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.

Confessions of a Super-Hero

I am a super-hero,

fighting off the monsters

that plague you,

knee-deep, as you are,

in the rhetoric spewed forth

by their silken, greasy lips.

I tear at their market-shares

and patented product placement

with my blood-spattered pen,

so quickly they fall

when denied the attention

they scream for.

I duck and weave, avoiding the

terrific armaments of their

merchandising squadrons,

immune, I am, being super, and all,

to their mesmerizing, syncopated

droning.

Monster bees, asleep at the wheel,

careening ever downward

to the swamp of their own filth,

a filth fed by the swooning of the undying

masses.

Oh, how I long for the planet I was born to,

cast away to this place,

long ago dismissed as an ever-present failure

by my long-dead peers.

Never in a million years did I see that coming,

that I would out live the immortal.

So super, I am,

That I can cause a near-hit in my sleep,

missing it, as I do,

the onslaught of seeping fortitude,

delivered endlessly by mindless, mechanical

marauders,

created by those who never knew you,

and will never care to,

still.

Ship Wreck

I am a ship

wrecked upon the shores

that are not of my own making,

though for years I was fooled,

thinking that I was at sea,

rocked as I was by waves

that proved to be malicious,

if only for their indifference,

Lulled to sleep by their rhythm,

a catatonic lullaby,

perilous in its sweetness,

a confection made from the

blood of the unwitting,

It is a golden ocean,

this sea of dreams,

that laps on the sands

of the grand illusion,

and all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air,

They can keep their fortune,

all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air.

The Gilded Mirror

I sat watching,

quietly,

almost holding my breath

as the grey sledge hammer

swung deftly

towards the gilded mirror.

How the great hammer shown

magnificent,

it’s reflection framed

as it was,

in that great, gold frame,

scrolls dazzling my eyes

as the light bantered playfully,

the glass like a lake,

still and waiting.

The sound so shrill,

as it erupted,

the smashing sang like ripples,

the tinkling shards tiny notes

in a sea that has been blinded,

except for the mosaic,

tiny bits of vision,

that lay at your feet,

remnants of itself.

Holocaust of the Cherubim

Broken, you lay before me,

shattered limbs of plumpness, dimpled

with memory

of a time, innocent,

I am not sure how you,

winged creatures of Aphrodite,

armed and ready to inflict

the sting of Love’s bite,

became mired in our prescription

for you,

branded by our lust for

Love’s power,

snatching your quiver and bow

from your tiny grasp,

plucking the silken feathers

from your wings,

adorning ourselves,

like hollow birds of stone.

The sky, once filled

with glimpses of flittering

magic,

are now empty,

and though the fireflies

search for you on the summer nights,

they go home alone,

no longer lighting your paths,

no longer telling the world

your secrets.

Savage Child

You can hear their echo screams

as the winds carry them,

beings, who will never roam

again, whose lives we

squandered,

selfishly,

failed stewards,

insanely playing

in the filth of our indulgence,

while our mother screams

behind the door,

beaten,

bruised,

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,

savagely.

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.

Penchant

Penchant

for servitude,

the human race,

squandering the illusion

of freedom,

while wriggling with

tormented ecstasy,

in chains,

bound,

loathing,

fumbling at madness,

cowards in glitter and enamel,

jeweled trinkets,

fetishized

swinging,

pierced and swollen,

unable to see the path

that would lead them

to the sworn

secrecy

of self.