Prose

Lonesome winter, she leaves us now, love– not banished, tho departed– left to find that which’d been whispered, those frozen-breath promises, those crystal-glow wishes, found drifting upon her own bitter gales– fled this white stillness, of her chilled and obstinate pith– only a pale-gown memory persists, fluttering, within slow-spinning shadows of these taller-days’ warming, her […]

This world of word’s drunken-stagger inadequacy and misconception’s begging-orphan poverty is the loneliest I’ve ever known; tho with batting eyes, and a silken show of thigh, she welcomes me home.

Next time, bring your wine. Drink with me with til we’re sloppy– drunk with truth and love and hate. Say all the things we daren’t say. Laugh, cry, beat my chest with your fists. Then make hard, truthful love to me. Gnash your teeth. Take as you need. Feed.

All is forgiven, ye Sirens. Tho I’ve black memories of my drownings, I’ve no hostilities held– where once you’d been. Still, it’s someone else’s turn to be loved; sing your song, sing your song, one shall come.

She’s a percipient mind– brilliant, ravenous, twisted, and just; I’ve watched its Furies disassemble a facsimile offered, stripping the carcass of even its marrow, its falsities discarded, leaving only my huddled madness, which had always been. When this was written, it wasn’t entirely true– the biggest part of who I am still not fully understood, […]

In the time between, I’ve only words, clumsy creatures, falling over face-first, imprecise instruments, incapable of symphony. Still, I wish you might know how I feel, even if diminished by the bludgeon of words. While neither can be fully conveyed by herald, truth and love, symbiotic, are of the same atmosphere, breathing of each other. […]

..And I hope you’ll forgive my cross-finger rebuke of this zombified resurrection, this craven, staggering halfling. It’s just that I still remember you as the nameless emotion that the torn-paper poets violate the stars and galaxies to find; it’s just that I still think of you as the back-alley stabbing, the warm-crimson forgiveness, the irresistible […]

She’s her affinity for practicality, and I’m the penniless anarchy of art.

Principles are such troubling, puzzling trifles that few understand why I might collect such curious things, as I wind one up and it marches around noisily, banging its drum.