By the Pale Moonlight

It is the light of the moon

that makes you so beautiful.

Poor Zombie.

Stetched to almost breaking,

only able to make sounds

through rough, sewn lips.

I compliment

to save his feelings.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

Savage Child

You can hear their echo screams

as the winds carry them,

beings, who will never roam

again, whose lives we



failed stewards,

insanely playing

in the filth of our indulgence,

while our mother screams

behind the door,



her blood filling the water

as we, her abuser,

pin her down.

Every woman bears the mark

of her disregard,

her subjugation,

once exalted upon a throne

of our knowing,

worshipped for providing us

with life,

she drowns in the sea,

her blood spilling,

her children dying,

as we sit idle by,

afraid to see we are

killing her,

Our mother,

We, Her children,


When we could love her,

care for her,

but we are too important,

though would not exist,

without her,

no, we are too important,

though will not exist,

without her.

And when they say

there’s still time,

they are lying,

failed species,

because there is still time for her,

but there is no time

for the ego of mankind

which consumes us all.


You feed me platitudes,

from an outstretched

robot arm,

like fine chocolates,

wrapped in shiny

foil, nuts and nuggets

sweet but suspect.

This arm reaches me

through bars on my


a jail of your dis-ease,

and I realized

that the arm

is not your own,

it floats disembodied

upon your

nuance and diplomacy,

assigned there to

reinforce the captivity

your disdain has created for me.

A convenient arrangement,

but I no longer eat the chocolates,

as they pile up

beneath the bars,

like defecation from

a mechanical Easter bunny.

And as I try to break out

of this jail of my own

lack of understanding,

I shed tears of

not knowing

what it was I did

to be sentenced here,

to a term of


solitary confinement,

watched over by

this robot arm of your


An arrangement I somehow

signed onto,

without meaning to.

And I discovered

a fissure in the wall

of my own disillusionment,

a barrier of self-doubt

and self-deprecation,

self-blame being the

strongest mortar ever made,

and I chiseled at it while

the arm dropped its


upon the altar

of the gods of Cowardice and

Lies of Omission,

and I chiseled at it

until I made a hole

big enough to see through

to the other side,

and with sentimentality

biting at my toes as I

forced my way through,

I escaped into unfamiliar


A new beginning

of realization,

that it was not me all along,

it was you.

Blind Optimism

The ground trembled beneath our feet,

but you thought we were dancing.

Twirling and whirling,

hands reaching for something

that isn’t there,

you thought we were ecstatic,

but the wind you felt

you generated from

your bliss,

was a storm.

Untroubled by the darkness,

you commented upon the night,

though it was midday.

Stumbling, you thought

you were reaching for

new heights,


But you were troubled

by the dankness.

How it rose from underneath

the surface that is

my despair.

How you could not

explain that


troubling reality.

That smell.

So you blamed me,

and though I tried to tell you,

you walked away.

Slow Poison

A wayward mind

crashed upon the shores of


dazed by the lies

that were sold as

“for your best interest,”

and, “you can trust us,”

and, “we are here to protect you.”

It is the worst


A path to isolation

and confusion.

Anger and deep

crags filled with

frozen despair.

The world is remade daily

like a cell that divides and

renews itself,

yet mutated by

the toxins

sold to us as love.

It is profitable,

after all.

They worship a god

dripping with

sweat made of gold,

his feet rancid with

the fetid souls of

the dead.

They were killed by

the greedy,

slaughtered in the human

corporate farm that

is our society.

He picks his teeth

with the bones of our


already dead,

despite still walking.

It is a nightmare

we cannot wake up from.

Our bodies, our fate

invaded upon and decided

for us,

without our consent.

The story is familiar.

The question is,

what will you