November 21, 2015 § Leave a comment
In the storm, I could hear the Bellwether sounding.
Leading his flock through the ravages,
Damp wool weighing down the poor beasts
as they sought some sheltered place.
I soothed my forehead against the cool glass
And felt my spirit moving among the heathers.
I saw him waiting.
Lashed by rain,
Resolute in the weather.
And shivered under his watch.
July 9, 2015 § Leave a comment
There is a tree in this world that knows my name.
It breathes in my nightmares and stalks my sunlight hours. At the centre of my self, that shadow grove with pine-needle ground and the hollow where Beauty lies down to her forever sleep.
I dreamed a chair of black wood, rattle-scuttling across the shady porch of my mind. Its twisted back was rough and alive, and moss surprised from its lureful seat.
I knew if I sat it in, I’d die. I’d be snapped into its tree mouth and crunched between twiggy fingers, leaves stuffed down my throat.
It’s breathing in my nightmares and stalking my sunlight hours. It doesn’t have to chase me, it knows I’ll come back.
July 8, 2015 § Leave a comment
Deep in the forest, far under the sky
A stranger was calling, I don’t much care why.
I heard him and found him, followed him down
To a dankening dark hollow, with never a sound.
And there in the gloaming, breath whispering ice,
I killed and consumed him in shining delight.
His eyes I ate last, with eye-rolling joy –
What a specimen he was, that wandering boy.
Oh, it’s quiet in the forest and the daylight is dim,
If you’re looking for danger, please do come in.
February 20, 2015 § Leave a comment
I wake at five, the damp air kissing my cheeks, and my eyes slam open.
As I slither from my bed, I can hear distant screams. Mother.
I do not smile.
But I feel something I suppose could be happiness.
The grounds start appearing out of the mist,
lumps of sullen stone that had meaning once.
Bon matin, grand-mère. Do you sleep well?
Pourrir en morceaux, grand-père. Maybe one day we’ll find them all.
I am a spectre descending noiselessly down the stairs.
You would not hear me coming.
There is a shimmery delight to that knowledge;
I own you all, you basic peons asleep in your beds.
We do not rest on pretty, on phatic communion.
We do not bow, or bend, or erode.
We are Addams.
And this bleak morning is a glory to us.
February 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
I just found a poem that might as well have been written by someone else. I only know I wrote it because it’s in a book my daddy gave me – and my handwriting.
I’m guessing it’s from my Lana phase last summer but really I have no idea.
Fragile in pink satin.
It’s frayed at the hem
and she picks at it,
The city is so hot.
Open or shut, the insect-slapped window gives no relief.
She lays a cool crystal on her forehead.
Rose quartz against sweat.
Oh, the long days.
She could leave but the crowds frighten her.
She pushes the quartz into her flesh, liking the pressure.