Tuesday, December 13, 2011

To Touch the Intangible

This is my curse
She owns her world in life and death
But she could never own me
Burned me down on marble beds
But it never helped her get me
Because I still couldn't love her

She's a gust of horror, hard and fancy dressed
Gold mining down in the bleakness of my personal madness
She's blood, coagulating on the stairs
The blood the bridges repaired
But only all the gravel knows
Oh the gravel knows the way we both went

She blew the sky from under me
But I was still beyond hell
Pained my heart with the silence of
Black and white hotel rooms
Death in science fiction
To touch the intangible forevermore
This is my curse

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Death in the Left Hand, Glory in the Right

There's a point at which a movie reel
becomes inevitability. A moment
of truth and sincerity that leaves lip prints
on the collar of destiny. It's in between seconds,
meaningless to the senses yet raging
with change and direction. Death, the end,
my best friend. My nightmare my other half.
You're given a lifetime to achieve your fate.
They say the good die young but that's just cliche.
Truth is, the young and dead reached
their destinies faster than the old and sloth.
If you meet the Buddha, you kill the Buddha,
but if you meet your demise, you steal it
from death and you own the end credits.

Veronika Kirsch: Diamond Studded Stitches and a Bulletproof Dress

I can't believe this
I won't believe this is real
I'm not here, there's not a chance
Time is needing
Time is me and you
We will not fall not if we fly
Pretty faces
cannot divide you and I
If they tried
Cries of hollow fools
Fall around your cool
Dyes of sorrow's ruse
You know I see right through
I must be dreaming
I must be dreaming of you
And your eyes
Begging for your life
Begging for your life to end
Yet again
Luckily we're not bulletproof

Veronika Kirsch: Love is a Dangerously Etched Scar

With a screaming glow,
Veronika exacted a gorgeous revenge 
as shallow as she. 
Her hair blew only slightly 
over the crusted flesh of my face 
as my eyes opened, feeling awakened 
from another nightmare. 
I felt her touch, genuine.
Exactly as I remembered 
from the first night we threaded fingers;
from the last night we kissed goodbye. 
There was no moon this time; 
no flames nor streetlights. 
Just black I somehow could see into 
as if darkness had shades. 
But well I knew, 
darkness has shades. 
Mine truly is darker than hers.  

Song of the Misunderstood

I'm not suicidal
I just let everything kill me.
I'm not against revival
I just let everything die.

We Could Start a Religion

If a dream is worth a lie
It's worth living.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Veronika Kirsch: 3am Under Gray Silk Sheets

As beautiful as smoke and ice
We made love on serrated edges
Toying with exaggerations
She tasted like genocide
I never worried
Now that's just a lie

The Ceiling Fan in Winter

Bored to death, with a dark side,
Begging to move just an inch at a time.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

A One Night Stand with the Devil

A celebration of destruction 
Imperfect too
An ode to dancing tragedies
In perfect tune
Not much between despair and ecstasy

Nikki, Miami and Two Smokes Left

Her spirit is stained
Red and brightly tinted
Summer never falls
Winter never springs
Heels don't break from knocking
They break from walking
Her heart is the same. 

Eyes of an Ex

Hiding from truth
Lying behind the moon
Eclipsed with shame
Loathing beautiful rain

A Coffin of Wasted Lines

Attempting to miss a tragedy such as you
Would be prosperous with futility
Such as counting the salt in a sea.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Drinking Under the Henderson Bridge

Shadowless shades move
from any other world
like the last horror movie.
Tourists of truth dismal black
with steel beaks and feathers
like licorice shanks.
Wings of Death's hood
as beautiful as smoke and ice swarming;
No murder ever had such grace.

Of Neon Lights and Faith

It's a blackened day
And my scars are lucidly content.
Hollow justifies my name
Distance rectifies my fame
Fortune still resents my land
Devils walk me hand in hand
It's a blackened morning
I'm a tyrant riding on a bullet
Pillars dignify my pain
Battles exercise my reign
Waters never rise for me
Time reforms disguising pleas.
Sorrow is so peculiar.

From a Conversation with Halina G. Felka 1947-1970

I tried to mean a smile
through vague rehearsals
of the past where practice makes perfect
and perfect broods painless.
Aiming in vein with a warm gun.
Swallowing away sorrows
I haven't had in years.
Standing on deck, messy.
Blessed with sadness
in a mess of madness.
To breathe is to wait lonely
as a patient for a bitter man
to move me on.
So I doubt I'll give him the satisfaction
of deciding my time.
Instead I'll stop breathing
on my own accord. I'll bleed
when it rains and cry
when it doesn't. I'll laugh
at my demise and kiss my rise goodbye.
It's cool though.
It's all just conviction.

Short Words for a Short Temper

Your tongue is broken
In bondage ties
You're nothing without
Your new lies
Love sorrow and go into her