Hellish Spiral

I talk in circles
Everything going out
In a spiral of
Backtracking and
Sarcasm making
Jokes to temper
Sentences I’m not
So sure of how
To put it till
The music hits
I’m jangling out
A tune of
Confidence and
One of sorrowful
Notes that flow
Not only inward
But all the way
Down to my
Ninth circle
Fuck

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Alfred 2.0

To not have an Alfred is quite hard.
She sleeps just outside in your living room
on the floor by the door like a dumb cat.
She smokes herself to sleep and buys
you groceries. What could be better?
A sweet thing with buttcheeks and tits
and she only listens to Radiohead
when alone. She’s quite alone.
That little girl who’s stupid and typing
half-drunk on her phone. One day you’ll
wake up and the pack-rat is long gone.
A ghost of romance let too much alone.

Slow Dancing

I feel like dusk settling on an angry street
Grey clouds, their depth is darkening
Ambivalence drawn out on a winter’s day
Hateful words dance in my head
“Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”
I’m sinking now, no longer rising
There’s something about a tortured spirit
So inviting and so familiar
You’re a boat on glassy, grey water
Split in ripples and smoothed out
I feel me disrupting you
You, as the lesions in my peace
My gaping wounds and you as Thomas
I’m looking in the mirror now and
Seeing distortions in the street
Ultimately I am unwanted,
A sweet wasting away of space

Fifth Moon

It came to me
As if in a dream
Moving swiftly
Ever closer and
I can’t close my eyes
I’ve never felt this
Far from the dawn

I’m dreaming in shapes
Closer to you
They move me forward
They push me
And pull me
I never came to
Such a state as you

Folding over me gently
Crying out in silent ways
I’ve found your boat
Drifting on the water
I dreamt I found myself
I dreamt it was never over

Sometimes I feel
I’ve gone too far
To return
Sometimes I dig
My hands deep in
The earth

I’ve never felt more
At home than
Lingering in
Your filth
A lilac scent to me

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.