Dark poems

 
The table tilted by their game rigged in hiding
Breaches anti-seals by a scarlet woman riding
Made desolate as the perverse dragon rhyme
Turning the natural mind to inverted sublime,
 
By no reason materializes out of nothingness
World view as a pointless line of meaningless
Untrainable raising the human being priority
Superimposing pedestal as highest authority,
 
So neglecting an origin for the idea of power
Accompanying a man in the transpiring hour
Willingly boosting their highest arrogant line
Mislaying true breath within old fogs of time,
 
Approaches spectacle soon made polarized
Subsisting near co-occurring continuum lies
Within exchange into any presumed frivolity
As a Rosicrucian Golden Dawn Royal Society,
 
Anomalous sacking of Constantinoplian land
Shifting Byzantine manuscripts barred band
Greecian Romanic practice of Medici sadism
Diverted antiquated hermetic Neoplatonism,
 
Blended pedagogy Kabbalah amalgam seam
Trithemius Agrippa operative stream dream
Magical Lutheran spiritual revolution in plan
Such singular Apocalyptic prospect by hand.

If this is reality, then why does it feel so agonistic to my soul and just?
It is this foul winters’ slapping gust
That wants one to conform their “abnormal” psyche to certainty,
But I want my surrealist mind, and I can only hallucinate the senses of reality.

Can a flame live, breath and burn
In a mold of ice?
I have nowhere else to turn,
The realist world is not very nice.

And why is it when I walk down this surrealist, slush-ridden path
That my shoes don’t damp?
Sometimes I feel it is an innate wrath
When I suffer from writer’s-cramp.

Am I the flame?
Realism
and surrealism
are not the same!

Though I stand in the corner, I am the flame,
But the light shines not from what realists can see.
I’ve been there my whole life,
Its solitude quite hellish; loud with internal strife.

We all stare at corners; at what’s veiled within them;
And we don’t like who we see within cause’ they’re reticent.  
I don’t like what I see hiding in the corner either, yet I stand there too!
I love me, yet I despise me. I can’t hate what I am, nor will I change it.

I am me
And not you.
You are you
And I’m glad you’re not me.

All my realistic thoughts subdued,
Like a drunkard swigging wine.
Keep you to your solitude
and me to mine.

The bell rings for recess
The kids go to play
But little do they know
This will be their last day

They're laughing and singing
And all having fun
'Til a stranger shows up
With a loaded machine gun

They don't know why he's here
There's no time to ask
He pulls down the trigger
And carries out his sick task

Innocent lives lost
The shells gleam in the sun
The man's taken down
But the damage is now done

Why are people so evil?
This whole world's a mess
All these kids wanted
Was to enjoy their recess

But now they're just lifeless
Their bodies lie slain
How does this keep happening
It's fucking insane!

As the pink evening sky turns into navy blue night, a cozy home becomes the homefront of a battlefield.

When her eyes close, the nightmare begins, the boogie man arises again with 2 horns, blood red eyes, a machete tipped tail and razor blade claws that are constricting the bottle that contains the last drop of his vodka.

He grabs her from her shelterd bed and drags her to a dungeon hell which she has recently come to know so well.

Clawing her clothes off thread by thread, this undeveloped angel is being stripped of her wings.

Minutes turn into hours, hours into days, days turn into eternities for this girl who has been threatened to be killed if she screams for help.

Finally after the punching, choking and
and skin crawling sexual slurs the slaughter of this girls innocence has ended and the beast returns back beneath the bed to his bottomless pit.

She awakes, heart pounding body sweating and emotionally exhausted.

She tells her mother about the dreams she's been having and her mother says "don't worry they'll stop soon" as she knocks back her hourly dosages of Lexapro and Prozac with a fine hardened glass of Scotch.

The girl says “but mom”, but her mother interupts "go to bed, nothing is wrong with you, you’re just having nightmares, go to sleep".

As the navy blue night sky turns into dusk orange sleeping beauty returns to her cherry color stained  bed, with hopes that the boogie man won't return again.

Recieving only neglect and no comfort from the women who gave birth to her
She sees only one way to escape the beast that attacks her at night.

The Lexapro & Prozac pills her mother left on the bathroom counter.
She takes 3 of each and drifts off into an eternal sleep.

Now, months later with my angel wings fully developed I watch down as my mother wakes up from these same nightmares.

It appears after taking one soul the boogie man is after another, she has endangered herself by refusing to chase down her own demons.

She endangered her daughter by not recognizing the demon that she slept next to, now she must deal with them both alone.

The battle is over but the war has just begun.

A note tucked in between an inflorescence of violet Chinese Wisteria and marble stone says "I'm sorry, I was too late".
The marble stone reads.....
"Hailey May 3, 2003-July 11, 2011".
I was 8 years old.

 

On a bitter cold winters night in the poorest part of town.
Where abandoned homes and factories crumble slowly down.
A discarded place that once stood proud still was someone’s home.
There in a room of family gatherings one sat all alone.
A grimy soul in tattered clothes and ill fitting worn out shoes.
The kind of man that’s turned away with out the least excuse.
In earlier times when he was young he dressed so very well.
His honor earned was taken when he accidentally fell.
Stricken to a weaker state with the impairment to his mind.
A mean and frightening world was waiting for him to find.
His refuge was this place forgotten like some distant dream.
It was his castle play ground at least to him it seemed.
As the night wore on he felt the pain that only cold can bring.
In a trash can lid he built a fire and faintly he would sing.
Too cold to move and search for wood he used his paper bed.
First that burned was his covering saving some to rest his head.
Up in the air danced charring flakes that quickly loose their glow.
As piece-by-piece rose overhead they’d drift down white as snow.
He saw somehow ash form into dancers turning in the air.
How he wished as he watched to be dancing with them there.
Laying down he saw the last flickering amber wave him to his sleep.
In his rest he remembered the dancers a vision he would keep.
In a vacant house a huddled man is dancing and held so tenderly.
A cold reality has been replaced where he’ll dance eternally.