Archive for beauty

Terrible Instruments

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 7, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The sunlight today is an act of violence,
Arrows slicing the clouds to ribbons
Such awesome and terrible storms of light,
Bright and ragged banners streaming
Battle cries thundering along the channels
Of the raging winds.

I once laid in a fever, between dream and vision
The roof above my head ripped away
The vaults of the night sky split
As overripe fruit, edges ragged as wounds
The pulp and pith of the heavens
A yawning, hungry, pure flame.

Angels peered over the edges,
Mouths bloody, teeth wicked and sharp
Wings of blackened, pitted iron spreading
A rustling of edges and rust
Hungry, feral, carrion birds eying their feast
Beautiful the way a naked blade is still lovely.

Frozen to the sweat soaked sheets
Bones the kindling for the fire set in my flesh
Unmoving, tears burning canyons into my cheeks
For the first time feeling the death in me,
Printed upon each cell as blackletter,
A whispering mirrored by the watchers’ lips,
As threads sewn beneath the skin,
Tied and knotted, a skein, a tapestry.

The fever broke, yet still I feel the tugging,
Still out of the corner of my eye
Wings beat at the shadows
Pinned beneath all my words,
All the brutal blood and sex and mortality
Tainting blue skies and sunlight
So that I will never not see the tooth marks left
By God’s terrible instruments.


I Would Make My Words My Hands

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The taste of your pulse beneath my tongue
Rising tempo, trembling, expectant
There is a gulf of hunger between the beats
A hopeless mingling desperation
Of devoured and devouring
A chaos of hands and mouths
Cream streaked with crimson
The tension of arches
Dreaming of endless, quivering, slavering ache
Clenching, reckless spasms
Symphonies played out upon raw sting nerves
Throats scraped and seared
Tumbling, tangled, over and under and over again
To lay in the end upon breasts oiled with sweat
Spent so utterly in the only fashion
Worth such precious coin.

Tears To Gold

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 27, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The rain is falling like tears broken open by a sieve
So fine that it looks as though the street lamps
Are bleeding strands of gold
Something magical pouring out of
An otherwise ordinary night
A little bit of wonder obtruding
Upon the drab skirts of life.

So gold drips onto my lips,
Moistening parched, cracked skin,
I’ve been speaking you poems for days
Breathless into the dark,
Tongue unreeling slow soft hymns
Out of your name and the secrets behind your smile
Because that is the purpose it learned
When you put your “I love you” upon it.

Now, all my speech tastes of you,
My breath conjures your shape out of moonlight
I have become this mad fool singing in the rain
Confounded by newfound joy
A fresh, new drunkard drinking deep
From the honey you poor down upon
Such impoverished souls as mine.

It’s a beautiful slavery
The way you’ve bound me up
Cleaving your grace to my limping
Making whole what was sundered
Laying your hand upon my brow
Turning my downcast eyes to light
Turning grey tears into gold.


The Last of the Silver Screen Goddesses

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 21, 2015 by beautifulimposter

She shouldn’t be real,
Nothing of flesh and blood
Tied to the mundane
Hemmed in by bills
The victim of sweaty pawings,
Bad pick up lines that drop clumsy
Things to be tripped over
No, this is not where she belongs
Among us mortals.

She was born to silver
Twenty feet high, gleaming
A creature of light
Flickering out from the movie palaces
A goddess of shadow and gleam
Beauty that is only possible
In the dreams of Hollywood
Venus for a new mythology
The last thing your grateful eyes see.

How can she be on a sidewalk
When she should be Marylin over a subway grate
Or teaching us all how to whistle
Sultry, all charcoal and smolder
Stepping down from the screen,
Out of time, regal, towering
A searing emblem
Of style, desire, and grace.

It shouldn’t be possible,
Yet there she is, leaning against the bar
Daring anyone to approach
There is death in her kiss,
Tigress hunting behind forest thick lashes
Of all the gin joints in all the world
This devastation in dress and heels
Passes by and we all crumble
Like old film put to flame.

I very, very rarely write about anyone I know, but this was inspired by a lady named Monique, the last of the matinee silver screen goddesses


The Bite Is Worse Than The Bark

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 29, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Beneath the skin
Teeth on neck
Pulse throbbing under tongue
Purple blue tattoo
A mark, a claim
Infection of the blood
It spreads
Fingers to toes
Subtle disease
Feverish, sweat blinded
Nerve raw
A wire in the blood
For the blood is the life
Repeat it now
For the blood is the life
You hold it under your tongue
Slick, oily, salt
Every last drop
You pretty little glutton
Leaving cold marble
Leaving your creature
Wicked ivory smile
Stained pink
Lick your lips and fingers clean
Bound to your kitchen chair
Hair shorn
Twisted, bloodless
Eyes obscured by clouds
Breath caught in the tresses
Of your hair
Life hung from
The perfect crescent bruise
Of your sweet little mouth
They all fucking lied
The bite was worse.


Sunday Best

Posted in Poetry, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 28, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I don’t sleep any more, not really. Whatever happens when I close my eyes is fitful and restless, plagued by strange dreams that I can’t remember but still they haunt my blood, my bones. I can’t remember what it’s like to rest, I feel like a ghost haunting myself, something wearing my skin but loosely, ill fitting, a child in its father’s Sunday suit, the one he’ll be buried in. I can’t tell the time any more either, I’m aware of the hours yet they make no sense, I am just here and it is always now while the sun wheels through the sky until it doesn’t any longer and the stars wheel instead. I feel lost in this body, I’m longing to touch but I forget how, or am fearful that I’m forgetting, that if I found another body to touch it would be foreign, strange, alien, a collection of obtuse geometries and unfamiliar geographies, like trying to kiss the dust of Mars or run my fingers through the tresses if Valhalla, or thrust into the cold brightness of the Milky Way becoming dizzy and lost in the slow spinning. This is where my thoughts lay, not in my head, outside of it, spinning on vast wheels, twisting from the carding combs into thin, fine threads that tangle, twist like streams of blue smoke from my lips, twining about my fingers in wreaths, hanging from around my neck as beads, thick garlands of holly and mistletoe, talismans, fetishes, skulls or relics, fragments collected in silver filigree or golden ligaments. I am dissolving, I know this, becoming something more and less, a collection of scrolls, bright capitals, illuminated by slow, worshipful hands, the crook of my neck becomes the bell of a trumpet, my belly a cluster of grapes, limbs sheafs of wheat ripe for the reaping, my teeth a flick of lambs lead by the shepherd of my tongue. My skin in the flaying and scraping becomes fine parchment, laid flat, a map of veins and arteries slowly scraped palimpsest, pricked by stylus, scored for new lines, letters small insects crawling along the ladder of my vertebrae, dense text to be read aloud to the canonical hours, some strange liturgy preformed by imbecile mummers to the tune of washboard and rib cage. I become the sounds made by whippoorwills, the burbling of doves in Saint Mark’s Square, a vast thunder of wings, a pinwheel of dusty feathers purple black bruising the fair sky, falling to bits and pieces kept in mason jars like rainwater or rose petals or all the odd screws, nails, door hinges, the bits of oddments that once had purpose but now sleep beneath the rust, crumbling as wood, an old barn falling to the embrace of time, the vegetal insistence of ivy, writhing green and suffocating through lungs tanned and leathern, smith’s bellows cracking, abandoned, unable to draw full breath only fitful wheezing, as fitful as the sleep I can no longer find behind the locked doors of cathedrals that stand alone and pointless amidst naves of trees, open forever to the predations of foxes and crows, those who dream up from the black earth towards the black skies where the stars stop wheeling, become fixed points from which I hang, broke bodied, pendulum, swaying from the neck, all of the joints out of place, rotting under the canals of Venice. Oily waters embrace, filling the empty corners, perhaps here is sleep, beneath the forgetful ceaseless waves, bereft of names, wandering ribbons of ragged white funeral lace, within the deeps, drifting down and down and down until bones twist into strange driftwood tangles, sea smoothed, salt waters carving the ivory beneath the flesh into scrimshaw, bending, warping all of the architecture until it loops and I’m biting my tail, devouring my own flesh, what sacrament could this now be, I don’t even like wine, but my blood is sweet and if I should drink it all down like milk of the poppy, like Buckley’s cough mixture will I finally lay me down to sleep, the kind I no longer know or remember knowing or forget in the remembering? I cannot say, I am tired yet no nepenthe, just ceaseless rustling of all the pages of me left to write.


If I Could Choose My Moment

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I am the imperceptible inching closer
The distance covered by reduced halves
Never closing the gap
An infinity of nearing
The touch of breath before the kiss
Hairs raising in expectation of touch
A hundred thousand million goosebumps
Of tingling flesh,
The catching breath caught forever
The described between the back and the bedsheets
A memory of sweetness upon the tongue
All of the moments right between, just before
The taught bow string forever humming
I am perfect longing,
Exquisite, beautiful ache.