Golgari

Glistening Golgari
Wet from the vat,
The birthing fluid in her lungs,
The cloying grave-scent heavy,
Juddering, gasping breath.

Gluttonous Golgari,
Gorging on death.
Scrabbling in the fungus,
and feasting on the fallen.
Consume your ill-fated fill.

Glorious Golgari.
Spawning forth multitudes upon multitudes,
that swarm across the globe.
Queen of the world,
and every one a life.

Gone is old Golgari,
ouroboros fulfilled.
Her circle closes on her,
the brood will stand attentive,
and feed upon her passing.

Glistening Golgari-spawn,
March forth unto the vat,
The fluid pours upon them
and they are torn asunder,
birthing her anew.

Mutable

I am mutable,
That's irrefutable.
I'm a million souls in a single skin,
And I can slough the skin I'm in,
Because I am transmutable.

I am insatiable,
And you're palatable.
I'll swallow you whole at the end of days,
If you can't make me mend my ways,
For I am inescapable.

I am rapacious,
and quite voracious.
I'll burn things for the hell of it,
And smear the wasted earth with shit,
But it won't be audacious.

I am ascendant.
And I'm resplendent.
I shed my skin, I ate you whole,
And from the earth I softly stole,
And I am unrepentant.

Poly Wants a Cracker

I apologize for the terrible pun in the title. I am truly, truly sorry. I've never been good at titles.

Alright. Because I haven't done a spoken word stream-of-thought thing that wasn't autobiographical in a while, and because I'm drowning on prose and poetry and trying to make words pretty, I think that the time has come to just word vomit how I'm feeling about a subject in a blog post like the old days. Also, Lyko said she missed it, and I'm a slave to public opinion, apparently. Whelp, let's see what we've got.

Skin to skin, mouth to mouth, there's no equality even cloaked in somebody else's flesh.

Ah yes, polyamory, sex, and identity. Because I, like most teenagers (still one of those, thank you) I am obsessed with sex and my sexual identity, and over the past few months that's been shaken up rather a lot. So. Spoiler warning: some of these musings might get a little personal, in the 'too much information' way. So be it. I'd like to look back on this in a year and know where I was at.

So, we press onwards, is it? Onwards to the finish. Whatever happens, pray that it isn't a tie. 


I suppose I'm starting to question myself kind of a lot. You can see - I can see - that from a lot of my old blog posts I think I had my heart set on having that spark moment, that finding of another human being to dull the craving in my flesh and bone, to set me down on my feet and hold me to the ground so that I didn't float away on a cloud of my own self-absorption and hubris - you know, a boyfriend, somebody more than a one-off lover and less than a husband, somebody to settle down with and be happy forever and whatever it is that teenagers decide that they deserve, that everybody deserves.

Even the tenderest embrace can become a choking snare if you wind it around your neck and demand pressure. 


And while we're on the subject of teenage misconceptions - for misconception that was - when did I decide that I was a top, and nothing more? When did I decide that despite my frequent sexual fantasies to the contrary that my body was only capable of performing one sexual role and one sexual role only? At what point did I convince myself that I would always take by giving, never give by taking? That is - was - how I saw it, though. And as it turns out I was woefully, woefully wrong.

There's a certain pleasure in letting something go. Your body, your free will, your doubts and fears...your property.


Now? Well, everything has been turned upside down, really. I got a boyfriend, was with him for nine months. That stopped working, and in a lot of ways had never worked to begin with. I don't want a boyfriend - the desire for that magical moment, that grounding certainty that here is the boy who will come along and fix me, that desire for eternal happiness is entirely faded, along with whatever other stupid notions of the ease of true monogamous love I harboured. I loved Pat as purely and wonderfully and powerfully as I had the capacity to feel - and yet it wasn't enough for me. I started to suspect that I was incompatible with monogamy.

Now what? You turn where, exactly, when things fall down? Perhaps you shouldn't turn anywhere.


So, I did what any sensible person would do when wrestling with questions of desire and sexual identity. I decided to fuck with myself - no pun intended. Cutting a long story down to the quick, I built up to and then experienced bottoming. It completely revolutionized my concepts of sex and sexuality and I realized that my habit of referring to myself as a top had sabotaged me in a huge way. I started to wonder. What if behaving monogamously, because that's what I expected of myself and others, was actually a huge mistake? What if I was polyamorous or polygamous? What if being gay entirely was just an adherence to a label? What if I could enjoy sleeping with girls, but by sticking to my gay label, I had deprived myself of a sexual opportunity?

Why not have two? Or three? Or him AND her? What if there's enough fire in you to warm them all? What if there's enough fuel in them to keep you going? What if?


I still haven't answered these questions. I don't know how much of a hedonist I am. I poison myself with booze and smokes and pot, I stay up all night and self-gratify in every sense of the words, I am a lech and a voyeur and an enabler and I'm loving every single second of it...but I'm not so sure about my body. It's an old enemy of mine, and I'm just now discovering exciting and novel ways to use it for pleasure and happiness - but too much too soon could be disastrous. But I think it is safe to say that that illusion of the perfect man to come into my life and sweep me off my feet has been well and truly replaced.

I'll meet him in a coffee shop, and we'll talk about theatre and play footsies under the table. Then I'll go home, and have lunch with somebody else, and we'll discuss roleplaying or fantasy or video games or something, because that's what I love about him, but then he'll have to leave so I can fuck the brains out of somebody else, because that's what I felt like doing. Drifting through life and leaving nothing but happiness in my wake. It's a nice dream. I hope I can make it real. There are people out there who can make it real.


I suppose the only thing I can do is keep going as I am. Don't listen to the people who tell you that what you're doing is wrong or sick or faulty logic, don't listen to that tiny voice in your head that tells you that this is not behaviour your mother would approve of, don't stop on account of weakness or self-doubt or even common sense. Just keep doing what feels right and searching for other things that feel right. What more can I do? What more can anybody do? So I'll write my essays and play my roleplaying games and on occasion I'll take my clothes off, and perhaps now I'll be freer about who I do that with.

Perhaps the time has come to start falling in love. You've had a bit of practice now.


I'm really quite happy, though. That's the important thing.

Malkavian

The beast beats feet,
And walks the street.
Prowling up and down the lanes,
and pouring like fog down the drains.
Sure, we're broken in its wake,
And there's this thirst that we can't slake,
But we shimmer and shine like jewels,
the fragments of shattered rules.
Inspiration strikes like sheet lightning,
cutting brightness, rather frightning -
We are gifted, we are seers,
But none of you have any ears.
So suffer pranks as we suffer fools,
the fragments of the shattered rules,
the scions of the broken dream,
where once we walked, we're now unseen.
Under the glare of hearty sun,
We fade to dust, and then we're done.
Again to rise and walk with tread
of beasts residing in your head.

Panic

Panic.
Sheer, bloody-minded panic.
One can only hope.

Can't Breathe

I can't breathe properly.

Little sections of life,

drawn into my body,

and drawn out as life,

that's been purified.

I can't breathe properly.

Is it fair that my creator lied?

On the blueprints for my body.

I was never meant to sustain

all of this life

that's been purified.

But I was drawn out

into little sections,

that can't breathe properly.

I would have liked to have seen

those blueprints

on the silver screen

projected on the womb-walls,

I would have been proud,

before this fall.

But I can't breathe properly.

Little lines of fire,

inside my lungs.

Machinery has tired,

the flesh is young,

but the wires that hold it

have come undone.

I can't breathe properly.

Little sections of life.

Drawn into my body,

that I do nothing with.

And god, does it hurt.

Refine

Refined,

sifted down,

to the very dust that built you up.

Defined,

all you are,

by the colour and the taste.

Maligned,

this is true,

in the public press of passing thought.

Refined,

sifted down,

to the coal-black dust

you are.

The Month

I'll see out the month.

Punch-drunk, moonlight,

smoke pouring out from that distended fucking void

you call a mouth.

I can't believe that you ended up in this place.

I'm going to tear you a new one,

with vim.

Light is dancing off your skin,

and you can't possibly keep all of that in,

and you'll see out the month.

I'll do my best.

You've got to understand that I'm not used to all this,

that this is a test that my body can't defeat,

and my heart and my head are both a mess.

She's tearing you asunder,

and she won't read or heed or hear.

So much hate for the ones we love.

But we do both matter.

Dark-chocolate words,

that's all you are.

Golden-glow essence

and the black tar of the night.

I'll see out the month.

Easier

Under the open sky,

Between the earth and sea,

I listened to you sing,

And then you murdered me.

I wasn't told to go,

I could have chose to stay.

Your eyes were frozen cold,

And then you went away.

I drifted through the sky,

My spirit wandered free.

The sun and moon my eyes,

My breath eternity.

Tell me that I dream,

Up here above the world.

Nothing is what it seems,

My silver wings unfurled.

My heartsblood stains the sand,

As the waves crash to the shore.

You left the blade within,

I'm not here any more.

And as I climb the stair,

Towards serenity.

I cast aside all care -

I'm glad you murdered me.

For Garath

You verdant force.
You were young, vibrant, strong.
You dealt with dryads,
sold your soul to spirits,
gave to good.
They locked you away in the dark
and all you wanted to do was serve.
And then you held fast
to your loyalty
and two dear friends were killed.

You watched as the stag ate the bear,
and you knew it was right.
Your soul turned black and you were unaware,
But you used that force to fight.

You were used, you know.
Duped, manipulated, coerced.
A simple country youth
out of his depth.
All you wanted to do was plant.

I can't stop thinking about how it ended.
In a hallway outside of time,
shimmering white walls,
and a doorway to nowhere.
Your body broken and abused,
your clothes in tatters,
your honour missing,
the whispers of the wizard hissing,
and everything you stood for shattered -
the only thing left was the soul you bought.
The verdant power blazing bright,
And then you fell, and slipped away
into the night.

Gaze upon the heavens, and tremble.
Blind in one eye,
Crippled in limb,
You fell into the sky,
and gave up the only thing that you had left.

I hope you found peace.

Deus Pose

Couldn't resist.

Impressive that we kept it under wraps till now.

I'm not certain that we've always been so smart.

We've covered up our tracks till now -

But the scent is in their nostrils,

And the vindicated men are on the spoor.

To be blunt, an eternity with you

Well, that's my idea of hell.

Punctures in your failing flesh

Will fortify yourself

and keep you fresh.

We're living, breathing works of art,

Alabaster skin and souls of deepest night.

We're not really much in a fight, but we love,

I loved, at any rate. Deeply and truly.

Did you feel that, as I bit deep?

In my blood and bone and vitae?

There was no other way but to open the door

and let death creep in.

You don't look as hygienic as I'd like.

Immortality doesn't sit well with you.

And now the clergy are at the door,

and they've brought their fires, their cleansing fires,

And I'm forced to choose between you,

my child,

and the warmth of the sun.

Bathe me in radiance as my penance.

For I'm too weak to face the final death.

Impressive, that we kept you under wraps until now.

But we weren't quite smart enough.

Punctures in your failing flesh,

will fortify your self,

and keep you fresh.

But they held the sun in your heart and they burned you away.

Debris

Debris.

There's a

awful lot of

it scattered about here

and you nestle in among

the discarded shells of events

and you wonder to yourself

"How on earth

on God's green and grey earth

did I get here?"

and then the spirit watching

can't tell if you're alive

or if you've become

a part of

one with

all this

debris.

Doors Open

I've thrown open the doors of my home,

For the night is bright and clear.

I've let in all the whores of the gloam.

And I've let you in too, oh my dear.

The carpets are flooded with brine, my dear.

The walls, they are coated with soot.

This is a bash that they'll speak of for years,

Satisfaction from head-crown to foot.

The elements have come to call, my love.

The bright fire is burning within.

The gods have descended from heaven above,

For a night of debaucherous sin.

There's no way the floorboards will hold,

Not if they've all come to call.

The floor will give way though it isn't so old,

And into the darkness we'll fall.

But I'll never turn them away, you know.

They're too strong, too winsome and bright.

If this leads to darkness, to darkness I'll go.

For my house will stay open this night.

My head hurts.

Time has Come

Cast it off, you idiot.

Blunt, I know, but the time has come.

You're going to dredge up something beautiful,

And if it hurts, you've done it (write),

Because there's a whole fucking symphony in there,

Scream like one.

This means that there's something there,

This is not a game.

There's a phenomenal force just below the surface.

I don't care how you give it voice,

Slough your skin like a chrysalis,

The dawn will sparkle across you

Incandescent at last -

But you'll lose your face and your name and who you are.

Do it anyway.

The time has come.

Take away this lie,

I haven't the use for it anymore.

I'll gorge myself until I explode,

The rot and the filth

and the bloated, bloated bodies.

I care not for your gods and devils,

The time has come to sate this hunger.

You're disgusting, but the time has come.

Down on your belly in the dirt.

I'm going to feel it all,

You can't bottle it up

in twisty-up places

crevices of will that will spill over,

And when at last it crashes down

like the fucking tide,

you'll be washed away

- or at the very least, pickled.

And you can't feel it all,

But I can, and I will.

Because the time has come to give that all voice.

So clutch at straws, you fool.

Strawman hands, stick-thin lines,

The ground will tilt under your feet,

You are nothing on this earth,

Less than nothing,

A mewling, whimpering whelp.

And yet you spin the whole fucking world

on the axis.

You're the axis.

And the time has come to make your presence felt.

So ground your feet

and scream.

You'll break the fucking earth with your might.

A Good Book

This new trend in my writing is entirely your fault.

It's a good book, don't you know.

They keep it in bars.

In stained-glass rooms,

That you won't spend long in.

The hotel room's church,

To the pilgrim, these days

But they've seen so much sin.

But they can't,

Or they won't -

But they sleep in the room with the book.

It's a good book, don't you see.

The words are written in blood,

And the pages, through the ages

Have been bound in human skin.

The price we pay to hear of sin,

Off our backs and from our veins,

Into the book, so good and pure,

That came and changed it all so much,

And made it wrong -

Wrong to touch, now that's a change,

But it will come and you will burn away.

It's a good book, don't you feel.

But there's no way to use it.

The platitudes in here aren't real,

But they still flow in beauty.

It tells me that I shouldn't love,

But if I don't I'll go to hell,

It shows me where the devils go,

As if I had a soul to sell -

Painted strangers, seraphims,

The devil with his cheeky grin,

A father kills his only son,

But soon, thank God, the book is done.

It's a good book, I know.

Too good for us.

Heart's On Fire

My heart's on fire,

Or so I'm told.

I'll burn away

Before I'm old.

I'm a wandering pyre,

With a thirst I must slake.

I'm a scoundrel, a liar

and I've made a mistake.

But my heart is on fire,

And the smoke from my chest,

Spills out from my mouth

and it poisons the rest.

My heart is on fire,

And my soul is in shreds,

But the flames flicker higher

And find fuel in your heads.

Now our bodies are fire,

And we're burning at last.

But I hope, oh I hope

That the end isn't fast.

Slow

Applauding a writer is like kissing a prostitute. Sure, they've performed a valuable service and perhaps they've even shown you a new trick or two, but that doesn't mean you love them.

I thought of that line during intercourse. I'm not sure if that impacts the validity of that statement or not.

There's a slow degeneration here.

You wake up, you work hard - or not,

You poison yourself during the downtime.

I'm not quite sure why you have to do this,

but it makes the march forward bearable.

There's something about this that's sublime,

Draining bottles of wine,

Leaving nothing but piss and broken glass.

There's a slow degradation here.

There might come a time soon where you have to quit,

But you won't take that chance to stop.

A line in the sand will be drawn,

but you won't take the stand.

You say that you've got nothing to prove.

But the boy drinking scotch halfway across the city,

Well, he knows otherwise.

There's a slow depredation here.

You prey upon yourself to sustain yourself.

Keep knocking them back,

Inhaling the smoke,

and putting yourself back up on that shelf.

Damocles would be proud,

and you wish you were as brave -

but he, at least, was never loud.

There's a slow saturation here,

As you fill up with emotion,

but you'll drown it in toxins.

Each breath that's oxygen,

Isn't quite enough.

You're sustained by your death,

But your voice will ring clear.

Just don't slip so far down,

that there'll be nobody left to hear.

Honeyed Wounds

Oil from the Devil's wounds?

I'd bleed honey.

The children are all dying,

That's not funny.

I'd stab you in the throat,

For your money.

I can't stand another second without it.

But at least your hindering touch

keeps me intact.

I'm far too sober for this business.

I'll drink of dead men,

And get out of here alive.

And then I'll find some place to die where you can't see.