Saturday, March 22, 2008

Bibliophile

Standing.
I fall within the building’s shadow, graced to just be alive.
Is it, then, my lot in life
To be consumed so willingly?
My eyes are dry and I am humbled by the experience.
This is the real moment, when we as Man come to the realization
That we are not as limber as we once thought.
I, however, am different; I turn to my place of solitude
To find refuge when all others look to the neon.
I am relieved to be home, simply for the sake of being
Surrounded by what is real and alive.
No others can come before me
For my brown eyes are enough
To send them away, desperate and unforgiving.
My Muse has led me here, for she knows me well
And I must plant the roses at her feet for such a gesture.
The slow and cold leak finally crawls inside of me
To feed on whatever I have not used yet.
It is a an extension of what I used to be-
A shell of a woman who lost her way and refused to find it again.
My dried out skin is laid silently on the rock
By the place that gives me light,
An almost heady desire to fall to my knees
And prostrate myself on the ground as a willing apprentice.
My Muse stands behind me, watching my moves,
Making sure I am truly what I claim to be
And still so much more.
My blood, her tears, mingled carefully,
Are placed in a bowl as an offering
To grant me acceptance, denying all others
Who lack enrichment and hedonistic suppliers.
I would rather be poor and in this current state of pheromones
Than to wallow in my own glands, fat and glistening,
Praise be! Jealously has its advantages.
The door is opened and I step in,
My face caressed by the cool and musty air
That seduced me so long ago
And yet I still cry when it takes me back
To when I was still feeding from my mother’s breast
In hopes of a better world.
I am no stranger, here, yet, desolation,
Afraid of my own shadow, never again shall I be spineless.
Are you too afraid to step forward
To accept that which you can not escape?
Shall there be more, others like me
Who have tasted of its flesh and hunger for more- literary cannibals
Tearing apart Dickens and Shelly and Weldon Kees with bare hands
And nails that once caressed lovers and children’s cheeks?
I can feel the strength slipping from me
To only be replaced with something older, darker, more discordant
Than what I was ever used to.
She stands behind me still, her arms scented with roses and pearls
Are now linked with mine in an effort to keep me from screaming,
Saints above and below, how I deserve thee not!
Be still, she tells me as we walk, be still
And allow your mind to simply think.
Can you do that for me?
Will you show me where you threw your dagger
To defeat the foe that was never there?
Shall you offer your liver to me be pecked out
By a bird that winces at the sound of a child laughing?
Shall you give yourself to it to become the monster
You so very much desire and loathe?
I am torn but I continue to walk,
Her words whispered are drenched in insanity
And literary sexuality that makes my knees buckle,
Cracking along the floor, distant and hollow;
Am I already here?
I long for the dust to cover me
A baptism preparing me for the trial by fire.
451 – a number so heinous
That I disown its very existence.
We walk, she carries me, I love her
But I am no longer hers; I lay my body down before it
So that it could see I was no longer afraid
But merely curious to know
If I could ever bleed again.
My skin is now covered in words
Written by people who never knew me
But they gave me the stale breath I breathe today,
Keeping me alive, keeping me moving,
Keeping me a sinner to my own worst shadow.
So, then this is it.
My world is here before me, ready to be seized
And treated with emotions I never felt on my own.
This, then, is my reason.
A sanctuary for those who have none.

19 March 2008

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Poem from the Goth Librarian

And now the ground is white
clearing the city from its pain.
I sit, watching my own sins removed
finally with relief shown on my face.
I feel alive for the first time,
not knowing where I shall be the next day.
My mind wonders as the whiteness blinds me,
giving me new eyes to see and a mouth that shall finally be heard.
I want to think, oh god, how I miss such delicacies
of when my time was spent muddled over problems that I created.
So the snow becomes my own salvation,
a place, a time, when I can truly be myself
among the rot and stink of what used to be.
Perhaps, then, this is forever
when love and emotions are no longer felt.
My hair, black strands, cause such a fuss
when the white claims it as its own.
This is my time-
my own space, my own world, my own body
nestled among leaves of brown and gold.
Spring seems too far away
and yet I can smell it coming ever closer
even when the white now consumes me.
I want to cry because I am cold.
I want to love because I am naked.
I want to relax because I am indifferent
to the discombobulating silence that makes my ears bleed.
And yet . . . I see my true purpose.
My purpose, here, among the white: a man
stretching his hand towards me, giving me the solace
I want desperately.
Damn the world for what I have confessed to
for I no longer think like Men
but have moved to a better place.
I am, here. White, flecks of grey.
A challenge laid before me, with my name
whispered among the dead trees.

3/7/08

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Memory - A Short Story

Evening in Paris. I told him that when he asked me the name of my perfume. For a moment, I did not know he was speaking to me for my mind had begun to wander and I had just walked into the building where I work. My day so far had been good and I was already thinking of my soon to be time spent writing another story for my blog, so it truly did surprise me when a complete stranger paid attention to a part of me like that. He asked me the name of the perfume I was wearing and I told him. As we got on the elevator with three other people, each one of us already plotting out our strategy for the day, I found myself wondering about the stranger who now stood in front of me. Would he go to a department store after work and locate the perfume for his girlfriend, wife, or even mother? Maybe the perfume reminded him of a lost love during his college years or the beginning of a new one. Or perhaps the scent provoked him to think of old and dusty books read while intoxicated and smoking French cigarettes. Still, I wondered if he even remembered speaking to me; we as humans have a funny knack for forgetting matters minutes after they have occurred.