her aesthetic

    she watched her sashay into the deep
        dark waves lapping her calves like hungry cats

         mentioned something about an aesthetic
                     but that sounded like a kind of alcohol to me

                  maybe it was hers

     graying skies blotted with darker concerns
                       and the gulls were screaming about it
                     like damn cheerleaders from the bleachers,
               trying to convince you that you’re winning

she said she wasn’t

              braids wrapped into buns, cat-eyed sunglasses on
                         an arrow tattooed into her back
                    always bragging that someone would put one there eventually
                                 so why not beat them to it?

             and one day, the waves took her into its arms
                      and never let go.

                         I looked for her arrow every day
                                      but even the gulls knew it was gone for good.

conqueror’s demise

      the echoes of ancient warbling
         jilting priests of faith
                    abandoning the path for the pleasure

              what would the matriarch say as she lay in eternal sleep
         cloistered and deafened by the archaic rumblings of incest
                        ensconced in a man-made prison of her own work

                    he who lingered on the precipice of denial
                             his peripheral skewered with what-ifs
                         he took the bludgeoning blame boldly


             a crushing sweep of dry tinder lit like the banquet halls
                        surrender had been sweet, until defeat
                                  serpents tasting the salty air in the baths of blood

                          as roman ships crush the gods beneath their heels
                    sinking, unknowingly, into history and its winner’s cornucopia
                                   blinded by gold, unseeing of the knife in the dark

                 we’ve never needed a rope
                      already anchored to the bottom, drop down
                                 engine died, crept into the salt air

                          we didn’t know better, left the map behind
                     lost like we were on mount everest
                        caved in and concave

                               we didn’t know the tide was going to rise
                           never watched the weather report before
                                     why, when monsoon season felt like every day

                  terrible scars in the skies reflected in our eyes
                      adrift on the worst river
                                 close to shore, we don’t care enough yet

             held back again by the weight of the anchor
                    sitting in the middle of the boat now
                            and neither of us will toss it out

the war on hard facts and liquid emotions

        shovel grief over top my eyes
            waterboarding my heart so it feels nothing
         grasp the straws of courage and try to understand
                the circle of life is real
                           it is science
                       and my heart never remembers those solid facts

               a higher power, I wish I could observe from
          perhaps the second tier down
                   I just don’t want to wait in angst
                 for an end that is not mine
                                 and though we all have a story to tell
                            what happens when we lose our bookmarkers?

                        science is real
                           and the facts will never change
                     the earth still turns
                                   but so does my heart.


          remember remember
                       the whispers of november –

                     but wait, this isn’t a revolution
                                it’s not even a rebellion
                           your white flag doesn’t drop anything but morale
                                           the one man army of nothing

              staggered steps and dried tongues,
                       cracked lips begging for Legion
                                          for we are many
                                  and the Unnamed is just many of our names

                         heavy heart and lightened shoulders
                  apostle of darkness and savior only of children
                                step into the parlour
                                            your guardian angel alive

                        a train ticket to home,
                                 small steps childishly dancing
Are you real?
                                              if you are, then I am

                                  and the screaming finally ceases

                          to conquer one’s demons,
                                     you must first accept that heaven and hell
                              are not constructs of the world
                                       but of mankind.      

Based on the book by Andrew Pyper called The Demonlogist (which I HIGHLY recommend).