Friday, February 26, 2010

Vampiric Youth

Accept death.

Accept joy.

Accept pleasure as your heart
marches toward doom.

Accept ecstasy in the kisses
falling to the floor of your room.

Accept whispers from strangers,
candied words, amphetamines.

Accept reticence when they remove
the future from your eyes.

Accept the blindness that comes
with eternal youth.

Accept not life, but death.

The Death Of Magic, Of Rock & Roll, And What Lies Beyond

Explosions. Furious fires. Civilisations that fall from grace.
The wizards and shamans and priests
all beg on their knees with their faces
turned upwards, not knowing anymore what the windfall may bring.
The death of magic in the ruthless hands of logic.
The death of rock and roll and everything else
that might have once made some noise.

Expulsions. Curious wires. Evil angels that rise from hell.
The demons and goblins and priests
all wither to dust with their shadows
smeared across the consequences of our useless actions.
The death of dreams none can compensate for.
The death of sex, as though flushed away
from the cunt of a whore.

But I will walk away from fire
and I will tame the chasm that is hell.
The worried weeping wounds of my wasted past
is just a fable that once made so much noise.

I will not bleed forever, nor die in vain.
And all the chords I ever played on my guitar
still vibrate, passing through light and dark,

beyond this face, this head, this thought that you had to wait so long for.

I am beyond repair, beyond magic, beyond rock and roll.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Cunt

That night Chloe heard jazz music
coming from down the hallway.
She had heard it before.
The door behind her, she walked
slowly to Isabel's room.

It was unlocked.

She looked inside.

Isabel was naked.
Her wheat blonde tresses fell
across her back, flowing over
her pale round buttocks.

Isabel was laughing.

There was a man with her.

The music was none other than Billie Holiday
singing "That Ole Devil Called Love",
emanating from a gramophone
beside the bed.

The man ran his fingers across
Isabel's creamy skin.

He kissed her lips.

They closed their eyes
as they kissed.

Quietly, Chloe cried.

In between her tears, a word slipped
from under her breath:
"Cunt."

Each & Every One A Disappointment, There Was No Exception, Not A Single One

They're just words. They don't mean anything.
If you stop to consider them against
the absolute wonder of nature's decay, even news
from someone whom you always knew
was never really your friend
can no longer hurt.
Words you can always forget.
In between all the other meaningless things,
the crossed-out sentimental gibberish,
aborted thoughts of days, like any other,
unmemorable, except for their dull brass,
their cookie-cutter flavours,
their dubious romance
with the most common of common.
Nothing unique about them at all.
After you've unraveled them and laid them out flat
for all the world to see, what special specimen have they got for you?
Did they bring you anything resembling a lost continent;
a quicksilver verse or a dish of recovered innocence,
some microbe that just might stay?
Nay. They all sailed away, didn't they?
Words, words, words.
Language that you thought could
have at least understood.
Those poets and balladeers
with their empty hearts.
They left nothing behind. Except for all this junk
that doesn't even have the decency to fill.

So:
tear that paper in half.
Tear that useless piece of paper in half.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Bitch

Isabel had already fallen by the time
Chloe struck her the second time.
And then after hitting her another five times,
Chloe set the stone aside.

The stone was the size of a grown man’s fist.
Chloe had wrapped it carefully in a towel
and placed it in the basket
beside the sandwiches and soda.

Chloe kneeled beside the body,
her heart racing like a thoroughbred’s.

Isabel’s body was trembling.
Chloe looked down at Isabel’s deformed face
choking on its own blood and mucous.
Then she reached out for the ring
on Isabel’s finger and pulled.

It was made of gold with silver filigree
and a 24-karat diamond heart.
The ring came off with surprising ease.

There was no one around for miles
out there on the lonely beach.
Blood from Isabel’s wounds seeped into the sand,
staining her blonde hair crimson
and her blue swimsuit maroon.

The sun felt warm on their pale skin.
The seabreeze teased with its coolness.

As though afraid it would lose its shine,
Chloe wrapped her hand around her prize.

And then she leaned over Isabel’s body
to whisper in the dying woman’s ear:
“Bitch.”

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Last Dance

(for Caecar Chong, 1974 - 2010)

Alone on the stage, he sleeps.
His final gesture as a dancer
is as a foetus.
Instead of placenta,
flowers surround him.
He dances without movement.
Without music.
The lights flicker like
so many tongues of flame.
Yet he remains a lotus.
After so many curtain calls
and rehearsals, finally
his body obeys him.
He is as still as a building
lying on its side.
Eyes closed.
Hands clasped.
Dancer of darkness and light.
Alone, asleep and alive.