the becoming

Those old pleasures I have left behind--
glut, sloth, weak, slow, pain, death, shame...
there were probably more.

They can be replaced with other vices
more fitting The Becoming.

Fire burns me--pain, sacrifice
the tinder...
and flame.
But as the Phoenix can tell you:
Baby, it ain't so bad.

Oh, doubt not for one split second
that i can endure this...
"s'only a flesh wound..."
and I know it's red, not blue!

Crawl if I must before
I
can
Walk!
But soon, I'll run
and never be back.
Not those old paths.

ode to my muse

What have you been doing?
Where did you go?
who with...
I laugh at these questions
because they are so
pointless

well, I stopped that habit
My mind got clean...
I found you, now you're
right back where you
belong.

Straps too tight, honey?
Chains to heavy darling?
I hope they make you bleed
for deserting me
when I needed you
most.

Now you know you'll pay! We'll
be up late nights again
The pain you take, the hurt
and evil use you endure.

All for the sake of my essential
creations.

Charge of the calvary

The tempest of wrath
clusters among the weak
of will

It snares me occasionally too...
But the shining glory
of mythical, ruthless
friendship...

...sweeping in--the
charging calvary
sabers flashing,
horseflesh flexing, muzzles
frothing,

the sound of beating
hooves, battle cries, and
the shot is heard!

--it brings me back--
to myself...

And there I set...
...at the table
holding all the good cards.

The Harpies

They swoop in with treacherous
black wings of death
screaming their woeful ballad

"You must give in to us!"
"You must obey, else you are
nothing!"
"Do that which your mind
argues
against--"
"The right, the good be damned,
be lost!"

Wicked beasts on their
aerie of depression and
paranoia

They feed on lesser men,
but they shall not
feed
on me!

This with every grain of
my soul do I resist

The battle carries on...

Inner Twine possibilities

Death, it comes to us all
and also does hope.
Perhaps sooner for me
it comes up from between
it lies in wait among
the teeth of loving friends
shadows, the edges of

the wheels on a less
but not the harpies
than sterile hospital
for they bring the doom
bed. where bits of
bells that sound in the night
dried blood still shows--

like painted signs--
I fend them off with my
markers of those survivors
incredible shield of truth
past, and mainly those

less fortunate. those who
always set me free
have seen doom in a Ziploc bag.

Lie down motheril

She's dead.
She's rotten inside
Staving off the inevitable

Force of will
and her drugs: nicotine,
pharmaseuticals prescribed
by a plethora of doctors

each unaware of the other's
existance
the blind cabal...

And let us not forget
majestic pain!

It drives her forward
a kinetic carrot before the
horse of decay

She suffers...fungus, cough,
ear,nose,throat...hacking/bleeding
stomach, head, eyes,

Just lie down motheril
inevitable rest...

Betrayal

Betrayal is the focus du jour
friends who professed commitment
Bloated self-righteous parasites
sucking off the cream of
my pain.

They revel in what they think
is their mentality
But as they prove themselves
amazing
to some...a corona of
intelligence displayed around
their heads

But some notice it is not
golden--
it is brown. And it smells...
of fecal matter.