when
When it is done
when the dust has settled
from the last holy war
of the soul
when all the rumbles
of bittersweet regret
have slipped away under
cover of faint darkness
and the sky is a blood red
bleat of sweet madness
when songs wailed alone
are only the echo of
lost memories reverbrating
inside a dying skull
and the clouds bleed pain
for the love gone lost
remember sweet days when
smiles were bouquets and
the rain was so far far away
and the empty ache of night
was just a passing fancy
the beast sings
My world is deep
and black tonight. A
hell hole of
proportions too grand
to be addressed. A chasm
stretching beside Styx,
past the smiling parts
of early day and into
the rattle of dark forever.
The dream reared up like
a wounded beast, shot
through the lungs, snorting blood,
whining in some key
heard only in horror movies.
The beast is
the terror of the world,
that place of less than grand wonders
and all the harsh angles
of things betrayed, of hopes thrown
from high cliffs.
The beast sings until we
learn to smile or die,
until new shade sprawls across
our tarnished souls. Until
the whispers of forever fade
from out ears and we walk again
in light and warmth.
Until then, the beast is victor,
snarling cold, full of pride,
winner at the finest game
of all. Owner of hearts turned
inside out.
witching hour
a nice way to
end the day:
a macanudo portofino
long as my dick
a glass of beam
deep as my wonder
& love bleeding up
the middle of
midnight
staining my soul
purple blue
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