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relapse (the monster by the lane)O'er the cove, the thunder growled;
The lightning flashed a glare - it scowled;
From the howling sky poured forth an exodus of weeping rain.
Anxious, shivering, hasty pelting
'Pon the pebbles - tinkering, melting,
Trickling through the hollow inner passages of rocky vein
To reach the spots where I had stepped, along the rocky lane.
Lately, instead of floating trees
And hummingbirds and giant bees,
I've been dreaming of a monster scheming, scheming by the lane.
Glowing, throbbing, crimson eyes
That know what I fear and what I despise -
Eyes, creeping through my inner passages of rain-chilled vein
To reach my heart where I had left it, along the rain-chilled lane.
Believe in me, leered the monster
I'll be waiting in the rain.
And now my mind is spinning, spinning
The monster by the lane is grinning
And I feel like I am drowning in a shower with no drain
The memories that oversweep me
The faces in my head that greet me
Faces that encouraged me through an inner passage of hop
shut me in and shut them outi.
Why don't you replace those broken shutters?
They're gray and they don't match the room.
Twig-and-thread tepees hung in sycamore trees
are suicide missions,
miniature lightning rods draped with curtains of love
The hearts that beat out there are free,
but the birds that die there are forgotten, like twisted dreams
last night, I dreamed
that the ghost of a scarlet tanager
got snagged on my lungs, and
in a frantic began pouring out a cacophony of crimson
Are you lost, little bird, who naps
With a toss, a turn, by the morning chill?
Are you afraid, little bird, who's trapped
Within the gray, by the windowsill?
No, the little bird replied
I am not lost nor am I free
I am merely seeking shelter
Far away from the sycamore tree
Gray and gold cages hung by the door
are a mother's tyranny,
furnished with fetter
all the tracesForbidden glance at the dusty shelf
scratched and old
words I don't know
Ink-covered CDs, some put back all wrong
Maybe it's a fantasy gone wrong
slow movie dance
Life I'd never known, gates long since locked
(Is it still possible to trace
Names that whisper in my head
Recall the dead)
dead memory and dying song
can't remember what went wrong
eight feet deep in dreams and nightmare fog
faded lyrics, fading mind
butterflies lagging far behind
can't find the exit in this staircase smog
(dusty scripts upon the black
ancient hollow, flickering hall
Just hit replay and hope it doesn't glitch,
or else I'll fall)
i don't think you realizedIt's barely summer, but I've forgotten how to breathe
And as a punishment, you tore my heart from my sleeve
(threaded it with your cigarette smoke, and
pasted it to my lungs)
Well, I guess it doesn't matter
'cause it was already secretly broken
but maybe that's just me
Moth DustYou say I'm a cold-blooded murderer
That I'd trap a fly in the window panes, just to see it starve
That I'd photograph a spider's web, then rip the silk apart
well, that could be
except, you see:
Cold-blooded murderers - they leave the bodies out to rot
While I let my victims' souls go (the way I was taught)
Bury them in a white tissue shroud
Send them away in a helium cloud
(with a libation of moth dust
from moth wings that flutter no more)
So you say I'm a cold blooded murderer
but you're wrong
ambrosia tastes like freedomSpent half my pearls on a trip to the sea
Drank milky clear liquor from the coconut tree
(That something so simple could make something so sweet
It never fails to astonish me)
When I fade away, a god I will be
Sipping plain, unsweetened, and unadorned tea
Feasting on coarse bread and unripened cheese
Buried in carefree laughter up to my knees
because nectar tastes like coconut syrup
and ambrosia tastes like freedom
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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