Trophies

Every day there is a new addition
Another blank spot filled
Every day another addition
To the wall of trophies.

There is one of every race
One of every color
There is a category for every gender
Every age
Every rate.

Every day
So many trophies

And the angel looks at the trophies
And weeps.
With abject sorrow and pain
As the shelves only multiply
And continue to fill

A wall drips down
And the tears fall down
The shelves climb high to the sky
A torrent of tragedy.

Did you know that trophies
Are something that serial killers
Take to remind themselves
Of the moments.

Trophies.

So which killer is this?
With shelves to the sky
Filled with trophies of every color
Race,
Age,
Rate?

This killer is silence.

This killer is hate.

This killer is rape.

This killer is ignorance.

This killer Is Evil.

This killer lives among us
In our silence
And our ignorance
And disbelief.

And until the silence is broken
And love returns
And rape is abolished in word and deed
Until ignorance is washed in wisdom and creed
We will continue to be nothing
But trophies.

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Standing on the Bridge We Burned

We cannot return to the past
No matter that the regret lasts
Or that penance drips sorrow

They fear us because we are the shadows
Color of the night
We are the offspring of the stars

But we are not a generation of peace
Misplaced rage
Some say -stupidity-  yet just ignorance.

We don’t think, just speak
We don’t ponder, just tweet
Thoughtless mind, empty chatter.


Image source: https://laitma.deviantart.com/art/Iris-Broken-Bridge-532571670

Iced Fire

I have all your secrets
I hold them in the palm of my hand
Will you stay
Or should I leave?
Or should I never plan to succeed?
Perhaps I will find purpose
In the echo of your steps
Leave me again, leave me forever
Ever undone.

I could never find the words
That would make you stay
The devil swore I was meant to be alone
And chuckled when he escorted me back
To my cage
I wasn’t meant to be embraced
These arms harbor brittle branches
Never the warmth of a soul.

I hold these memories close
But like ice and snow, I could never
Manage to get warm
When will my bones freeze
Until I cannot feel
All the wounds that never heal?
The only thing more familiar
Than the taste of my blood
Is the gentle caress of your dying love

Like a candle burning out
Cling to the last vestiges of your presence
Before the altar of the forsaken
Ravens wait to pluck and tear
And savor a heart that was never there
Broken like our vows
Shattered with our distance
Did I stay, or did we both walk?
Did you stay, was I the one who walked away?
Did we both go our separate ways
Who stayed and who was left behind?

Repercussions are naught but concussions
A lurid reminder of the impact of your love
Why warm my flesh when you’d only
Freeze my bones with your absence
Take your flame and fire
Leave me to the graven plaque
Let me crack in the silence
And cave in the solitude
Let this stolid breath
Fade away into nothing
The fog of lust against the chilling chains
Of forbidden kisses

The torment of mentioned lines
Review the whispers for lies
Can it truly be so innocent?
As a farewell? A goodbye?
A never see you again?
Just because -what was the cause?
Why did you leave?
Will knowing salve this cold
Or just jut an icicle
Into my veins.

Intensely turquoise and covered with frost
Surrounding the void holding all I lost
The final flicker dies
Crackling shudder
Sprout frigid wings
I’ll be your snow angel
With you I melt
The ice will keep me whole.

Time Enough

So much to do, so little time
Said the sordid little mayfly
Who in 24 hours must live a life
Of birth, retirement, death, and wife.
So why begrudge a life of 50 plus
Years are still plenty enough
To destroy, build, destroy
A span of time, pleasure and ploy.

Just 24 hours, a whole life flashes past
In only 360 seconds
Of brain death.

A Message to Burn

Image credit: http://www.spokesman.com/stories/2010/aug/15/1910-fire-region-consumed/#/0

They will never know how much you swallowed. They will never understand how much it hurt. Hindsight can only glance at the depths of emotional gradation sinking deeper and deeper in the well of yesterday.

You are completely validated in your anger.

The forest steams in the late afternoon sun, the stench of smoke and ash sinks into your bones. Grey and coals blanket your feet, the stoic fossils of trees list in anguish as their twisted fingers impale the sky. Sparks still pop, but more in hush and awe at the aftermath. Heat sears your feet, the white ash hides the glowing heart of flame hunkering down for the moment but ready to rise anew.

You wonder if it should rain. The clouds froth overhead, fading from light to dark and back again, mirroring your tumultuous thoughts. Should you have mercy or should you add more fuel?

Weariness descends suddenly. The cinders in your palm sting and gnaw greedily at your melting skin. Pain inflicts you despite the death of the forest -as if the trees had infused their agony into your flesh.

Should you persist? Or should you forgive?

Thunder rumbles, lightning forks through the clouds. Darkness falls, a final curtain. A fat droplet slaps your cheek -more follow. Stinging droplets of ice prickle the carcass of the smoldering forest; steam sings as the liquid infuses the veins of fire.

The embers flicker in your hand. Rain torrents with wrath and fury, each drop a tiny dagger of retaliation. You thought the fire to be all-consuming, but underestimated the rage of the skies.

A final song of sorrow, ash slogs into mud, the caramelized trees surrender their orange flame for blacked rags. A cleansing rain that moistens the dust and death with the promise of something new.

You know that it will take time to heal.

The wet streaks on your face aren’t (just) rain.

The Rain Never Stops; So Buy an Umbrella

They said that rain was the tears of God falling from the sky to spritz the earth with mud and reflection. Directors tend to use rain as a tropism for overcoming, for sadness, for hope despite the circumstances. Some countries see rain as the precursor for disaster and devastation.

And yet we cannot survive without water, falling from the sky.

The rain is my favorite part of the day. The sun has its moments, and the soft crystal sheer of sunlit rays filtering through the forest brings its own soothing odyssey. But the gentle pitter-patter of rain on leaves, the soothing hum of water striking metal roofs, and the memory-laden significance in the gentle sway of the windshield wipers during a travel bring forth the kind and relaxing sensation that all is well.

Nothing bad has happened on a rainy day.

It’s the sunny days that bring forth the bold cruelty of distant and now-forgotten shadow people. As if in mockery,  a cheerful day contained the intense sadism of selfishness. If victims are found by night, their aggressors walk unashamed in the day.

If the mind is a body of scars, then the rain is the cooling balm on the inflamed welts of yesterday. Tomorrow is another day, so close your eyes and let the moisture sink into the loam. Water your plants, talk to your plants and give them some love.

Instead of pets, plants are free to house, require no down payment or rental fees, and will not need to be neutered or spayed. They gently turn toward the sun, require watering weekly, and grow thicker, taller, bushier, and healthier over time.

Each with their own temperaments and expectations. Each needing water, but not too much water. Each needing sunlight, but not too much sun. Each needing earth, but the right kind of earth…

Each needing a well-balanced environment.

So balance.

Delicately.

And bring your umbrella.

As it continues to rain.

 

Cold Searing Reality

He dreams of blood and knives all the time
In waking moments the copper and iron mix to taint his fingertips
At night, he’s surrounded by strangers; he is a stranger to himself
The mirror is a fog of gray and blur-
There is nothing to see that he wants to see
There is nothing he can say to make himself real.

Less of a who and more of a what
Busy shuffling life and drama to the front
Once more drowning himself till the end
Until he, again, doesn’t know who he is
But part of him wants it that way
It’s just too complicated, there are no answers
And no one to put his questions

He’s tired of being just another brittle cup
To eek out another drop of water for the starving souls around
How long until the sun cracks these fragile edges?
How long until they realize he’s not just a tool for others?
They slice him up and divvy the spoils, everyone gets a piece
All that’s left are the bones of anguish, no silence or peace.

He is alone.
That is the worst part of it all.
Everyone has someone and he is just one.
Still.
Again.
And he doesn’t want to wallow in self-pity
But, he can’t help how he feels and he’s tired of being silent.

He dreams of darkness and red
A violent demise to this fear and dread
A soft and muted gray nestled on the sunrise of
Each and every day.
He doesn’t enjoy being despised, he just wants to be
Himself without being penalized.

Why do hurtful people always have power?
Why do they always need a victim?
Don’t they know he has more important things on his mind?
Than wasting energy just trying to survive them, and himself,
And this godforsaken world?
Busy delaying him with petty battles when he’s trying to win
The bigger war.

What is he becoming?
What is he supposed to be
Where is he going?
Is this ever going to end?
How can he make a new beginning
When he doesn’t know where or who or what he is?

For someone supposedly smart
He never has the answers to the questions that plague him
He leaves the room for a cage, the cage for a glass box
The glass box for a room with walls
No windows, no switches to unlock
Nothing but a series of boxes
An echo of chains.

And he must put this away now
He must fold all this away into yet another safe
Housed in the closet
At the end of the hall
Behind the barricaded door
In the abandoned mansion encompassed by the impenetrable forest.

He has failed again.
Containment has been breached, and the agony pours out
In waves of fury, in ice trailing through his veins
In the kiss of Judas stealing the breath from his soul
In the hands of betrayal wrapped around his neck
Grin and whisper that they want him to stay
Then wake him up to kill him again.

Sometimes it’s like he’s not even there
Unless they want someone to blame
He’s not even there
Unless there is someone at fault
He’s not even there
Unless someone needs to be punished.

He isn’t even there.
You have to be a person to be real.
But what does it even matter?
People have no rights at all.
He’s just a leftover script
Of their desire
Just a robot’s soul that they killed.

Damnable Cannibal

Utensils, just so.
fold the napkins
decant the wine
lay the toast
crumble the sugar cubes
that’s the water glass
sterling silver knives.

Aerate the stemware
polish furiously
the butter pat
gleams in the candlelight
ceramics, not plastic
please seat yourself
ice and champagne.

Smile and steam
the platter arrives
salt and oil
the meat is resting
cloves and thyme
would you like red or white?
toss a salad.

Scream, Grace
the head of the table
chiming glass
shiny serrated knife
carving fork
yes, medium rare
thin strips on her plate.

A hiccup in silence
shred a dinner roll
curiously red
he prefers the white
have a bite
his lips stain the rims of the glass
she swallows.

Happy Anniversary
she tries to smile back
shaking fingers
pain and numb
a sip of water
missed you too
may I carve you another slice?

Nauseous and faint
she chews delicately
napkin folded neatly
sweaty forehead
mismatched earrings
his savage smile
bloody ring.

The fading blue and purple bruise
matched his tie
it’s perfect
but today can be a good day
another bite
couples compromise
plastic laughter.

Made it myself
a new recipe
how’s the temperature dear?
best meat in town
the heart beats loudly
carve off another strip
the muscle stutters.

Laughter
the chandelier winks
lay down the fork
empty chest cavity
he can’t help but grin
her tears
blood taints the white wine glass.

Yet another slice
her heart labors now
another strip of flesh
he wets his lips
it’s almost gone
want the last slice?
the fork jabs the meat.

Lovingly fed
they consumed
the final pieces
of her heart
tenderized flesh
the heartbeat finally fades
he licked his fingers.

Clear the feast
she collapses
white wine splashes the floor
blood pools
we can get that stain out
hiccup and choke
she didn’t need it anyway.

He poured her a glass
this time of red
drink
the taste of copper
with plum highlights
she couldn’t drink fast enough
no more pain.

You missed some
he smiles again
the tablecloth will never be the same
flickering candles
I don’t have a heart, Charlie (she gasps)
I know, Grace
you didn’t need it anyway…

The cleaned dishes sparkled
cloying bouquets reek
mourners in the plot
walk through the valley
cloudy sky
black satin gowns
wet dank soil.

For your loss
attendees trickle away like sand
he stands alone now
leaning over the pine box
carves another strip
the hole bleeds in the dull light
bye-bye Grace.

He always liked her heart the best.

The Dark Tower (2017)*: To Archive with The Great Wall

*minimal spoilers ahead

Oh, look! Another film based-on-written-material which will disappoint readers everywhere. My friend (white) was pissed that the integrity of the story was supposedly compromised by the casting of the gunslinger as a black dude, but that’s another, kinda racist, story.

#StirThePot.

I like Stephen King books-become-movies, but I haven’t read the books/graphic novels behind this one. I blame the local library for starting at book 4. Consequently, I have no prior expectations going in nor terrible disappointment coming out.

Okay, I lied, I had some disappointment.

If you do go to watch this, bring a healthy bag of sarcasm, there are plenty of opportunities for dark jokes and satire. I was blessed with a movie companion to whom I could whisper and receive jokes which helped make the film more bearable.

As usual, I’ll protract the following, this time with spoilers. I don’t have time to pussy foot around:

  • Plot
  • Action
  • Characters
  • Annoyances

Continue reading The Dark Tower (2017)*: To Archive with The Great Wall

Squandered

Picture credit: https://mentalnote8.wordpress.com/tag/betrayal/

The thought slammed into my brain moments ago. A cumulation of rumination, you could say. Friends fade and fall away like the petals of a dying flower in the fall. We were never ready to commit, that or I had committed too soon. To stay. To patch your pieces, to hold you down, to back you up, to slay your dragons and watch your back.

I was the only one who whispered forever when you called us best friends. An incomplete vow of one-sided loyalty. You would abandon me to the fall, let the dragons surround me, let my enemies tear me asunder, and leave me alone on the battlefield of your intention. Like a fool, I rushed to your side when the enemy encompassed you, threw myself between you and disaster, nursed you back to health by feeding you broth from my very bones. But I would be alone in my darkest hour when the cold clasp of defeat would chain me. My summons for aid would be ignored. I would be left in the cold. You would replace me at your table with another; I would be your forgotten knight who no longer served a purpose.

You would fail me in my time of need.

I have learned these lessons well. Trust none, guard your heart, keep the armor wrapped tighter than skin. Await betrayal with expectation.

Loyalty… An abused principle, meaningless in the face of self-preservation. A slaughter of lies -tell me again that I am nothing but a ghost who refuses to see the truth.

We were never friends. I was just your shield, your sword, an arrow in your quiver. Just a tool for you to use then discard.

My life is not a cloth, to be used then tossed away when it pleases you. I am not your toy that you can bring out then put back again. I am not an orchard, to be hacked down and shredded when it seems good to you. I am not yesterday’s fashion to be donated and tossed into the past.

I would have given so much in exchange for a solid shred of loyalty. It is frightening the currency I would pay to secure such a bounty. As such, it can never be purchased, only earned and won.

I’ve learned to hold back. You. Taught. Me: to wrap my intentions tightly to my soul and give nothing away; to house every innocent thought in the banks of Switzerland, and hold my very soul on a distant, unreachable planet; to entrust my virtue to a tower of solitude and my honor to the depths of Atlantis.

You taught me to erase my face. To collect the masks that emote beyond what I could ever hope to express. To abide in shadows and feed on the dregs to soothe my pain. To shy away at a touch, a word, a breath on my skin. You taught me to stain my teeth in my own blood for your sake. To strip away muscle and sinew, tendon and veins, and grind my bones to dust.

You taught me that I was nothing. I heard you when you said that I was worthless. Read your lips when they spat at me with venomed fervor. I witnessed when you took my hand in yours and nailed it to your wall of trophies. I felt the knives go in, felt them slip through my skin, glance off bone and punch through my organs. I swam in the lake of my blood, a carcass stripped of every useful component.

I know your kind. You’re no friend of mine.

Even after I have long since departed, why do you imagine my shadow in every crevice? I would never return, not for all the gold possessed by the Vatican.

You can be the sun and burn yourself to nothing. I care not. I have resigned as your messenger. This whipping boy is on indefinite furlough.

The fire immolates the empty frame of what was. A hollow mockery chortling on the back burner of our past. I only like the scars that remain, for they remind me not to play the fool twice. The story tattooed on my skin spell the tale, a lesson learned without remorse. I do not mind the pain when the moral is taught.

I only regret putting a face to the name

Betrayer.