The Octopus CatIf ever you were to see our clinicsbased on
never would you find a group of cynics
as depraved as those in mutagenics
who created the octopus cat.
A collection of men from our fair city
all thinking themselves to be so witty
that they grew from scratch this evil kitty
the horrible octopus cat.
It looks at you with knowing eyes
is deaf to all your frightened cries
a creature you had best despise
this menacing octopus cat.
It crawls on eight disgusting tentacles
each of them tattooed with pentacles
be wary of the dread cylindricals
of the deadly octopus cat.
And should you hear within its jowls
the beginnings of its feral growls
RochallorLike blue ice a flamebased on
in darkness shone desperate
Horse returned alone
On green grass faithful steed died
heart-broken mourning his lord
White MistressThe leaves were already turning, and it felt too soon, like spring had just left and summer should still be in full bloom. But no, the leaves were turning, and beginning to fall.based on
I stumbled through the woods to find my resting ground, where I would lie through the snow and dream of spring rains; where I would sleep through the cold and garb myself in my own warmth and the muted warmth of the earth rising below me; when I came across winter's own mistress. The cold was always harsh to me, leaving my joints aching and begging for relief, but she was beautiful. My heart whispered sweet nothings that fell and froze on unhearing ears.
I found I
FreeI can see all I need to see,based on
trapped here in this room with me,
locked away behind the screen:
every thing that makes me free.
Portrait: Willow and PondTo paint a portrait with mere words
the honest heart removes the girds
the pen a brush of wary skill
to this artists unflinching will
The scene a landscape serene and yearning
a willow tree, a pond, a twilit heaven burning
The first star twinkling in the baleful sky
reflected in the pond, like a tear in her eye
On the bank a willow bends ever reaching
the desire to join with the pond a reality nonbreaching
Sad and forlorn the willow weeps
alone, the pond quietly sleeps
O willow, rooted in your place
can only gaze longingly at the ponds grace
Mulling the thoughts of this strange attraction
resenting the inability to take any act
Blood and TearsI've got scars andbased on
Many two way streets of broken hearts,
I'm just a shell of a woman
I'll be labeled till I die.
I've seen hell and death
And blood and tears
And yeah i've caused them all
I may have lost myself
But I'm still me.
Drowning in myself
But I'm still me.
Sometimes I hate myself
But I'm still me.
I want to crawl inside myself
But i'll still be me.
I look in your eyes
And see my torment reflecting back at me.
Sometimes it seems that you're
You've walked the road
I've been painting
And it gives me hope,
As your still here to tell the tale
You say it's all you wrote.
I may have lost m
Of Virginia WoolfYou filled your pockets with stones,
a seed-sower sowing nothing,
nothing to cast away.
It must have been cold as you went down.
The bite of March water
must have brought blood
rushing in panic to your skin.
A gasp, perhaps,
as your chest submerged.
(Were you beyond gasping?
Were you so far behind the veil?)
And then the silence.
The hiss of water against the ears,
the stirred up mud against your startled eyes.
The water cold in your palms
and cold in your unravelling hair
and cold through your clothes
to your naked skin. And
the weight inside would hold you,
stronger than stones.
You stood, perhaps, for a time,
Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back 1. I say nothing I am thinking.
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
2. A sketch of myself.
He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.
Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.
A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."
Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.
Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.
Her heart is not a rabbit.
When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
To Sleep, Per Chance to DreamThe horse dragged his hooves against the ashen soil. Behind Prince Quentin, the bridge to the capital continued to collapse. The great wall of thorn bushes were alight with fire, many of their branches chopped down with the sword the prince squeezed tightly in his fist. Inky sap still clung to the sharp edge as the sun above reflected off its metal side. His armor was smeared in the blood of the hellspawn he had chopped down, in his hand the head of the witch who had cast the spell on his beloved princess. His fingers had bunched up the fiend's raven hair, strands coated in her own bile t
CausticYou wish you had
a caustic tongue. Sharp?
Yes. I don't deny it.
You could separate the layers of light
and slice up a rainbow
with the flat side of your cant,
though you don't -
you just try
to pry the diamonds
from men's wedding bands
when things don't go quite
as you planned,
and too passionate again. Does it sting,
your singing? Perhaps. I'd sooner French
a black scorpion
than suck that snake
sliding between your white teeth.
Sharp and stinging,
but caustic? No - not quite.
For all you've tried,
you've never caused anything.
The Greatest TreeWhen I was just a tiny seed,
my mama said to me
That I could grow my rings and soon
become the greatest tree.
I listened to my mama's words,
and I was very good.
I tucked into the soil at night
and photosynthesized my food.
My mama said that God had wrote
instructions just for me,
Written in my cells on how
to be the greatest tree.
I grew a sapling, small and slow,
no larger than a twig.
I figured I could wait some time
before getting to be big.
She planted me along a hill
where ashes blew dull gray.
She said that sometimes fires helped;
it'd be good for me to stay.