Artemis and the Moon*

No more the warmth of your smile

waiting for me

behind

the door or

between the sheets; sharing body heat;

blood pulsing, hearts, random hearts beating

for each other in a cruel, cruel world**. 

 

No more silences,

either callous or beautiful.

No more Blue-john stones & those future dreams

we

always secretly knew would never come

true.

 

No one knows who put the ice-pick through

the skull of Brontsein

 

& only we 

know how it ended…

 

let us keep our secret, please, leave me

to my dreams

 

while you escape your fate

& be gifted that which you always

wanted

 

& History can be re-written…

 

 

 

*Artemis and the Moon

** Randon Hearts -Laura-Jane Grace

Lost

The reasons why

hide

& you don’t try to find them.

 

Blind

instinct guides

& elides through space & time

until

you no longer know

how it is

that you find yourself

in this

dark forest.

A painting or a stain

Viscous to liquid, now dissipating

                                                         into nothing;

colours fading from the imposing painting

of the future now no longer

still in progress.

 

No more changes, no new creations

only the repetition of all that

always leaves you back where you began, yet

if the colours begin to brighten again

as always they have

                                 eventually;

when the flames flare & the embers turn

to a fire fierce & dangerous,

 

perhaps

the painting will be beautiful again;

 

                            perhaps

you will change…

Red Rivers

The first step to freedom is to change the way you dream,

to escape the constraints of the time &

space

into which you were thrown when first your throat

released that scream;

your first

entry into the ancient litany

of despair that is our shared language.

 

If the dreams will not cede,

if they will not submit,

then

 

when the knife punctures the skin &

sinks

down into the flesh,

something is released; not just the blood but

an obscene surplus; the pleasure of pain

gained by virtue of vice

& the sight of the red river flow:

 

don’t

take this as a joyous gift,

or as penitence for real or

imagined sins:

 

it is nothing more than violence

that cannot speak;

 

it is nothing more than

a voice too weak

to speak.