SWALLOWED BLANK

Ten years of slumber
since you last drank

From this cup, my
Orchid. I wonder what my

Eyes had seen while I slept.
The hue of blood?

Your velvet mortal coil?
Beneath the brittle

Gods, I dreamt of the
origin of light. The

Doorkeeper motioned toward
the jewel of Morpheus

Floating in the corner of
my blue room, an enticing

Lure, to call back my
Soul, swirling to Eve.

BLUE STAR

On thorny tresses of fallen angels the
Savages of nightfall ride, ribbons of

Gold streaming. One savior, blushing,
Swoops into the chamber and

Gasps, diamonds falling from
His lips. The little girl

(A mime in the parade of masks!)
Reaches without voice, paralyzed by the

Moon. Older than the gods, the ancient
Heart which wildly beats beneath

Her breast! Encased, the glass cathedral
Is her home, vampires etching hymns of

Scarlet laughter on the panes. Blood and
Bones are a feast for the ageless night.

The sword of the angel? A
Tongue.

O, cease this fitful slumber!
Awaken and dance!

Butterflies, adorned in amber and
Ebony, shake their flimsy gauze and

Paint the sky. At dawn, the beast is
Satisfied--a banner of flowers is her prize.

IN HIS SKIN

With broken wings, the old man maps
Out his long colored days. (My
Captain. He is bored.) He
Marches on-- on, in wooden

Shoes-- fingering a rosary
Of bones. Marching on-- on,
Through the black
Forest, mixing myths. A

Furious maiden is buried
Under winter leaves. Impatient
Crime! In the mad city, he finds
The feeble sun troublesome. Aren't

The blossoms almost ready? The
Drowsy, fat light of morning
Swells and his shadow slips
Through the grate.

Dreams-- such a headdress!

This is a stagnant opera, a spotted
Hand directing the symphonic
Decay. The world is too old to
Remember it as it never was. Flowers

Hush! It is December. The old man
Marches on-- on, in wooden
Shoes-- in all his tortures
And blue-greys.

It was a Monday when he died.

From Black Flux, Origin of Souls, 2002