Sunday Wears A Coat of Dusted Dreams

 

Sunday wears a coat of dusted dreams

He creeps up like October wind,

dirt and harvest in his palms,

sprinkled lightly over Communion wafers.

Come evening, he sleeps at inns,

several inns, for he is many colors,

and rain creeps in through cracks like snow

melting seeps into the ground.

A pitter-patter of his toe

as he holds his vigil by firelight

cheese and bread in hand

and a smile of things forgotten.

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Time moves differently in dreams

I dance with coyote in dreams,

run barefoot through sleet, hunted

by the knive-toothed wolf.

 

His eyes are goldenrod, his sister

silver-maned,

and in their gaze I know I am just a reflection.

 

Morpheus escorts me through the airport

“Is it time to wake?” I ask, crunching peanuts

as the plane takes off.  He sighs, stretches,

I beg for a kiss, receive nothing.

 

Just stale air, no breeze.

Time moves differently in dreams.

 

When Death Takes a Fancy To You

When death takes a fancy to you,

there is no escaping the clutch of the arachnid

his cold tears when he thinks he is alone.

When death takes a fancy to you

all your dreams are nightmares

all you dreams phantasmagories

all you dreams are true.

When you dance with the Reaper,

time is immaterial, and a golden flush

spreads across the world.

You see with eyes that are true eyes,

taste things like they are the last

breath of your life.

_

When death’s lips meet yours,

you believe in butterflies hung on

elven threads, shuddering on the wind

the Erl King calls and you answer

running through the woods

to heed the wounds.

_

When Death loves you,

you fall in love with all.

There is no Death, just dreams,

all real, all truths,

sweet Dreaming.

I am the banana peel

 

 

 

Written at 16

The yuppie discards me in a gutter, leaving me to decay.  I groan as a leaf nudges me, trying to get past.

“Hey man, you’re blocking my flow!” he snaps, disgruntled as I block the current of water he so desperately wants to follow.

I stand against the cool rush of the liquid, letting it envelop my mottling skin.  I don’t follow the rushing river, remaining like a pebble at the bottom of a stream.  Piss and the stench of seat clouds the concrete.  Parts of a dead squirrel skim past me.  The putrefaction of the city finds a home.

I don’t want the sewers.  I’ve heard terrible things about them.  It’s where peels go to die, I suppose.  At least there’s a dandelion in the gutter cracks.  There aren’t any flowers, down there.

From the sewers, you can’t see the stars.  I wait as my rot sets in.  The leaf curses and shoves past me, leaving stale waters behind.

My mind blurs.  It turns to my mother, to the island that bore me long ago.  I remember my flesh, the color of mucus.  Now, I’m just an empty peel.  Some worn out two-bit skin.

The sewers call below in chthonic melodies.  I turn deaf ears to them.  In time, I will go, but not yet…

“We are all in the gutter,” I once said, in a different life.

“We are all in the gutter-

but some of us

are looking

at the stars.

Diner Glass

The Diner Glass

 

She had sweet

green eyes and legs

that bent like willows-

I sipped the burning bitter,

waiting for the night.

 

People look different

through a diner glass.

But the leaves fall

just the same.

Orange, yellow, fire red.

I imagine them in days,

weaving my fingers through

golden strands.

 

Her ghost sat down beside me.

 

A bent man crept through the door

a gnarly gust of wind followed him

Trailed by a single leaf,

he hobbled to the diner’s bar:

“A cuppa joe, my boy.”

His voice is like rust.

“Sure,” I shrug, smiling.

 

She purses her lip, impatient-

I watch her, from my memory

through the corner of my eye.

 

Her ghost slips from my mind.

 

I pour it for him,

the bitter black.

The leaf settles at his feet

scuffed loafers below

geriatric knees.

 

He leans into me

the diner glass breaks

and all my defenses

shatter.

 

(he stole my girl away)

I look death in the eye

 

“Those veins, all withered and dry?”

he asks. I look at the golden leaf.

“They’re mine. I got one day left to live.”

 

And then I remember

Her hand in mine,

the spice of crushed leaf

beneath my feet.

 

That chalk-white face.

arteries shone

under translucent

skin

 

I shake my head in sorrow.

He brushes off my sympathy

 

“No regrets,

we all fall eventually.

But boy, you got graves

in your eyes.”

 

He leans in to me,

whispers confidingly.

Rheumy eyed-

must be wise.

“You’re too young

to have death

on your mind.”

he rasps.

 

“You got gardens to tend.”

And he died.

 

I buried his bones in the wall

No one noticed,

they never do.

He left a wallet

full of dreams

I kept what was useful,

burnt the rest:

“There’s no spare change

where you’re bound.”

 

She watched,

through the glass

night set in.

 

She stripped for me,

on the diner bar.

I watched her

dance on the walls.

“You don’t have far

to go, boy.

You don’t have

much at all”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elves Are Pretty, Goblins Are Strong

“Elves are pretty, goblins are strong.”- Marak, the Goblin King

Prince Charming He’s Not, by AdAbsurdum

from Clare B Dunkle’s Hollow Kingdom Trilogy

Marak sees ideal Goblin Queen material. Kate begs to differ. Tensions ensue.

“Kate felt very offended. ‘I am not an elf,’ she insisted. ‘I’m an Englishwoman!”

The Unseelie taught me this:

beauty is vicious, beauty is cunning, beauty is strong

The elves are pretty.  The goblins are strong.

Beauty bites and rends your flesh in tears.

It is found in our scars and whips

serpents writhing in the sky, ripping the land

it is nature at its harshest,

the great rezoning wave that drowns a million.

See it carved into our knives and wounds?

Blood for blood, heart for kin.

We tear ourselves apart for each other.

I waltzed with the Unseelie King,

serpent tail and stiletto wending through wine.

He taught me to smile like a bastard in the depths of hell,

in warehouses of damned where no angels dare tread.

We painted in blood like savages, he whipped them into submission

as they reached for my flesh, starving for salvation.

some drink of redemption, I the light in Hell.

“This is my bane,” he hisses, comforting

me as I cry, shielding me from desire,

surrenders the keys-

would you

lock me

inter

me

in this tomb?  Suspend yourself for ages as I writhe through my skins?  Looking for a heart that you stole?

Yes.

Gate close.  Us together.

It was just a dream.

Dawn comes.

We are saved.

Our disease is our greatest blessing.

No sunlight shines here-

Love the flower that grows in Hell.

I forsake all for your smile.

I the tithe, or you?

The Guardian

“Now, you are not only ugly; you are deformed. Ugliness is mean, deformity is grand. Ugliness is the devil’s grin behind beauty ; deformity is the reverse of sublimity.”

-“Suddenly she seized his hands,” monPanache

I cannot tell the angel from the disease.

The serpent from the lion.

My guardian from my id.

*

He will go from horrible to beautiful in a minute-

moonlit flights on hearses, waltzing in graves under the moon

He cries at Victor Hugo, fancying himself the monster unworthy of love.

I have seen him five degrees below freezing, with an ice grin painted by blood,

a silver labret that shines like revolvers under saloon-light, the clack of Cuban heels.

Smells heavy like black maple, old leather and sage, of books sagging with time.

His cry is that of the madmen he tends, my warden whose eyes I forgot.

He is the Angel of Asylums and Artists, the self-medicated mass,

absinthe haze and Aleister’s ghost, lover of moon-girls

and picker of dreams, with a voice that would

blaze desire into the Mariana Trench.

*

The Earth would cleft herself apart,

roiling with tsunamis that would curdle Leviathan,

were that not another of the names he claims, half-lost

in seas of Arthurian lore, like Agneta’s sea-king

spent in the coils of a snake.

Ode to My TI-84

 Oh, how I adore

My TI-84!

The apple of my eyes

Its silver keys

Sing melodies

Of functions, graphs, and lines

Oh how I wish!

To spend my life

Inside its holy abode,

Of numerals and decimals,

Of averages and modes

Its brilliant screen

With a diamond sheen

Doth read so flawless-lie

Irrational numbers

Haunt my dreams.

Through my head,

equations fly…

But I have lost it…

It’s gone away

And left me, it would seem

So much for all those equations

So much for all my dreams…