Insane Babblings




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Fallen Angels

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Emotional Bulimia

    Vomiting my memories onto paper,
    Not as they were but as they now seem to be after digestion;
    Mixed with bile, tinged with gray shades of
    ‘should've' and ‘if only.'
    How long has it been since I've ingested anything new?
    I guess something in me enjoys the taste of regret.
    Why else would I purge, but never void?

    Some people say you can tell the future in spilled entrails.
    Some people say you can learn something from the past.
    Some people are full of shit.
    And some people, will never be full.

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     I am locked inside a golden cage 
Next to me is the key, but if I open the cage and take even one step
outside I may turn and find that my prison is no more.
     Outside the cage is a circus full of laughing, happy people
with manacles on their legs, but they are too absorbed in their cotton candy
to even notice that they are prisoners.
     The ringmaster cracks his whip and announces the endless list of attractions.
Is that a real mustache, or a disguise like all the others?  
Are those clowns, or tigers in makeup and puffy shoes?  
Painted smiles and twinkling eyes, but you can see the blood lust thinly veiled.
     Your cage stands next to mine, but it is not gold.  
The bars are cold black steel.  I can smell the dried blood on your hands,
but long ago you gave up trying to escape. 
     If I reach out as far as I can, I can barely touch the fingers
of your outstretched hand.  But all to often when I reach out to touch, 
you just smile and whisper sweet poisoned nothings in my ear.
     So why can't I just sleep with my back to the wall
and wait for the food that doesn't fill; the water that will never quench my thirst.  
Maybe because I know that the more I sleep the weaker I'll get.
     For now I'll just stand by the bars and watch the rabid dancing bears,
and your forked dancing tongue, and try to quell the hope that you
might return my touch.  Maybe tomorrow I'll look for a better furnished cage,
and another circus where the disguises are less transparent.

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Ode to Urban Decay

Standing in the doorway watching the rain come down.
Somewhere rain is lifeblood, all the verdant growth
sucking it in like mother's milk.
Different here, all the rain does is move the dirt around.

Why do people stay in a place
where nothing else but rats and roaches choose to live?
If plants had a choice they wouldn't set root here.
The anorexic trees and window gardens look like refugees,
The last survivors in a death camp.
Can't compete with the poisonous neon,
saphrophytically growing on every building,
creeping into your mind and spreading its insidious messages;


Everything here is gray.
Peel back the glamorous skin and it's all ashes and creeping decay.
No matter how hard the rain lashes the penance is not enough,
and the gray stays on.
If you look closely into the faces of the newcomers,
you can see the cancers steady encroachment.
The smiles fade from their lips,
and their gaze becomes heavier by the day
as they find out why the pavement is so fascinating.

Someone died the other day.
It was a tourist maybe,
drawn away from the glowing, pulsing heart at the center
and out into the fringes.
The concrete labyrinth greedily swallowed him.
He didn't know that no one here has a spare cigarette,
and that you pay for kindness in pints.
Maybe the rain will wash away the sin of ignorance.

They show pictures on television of another dimension
where children play in front of strange things called houses.
There is laughter there, even if it is canned.
People even solve problems there.
It looks like a nice place to visit.

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Sell me your soul.
     Name your price.  Whatever you ask, it is not enough.  
For such a jewel Deity might give up its throne and have no regrets.  
Men would spill blood, their own or others, gladly.
Yet I think a single red rose will purchase this pearl beyond price.
This weed, comely to behold but still a parasite, 
Can place a smile on that marmoreal visage to remain 
Forever engraved in my museum of memories.
I will enshrine this satin surrounded ivory crescent 
Beside every glance I ever stole,
before I stepped up to offer my simple present.  
Red for Lust,
     Rose for Love,
          Mind the Thorns.  
It's dead now, as your soul will become after I uproot it.

     What will grow in the void?
Be certain this new child's appetite knows no bounds. 
Ripping new holes to feed Its growth, the misborn garnishes 
Its supper with your sanity.  
Don't worry, It doesn't like roses.  
However the ravager encaged in my mind might sleep for awhile, 
Satiated after devouring such a tender young soul.  
Don't say I didn't worn you.

     Did I mention this rose is only a down payment.  
Lovely, delicate circles of color and rose colored light.
The blush of life still remains.  
A small token of my passing, yet passionate, affections.
Moonlight walks along golden beaches,
Blood of grapes savored by candle light, 
Promises bedded on silk sheets,
All these and more for the price of just one soul.  
I'll be gentle. You won't feel a thing while I suck it away. 
Time will heal the wound, and you might be able to 
Fool yourself into believing you don't miss it.  
At least until the howling of the gulf entwines 
With the keening of your devouring new born.     

Did I tell you It feeds on souls?     
Happy Hunting.

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Pain Trip

Exploring through the flesh, looking vainly for anything inanimate.
Somewhere deep beneath the skin there rests my solid space.
Unmoving, black, and beyond compromise
How can this core remain ridged as the corporal rushes in bloody chaos?
Laughing in the face of order, scorning tyrannical mandates that all else moves
And so this must.
Paradox realizes the futility of head on conflict with Unshaken
And crawls away, hang dog, beaten.
All this must be abandoned questing through the meat. I can smell it, oh so close.
Yearning rends, and the pain holds and comforts me, guiding.
Pain is.
Pain was.
Pain ever shall be.
Like a masochist screaming for the razor,
The spawn blindly sinking newly cut teeth into mothers breast,
So shall I become.  
My goal knows no deviation. Suffering is the line that stretches taunt between.
All dead parts are sloughed off now.
Hand over Hand over Hand
My salvation sails high and majestic before me.
Shaking I step on the shore. How can this be?
Crucifying myself horizontal,
Still denying the tremor that invades my whole being now.
Realization is ripping denial from my desperately clutching mind, for now I know,
My black rock has four Chambers,
And Pain is the only Constant.

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Sex and Death

Bound in chains of glass on a bed of cold steel,
The Outcast arches wingless shoulders barred
     to the scourge of vice rewarded.
Screaming a voiceless prayer to a forgotten pantheon,
While she blindly traces scarlet runes
     over a broad expanse of living parchment.
Wounds heal, Scars fade and Spells lose their power.
The madness in her witches blood draws rein on his tide for now,
But fleshless voices from one hundred petrified tongues whisper,

'Vita est Brevis, Carpe Diem.'

This hopeless Messiah can not even save himself.
Much less the lost, blinded by the Light of the World.
What rough beast hounds his footsteps?
One glittering drop of sweat
Falls on the sleek form of his willing victim,
Here at the end of so many worlds.

The last wild voice is silenced,
And no one mourns the dying echoes.
God is Lust, and only moans rise
From the throats of the prostrate faithful.
One grain of dust for each seed that falls
From the hand of Mother Jezebel, Patron Saint of Babylon,
Until a shining city rises from the ashes of Sodom.

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The Curse

It is Ten PM
Do you know where your inspiration is

Does it rise with the scent
of your own blood on the sidewalk
slowly freezing in the sub-zero air

Coming in from December
Flinging her coat on the antique chair
        beside your door
Raging home after a killing day at work
your Muse discards layers of clothing
starting at the door and moving to the kitchen
for a glass of cheap wine
The first gone in a breath
on the slow weaving road to drunkenness

Down to her skin
(nipples hardening)
she stalks to the bedroom
with the bottle as traveling companion
The glass left by the wayside
a gentle crimson stain on its lip

Inspiration finds you
        She always finds you
On the edge of the bed
clutching a tee-shirt around your hand
with slow drops forming at the end of the sleeve

The wine is her lover
The snow is her lover
Your minor tragedy that she ignores
        is her lover
But you are her cheap whore.

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Written at Dirty's Outhouse and Poet's Cafe
After the Poetry Reading.

Why does every shy girl have a secret
book of home-made love poems?

All the old flames become mad romantic bastards,
as the euphemisms and undead cliches spill out
over the endless hours after midnight.
Ink as red as the first blood that slid down her thighs
to wash over the pages that will never betray hot young secrets.

Some fresh rain evening
when boxes wander down from the attic,
(for lack of better things to do)
the drifting gray fairy dust flies
from red rose velvet heart break.
How do adolescent Romeos fare now?
Promises that slipped away down the same path as virginity,
into Suburbia, where leather jackets are tucked away
behind suit coats and golf clubs.
Fat, balding, husbands with 2.5 kids in college,
pray to god above that Juliet
doesn't look them up
(hunt them down)
to place another brick in the wall that is marching,
with juggernaut progress, down the center of the dinner table.

Or will she wash out the blood stains,
add spit and polish to tarnished memories.
Serving up reheated summer romance, garnished with a personal revenge,
to a crowd of starving, ambitious poets.
Maybe win the local rag annual contest,
but never be included in the anthology.

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Moon Light Swim
2:36 am

Do you walk alone on rainy nights?
The pavement as dark and slick
As the inside of your thighs.

I do.

There was no light in the window,
So I kept on going, braving headlights,
Exploring asphalt curves.

And now,

I've run out of cigarettes,
Left the crumpled pack in a ditch,
To keep the flat rabbit company.

I am

Balancing on the outside of the railing.
The October water looks dark and inviting,
As the inside of your thighs.

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Looking Back

If only I had known, that first time
setting pen to paper to sketch out a shaky 'A'
the millions of miles this hand would blaze
through uncharted white plains leaving a careful black path 
to be followed by the critical eyes of friends and strangers.

If only I had known what strange countries 
these looping winding twisting paths would travel
in search of some cathartic mountain peak,
or peaceful escapist clearing secreted among endless trees,
or empty wind scorched plains where nothing can be seen for miles,
or curving stretches of worthless gold beside heaving liquid cobalt,
or secret medieval chambers where naked fantasy waits between silk sheets
     to realize every guilty whim,
or lonely garrets perched atop a black fleshless spine hung with cobwebs
     and sages whispering mysteries into stale air.

If only I had known the dangers of wandering alone
armed only with a quill, far from common haunts
where brave men huddle around fire sides muttering tales
of sirens crying from hungry capes and harpies foul breath
     and unicorn's savage horns,  
of whistling labyrinths where bull headed Cyclopes roast human meat, 
Faerie glades where seductive witches juggle cats eyes
     and sing hypnotic chants,
burning touch of salamander and stony gaze of basilisk
murdering saints, holy sinners, devils, angels, plague and famine
Yet the King of these phantoms remains unnamed, faceless.

If only I had known how many lonely strung out nights
I was doomed to waste spinning out this tangled web
hoping to catch some unwary muse strayed to far from her Grecian hills,
lost in a modern wilderness, stumbling at last into my tenuous snare
and I lurking around the edges to wrap her in lacy words. 
Suck the life from her mythic heart.

If only I had known,
It wouldn't have made any difference.

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In the beginning there was nothing.
And then after an eternal moment there was light.
And the light was evil. The void screamed in silent agony as it was defiled.
The pain of violation can be felt at the core of all existence.
The loss suffered at the destruction of perfection can never be realized.
It is beyond measure, as was the void which died while berthing possibility.
And the light begat being. Being begat consciousness,
And through consciousness the eternal emptiness found reincarnation.
In the unfathomable soul of humanity,
There is once again room for

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  I'm addicted to roses,
And walks along beaches,
The reflection of candlelight
In widening irises.

Addicted to waking
In the arms of a stranger.
Addicted to romance
With just a hint of danger.

But don't leave your number,
I've forgotten your name.
That's not what I'm after,
It's always the same.

I know what you are.
This has happened before.
Dig in your claws,
Leave a festering sore.

Never satisfied
With just a simple fuck.
You want Prince Charming,
Well don't press your luck.

This hopeless romantic
Has opened his eyes,
And seen through the bullshit
Of romantic lies.

You want fairy tales,
Well your to blame.
My drug of choice
Is the love'em, leave'em game.

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Final Letter From a Jilted Love.

I cannot sleep for fear of your shadow;
Long gone, yet still the graven image looms
Behind, casting twilight through my window.
Silhouette of memory dominates my room.

The time we shared, so brief against the span
Of years apart, some part of you remains.
A kiss, a rose, another holds your hand,
And on my hands a spreading mortal stain.

Red lips, red bloom, one drop rolls down to join
This wasted life upon a barren floor.
I shall avenge this heart you did purloin,
In death remaining faithful evermore.

So when your lover wonders why you fear
The shadows rising will you still deny
The promise that my heart you would hold dear?
My body rots, my love will never die.

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The night has faded to a darker shade
of pale, beneath a starless vaulted waste.
The moonlight casts an eldritch spell. Make haste,
before sunrise reveals your masquerade.

Beneath a feigned humanity, inhuman lust
which neither time, nor death, could ever sate,
demands submission to this cursed fate
long after mortal evil falls to dust.

Will nothing end this deathless thirst for blood,
and lay this driven soul at last to rest?
What purity could hope to stand the test?
The sacrifice to staunch the crimson flood.

Against Wampyre there is but one defense;
No power stand, save only innocence.

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My Lady Waits

My Lady waits in dusky gown arrayed,
and I will not return forever more.
For I have found another paramour,
and for her hand I have true love betrayed.
My Lady waits beside a stone engraved:
'May troubled soul find peace on farthest shore.'
and happiness will find her nevermore.
A single rose beside her hand decayed.

Beloved, bravely stand and bear your grief.
Let not your beauty languish in the dust.
Hope remains for those who are alive.
We know all good things end and so we must.
In other lover's arms find your relief,
And greater pain than this you will survive.

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One Year Ago Today

Forget the way it used to be
One year ago today.
It just wasn't meant to be,
Is what my friends all say.

So easy to chalk it up to fate,
When all is said and done.
One year ago today
They swore she was the one.

One year ago today
I was living in a dream;
Now every time I think of her
It makes me want to scream.

She's happy now with someone else;
Got married yesterday.
And I went off all by myself,
And drank my blues away.

A marriage made in Heaven,
Is what her friends all say.
But no one knows what the future holds,
Just one year from today.

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Congratulations Ogden Nash
Or Advice for a Young Poet

I have yet to find a rhyme
To console me for the loss of time
Spent by some ambitious poet
Who hopes to set his dreams afloet
In a paper boat, on a sea of ink;
If only he would stop and think
That wiser men than he have tried
To earn their bread with rhymes and died,
Homeless, friendless, drunken, broke.
So before your dreams go up in smoke,
Oh aspiring poet, put down your pen,
And get to work, like other men.

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