Dungeon

There's a pit.
Yawning open.
There's a pit.

I surrender.
There are so many tools of punishment in here.
Sado-masochist, cis, dom, queer -
what's there to fear?
This is what you wanted.

That's a neat trick, but you can't take my love.

It won't fit.
I said red.
It won't fit.

I surrender.
You're well connected, aren't you? Do you like me?
Whips, chains, ropes -
Soon I'll be free.
This is what I wanted.

I'm in that space where wrong is right for now.

Speak of it.
It was wrong.
Speak of it.

Careful, careful...

This night will improve.
Softly now, lest you wake her.
Something's gotta give.

The Elders

A villanelle? I think? An attempt at some kind of structure, anyway.


Through fogged window panes and a lungful of smoke.
Through cracked-memory faces and shoulders that break.
I breathe in your burden and it sets to choke.


I cannot express what it means that you broke.
The surface of kindred, whose blood-thirst we slake.
Through fogged window panes and a lungful of smoke.


But the dread ones are trembling, the fell ones awoke.
We ran from the hands of creators who make.
I breathe in your burden and it sets to choke.


The night will consume us, beneath a black cloak.
Silence will fall, though it seems all too fake.
Through fogged window panes and a lungful of smoke.


The crucible fires that we're set to stoke.
In the fires of Heaven or Hell we will bake.
I breathe in your burden and it sets to choke. 


But deep in the blood of the elders we soak.
We'll stride to the ones who did wrong and they'll quake.
Through fogged window panes and a lungful of smoke
I breathe in your burden and it sets to choke.

playwright?

Force it.
There's a triptych typing of torrential tenacity.
Force it.
Haze, malaise, combine the two in ways that show.
Force it.
There's no will, a bitter pill, a minor thrill, a heavy hill.
That breaks backs and slams facts against the window pane.
There's a show in the streets and a place to go and a defeat.
And there's nothing said or done and all's in vain.
Iambic pentameter? Why, what does that matter?
You promised to distill yourself into a structure.
So bend your back and flex your hands and whip into a frenzy.
And lend this fervour all that you can muster.
Force it.
An ego so fragile that it hurls abuse before it in terror.
A soul so wounded that it blights all it loved to stop from fraying.
Fall to your knees in the wake of its passing
and be caught praying - this cannot happen to you.
Force it.
There's nothing left.
I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel,
there's no bottle
full throttle
Throwing things up from the bottom of a well,
Dredging my spirit for some cheap words to sell,
To fall back on devils, on angels, on Hell
There's nothing left.
Force it force it force it FORCE IT
Peel back the curtain.
Soft strains, a melody of displeasure.
A grimace and a groan and a stern glare.
Oh, but what's there?
It unfurls, perhaps?
Is there a chance?
Something new, or happenstance?
It means something?
Ah, but that's a delightful ring,
a word or phrase
that lifts the haze.
There's this malaise, but peel back the curtain.
This isn't final.
Lower your eyes.
Force it.
And soon you'll string it all together.

In his bloodline

"Well, they say it's in the bloodline, but I ain't seen any evidence of whatever madness touched him up as a boy in his kindred. 'Course, he always was a bit different, and I suppose folks will grasp at any explanation that suits, like as not. Wouldn't want to tar his kin with that brush, though."
She paused to inhale that rich-royal smoke and meets my eyes as she sets it in her lungs. There's a bright blue flicker deep in them as if she's saying I know you, Bill, I know what you're driving at, you don't fool me with your travelling ways and your thank-you-kindlys, but I likes your company so I'll forgive you and then she exhaled and that rich-royal smoke unfurled into the murky Alabama night.
"'Course, they say that things can be weakest when you give em the most support, and he had no shortage o'that in his time. His daddy hardly ever hit his mamma, and there was always bread on the table, and what more could you ask for? Even went to school, most days. Was gonna make something of himself."
I grunted and stared out over the water.
"You best be listenin' to me, William. You ain't too old to be smacked over the head for bad manners."
I indicated I was listening, paying close attention to the way that the sinew of her bony old neck was dancing along in time with her words. She pursed her wrinkled lips at me in an incredible grimace and I caught myself speculating on how far from the grave she was. There was still so much fire in her - they wouldn't be taking her old bones down to the churchyard for years yet, she wouldn't let them, she'd kick open that coffin and demand to be taken back to her porch to berate the dogs and dote on her grandkids. They didn't make them like her anymore and she knew it.
"Well now, then he up and decided to travel, didn't he? Hopped on one of those trains that pass through in the night sometimes, riding in the back with the hobos and the drifters, eating old boots and worse to get by I'll be bound. Disgraceful way to behave, but at least some of them are Christians. By the grace of God he made it to the sea and then that's the last we heard of him for a time. His parents were beside themselves - well, when they were sober. His daddy went over the ravine a year later and his mamma kept on with the devil's drink for years. Thank the good Lord he was the youngest and his brothers and sisters all grown and moved on with their lives. Good children, all of them - except for the eldest who got in some kinda trouble with the law and stopped sending letters. Still, every family gotta black sheep."
I wondered who the black sheep was in her family. Perhaps it was her, defying them all for years of her life, drinking and cursing like a sailor, refusing the nursing home, refusing the medicine, refusing everything but church and chores. More than that, I wondered what had befallen him overseas, and where he went.
Perhaps he sailed over the sea to smoke hashish with brown-skinned men with funny foods on their breath, and lost himself in the skirt of a doe-eyed bibi with flowing brown hair. He might have sat in cafes in Paris and watched the bitter, dissatisfied owner lament the arrival of yet another publisher's rejection letter for his poetry, not understanding a word of the fast-paced, garbled French. He might have been almost drowned, and then almost saved. He might have broiled under the sun of an African savannah, and seen a lion at a distance through a camera lens. He might have fallen sick and laid awake all nights under a pale December moon, seeing in the new year with fits and starts and shakes fit to afflict the worshippers of the Devil.
He might have done a lot of interesting things.
"And what did he do, when he came back? I'll tell you what he did, he went and bought a car." So much scorn concentrated into those three letters. "And instead of settling down with a nice girl and carrying on that fool's bloodline of his and making something of himself, he drove from end to end of the country. Memphis, Missouri, Newark, all manner of sinful places a good Christian soul shouldn't find themselves in by the grace of God and no mistake. And what did he do when he reached the end of the country?"
I can't imagine, Mama. Threw himself in the sea, I expect.
"If he had any sense in that fool head of his he would. No, he turned around and started right back in the opposite direction. Treading ground he already trod, now that's just plum foolishness."
A pause.
"Take me back inside, Bill. The chill's reaching into my bones. There'll be time again for talk come sunup."
Treading ground you already trod, Mama?
"None of your sass, boy. Get your hide indoors."

Choosy

I promised you poetry and I swear it is coming, but it is too late for my expositional thing and words have to happen.


Choosy.
Passing-night supplication.
A word beginning with S that escapes me.
It means a quiet sound.
Mean spirits.
Men sana in corpore sano.
Don't freak out.

She's snoring again.
Ten till ten - or eleven.
The loop won't close.
Shut off the lights.

Choosy.
Safe haven.
The smell of saffron -
or at least, what you think is saffron.
Beds.
Breakfasts.
An absence of death.
Scientia est vox,
vox est tutos.
Don't freak out.

Sing along.
Soon you'll have to fall.
The wires will cease to signal.
Shut off the lights.

Choosy.
Every action a pressure.
A stress, an effort.
Our lips meet and it melts.
Voracity.
A power that denies suffering.
Non omnis moriar.
Don't freak out.

It ended when you weren't looking.
It's self-perpetuating.
Raise your hands from the keys.
Shut off the lights.

Desert

Three posts in one day, what the hell. I have another exposition thing brewing, but for now, more words, as ever.


Under the burning sun we walk.
The eye of Ra, horizon far.
On horseback, camel, on our bellies.
Through will and thirst
on God's anvil.
You're blessed with a fool's face.
This place will drink of fool's blood.


There aren't any flies here.
The heat killed them.


This phoenix-wing crucible.
A voracious appetite for blood.
You dry and crack in the wind
the bitter wind
you frail thing
on God's anvil.
Some are tempered.
But you will break.


Keep reaching forth.
The night is passing
and dawn means death.
That golden glow
instilled in broiling fire
Icarus' ire
Resurrection
But you crumble to ash with the dawn's exaltation.


How do you cope with that?
How do you survive the desert?
Harden yourself.
Let in the sand.
And drink in the heat
the feet that walk upon the dune
their deaths will come, and will come soon
so feast
so drink
so kill.


I enjoyed that.
It's time to get out of the desert. 

Stained Glass

Fall to your knees.
In God's house.
The landlord is absent.
But the tenant is willing.
Abide by the tenants.
Show your repentance.

You never signed the lease agreement.
But you pay rent, from time to time.
Not in sense,
but He turns a blind eye.

Dappled shadows bathe you.
And you make do.
He left a host of problems.
But you didn't inspect before you moved in.
So you'll have to bear them.

He cannot be reached on his mobile.
His agents don't know where He is.
But you're lucky enough to dwell
within a property
that by rights
isn't yours to sell.

Fall to your knees.
In God's flat.
The windows are stained -
well, how about that?
With wine and with sacrament.
With love and with hate.
With perils and virtues
that refuse to abate.

This lease is never renewed.
The landlord is absent.
And he won't check on you.
So you can run rampant
without much ado.
He won't approve,
but he hasn't checked in.
So fall to your knees
and steep His house in sin.

Neck of the Woods

Fuck, but I want to sing.

Black and buildings

Concrete overspill.

Silent thrilling,

At your beck and will.

I'm still waiting

you left me alone.

Spirits are high.

Spirits are high.

Please go, far away

I danced with you, you couldn't stay.

I ran from you, you proved me wrong.

I ran from you, you proved me wrong.

I never thought I'd see the day,

I kissed you but you went away

I ran from you, you proved me wrong.

I ran from you, you proved me wrong.

One more temper,

Words were left unsaid.

An angel struck.

The crowd is running red.

I'm not waiting,

I tore through sun and sky.

Spirits are high.

Spirits are high.

Please go, far away,

I danced with you, you couldn't say.

I loved to play, you broke the song.

I loved to play, you broke the song.

I never thought I'd have my way,

My lips are turning black - you'll pay

I loved to play, you broke the song.

I loved to play, you broke the song.

Please keep it going.

Neck of the woods is holding

my head up high, you proved me wrong.

My head up high, you proved me wrong!

Please go, far away

I danced with you, you couldn't stay.

I ran from you, you proved me wrong.

I ran from you, you proved me wrong.

I never thought I'd see the day,

I kissed you but you went away!

I ran from you, you proved me wrong,

I ran from you, you proved me

wrong.

The Show Must Go On

There was a time when I had time.
But that was now and this is then.
Behind the curtain we all cease.
On and on, with no release.
Does anybody know what we are doing here?
Does anybody know what happened to her?
Does anybody care?


There was a time when I could sleep.
But that was time I couldn't keep.
The curtain's up, there's no recourse.
Smile, damn you, filthy sheep!
The show must go on.


Against my stillness, waking.
Against my heartache, breaking.
Against my sorrow fading.
Against my greasepaint flaking.
Against the suits
the skin, the shoots
of trees that sprout and coil forth
in pantomime of winds blown north.
Whatever happened to us?


There was a time when I had time
(The show must go on!)
But that was now and this is all
(The show must go on!)
Behind the curtain is release
(The show must go on!)
There is no end, we'll never cease!
(The show must go on!)


On and on with no recourse,
there's never pity or remorse
the crowd will crush us with their force!
The show must go on!


The moon is shining on the stage that holds our souls in thrall.
The curtain's up, and this is all.
So come, you actors, at my call.
The show must go on.

His Glory

He speaks in blood! Listen!
It is for His glory that we serve!


Come, twilight.
Come, destroyer.
Come and bring the end.


Multifaceted.
Monstrous.
Maniacal. 


He speaks in sinew and in sin.
I answer in blood and bone and promise.
He laughs - a rich, throaty sound
and his foot touches ground
and rends the earth.


Come, agony.
Come, hesitation. 
Come and bring the light.


Incandescent. 
Irrespective.
Intoxicating.


I beg in steel and sorrow.
He answers in hate and hell and horror.
I laugh - a weak, reedy sound
and my foot slips the sky
and streaks across.


Come, escape.
Come, sensation.
Come and bring release.


Aggravating.
Annihilating.
All-devour.


We scream like symphonies.
You answer with a banshee's keen.
All laugh - a toxic, urgent cry!
And then the ground falls into sky
and none have been.


It is for His glory.

Stomp!

Music is the language of us all.

I want this to be beautiful, something to walk the streets.
A beat to swell up under you and make you move your feet.
There's a will and there's a word and there's a way to make you feel.
There's a sound that wells up from beneath and makes everything real.
If you don't stop to think about it
If you don't stop to think
If you tilt your head back and down your drink
Maybe you can move the way you want to
Maybe you can see.

And there are eggs.
We're all eggs.
We slept away our days and awoke with the setting sun.
There's a sense, a mist, a presence and our lives have just begun.
There's a long intoxication and a slow inebriation
and you feel as though you've found the place where you'd be set to fall.
But music is the language of us all.
Swing your hips,
sink those ships,
there's a trumpet and a call.
Stomp the ground and shout your name
and we will always feel this way.

So dance!
Dance, you're not damned!
There's a song on your lips!
I understand!
We all understand!

This is all there is for us,
and this is all we want.
I find it hard to speak of other things
when the beat wells up beneath my feet
and silenced what I mouthed.
There's a way - a means - to say what's what
but it won't keep you proud.
There's a force that keeps us upright and a force that keeps us strong.
There's a force that keeps us upright and a force that does belong.
There's a force that keeps us upright and a force that moves our feet.
And that force is as simple as a well-compulsive beat.
So dance!

Music is the language of us all!

Locked Away

This is what I've been waiting for.

Every breath locked away in my lungs.

Smoke is the language I speak.

It drifts away on the evening air.

The words that I cannot say are the words I won't regret.

And the words I can say are the worst possible thing.

I kept it locked away in my lungs.

Never to taint the air or your ears with the truth.

I encode a secret in every aspect of my being.

There's nothing about my demeanor that gives away my nature -

Except, well, for everything about it.

Someday I'll open that door and allow you in. 

Granting you access to the words everlasting

deep in that place untainted.

It's a whole, complete, foreign, unexplored

world.

So come in, get comfortable, and explore it.

This may not be enough, but it's the only shot we get.

One voice, one heart, one life.

The things that build us up and make us 

- me -

a complete person.

Destroy it if you can.

I don't expect you to like what you see.

Or even to understand.

But I've coiled it away inside.

To what purpose, I don't know.

But the time has come for the smoke to pick it up.

And carry it out on the evening air.

And to you.

Heads will Roll

I know.

When I break away from this.
Let's face it - we knew it was coming.
I'll maim those who kept me
and I'll hit the ground running.
Buried in up to the hilt.
There's no need to twist,
but I just can't resist.

I always was a madman.
I always was a cunt.
But maybe, just maybe
some of that's a front.

Whatever I am,
I'm armed to the teeth.
So sing for me, madman.
Let's see what's beneath.

And we'll all be dead in a hundred years anyway.

Threads

Such a fascinating enterprise.

What lies beneath?

We were not meant to know.

Seek it out.

Seven Devils

I am not in the best condition to be writing anything, and I embark on...this.

Everything is permitted but nothing is true.
I am a rolling stone, do not gather.
Do not gather, seven devils.
Your honey is at my fingertips.
I rub it off with a frozen digit.
Nothing is true.
Everything is permitted.
A rolling stone.

There's no time for split-milk surprises.
I'll heal the slash that circumscribes my ribs.
Force these old bones to stir themselves.
The bones of the earth beneath wrinkled feet.
And then I will blaze past the guards with this heat.

Everything is impressive, but nothing is real.
Can you feel what I feel?
I need some love, first devil.
I need some love to heal.

Your honey is at my finger tips.
I'll lick it off slowly
like a cat with the cream of the crop
at its fingertips.
No - best to say claws -
that tear through the hand
that feeds this cruel tomcat
without proper cause.

Everything is tangible, but nothing's free.
Can you forsake what this means to me?
I need some strength, second devil.
I need some strength to break free.

Your lies bestir the air around.
I'll choke and vomit at the death-rot
that floats up from my feet.
You represent a Maker
that I'm not eager to meet.
No - best to say scared -
because I'm not unaware
that my Maker might just turn away
without care.

Everything is in my head and nothing is my friend.
Can you pierce through what I will pretend?
I need some guile, third devil.
I need some guile to defend.

A shot rings out.
There's no way to tell.
My Gott, run like hell.
The guns descend with a great black smoke,
and the air fills with fumes that are set to choke
the life from the masses, and send them beyond.
Their souls tramped into the dirt.
And how that hurt.

Everything has passed away and nothing truly lived.
Can you understand what I had to give?
I need a little time, fourth devil.
I need some time to forgive.

There's a small amount of distance.
Bridge the gap and don't look back.
With a word-swarm a-blazing around both your heads.
They sing in your ears and you smile and nod,
and muse on how this gets you closer to God
without a bridge.

Everything is hard to reach and nothing comes of it.
Can you laugh at what I consider bullshit?
I need some mirth, fifth devil.
I need some mirth - for worth!

Snore it all away then.
You're in the grip of Morpheus.
He does not allow the muses into his domain.
But maybe that is best,
for he'll put you the test,
and his truths might drive you totally insane.

Everything is waking lies and nothing is alive.
Can you give yourself so that I may survive?
I need some pride, sixth devil.
I need some pride in my lies.

LOVE
STRENGTH
GUILE
TIME
MIRTH
PRIDE

THERE'S
NO
SURRENDER
NOW

Everything is in my hands and nothing's in your soul.
Can you watch and smile at the dice I do roll?
I need you now, seventh devil.

I need you now.

Moab v3

To follow up last week's post in a similar vein would be foolhardy. I think I hit a stride, found something solid and profound and important, and now trying to recapture it just wont work. I can read it and take something from it, though. My intention was to do three of these posts, and I suppose in the final one I'm going to look towards the future a little bit.
Stephen Fry (and oh yes, we're back to him) said that there are many things in life that we should apologize for and do not, but there are also many things in life that we apologize for that we shouldn't. In homage to that wonderful idea, here is a sleep-deprived list of things that I will not apologize for.

Things that I should not apologize for (and often do):

• Arrogance. It is the nature of individuals to manifest particular flaws above all others, whether that be a shrill voice, a callous nature, an inability to express emotion, or what-have-you. Such imperfections should not be crushed or ridiculed - indeed, we are socially encouraged to forgive these imperfections (physical ones in particular: "Yes, she's got body odour sometimes, but she's got a great heart" or "She gets very cranky when she's hungry, but she's got a nice singing voice.") I am monumentally arrogant, but...
  Well, but a great deal of things, really. I should not be expected or obligated to apologize for an element of my personality that I cannot change. I should apologize if expressing this aspect of my personality expressed in excess causes somebody harm or discomfort, but I should not apologize simply for the presence of arrogance.
• I will not apologize for finding somebody physically appealing - I will only apologize if that attraction causes that individual or other individuals harm.
• I will not apologize for finding somebody physically unappealing, under any circumstances.
• I will not apologize for needing my freedom or expressing myself. This is a big one, and one that I constantly do, and one that I owe myself an apology for. Which leads nicely into the follow-up...

Things that I do not apologize for (and often should):

• Betraying myself. I blathered on in my last post about the sheer exuberant energy of the adolescent, of the goals and dreams and beauty inherent in romance and language and expression, and yet I allow myself regularly to subvert those ideals in the name of smoothing over a problem or (heaven forbid) lying to myself. I should apologize for these acts and do so now unreservedly - there is a child inside me that often has cause to hang his head in shame for what I do, and sometimes that shame is entirely justified.
• Seeing too much good in people. I should accept the fact that sometimes I see good in people when it just isn't there, and then I end up getting hurt, blaming other people for not warning me, and refusing to see that if I had just put my foot down earlier, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in.
• Not seeing enough good in people. See above, but a few words swapped about.
• Considering every angle of everything ever - a failure to compartmentalize. Sometimes I just need to understand that a thing will make me happy, without me needing to understand and predict every aspect and action of that thing. Case in point being a relationship that I want to embark on and should have a long time ago. Sometimes, going with your gut and seeing what happens is necessary in order to tap into that well of exuberance that I'm so desperately praising. I suppose we shall see.

Above all, I both should and should not apologize for my writing and for my romances, which ties us back into what I've been saying in my last two posts conveniently. 

Alas, the well runs dry. That was an interesting little experiment, though. I shan't apologize. 

Moab v2

I mean, it isn't like I haven't had the time for verbose surges in this vein, is it? That'd be delusional to suggest. I have time for cigarettes on the balcony and bowls of chips. I have time for talk shows and conversations and pretending to be a vampire. I have time for treading the boards and assuming somebody else's skin, and I have time to write terrible prose that doesn't encapsulate the outpouring that I am now attempting to engineer, seeking the right combination of words that aren't mundane, this lingual exploration. That's the rub, though - my tendancies lie towards taking purely commonplace words and making them say extraordinary things. I've lost my passion for the extraordinary - for words that feel right in my mouth and on the page. I've lost that verve, that desire, that wonderful possessive feel that one gains from using words that aren't normal, aren't commonplace.

So it is, I believe, with romance.

Once upon a time I had time for the extraordinary - words like writhe and roughage and fondle, words like vibrancy and occluded and omnipotent. Indeed, I had the opposite problem - I would find that I couldn't use a simple word when a particularly verbose and powerful collection of letters suggested itself to me. This is probably a symptom of my romantic entanglements of my adolescence - I would not settle for the mundane, the ordinary or the safe - I fell in love with a bisexual boy with a shock of blonde hair and an attitude of confusion, I fucked a teacher's son, I flirted outrageously with homophobic louts who would do me physical harm if given the slightest opportunity. There is no opportunity given to an adolescent to settle for anything less than the extraordinary - no quarter given to him by himself. He's his own worst enemy and he damages himself in the pursuit of the fantastical, the unnatural, the baffling. As he matures, this drive, this desire to entangle himself with the strange and the fanatical - I say fanatical rather than fantastical because that is the nature of teenage romance, all-encompassing and inflaming and destructive, not just fundamentally other - this desire morphs, matures...and lessens. He settles for safe, for reliable, for kindness rather than passion, for dependable rather than callous. I do not in any way suggest that this transformation is for the negative - indeed, the only individual capable of sustaining such self-destructive passions is the adolescent. Nor do I suggest that he loses all capacity to feel high emotions and make paradoxical, confusing decisions - love is love, after all, and lust is lust, and between the two a man can be driven to diabolical and confusing ends regardless of his age or disposition.

All I am suggesting is that in the transition from fanatical fantastic to secure and manageable, something beautiful is lost. Something that can only be found in the eye of a young man or woman as he looks upon his or her Beloved, something that is in and of itself Beautiful (capitalization necessary). What it is, I can no longer quantify, for I have lost it, and I will never regain it. But whatever it was, it marked me forever. Perhaps that was the purpose for it coming into being in the first place - the knowledge that it has passed and gone and will never return, and the desire to recapture it.

Moab v1

I've been reading Stephen Fry's autobiography and it has had rather a profound effect on me, both in content and in sheer execution. He writes of his obsession with the written word, with swilling around phrases and syntax in one's mind and then allowing it to express itself by opening your mouth or twitching your fingers and letting it pour forth. I don't think I can ape him - after all, he's had years of experience and has quite a gift, but I've been inspired to make some sort of attempt regardless. As he puts it, quoting some long-dead author I've never heard of or some musty tome that made the rounds in the 70s:

"Language is the parent, not the child, of thought."


I'm paraphrasing, I can't remember the exact line. But it was something like that, and in most things Mr. Fry has to impart, it is exceedingly beautiful. Most of what he has to say is caught up with the subject of love and masturbation and that moment in one's youth when you finally figure out what all the fuss is about - all the Shakespearean verse, the trashy poetry and the poignant film that you've watched finally hits home. Where beauty is revealed to you in all things - the mundane, the everyday. Sunsets. Grass. The scent of old books, the sound of old records. The heat from a footpath. The mist in the morning air. Beauty becomes apparent in things that were once merely 'pleasurable' or 'pretty'. It's a bolt from the blue.

I wish I could devote more time to this. In fact, I probably will. Right now it is nearly 1am and I'm not expressing myself properly. Perhaps I'll do this post in multiple parts. Yes, let's do that. I've made a start, after all. One mustn't expect pure eloquence at this hour consistently. I have so very much to say.

A Rat

A rat, a rat.
Your teeth are blunt, little rat.
You can only draw a drop of blood.
Pinpricks from my fingertips.
Sliding down your throat.

Crazy Jane had seven cats,
and seven cats caught seven rats.
Each rat had seven fleas,
and all were swimming with disease.
The disease spread to Crazy Jane,
and drove her totally insane.
Is she alive, or is she dead?
Does she scream with the fleas in her head?

If you are diseased, little rat.
I'll rip your head off with my talons
and swallow it.
For the theft of that single drop,
I'll empty you.
Do not be diseased.

Crazy Jane lives.
There is still time.
May she protect you.

Your filthy double filled me up.

Dream You're Falling

The lord of dreams sits on a throne of cloud.
His eyes glimmer like diamonds from coal.
He never shouts or screams like his sister.
He doesn't need to.

You should put away these books and lay your head down.
You should turn that vapid smile to a frown.
You should let the dream-lord break into your mind.
Unless, of course, you're afraid -
of what he might find.

Morpheus.
Syllable of dolour.
Mighty in his weakness.

You dream you're falling, some nights.
His breath whistles past your face.
The ground rushes towards you.
And then you wake and get out of that place.

His throne is the cloud above.

There is no need to fear.

Numbers

They make the world go 'round, don't they?

One you are. Is that enough?

Two it takes to tango - or more.
Perhaps three or four.
I know where the numbers sit.
Put them in lines until they fit.
A balance, stark upon the screen.
Meals, tickets, things unseen.

A few zeros in the wrong place can crush you like an insect.
They intersect and commune,
and there's never going to be enough room for them all.
They fill you up.
Have a care that they don't consume.

Banks, balances, bills, checks.
Lead us all a merry chase.
There might be a crash, a slump, a wreck
if numbers fall out of place.

I'll crack the whip and make them dance.
For my safety.
Security social.
An uprising, a numbing.
The signals on the screen can make or break you.
So have a care.

Have a care that they don't consume.

They make the world go 'round.

Avert Street

Tumble down to the forum.
We're to see a play.
Light the world on fire.
Burn the shadows away.

I'll devour my oppressor.
I am the greater,
you are the lesser.
I'll devour my oppressor.

Come down to the banks of the Tiber.
You're to be sent away.
Light the night on fire.
Burn those who play.

I'll inspire my oppressor.
He is the greater.
I am the lesser.
I'll inspire my oppressor.

Sing his praises in the street.
This is not the way.
Set the blaze and beat your feet.
Burn his shadow away.

Pray to the gods to avert this plague.

A Second

I'll stay awake all night.
The sky shimmers.
I fought this tooth and claw.
Grant me this.

Father of Lies

This is not a dream.
Sit, sit.
Let's have a conversation, you and I.
I have so very much to tell you.
And little time.

This is not a dream.
Go, go!
Get out of this place, while you can.
What I've seen is not for you.
You should not know.

This is not a dream.
Stay, stay.
While away your time, at my side.
There's so much here to please you.
Try the wine.

This is not a dream.
Speak with me.
This is not a dream.
Flee from me.
This is not a dream.
Lie with me.

All writers are liars.
By the all-hail hereafter.
There's a place set for us.

This is a dream.