when cerulean seas rise to kiss the dying day
they awake, and laughing, sighing, say
"the moon is out, now i must go
where the water meets the land and show
my devotion to ecstacy, to you"

sandalled feet pad past the grim-faced men,
houses and eyes both grey,
awake through fitful sleep,
and trudge through lighter sand to find
the shadowed places where they meet.

there, dances in the sand
a girl with idols in her hand,
sways and faints at the gods' command

endless fights, lovemaking --
dreams
made and shattered, made and made to leave,
made and put to quiet rest.
the stars that gloat in midnight skies
laugh at your loves and lives and lies
yet entreat you to stay and stay their guest.

blood on the sand, love in the sand
the whipping wind attests
"you were there, you were there"
"i shall not forget"

swelter in the womb of night
to whisper things unsaid in day
where weary hearts go to wait
to breathe the fetid air
to break again
(please don't speak)
to wait
on rolling plains of thunder
beneath a rotting sky
(please don't speak)
these hearts of iron turn to clay
and sand and fill with air
and know
and sleep again
and wait
for tomorrow

the boy's bones are of charcoal;
the girl bleeds black and grey.
they met beneath a mocking sky
and (despite its laughter) touched,
their bodies violent sulfur
as they loved and burned each other
by a ponderous river of fire.

his words were flames that burned and hissed
even as they slipped out of his lips
even as the same words came to her.
they sang and spoke of horrors:
the sterile trembling orifices
that served as mouths
even as they kissed and found
the beauty of each others'.

and she (nor he) cried out
as they bled into each other's wounds,
closed them with hissing flesh
even as they gripped each other
to keep the blood from flowing.

"this tourniquet it cannot last," he said,
and breathed his final burning gasp.

the lake of fire (once a distant dream
of sullen ash and feverish flows)
had made for them
a tomb of ever-dying love.
standing always at the brink,
shivering above
some unspeakable pit.
this was its wedding gift,
even as it was the dowry
for the daughter of the flame.

and they laid there
as they always had,
embracing,
and loved forever.

by that demoniac lake of love,
in that Stygian waste of love,
where embers flit like will-o-wisps
there staid pumice seems to embrace,
cold to the touch
burning to spite the laughing sky.

their lips brushing and searching,
bringing forth fire, finding only fire.

a hot flare-up of passion
enflamed,
an angry red.
is this what they meant by
fire in my loins?

the stains of red -- the marriage-bed
shall wait for thee no more.
the callow bed, the newborn bed,
shall wait for thee no more.
(like a babylon that's come upon
the world and never waits
for glory, heedless of the gentle screams
which waft electric out of dreams.)

the crimson bed (ensanguined, torn)
has swallowed up those fledgling dreams
devoured all those darling dreams
and given way to fearful things,
to bogeymen, oh, dreadful things --
the cruel half-howling midnight king --
and fouler things that wait and dream,
clamber to retch and, silent, scream.

love is sweet and love is true
and love is blind and love is
love is--
all the things which bled before you,
disregard them.
for love is all of this and more.

Once, for English class, they made us write haiku.

Hai-fuckin'-ku. The puns of poetry. The Howard the Duck of poetry. The goddamn motherfucking Warren G. Harding of poetry. Absolutely the worst, the lowest, the most inane breed of poetry there is.

Observe, and be terrified:

Perspiration still
dots my brow; the summer has
not yet acquiesced.

Watching the leaves start
their gaudy, magnificent,
bright autumnal dance.

Frost chills the ground now;
we rush for blankets and the
warmth of our loved ones.

I like to think of that last one as being only tangentally related to nature, which if you get right down to it probably makes it little more than a group of words arranged in a 5-7-5 pattern, not a haiku. Anything to give an implicit "fuck you" to my teacher.

Without further delay, this is the new shit:

I. "The Delay"

over hallowed knee, god breaks the day
and through the shades bleeds a twice-damned ray.
i seethe with fear and, whispering, say:
"i don't want to get up today"

and loathe to ask that god, i pray:
"mother, is there chance of delay?"
i ask because i lack the strength of will,
to live in filth, to eat the swill,
to squirm with pigs that hungry kill
the latent, lying happiness
that comes with each new day.

"oh no," i hear my mother say,
"there is no chance now of delay!
the buses, you know, though you lay
have already been called today."

and so i shout a curse and lay
five minutes more, wishing delay
as i feel soft time swish, sad, away.

( My least favorite poem I have ever written. )

I think the whole problem with writing Christian poetry (for me at least) is that I'm not a Christian, but the themes and allusions I can draw from it are just too tempting to resist. So I write them when the mood strikes. But sometimes, as in the second poem here, I get too ironic. Or maybe too sarcastic. Or maybe too "I'm writing this for the fucking school literary magazine, I don't really give a shit if this sounds good or not as long as it resonates with my incredibly simple-minded audience." And I think that, to a large extent, it would. It does, according to the Christians I've talked to about my poems. I think one thing I've gained going to Catholic school for so long (and continually writing Theology class essays concerning my thoughts on God or what Jesus wants from me) is that I've become incredibly adept at pretending to be a Christian. And maybe, just maybe, in the writings of this elaborate, years-in-the-making fake Christian-persona there are some insights about, at least, how a fake Christian feels about Christianity.

But come on. I rhyme about fucking Timbuktu. I use the word "Timbuktu" in a poem. How fucking folksy is that? If that's not completely tongue-in-cheek, I don't know what is.

Without further ado...

I. "In Ardennes Forest".

By the deep blue lake nestled in Ardennes
there lies a naked grave;
unmarked, undecorated, undeserved --
this is rest for the brave!

Leaves fall upon the lonely cross --
how humbly adorned
is the site of final loss!
(And how sadly little-mourned!)

Just like Death coming down from God,
a white sliver escapes the sky;
kissing the yellow-orange leaves
which begrudgingly comply.

And if God Himself did make these leaves,
this snow, this lake, this sky;
how could He be so very cruel,
to let this young man die?

But as I sit there by the lake
amidst the greenery of sweet Ardennes
I can see faintly a connection
between plans of God and wants of men.

Perhaps it is only the way the light
hits the glitt'ring snow and the gaudy leaves
but I think God grants the bravest soldiers
the most beauteous reprieves.

And as Death came to claim him,
amidst pathetic cries of pain,
perhaps that soldier saw the light
and went on to live again.

*I'm around 80% sure that you could probably rhyme "Ardennes" with "men" because I looked it up in the infernal, needlessly complicated IPA system -- but if I'm wrong, and I probably am, a thousand apologies.

( Oh, Christ. )

oh, pit of utter infamy!
oh, overwhelming sin!
a palpable miasma breathes
and beats, and bleeds within!

no ordinary air can boast to have lain
beside that choking devilry
much stronger ones than we were slain
amidst those sinners' sweet idolatry --

dig in! hold fast! stand strong!
your shields held high, fangs bared
to face the gibbering throng.

stronger crusaders than you and i
have fallen here, bereft, bereaved.
these impious ones, near as sweet as they are sly --

they lie!
do not allow yourselves to for a second believe --
do not so deftly be deceived!

their sin -- it bleeds, and runs, and rots!
and sings their cancerous praises!
the lies they speak -- they promise all
but dust and ash and blazes.

march onward, forward, always --
no obstacle abide!
look ahead -- hazard zet!
there is nothing, if not pride!

but what of me? -- it begs the question.
what of me, if this is so?

     A vast, dark shape floats above me, the dense shroud of smoke surrounding us gently parting in fear of its immensity.
     Forever it continues -- then forever is but a second. The shape begins presently to contort and shift, its mass becoming less and less evident with each maddeningly slow turn until eventually I see before me the lithe form of a woman. The smoke returns – or perhaps was there to begin with. It is the same.
     I slowly lift my head, feeling the effects of the opium lessen with each passing moment, and dare to plant a kiss upon the enshrined lips of the lovely figure atop me. I am as of yet unsure of its identity, yet presently I realize it is, at least, a handsome woman, lithe of figure and surprisingly bold against the hazy background of the smoke. Suddenly I am aware of small, smooth hands firmly working their way down my body, in the fashion of the most skilled masseuses of the Orient.
     Languidly I lie, though allowing my senses to sharpen, honed by the departure of the hazy opiate shades that have hitherto clouded my mind. I see now before me in sudden clarity the features of the woman before me – they are pleasant, to say the least. So too can I more vividly feel the woman's small, balmy lips greet my neck with bouts of gentle kisses, each carrying with it its own quiet melody, as rain upon soft sands.
     Feeling myself become increasingly sober, I decide to sit up. Even then, the kisses continue.
     I survey my surroundings: yes, it is the same dreary London apartment I had taken my leave of hours ago, opting to replace its drab tones with the florid, color-splashed symphony of an opium dream. Yet this is home, and it is, of a certainty, more pleasant than what lies outside.
     “My dear,” Madeleine begins suddenly, hardly disrupting my thoughts with her negligible volume and gentle cadence. “I see you have awoken – shall we?”
     Yet I have not yet collected myself enough to know of what she speaks.
     “My dear,” she repeats with emphasis, softly slipping her hand down to my leg and absentmindedly stroking my thigh. “I adore you so – this you know.”
     I nod my head slowly as I begin to understand her intentions.
     “Yet.... a lady, even one possessing of modesty and chastity... has certain needs, and I...”
     “Whatever is it that you are suggesting, Madeleine? You know it is of a certainty that I cannot--”
     “My dearest,” she begins again. “I would so very much adore it if you were to make love to me this very instant.”
     Oh, fateful utterance! “Madeleine, you know of my feelings! I cannot. For have not you yourself said that these laudanum nights we spent together were as lovemaking, their passion and ecstasy equaling its own?”
     “Perhaps I have, yet you know nothing of women. Is that, then, a refusal?”
     “Regretfully – yes, Madeleine. I cannot. My apo--”
     And with that, she saunters in her still-alluring way out to the door and slammed it behind her, the abrupt noise a ringing hammer against my ears.
     Naturally desiring to right the wrong, I follow her.
     I open my door – after so long, and its absence has not made the heart grow at all fonder! -- daring to expose myself to the blinding cacophony of light before me. One hundred thousand daemoniac lights, endless before me in row upon damnable row. I shield my eyes, yelling to Madeleine for her to return: “Madeleine! Madeleine!”
     Yet suddenly, I am aware of a frightfully large presence – of a certainty fashioned of metal, and moving at a speed I realize is impossible. I wonder then if the opium's effects have not diminished as much as I thought they had.
     Without warning, a torrential downfall has deluged me along with the machine's passing. I am soaked in the city's excesses – its garbage, its tepid sewer-water, its overwhelming sin.
     I am a fraud. I return to the terrible warmth of my apartment and grab yet another LSD tablet.

          I'm out. The crazy kid's out. Lacey's out -- and out cold. Fumiko's right behind me. We're on the dance floor now. Some punk (and I'm being literal here -- spike chains and all!!) with an enormous green mohawk is the only one who seems to have noticed a guy with a gun in the room with him. It's impressive that he noticed at all, considering that from his glazed-over eyes I can tell he's high on something.
          "Fucking... whoah... man."
                                                  (Fucking whoah is right.)
          "Listen, just get the fuck out!" the crazy kid shouts. "I don't see why the fuck everyone has to ruin this! This is my big scene! This is where I launch the fucking missiles, you hear?!"
          "Missiles?" I inquire.
          "Fuck, no! You know what I mean! The bombs! I'm gonna blow this shit up!"
          "Bullshit." Fumiko chimes in.
          "Heh, fuck you." the crazy kid says, seeming to gloat as he casually producing what appears to be a detonator.

(That's great. They let him in here with three strange objects -- and the bombs too. I'd be surprised if this wasn't Club Maxijuana.)

          "I'll ask you again," Fumiko shouts. "Why are you doing this?!"
          "You know why? I'll tell you why! Because I lived in a metallic shithole most of my life! My mom beat the shit out of me! I'm just a normal guy -- let me rephrase that, a normal guy except I'm gifted! I can write! But everyone knows no one likes an intellectual nowadays unless he blows shit up! You get it? You get it?"
          "Well how about you just relax, huh?" I offer. "You're not really all that special, so how about you step down off that soapbox and give the rest of the world a chance?"
( bombs? )

         Finally, we've arrived.
         I step out of my Kia, cigarette lying lax in my mouth.
         With a nervous nod to Fumiko, the doorman lets us in to Club Maxima.

(The gaudiest, cheesiest place I have ever fucking seen -- but that's beside the point.)

         We slide through the dance floor, serpentine. We're surrounded by a gaggle of punks, junkies, and what may or may not be convicted criminals.
                     I swear to God I see Tupac. Twice.
         The place is permeated by the pungent scent of fresh sweat and the unmistakable odor of low-quality marijuana. To be frank, it's disgusting. I can feel some sort of venereal disease taking root just standing next to these people.
         Fumiko nudges me. "Fuck, how could we miss this?"

                                    Yeah, how could you?

We're risking life and limb to navigate our way through a stale ocean of losers. Ugly people, ugly habits. If life's a game, they folded pretty early on -- then went outside to smoke a blunt and never came back.

         All of a sudden I see a clean-cut guy in what appears to be a business suit. Real shifty-eyed. He looks around nervous and like he's about to cry, then he ducks back in to some unknown corner of the room.

         Well, shit. Coming in looking like that, he's gotta expect a beating or two. If I'm right, this is our man.
         I nudge Fumiko. "That guy look suspicious?"
         She looks up at me.

                                    (Man, is she pretty.)

         "I'm already on it. Let's go."

----------------------------------------------

i dont even know what i'm writing anymore
mother is
i am
i can't
i cant even say it.
the thoughts are splattered all over me, bleeding through. the things i wanted to say.

i admit it, here where i admit everything: i'm having second thoughts.

but this is probably the last.

-----------------------------------------------
( super creeps? )

         So really, I'm just smoking my way through this conversation.
                                             (I guess nobody really thinks of this stuff except me, but a great way to keep from having to talk to someone, especially someone inexperienced like this pretty young thing, is to pretend like you're really into your cigarette, like it's some new drug you've discovered that smells exactly like tobacco yet gives you an acid trip -- and obviously they're not dumb enough to really suspect that, but they're too timid to just ask and get it all out in the open. You just gotta act like you're off in some incredible acid-trip la-la land because you're smoking tobacco. Either that or they think you just really like a smoke, like you're one of those refined movie star types who gets into his own little world whenever he lights up.)
         Works wonders on her, at least.
         "We'll see," she says, blushing more than a little.
         Blushing a lot. More than a lot. "Beet-red" isn't suitable in this case -- a beet would be ashamed, because a beet's only got to be red, but this chick's got them beat in redness and she's cute to boot.

                                             How awkward, though.

"But.
I.
think.
we
should
get
back
to-our-conversation."

                  She smiles.

                   "In any case -- yes, just diners, really."
         I respond with a bored blast of smoke in the air. That's when I start the whole dazed and confused act.

Presently:

         In between puffs, Tom Casey, newly single (?) detective: "Please, please, just relax."

For the past few minutes she's been talking aimlessly. Under normal circumstances, I'd listen to a woman's pointless bullshit because it makes me look sensitive and caring. But she's obviously too young for me -- and frankly, Fumiko, I don't give a damn.
         I interrupt the torrent of impossibly technical details she's spewing about the case: "How old are you, anyway?"
         "I'm 24."
         I smoke.
         "... How about you?"
         "31. I'm old, I guess. Much too old for you."
         I smoke again. She coughs. "Excuse me, could you--"
No, I'm already on it. I'm grinding the thing into the carpet. Who gives a damn? I'm a private fucking eye -- have you ever seen one of our movies? Anything to impress a dame.
         She covers her mouth. "But isn't that going to--"
         I smoke. I don't tell her I've got a plastic covering on the carpet. It's all right.

( lackadaisical? )

i am lying under a blanket and i am drenched in the musky, bleachy scent of semen

i have done this.

there is a smell here and it is a musk permeating me and surrounding me and making my throat hot

i am under the blankets, two three four blankets, covered in a sort of sacred warmth, hot under the blankets, breath and heat emanating, stagnant, warming.

cooking.

that is why i want to write.

----------------------

          Disinteredly is the only way I can watch as my cigarette smoke drenches the room in its familiar, hollow scent that is a scent yet not a scent; something so basic to my condition that my senses are numb to it.

Non-scent it is. Hollow, so hollow.

          My fedora is falling again. I adjust it, reaffixing it to my sweaty head. I frown as I chance to feel the sweat as it rolls down my sideburns in heavy clumps about as thick as spoiled diner ketchup.

I don't remember being this sweaty. Or this balding. I muse, giving my mussed-up hair a complimentary scratch as I wonder about just how many possibilities are already dead for me.

          I slump down.
          My eyes make a lazy, dispassionate survey of the room:
          Potted plant, couch with holes... gorgeous woman.
          I'll get to her later: what's got me right now is the cigarette smoke's lazy, barely perceptible meander through the eldritch passages spoken of in nigh-forgotten lore--
          Not really -- I'm just kidding. All it is is another shitty apartment way out in the middle of Urban Anywhere. It's about the size of a matchbox, just without that pleasant matchbox smell.

                                                  Mmm, matchboxes.

          And the woman:
          Red-haired, ravishing. Voluptuous.

Aging, just like me. About ten years younger, though.

You don't really think about it much but those people are aging too. They look so young, so fresh, so --

I stutter in my thoughts. She wiggles her way up, making sure to exaggerate her already prodigious hips as she does, and kisses me.

Nothing fancy. No tongue. Just lips -- warm, red lips, plump with makeup and inviting as anything.

Oh, it is good to be here, here amidst the stray cats and the cat-calls, smoking our lives away.

( pulp detectives, overt racism, murder, tomorrow i'm seriously going to go over a kid's house to play one-on-one basketball against him )

Here, in the interest of completion only, is "Equinox", which I wrote sometime during early October.

  He was unaware when exactly the thought had come into his mind, but at some point during James' interminable school day, he became highly aware of the dominant concept which had kept his mind awake during the long hours previous: a pumpkin. Coming simultaneously with this awareness was the realization of exactly how preposterous his idea was. James Coroner's inane, absurd, enormously juvenile idea was this: he was going to carve a pumpkin. He was going to carve a pumpkin, and he was going to make it art.
( art, apathy, alienation, murder, and pumpkins. )

Well, here it is: my glorious writing LJ.

I initially had some reservations about doing this, but there comes a point when one just has to make a decision.

Expect stories, poems, maybe even a drama or two.

Feel absolutely free to add. I always reciprocate, and I probably do it better than your last girlfriend.