Goodnight, cruel world,
I am but a phantom on a
Lonely sea. I know
Nothing but the joy
Of rot and the growth of me.
If I woke up tomorrow
Without any sorrows,
I wouldn’t quite know how to be.
I will not drown,
I only wish to be lulled
To sleep by the wailing sea.

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Thinning World

In the long and lonely pines
I found the thrum of a heartstring
beating on the branches that were
bending in the wind. I plucked it out
on thin and gossamer webs, strung
it out cross trees and paths, strewn with
gold and green confetti, the woodland’s
decorations for a dying year. I danced
and stalked and sang and walked
and found the earth damp and willing
under my feet. I found the water well
and chilling and lapping at our meet.
I found the Viking grim and grinning and
wishing to dance with the sweet and
fragrant moonlight that was spilling,
round and puddling at our feet.
I long to be in the land ripe with gold,
yet I cry for quiet forrest morning too.
To play god and goddess together in
the rod and the goodness and sparkling
dew. And the grey is swelling, pregnant
with the tears that will shower the dying
world and cloak it with deep, velvet
sleeping–the night in darkness and the
Shining Sickle gleaming and reaping.

“Suddenly I have tears”

These are the good times, the high times.
Honey balm on my heels,

The serpents bite doesn’t sting so much,
And I’m really trying not to get caught

Up in pheromones and throaty moans,
Because I can’t tell when I’m crying

Out in ecstasy or pain. I’ve always
Been wondering about all the death;

I birth what can become life. I’m just
A dream of a machine and I still

End up letting you into these good times;
Showing my nakedness and I won’t

Ask to be covered because somehow I’ve
Got to get you to see me and

I just don’t want it to hurt so much.

Post-stress

So tired,
the weight of a damp world
sopping on my shoulders–and
who put that bloody towel about my neck,
but my stained hands alone–who else could have
waked the beast already wandering in
dreams of devouring whole psyches full,
who fed the monster weary food for thought,
as lines in broken plaster, stolen in order to
hold up her own house of lies–and now my eyelids
sag with the sands of annihilated glass sent
back to the dust from whence it came
and there went rationality with it; but
doesn’t Othello teach what seams of reason
can undo when passion has been
sown up? How could any other mirror be
except one found in my own tears,
drowning in a lake of my self-fullfilling prophecy–
alive as a god,
tired as the beast.

Solstice Hymn

Winter time is a god hung low in the southern sky,
with equatorial persuasion catching at his heels,
dragging his body to lower places, while keeping others
in perpetual shadow–to frost and then bite
at what shafts they can snatch from a falling god.
Up here, thin corpses are forced to hurry

their descent to dust; to rush to fall and hurried
on to winter. No time to lose, when the sky
clasps her grey shroud about the naked god,
shrugging into her fresh fallen gown and heels.
She sings hymns to her goddess and bites
out lullabies to the weary day-world—“hush, there are others

who need his warm embrace now and nothing other
than gold to flow in their streams”, she does not hurry
but tends the evergreen, who must thaw winter’s bite.
Blue to blue to blue: hues of an ever-clear sky
darkened in the mourning of the deity with caught heels.
Then a blue in the evening, calling home the lost god,

but mortals know better than to lend morning to one god
alone; ever-changing, ever-present; always Other.
Crystals shriek in protest of him, but oh the moon healer
is back this day—precious mother won’t you hurry,
babes of ice beckon your rise to the sky.
They weep at golden light and at warm fingers bite,

teething for the chill in their sodden gums. Biting
back evanesced breath, the moon rises—goddess
divine—what being could ever hope to take his sky
for her own? Hung in the ebb, she knows no other
than the flow of dark energy, slow, with no hurry
toward trepid light. Smooth and heal

with darkened balm our warm boy’s heels
for to run from your coning realm, he is bitten
and pulled to an underworld. Surely hurried
to be the southern son of almighty God’s
last loved hemisphere—or at least treated other
than the now chilled nations of the upper sky.

Winter, cold mother, clothe and heal this world
bitten by sunlight’s reign, ruminate on the hurry
of a god to other skies and sing us numb lullabies.