October 14, 2018
It’s the crucifix on the hilltop –
now silhouetted against the sunset.
The dead pigeon on the road getting
flattened again and again.
The room that’s now far too hot to sleep in,
as the sun still lingers
in these sultry Spanish streets.
The giant of a man dressed in a clown suit
casually wandering up to the dumpster as he
looks inside it for god knows what,
October 12, 2018
It’s always been cold in your father’s shadow.
Friends and followers, damned with the doomed
trapped in a zone of fallen dreams,
of pulsating desires, never to be achieved.
Demons, past and present
lurk in Desire’s looming darkness
sleeping on cinders of spoon-fed failures
like sitting inside nightmares.
The walls close in tightly
like lying in a drawer of the morgue.
October 5, 2018
The Devil came to me
in a dream,
and sold his fucking
soul to me.
He is my marionette now.
the strings tied to
I’ve tasted fire,
and I’m ready
to rule now, not
waiting for the
to take my place upon
Time to pack it in,
October 4, 2018
It was likely 2009, the first encounter,
(although this is only a faint attempt
to grab at black pools of memory
and tether them to temporality). To admit:
it was wholly unremarkable.
A rurally-situated living room;
a facade for bonfires, circled by youth.
And you held a guitar and sang,
the fingertips of a false English accent,
swirling like wax from the melted crayons
of your influences.