Balance

I clasp my hands together and the world sluices across my skin, roiling above the surface of my body and billowing past into the empty void that lies behind me. I have bound the shades of ages within my blood and bone, and my whispered word sets the wind to howling. I am the elemental fury, the rock of ages, the soft caress of long-dead lovers flickering endlessly across the skin on my ribs, the gap between arm and body, the blink of my eyes.

I can be slain so fucking quickly, like, lightning fast, y'know? The world is full of moving metal that could crush me in a heartbeat, the blood spurting forth from my delicate eyes, rupturing that skin that sluices the world, releasing the shades entombed within the confines of my head all over the rusted machinery - and it might even be piloted by another sack of meat, mingling with me in the offing. Or I might fall from a great height and allow it all to escape that way, or I might simply grow old and the paper-thin shell might falter for the briefest of instances but that's all it takes, that's all it would take because externally I am deceptively simple but the myriad of internal processes required to keep the Devil's fire and God's love and the endless atrophying weight of my own personal history at bay, let alone keep me fucking functional from day to day, well, they're so complex and so fucking dependent on one another that I could drop dead tomorrow simply from the wrong kind of chemical, or the right kind in the wrong place, or not enough of the right kind, or whatever. Imbalance. Imbalance will doom me, whether it is a fatal amount of my insides on my outsides, or a fatal amount of the outside inside.

I flex my fingers and the world pours out of the fingertips, bubbling and broiling it's way out as I force it out with the sheer amount of will I can pour into my hands. Internal processes shift and waver, continental drift is replicated within the human frame, and I harness all of that energy, all of that fucking instability, all of that uncertainty and certainty and blind optimism and spiritual awareness and I pour it into the world in front of me that sluices over my skin and energizes me. For the briefest of instances I fancy that the world that rolls gently over the contours of my body is improved by what I have poured out of myself into it, and then I realize that the only reason I do this is if the world ahead feels slightly different, the void behind me isn't as deep, isn't as dark, and isn't as distracting. And then all the colour, all the fire, all of the brightness drains out of the air that caresses my skin and I am left a creature of imbalance, of the void, of an internal process failed, of a memory unexpressed, a puppet to the shades of ages and prey to the emptiness that lies behind me.

I will have balance, and if I cannot have balance, I will fall. There is no two ways around this. I will have balance. There is a perilous drop behind me and a perilous flame in front of me, and I can't pour myself into one or the other. I will fade, or be consumed. I just have to find a way to stand between the two.

.

I have a death's grip on this torch
welded by torque,
by the bones that grind against my hip
as I push back against the tide
but the torch will never leave my side
I carry it around to burn things down.

And in the flowering,
the wounded walls
I bring about an empowering
even as I fall
and it spiderwebs out
from my fingertips
in the finest pattern
stronger than steel cables
it isn't that I'm unable
it isn't that I'm annoyed
it's just that I have no choice.

And in the flowering,
that is given voice,
I suppose it is empowering
to stand your ground
in the hot-sweat air
and state calm and clear
that it just isn't fair
and that you'll have your way
your pattern-fine way
in the insidious heat of the day.

I have a life's grasp on this torch.
Fused by stalks
by the vines that grow against my clasp
as I push back against the pattern.

Phelgm

I'm reading about a race
of creatures
who are so downtrodden
disgusting
walking refuse heaps
reviled as a religion
forlorn
accepting
who store their bodily fluids
their phelgm
their earwax
their toenail clippings
in jars
of pure beauty
made from nothing.

I relate.

Spasm

you might have escaped
but something came with you
and attempts to break free
and return you
unwilling and struggling
to the site of your shame.

knees buckle
lungs heave
eyes leak
- my, so human -
but so pathetic
and weak.

never heed the truth
it lends strength to the beast
you slaughter them with proof
but something was released.

my, my.

Rejoice

Rejoice! Rejoice!
You've destroyed nothing that cannot regenerate.
Aside from your pride.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Let your madness fill your voice!
You rolled the dice
and scraped a pass.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth, chewed raw -
But hand and mouth are clean.

Dear Everybody

C'mon, guys! I was doing fine until you overloaded me with goddamn feelings. Stop being so beautiful and poignant and let me immerse myself in practicalities.

I have not.

I have not the time for words.
I have not the time for hurt.
I was bad enough
without the sword of Damocles
glinting in the firelight.

I have not the time for violence.
I have not the time for tears.
I was frenetic enough
in the early days
when bodies were fresh and clean.

I have not the time for regrets.
I have not the time for love.
I was disdainful enough
in my bitter shell
when I thought I had forever.

But I have time for thought.
I have time for thought.
I have all the time left
in the universe
for thought.

Please, let this not be.

Vampire Obituaries

Name: James Jacobson
Clan: Ventrue
Sired: 264 BC. Final Death: 2012 AD. 
"Regere sanguine, regere in veritatem est."

James Jacobson was sired almost three centuries before the birth of Christ, in order to assist the Clan of Kings in their warfare against the Brujah city of Carthage. Against all expectations, he survived those tumultuous nights (and developed a rarefied taste after feeding from sleep-deprived sentries), but fled that part of the world after making several enemies in that area - including many powerful wandering Gangrel. He spent the past two thousand years more or less in and out of torpor constantly, preserved only by a fascination with the world's continued turning. He served for a time on the Board of Directors, but voluntarily left in disgrace after a dispute involving a competitor's ghoul arose. He was the first Kindred in Melbourne (after a change of name and identity), and together with the Sheriff he helped spread the Ivory Tower to Australia, earning him much distinction under his new identity. 

Jacobson was diablerized voluntarily by Marlene after it became apparent that he would never be able to repair the damage he had wrought with his substance addiction. After getting his revenge on Giacomo Acerbi, he had nothing left to live for, but he wanted his power to serve the Clan of Kings, and so he allowed Marlene to consume him and his soul was destroyed utterly.

Jacobson was a strong Ventrue up until the end, where the pressure of the centuries proved to be too much for him and he succumbed to vice. He went to his Final Death a resigned, broken individual, with a proud lineage crushing him under the weight of expectation. Oblivion was probably a release for him


Name: Alfie Chance
Clan: Ventrue
Sired: 1952. Final Death: 2012. 
"This is going to hurt a lot."

Alfie Chance was born in Chicago and embraced by his brother, Paul Chance. They were in the service of a Ventrue mobster named Strongarm, who used the brothers to run several illicit operations out of the Americas. Alfie was indoctrinated into the ways of the Path of Cathari along with his brother between the 60s and 70s, after being forced to kill his entire mortal family. He was spared from killing his sister, however, by the heroic actions of his brother. Sadly, Paul met the Final Death during an ill-planned assault on a Setite temple, from which Alfie emerged with a head full of phobias and a Setite curse on his head. In grief, Alfie went temporarily insane, diablerized Strongarm and travelled the world, spreading the ways of the Cathari and eventually becoming the third-best bartender in the world by reputation. His travels eventually took him to Sydney, where he met Angie, a mortal who would change his life. Alfie believed that Angie could redeem him, but the tenants of his path forbade him from siring her. They maintained a tenous relationship for many years.

Alfie met his Final Death in a fire during the tumultuous events of Gehenna, and through the actions of Evelyn Lockett managed to sire Angie from beyond the grave. However, this chained his spirit to Angie and he was denied the rebirth that the Path of Cathari promised him. When Ventrue arose and began devouring his children, Alfie began to torment Angie, whispering suicide to her in her final days. With her passing, Alfie was returned to the cycle and reborn into a human body - without his 'true love'.

Alfie never really loved Angie, but he had convinced himself that if he could fool her, he could fool himself. He was a fundamentally weak human being, but he had the tools to survive in a world that so often wanted him destroyed utterly. He had his honor of a sort, but that was the only thing that could be said to be truly Ventrue about him. He was immensely complex and gave me the most out of all my characters.

Name: Bacchus
Clan: Son of Discord
Sired: 1503. Final Death: 2012. 
"Through your blood, our god will return to us."

There are many Bacchus throughout the world, all working towards the same end goal - the resurrection of Dionysus. Using their signature discipline to incite bacchic frenzies in crowds of awe-stricken mortals, the Sons of Discord worked tirelessly to bring about their god's return, even as their bloodline faded into obscurity. This particular Bacchus travelled to Melbourne on the eve of Gehenna to spread chaos and indoctrinate as many mortals as possible, where he ran afoul of Evelyn Lockett and Crazy Jane. The encounter ended peaceably, and Bacchus fostered relationships with the two, even helping to raise Evelyn's child Levi. 

Disaster struck when Bacchus was destroyed by a witch-hunter - but the ways of the Blood are strange indeed, and Bacchus was returned to his physical body with the help of Malkav. Suspecting mental manipulation at the hands of Malkav, Bacchus rushed with Evelyn to join the others of their bloodline in Sydney - only to be sent spiralling into Wassail when Arikel consumed the Song of Harmony, the music that binds all Sons and Daughters together. 

Bacchus was fun. He was very, very stupid, but he meant well, and I got a great deal of satisfaction out of playing him. He truly, fervently believed in the cause of his sires, and believed that Dionysus would return to them if they were diligent enough. He never shied away from his task, even when it earned the displeasure of his 'wife'. His end was very saddening - mostly because his final act was to break Evelyn's hand. Every time I sing Feeling Good, I'll think of him.

I want, I want...

I want, I want, I want...

You shatter into a thousand pieces
that fall, screaming with velocity
towards the ground
and all cry out with the
multifaceted voice of the multitude
deep-throated with newly discovered
distance
keeping the cadence
blood-rich timbre
the unceasing thump-thump-thump
of your deliberate, head-strong heart
struggling for fresh life.

I want, I want, I want...

Wear a Helmet

Their words fall upon me
like a deluge
lent false weight by the
repetition
as their hollow mouths form the words
their fathers said to them.

It coils around
the cavity
that moment of doubt
uncertainty
and then I see them for what they are.

best/ride

i stand bestride the world
like a behemoth
like a fucking nightmare
the blood of the dead
flows in my veins
and i eat red threads
with my sole gaping mouth
like an open wound
in my bellowing face

Godsong

Goodbye, Bacchus.

God didn't come.
The song went unsung.
If he's not here, what then?
What now?
If not then, then how?

Faltering.
So much blood,
like a red, red wine.
There wasn't time,
and that should have been fine
because we had all eternities before us.

I have seen the legions,
they tore at their flesh,
and each wound was fresh
upon my back
and my voice was raised
and constantly on the attack.

God didn't come.
The song went unsung.
We have no purpose here,
my brothers fall to fear
and from their lips tear cries
that fall upon deaf ears.

I broke the fingers of your hand,
that delicate hand
that flayed my back.
I knew you'd understand.
We were wrong.
There is no place for us
without the song
and as the red star glows
we cannot stay.

And so I went away.

Not the Sun

Posting this here because it is everything that I feel right now, even if I didn't write it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HEhtN-653A

Please make the technology
So I can turn up your love like some cold machine
Don't feed me scraps from your bed
I won't be the stray coming back just to be fed

Don't be waves
Come to seal my fate marine
Just pretend that you want me
To be my bait
To be my

Well don't be that note I can't hold
Well don't be that joke that I told and told 'til it got old
Don't be that hand 'round my throat so I can't breath
Say you're my friend but why won't you be my family?

And if you break
Just don't tell me
To be my bait

To be my dream
Tell me you know what I mean
(Prove me wrong)
You set on me but you are not the sun
You are not the sun

Outside your cold lips again
You set on me but you are not the sun
You are not the sun
You are not the sun

Just pretend that you love me
And be my bait
To be my bait

cave in the spigots

cave in the spigots

and let it flow

a tide, a tide, a tide

of filth.

the vulgar argot imbibed

piss

shit

retching excess

cave in the spigots

the tyranny of the clean

the writhing joy

of the obscene

this is only wrong

among your betters

close up your shutters

even the scum of the earth goes green

only in filth will you learn what you mean. 

.

I draw breath and rot from within.
I blink my eyes and the lava flows.
I sweep a hand across my face
and draw you in
nobody has to know.

I'm alive.