your venomous fire,
my black widow spider.
Between your hips
lies a solar eclipse,
the final frontier
pulling me ever nearer.
Your nails in my back,
I yield to your attack;
a ship lost at sea,
your waves crash over me.
Shipwrecked in the morn,
I again feel your scorn;
love me then leave me,
once more you deceive me.
The Ripper
He is
waiting. In the polluted streets, under the
soot-filled sky,
He
is
w
a
i
t
i
n
g for her.
Not just any her; the perfect
specimen,
the ordinary lusty harlot who
shines
like the summer sun in his eyes.
Like Mary Ann, or Annie Chapman:
He chuckles richly at the thought of their
faces;
at their screaming mouths reflected
in the polished surface of his
blade.
The blood, the shrieks
were kisses they placed upon his face;
the thrusts
of his razor was ecstasy, the purest
climax he had ever known.
Like Elizabeth Stride, or Catherine Eddowes;
so sultry, so tainted, until
purified
by pain, by torment, by the
baptism of blood
at the edge of his stiletto.
He feasted on their essence, on the
tidbits he salvaged, so he could
taste
how it felt to be impure, so he could
devour their sinful nature.
And with their corpses
tattooed on his brain, and the
melody of their voices
swelling in a chorus of pleading for the
staying of his upraised blade; he
waits
patiently, nodding
to the Whitechapel police who
only see his gentlemanly attire.
He waits, eyes passing
the despondent and hapless, the
poor, forgotten, used, unhappy souls,
already in their purgatory
as he, the Angel of Death, scorns them all.
Until
his
eyes
behold
the one, the next
participant, she who will know the
euphoria of his blessing
as he smiles and offers his Judas silver;
the downfall of the weak and the mighty.
She
approaches
almost shyly, hesitantly, the
perfect specimen for his
unadulterated rapture.
They enter his coach;
the mouth of darkness yawns as
the door closes, and
Mary Jane Kelley
will scarcely be recognized
as human
some hours later, after the
slicing, the surgical removal
of her sinning heart.
While he will be
in heaven, in
the dimension of hallowed nirvana;
sweeter than opium,
than the sex of a thousand virgins, almost…
religious.
He will be complete, while the
laypeople will dread the very
notion of his existence.
They will fear the shadows, fear
the night, fear his dreadful eye;
and in their fear they will name him…
Jack.
Iron Maiden
I see you, Iron Maiden, so
lovely and fair;
a crown of swords tangled
in your burnished hair.
Tell me, o stannic one,
why must you be
encased in such cold armor
protectively?
Do you bear the scars of
faded wounds
from the past, or
from heartache and failure has
your shell been cast ?
I touch your face
and gaze into your eyes,
so I can dissolve
your metallic disguise.
To behold your beauty,
a rose in full bloom;
I wish only to save you
from this iron tomb.
So if you do not want me, then
please
tell me why
tears of mercury glisten
in your steely eyes?
Unrepentant
I would do it all again, is
what he told the frowning priest, the
one who sought confession and could
secure his safe release;
“But she is just a Jezebel, a Lilith and a
whore,” is what the sour priest replied with
venom as he swore.
She is a dusky mistress, a lusty sorceress, for
truth;
is what the golden boy said, shining bright
with all his youth;
But late at night in my arms she cries tears of
bitter sorrow,
for sufferings and sins she’s caused in
yesterday’s tomorrow;
and with my love I overwhelm the
seasons she has cried,
and so the storms that we create can
never be denied.
So upon the morn the boy was placed before the
roaring gang, the sea of angry faces that had come
to see him hang
for consorting with a witch, a pagan mistress
from the wood, he would be purified
of sin for the protection of the good.
And right before he dropped, he saw
her face amidst the crowd; her widened eyes, her
parted lips just as their roars grew loud.
And as his face turned black, he then exhaled his
final sigh;
for he knew she’d add his name into her
chant of nightly cries;
and as his heartbeat faltered, and his
vision slowly dimmed;
he whispered ever softly:
I would do it all again…
Colliding Worlds
Written with Victoria Selene Sky Deme
As the light dyed
kaleidoscopes of
colors ‘cross her face, her
amethyst eyes beheld
the look of
wonder
that he chased; and as
her wonder curtsied,
she dipped fingers
in his wine; and
out of blood in afterglow
he bit her wrists and thighs;
so that she smiled
into his bones,
a fragment girl
grown bold, so kisses
from her lips to his
would conquer souls
so cold;
and with his fingertips he
brushed her skin like
voltaic feathers;
his fire coursing from the
veins of blue blood
that she severed;
with her intent
her brow like silk against
his calloused palm;
whispering her secrets
as she coaxed his
dreams along;
and as she writhed
her eyes alit like
ruby crimson swirls;
and as he stroked
her mental, he then
bit the sky-named girl;
and from the skye fell
teardrops
that would drench
him to the bone;
&n
bsp; filled him with their
conflictions, with the
soul he’d never known;
and as she laughed, cheeks
stained with tears,
she asked him “Do we dare?”
“Yes!” he replied, as lightning
flashed, reflecting
in his stare;
and so the waltz crashed thunderous
as he took her by the waist;
to dance across a happenstance
around that haunted place;
for feral things
like she and he
were never meant to dance
to be that close, for fallen souls
aren’t meant to be entranced;
never meant to magnify each
dirty word and deed;
nor see the hungry
children
careless gods were
nor meant to conquer complex thoughts
of Woman to a Man;
nor seek Understanding,
that was folly, not the plan;
for gods are moody at their best,
their humor dark and bent;
so the two began
a danse macabre
like devils heaven-sent,
and so the lost amassed
to watch the fires from their
spark;
and unheard was the sound
of worlds colliding
in the dark…
Addict
She has an aura of perniciousness;
whether the razor edge
of her words
that dices the unwary, or
the dash of menace in her
smoldering gaze.
Yet with every sway of her
snake charmer hips, every
huskily whispered expression, she
kicks down my defenses with
steel-tipped stilettos.
My glazed eyes pass over the bland
Stepfords; those automatons who
bore me with their unresisting compliance.
I seek a tigress, a hedonistic sea witch
with a tempest in her smile, and
manacles
swinging from her hand.
And yes, I’ll be her captive, if her
kisses can eat my passion
like the fire eats the forest, or
the raging ocean eats the
world’s foundations.
But only for a moment, for
she is the billowing wind:
knocking over trees and tearing
shingles off my rooftop.
Then as quickly as she blew in, she
subsides,
while I shudder in the
wreckage of her storm,
wishing there was insurance for
the damage she inflicts.
And I now know the allure of
a moth to the flame, or
a surfer to a
tsunami, for I know that
she is antithesis of my
equation; my Medusa
in the guise of Aphrodite.
Yet when I gaze into her
iridescent eyes,
I know my history is prologue;
self-reflection becomes futile as I
reach for her again…
Purgatory
They walk by alone at times,
sometimes in pairs or droves, like
the herds of wildebeests you see on
the nature channel, or penguins
in their crisp suits, briefcases in hand,
mirage thought bubbles of significant
purchases in mind; justification for motivation.
High heels click like watches
synchronized to music played by entertainers,
rebels of the rat race who like me just observe
the to and the fro, the swift pace of those
who roll in hamster cages.
The train arrives, a sleek Horseman
of the Apocalypse, taking all in its maw to
destinations undesired, yet they smile
all the same as they disappear into
darkness;
replaced by other drones
in the ever busy hive,
waiting, moving, coming, going,
in a cycle that never ends.
Beautiful Disgrace
A beautiful disgrace I see
every time she looks at me,
for like a raven to a dove
she feels unworthy of my love;
she feels passion is satisfied
by counting all the tears she’s cried.
And I can only watch forlorn,
as she walks calmly in the storm,
yet pouring rain cannot erase
the tattooed tears that carve her face;
nor can the darkness ever hide
the gaping wound she feels inside.
For into it her soul has fled,
and though she laughs, her smile is dead;
as empty as a cloudless sky…
still, she holds on to the lie.
Vantage Point
She is tired.
Tired of the whispers, the stares,
the contempt from strangers, the
falsified dentures in an upside down frown.
If only she were a dragonfly, she thinks;
she’d fly somewhere that those
hypocrites,
those Janus-faced pity sprinklers
didn’t know who she was.
She looks at a reflection of flaws;
a carnival mirror of distorted proportions
and doesn’t recognize the person who
stares back at her with rain in her
eyes.
If only she could see herself as I do,
she glows like a million paparazzi flashes from
the fighting spirit within;
the fragile grit teetering on the brink
of succumbing to the assault from her
wounded self-esteem.
I can only whisper words in the dark,
for she can never know my
desire, my almost unbearable ache
to liberate her from the
asylum of her depression.
She can never know these things,
but confined by my straitjacket of
self-restraint,
how I wish that she did…
Siren Song
Sing to me, o siren of the
storm, for I have braved the
maelstrom for you, I have
sacrificed a world of land and
security
to pursue the intoxicating resonance
of your voice; I have chased
your honeyed melodies for so long that
sandy shores and the perfume of cedars
have become ghosts that flicker in the
cemeteries of my memory.
Sing to me, o siren of the
storm, feed me with your hymns, for
food and water are ashes, pale and
waxen substitutes for the nourishment
of your voice, your dirge that
sears my flesh, my soul… my sacrifice
is worthy, for I give my all, my
beating heart is yours for you to stab with
insatiable delight.
And I am ever resentful of the water droplets
that slide down your silken skin, the wind that
snatches back your flowing tresses; for they are not
I, the lone survivor of the wreckage.
The ruins of my life are flotsam upon the waters, my
fortune lies spilled into the depths of the expanse, my
existence lies upon the teeth of sharp and jagged
stones.
Sing to me, o siren of the
storm, let your ballad envelope me, pour
down my throat and fill my lungs wi
th
melodic bliss.
Asphyxiate me with the allure of
your voice, pull me into your malevolent
embrace, your undertow into the swirling
eye of your siren song, where
at long last I will lie back against the
bones of the world,
content;
my arms outstretched for that last
view, that final glimpse of your
splendor, the glimmer of malice and
seduction in your eyes before the dark and
jealous current
washes me away…
The Tunnel
He caught the next train to the future,
to recapture his past, for time was
nonexistent, neither first nor was it
last;
for in the past was something
he wasn’t sure he had quite
lost, a Very Special Something he
had suffered at great cost.
The stab wounds in his heart had valid
reason, he was sure; a lesson learned
from past mistakes and blunders he
endured;
and every lovely woman that came to him
he calmly wasted; into the maw, the gaping
wound of heartbreak that he tasted.
And dismayed by cauterized emotions he then
boarded
the future train at cost of all the
pain his soul afforded;
Destination unknown, forlorn into the tunnel he was
cast,
in hopes to capture memory long lost
to him at last.
For the Lonely
This isn’t for the lovers, the
intertwined souls, the overlapped
heartbeats
on a floating divan of rose petals
and hovering angel wings.
This is for the one who
yearns; who
coats her pillowcase with
salt flavored diamonds, who
listens to the wind
at night as it
whistles
through the hole in her chest, the
cavity where her happiness
used to dwell.
I am but a shadow,
a shade, a ghostly reflection, yet
I can still recall pain, the
unexpected shattering of
visions of glittering tomorrows.
So take your hand into mine;
fall
into the embrace of the dreamless,
sleep
the slumber of tranquility, as
in the darkness I sing this
hymn to you: the precious
forgotten, the lost
and lonely…