Archive for visions

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.



Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on September 8, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Less than skin
More than spirit
Sums and figureheads
Emblems, icons
Signs of signs
Signifying things
Insignificant in themselves
Turning rose petals
Into labia dripping arousal
Or the blossoming of wounds
Stigmatic mouths
Mystic, ecstatic, hungry
Layers of meaning
Unfolding origami intersections
Interpretations, beautiful simplicity
Golden ratio spiraling
Millions of names
Held within the folds
Changing the shapes and kinds
How a rocking chair
Is memory or forgetfulness
The parabolic arcs
Of raindrops describe
The smile of angels
Frames of wood that hold
More than transport
From one room to another
Secret languages speaking
Tremulous, tentative
A city street that becomes
Machine generating readings
Tangles of interlocking depths
Falling head first
Into fathoms deep puddles
The mirror twists
Faces into carnival shapes
Trees that masquerade
As pillars or worlds or horizons
Everything that is or is not or could very well be
Pinned post it note leaves
Dripping and swirling profusions
Chosen with care and arranged
To the poets taste
Changing the channel
Obscuring clarity yet providing
Other vision as the angles tilt
Vulnerable as butterfly wing palaces
Constructed upon pin head balancing
Architectures something
Less than skin
More than spirit.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 15, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The soundtrack is Joseph Arthur
Air throbbing, thick in the lungs
Daylight becoming something syrup
Amber flowing in streamers
Through outstretched fingers
Conducting the strains
Affecting strange twitches and ticks
Between neck and shoulders
The music’s marionette.

Pedestrian footsteps keep the beat
Cars slide by, sleek silent fishes
Gleaming along the concrete river roads
Everything tinged with the faint rust
In the vocals, a cheap filter
From an attempted art house
MTV video, nostalgia crystallizing out of the air
In a time and place that hasn’t
Existed long enough in the veins
To have any real ghosts.

Still though, riding that sonic dragon tail
Putting the spike deep into fat
Hungry veins, pearl beads and rubies
Dripping down vaguely cruciform limbs
A dime store icon chintz messiah
Forsaken and forsaking all poor realities
For something bigger, a truly grand fallacy
Stepping lightly into a perfect tomp l’oeil
Glittering tin punch lampshade world
Spilling feathers and cigarette ash.

For the space of five minutes and one second
There is might and beauty
Faces let their light shine through
Beaming between the cracked porcelain
The dreams dust themselves off and dance
Along cornices and architraves
Color, shape, vibration, semblances, all fall together
Into turpentine doused oil painting
Running together to strange, mad brush strokes
Blurring the expectation of the should be
With the what is.

That is where it’s best
In the place where the words hum
And everything shines.


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.



Posted in Poetry, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Most people don’t know this, but I have an actual muse. Not a real person in my life that I draw inspiration from, but an actual ethereal being that appears and brings me writing. I know, you now think I am in need of medication, and maybe I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that for years now she has been coming to me ( of course, it has to be a she) and she is the source. She is small, maybe five feet tall, red haired, but the red-orange of autumn leaves, that exact shade. She has green apple candy eyes and exactly two hundred and thirteen freckles forming a perfect constellation upon her cheeks, the bridge of her nose and down her shoulders. She wears a deep purple frock coat and purple and green striped stockings. Her breathe smells of apples and her skin smells of woodsmoke. She appears on rooftops, sitting upon lamp posts, tangled in tree branches, under dusky moons. She whispers and teases, puts her fingers spread over my eyes so that the world appears different and I see where the words should go, she points to couples kissing and when I follow her finger I see their stories in the rumples and creases. She is strange, she is mad and she is fickle. She pours words like honeyed mead down my throat till I am sticky with stanzas then kisses me and breathes them all back. She will not visit me for days, weeks, months and then comes back with her hair mussed, face flushed, someone else’s honey on her lips, someone else’s cum dripping down her thigh, yet she will never touch me that way, she just teases, brings me priapic and leaves me again to write out my moans and sighs. I fear the day she might actually let me touch even the hem of her coat, because deep down I know if I enter the glistening of her arms I will not rise up again, there is death in her lovemaking and her teeth are wicked sharp,almost as sharp as her lips and just as hungry. She lives wild and pure, the flame and the dark, hat you really should be afraid of when you walk alone at night. She is real and this is all one hundred percent true. I have a muse and one day, when she is done with me, when all of the words have been rung from my ragged bones and my voice is the whisper of dust running through her old crone hands (she is ageless, so maiden, mother, crone all in one) she will kill me, she will turn the agony of her love upon me and consume me to less than ash and will blow me out like so many kisses upon the summer evening wind. I mean every last word of this and if it means I am mad that I see a red headed girl on doorsteps that will one day eat my soul like a wicked, so very wicked stepmother eats an apple then so be it, I am mad but thus is a perfectly true fact about me. Pray you don’t start seeing her too.