky, signals to ions, err remittance, drop by drop, in hundreds, and the hundreds turn to thousands, hundreds of thousands, just to match, cellular decay, then growth, near never ending mitosis matching, renewing each life, not found, not lost.

[ .a.long.fellowship. ]

I am forever in your debt for, all the things you couldn't say or do for me, it's the empty rooms that you have filled, the sun weathered hallways and watched windows, excitement to the jingle of keys on the door, creak of floorboards late at night, the low, murmur purring at my side in the deep dark night.

[ .the.earth.humming. ]

angry hours, all on black roads, the green against the gray, the darkened lines blotting out the mountainscape, earth mounds cresting, and the ground runs in rivulets, as the clouds break against rock, like the ocean, tears, tearing the shallow valley floors, running heavy with the summer rain.

[ .into.the.stumbling.night. ]

am in stride,
the straighter leg the lower,
as each hilly crossing reached,
the lamp light dies,
one by one,
unexpectedly,
as if the seething
denizens of twilight are ready,
tooth and hungry maw,
threshold keeping ready.
yet no glossy eyes are watching,
footfalls are the only companions,
as the pitch dark
keeps swallowing,
and the tread
presses onward,
into the stumbling night.

[ .the.fever. becomes.heart. ]

still in dream
leaking out
face turned all fingers
digits in their crawling space
scratching out
dragging inch by inch
remorse and pilfered body
bloated out
crawling from
the ink stained drain
dark lines
coalested and spinning
the head cracked
backing up
retreating in panic
identity and edges
all undefined angles
as the faceless
shaking strings
matted hair how
thousand glaring eyes
all over the scalp
watch silently
in their hungry corner

[ .in.segments.
we've.found.you.
lounging.in.your.skin. ]

searing in the echoes
as you turn your head again
not meant for sleeping
empty shallow thoughts
run their course
coursing through
vein and valve

shadows dare
lingering here
as the a.m. passes on
and the hands that reach
have no fingers left
to graze your blurry skin

their sounds are shapes
of words won over
cutting clearly
the building tension
running through ligaments
the lines splayed out
off at odd angles
closer here
breath on bare cheeks

exhaustion is our expectation
in the nine to five lives
that we're running from
still in segments we've found you
lounging in your skin
the unnerving engines
of your lackluster passion
no heat filling rooms
that you filed silently from

[ .all.my.propaganda. ]

fists in the air
against your quelling silence
times at fourteen
thats all this is
a walk down
where I left my terror
against your choke
[you're all such fucking chokes]

in your gastopo zootsuit
in our rioteous affair
I'm watching
all the hard hands on me
pulling to dragging
moving me up and out
against my will
into your
bomb scarred cadillac
where its all british glass
black coatings
with rainy skies

broken to your orange works
in all your red white and black
its our incessant flags
flying at halves
banners without
our succor and might
and arm bands
that breed only one thing
which is all your
dying brands up for sale

where civil hands
are turned
right outside your door
and you can't see
the poetics in our wars
every land to broken smile
where your cheeks
are burning
from our pop culture fuels
that feed the skies
from our
loveless-thoughtless fumes

but they're coming down
this one way hallway
its all my propaganda
all my broken works
that they rise against
our voice all sorrow
as are hands bow down

[ .the.motel.alt ]

angels are just mechanisms
but you're not watching out
not seeing
all the gears at work
inside your
hollowed out house

but I'm ten
and down here
every night every day
its all our sallow end
even with
sam haine
rushing on

but nothing turns
on nor out here
nothing that holds
my terribly weary intent
my head in your hands
chest pressed down

here I'm shaking
on the line of everything
I've ever burned
versus
how are you tonight
narrow on the one side
without thanks and hungry

pangs all full inside me
all gone indie
cuz its the next hot thing
coming to cut you
and make you just like them

but someone really should
cut me down now
I've been hung out too long
and all my splendor
might just
have finally eeked through

oathens good eye
still all over
all my lovers
that came and left me out here
one more dusty room
I'm still squandered down into

all my impressions are far too tight
up against your side
where all knives should be
but instead
its all my musae's work

lines and stiches now
that narrow tangent
showing that I am
out on that line
one more time

[ .why.aren't.they.near? ]

[ i ]

where are all the easy wolves?
the ones too quick to shudder
are they in the sleazy urban tops
or on the outskirts riding home?

good heart good natured
panting in the lake day heat
hunting down now or
lolling over the voluptous boys
filthy from their lack of sincerity?

[ ii ]

where are the foxy girls?
those far too shy to flash
their tails and masks our way
smoking and turned purple
from your clandestined candor

a swaggering demeanor
in your after glow
their scent bouquet and borrowed
sweaty from the daily hunt
of rubbing flirt to front

[ iii ]

where are all the wild kai-yote curves?
their strapping
loose from chewing
out and free
on the hunting green
where wind sets furl
their torrent of hair
thick coated from all their lying

teeth too sharp to set you out
etched into all their little giggles
or nudging out
some other lunar mystery
they are not down at vicious
not hiding out near seventeenth

still nowhere near
my kind of trouble
nor riding me with all their wild
where all their passionate wind
is made from throbbing love
and curvaceous lies

[ .the.czar.of.bombastic. ]

the czar of bombastic
is still in the grave
where we try to hold our own
against the shivering night

bass jazz is my only scratch
ambient and angry
against your willed loneliness

the shallow weep
for their imperfections
while the dying in wait
are in need of water

the intellectual zealots gathering
in my broken down house
sharpening our weapons
all day long
till all are at the ready

at a head we lead and stoke
knowing where we found our serpentine lust
we hold down those hands
and brand with searing infliction
certain they won't harm us any longer

dead eyes stare up
from our passing tribe
blackwings shutter overhead
yet all I hear is my heartbeat

just too complex for the living
my hungy hands
needy and digging through the dirt
salty lines play at my mouth
and the sky is too encombered
for my somber language

[ .hard.night.jazz. ]

gears in circles
like your sun
spirals and finger tips
against your
hard night jazz
playing with
all of the sadlings
in their
under [ground] garments
where I have
no love nor lust
and only your smile
brings me back
but all of your
words are wind


[ .in.strips. ]

am the king of bondage
broken down to pieces
just one more time
in surging thrusts
where my jackboots
or snickersnack
won't cut me any more
no knife blade or
moth ever this deep
in my swallow
pulled into strips
my little passings
lost to my everyday
uselessness
your little porn in mirrors
matchless and obsessively grinding
without substance
nothing but hunger
we now ache to breathe
under your dormant life

[ .harsh.like.
your.sun.godz. ]

I need to be climbed
like the moutain
or the sun

my hands are spires
hands of stone + glass
the machine
the mechanism
clicking into place

harsh like your sun godz
the love and longing
of another life
[something they cannot understand]
my ever reaching fury
burning to tear at you

memories of light
memories of skin + surface
where my hands
are working
creasing back
your shaded edges
using my broken un-loved
angel-filled hands

[ .how.close.we.are
.to.becoming.night. ]

its so close now
the audible taste
of the curling edges
the fringes that
my fingers seek out
I can push
against this twilight
the senseless power
my ever.aching shadow
begging for reprieve
as it can feel now
how close we are
to becoming night.

[ .pushes. edit ]

there are ghosts
in that room
sitting & smoking
waiting for
the years to come
in the dark
reading or shifting
or piling things
into themselves
ghosts shape
the rooms that we live in
so they can
swallow us whole

when she walks in the room
through the threshold
and finds new beginnings
seeping out of every
pore and pander

her silver cross
around her neck
my bidden palms
around her neck
as the sound breaks
and pushes us
from the scene
we make
to the scene
that ordanely
or divinely follows

lost my marker once again
in the bustle and bow of the shipwrecked crowd
as she leaves
through the silence
of the wind rushed masthead

we are talking over rushes
of rust bitter coffee
and she talks so calmly
about the
disasterous effect
of life on water
[pushing us on]

I missed the pang
of my bitten heart
and stomach
crying out
like a lost sea
[red dot to signal Turner home]
looking intimately
for the only thing
that purifies the fallen brow

so the bidden lay
the weary at
my cross & stone
and I build makeshift
images with paint
and broken fingers
streaking red blue green gold
on a covering
of my own demise
a paint riddled surface
of an ancient oak door
gone soft but heavy
with the edge &
weathering of time

so I push again at
the frayed edges
of your hair & mask
upon you head and face
and somewhere
on the far sealed edge
we find the children
playing and pushing
dusty checkers
on an untouched board

[ .sleeping.fragments. ]

we sleep in sorrow
under the dust
of the little ones
that used to
hide at my feet
but now they use
their slender touch
to make and break
my reflection
and I am lost
in this blizzard
of human dust
where we wait
to fall asleep at nitebreak

when sorrow makes
shapes and shadows
on the walls where
we cannot control them
and in my sheltered
down husk
I hide the remaining
fragments of my reflection
pushing at
the edges of shade
until they become

supple and rounded
and I no longer need
to pull my mask down


[ .what.I.wouldn't.do. ]

what I wouldn't do,
if I could just
escape this life.
what I wouldn't do,
if I could just wake up.
what I wouldn't do,
if I could just be
myself again.
what I wouldn't do,
if I could just find
myself again.
what I would do,
if I could just breathe...

[ .ten and gravel. ]

cold boy hitting on a
snarled beat like a whore,
music scorned
for the lonely,
where sodom&gomora
have lost
their house-hold qualities
and I pour myself another thought
into the tin
and I write down
my worries
and frayed edges.

[ .semblance.&.seams. ]

gravity pulling me
where we feel so small
as it pulls at the seams with
sticthes dragging out of
pin-pricked holes
crossed moving lines
the ribs cracking
as we move
the flesh back
my edges lost
in an aimless shuffle
as the sides pull loose
and we feel
the separation of semblance

[ wolves and my shadow ]

Not gonna take long
to prove I'm wrong
I'm almost done anyways
so I'm tripping on the
ecstasy of the written word
and speaking is like
mastrubating as it forms
rhythms and patterns to please

and I wish you'd realize
that I'm not really here
I'm just a dusty old vessel
waiting to be picked up
or burned down
I am waiting on your tainted
promiscus touch
because you have what
I am missing but not what I want
and I think its beginning
to rain mystery in the den

and women are just wolves
in ponderous barbie apparel
so I am laughing at the fact
that I can't act out
my suspicions on the innocent
and maybe where
you have been
is where you are
and maybe one day
I will get back
my volitile and voluptuious shadow
the one that is sleek
and burning with intention
so I can't grasp what I am offered
as my hands are shaking
and I'm taking pills and puffers
from vampires that think
they love me
but the real me is still
hidden in the shadows
waiting for the match sticks
to come out of the closet

Wolves dancing naked in the dust
and hopeless lust of yester year
so I thought I would make
this brief but I was wrong
so I am telling you
I am leaving soon
but we are too involved
with the apparations in the mirror
and all I want to do
is sing the meaning of my words
but that would give away
all my mirraculus splendor
and without my magick,
my dear wolf
I am nothing

[ if my house
comes down ]

and I am so pent up with excitement and emotion
that a scream
is comming
and forming over me
it is making
me write it all down cause
I am afraid I will miss something
and everything is just pouring out
and dearest godd/goddess
I think I am starting to come apart
at the seems
so I can't weep or cry from my body
but my hands
are shaking
and making me write it out of my system
and I simply pray it works
because I don't want to be around here
if my house comes down

[ fallen . . . . ]

falling like flower petals
falling like rain
falling like cold, oh so cold snow
falling just like last week and the week before
falling down
on my brow
falling like my hopes
and dreams
falling like teeth
or broken fingers
falling into my depths
falling like redwine
falling into your depths
falling like beauty on an unkept and listless appearance
falling like blood into the mouth of the river
falling like stars
falling like Jupiter
falling like the burning body of a dying comet
falling to see
where we are
falling out ot love with ourselves and our own listless forms
falling down again

[ Envy and Lust ]

I am running on red wine
as sustenance
in the early morning haze
I'm all tight
and walled up inside
my heresy and jealousy
my envy is
getting the better of me
in these autumn days
yet my envy is all that is keeping me
sustaining me
and my circumstancial lust is causing me
to refrain from
being what I am

[ Tearing Down ]

just waiting for
the sky to fall
as the clouds grow
deeper and darker
taunting me
and tainting the landscape
the haze is building
and covering me up
I wish it would just come tearing down
taking me with it
and leave my listless form alone

[ without conviction
or red wine ]

and this is where
I want to be
asleep with the wakened
the woken little ones
with souls that shine brighter than mine
I hold my tounge
as I am out of place
or unwanted
resting on new topics
and realizing that
red wine is all
that I have eaten
since noon and its 2 am
without a hint
of conviction
I hold my eye
to the flame and wander back to the conversation
that I understand
but I'm lost in
just want to be
somewhere
anywhere at all

1. notes.from.
mephistopheles.box

[ .cross.roads. ]

at the cross roads
between you and me,
a mile or so the sign says;
we're staring at
the face of recovery,
in the cracked and misplaced mirror in your mind;
dust and breath collide,
as we walk the mile;
shoes push,
heart aches;
souls break with day upon unearthly things;
and I take me back,
to all the places real and combined;
encrusted with the rust of yesteryear,
we wake with the sleeping children all round,
and wonder were we are;
which place
represents peace,
and which place
represents torment.


_____________________

2. mephistopheles
in green

[ .lying.dead. ]

slender step
on broken, old boards
above a body, short a soul
now treading on water
a dying man
shifting to last heartbeat

treading where ravens dare
in a new darkness
under a cavern of life
under the ocean
and over the sky
that space
where I'll be when I weep
for one last moment

the dirt beneath my nails
and water in my hair
lips in my mind
and stars in my eyes
now rain becomes us
filling us and
our shortening breath
and I find myself
wandering around
within that cusp of mind

yet outside strolling
on newly wet grass
in the green haze
of the morning
shift to lying on my back
staring at the wet
and watering sky
hoping for the best
as Raven takes me

3. mephistopheles
in blue

[ .genesis: aphrodite stays.edit ]

turns up loosely
my dream & all my loves
let her in out of the cold
and out of the dark
into my dim lit living room
she's dressed
to the nines
in black and shall
tells me
she wants me
back to work
looks me strange,
like painting
still try to name her,
give her form
but she will
have none of that
juliette will have
no name but muse

[ drinking from the lime decanter in Tunsinia ]

this time starts another
where poetry
waits for no man
let the works
the earth, the sky,
love viciously
our bodies,
hearts and minds.
.. unfinished.. 98/99

4. mephistopheles
at bay

[ .bloodprints. ]

blood prints and angels
in poloroid photos
seemstress and lover
on golden scratched wings
in darkness we cover
the distance between us
persuing and pushing
the divinalist rod

we make up impressions
with the impurest of thoughts
and drain all the prowess
from little lost wraiths
the children are crawling
across the great oceans
at lumbering speeds
through infinite wastes
though dancing
we are coughing
the last of our breath
© bmc 98-99

[ .fading.incandescence. ]

she's pulling stars like pulling teeth
this aching in the wound
this deep crimson
wound of mine
memories fading
cold and weary
fading like a
cancerous image
on dirty glass
weary eyes that
turn a deep blue
glass like hands
that scrape and crawl
blue limbs outstreached
crawl away from the memories
that make me cold
streached across
the red lit sky
cold it turns
as the shadows
grow deeper

[ .anchor. ]

[ i ] brad's

this is all we have
then this is all we give
make mine up of
broken glass
and shattered dreams
taken this ship home
to my love
and there she will stay
until the end of everything,
anchor I will say

[ ii ] alyssa's

black & white,
continued strife
still searching for
the lost behind
all these knots are blackened hands
pacing tight along the edge
dreaming vivid in my mind
this, my anchor, kept in time
all the weight
and broken strands
still filling me up with sand

© bmc 98-99