Who actually wants this worthless piece of shit?

Drowning on a broken boat,

No superman waiting to save me.

The sharks and whales greet me into their abysmal home
No amount of begging or pleading changes the judge’s decision–that kind of magic is saved for Hollywood

No relief against the pain; no softening the blanket of concrete beneath the fall
Your own life is worthless when it is sold for a penny and is still worth far less. For, who to stand beside and proclaim otherwise, even during the night of suffering?

None; for there the coreopsis sits, full of potential and power, yet the blooming flowers suffocate, all of them, into crispy husks, the beautiful melody forever whisked from their lips, the neglect soon to consume the stems and roots and destroy the entire body and soul of the thing

Consider not it strange, then, when the heart, the bastard piece of worthless shit that it is, is caged as an evil liar, and its pain sealed away with it, and permanent masonry erected around it as a fitting, isolated cell

Here lies heart. May it cause no more harm to its possessor, may it be forever in the abyss of hell’s torturing flame, may it feel the pain it causes the rest of us, without ceasing, and may no one think to comfort or console it

For I need it no longer, and desire for it has gone away with the final tide; for who needs a worthless thing that is always in need of fixing and never in possession of something able to fix it?


A Golden Chain of Promise or rather a Hangman’s Noose?

You got me sippin’ on something
I can’t compare to nothing
I’ve ever known, I’m hoping
That after this fever I’ll survive
I know I’m acting a bit crazy
Strung out, a little bit hazy
Hand over heart, I’m praying
That I’m gonna make it out alive

The bed’s getting cold and you’re not here
The future that we hold is so unclear
But I’m not alive until you call
And I’ll bet the odds against it all
Save your advice ’cause I won’t hear
You might be right but I don’t care
There’s a million reasons why I should give you up
But the heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants

You got me scattered in pieces
Shining like stars and screaming
Lighting me up like Venus
But then you disappear and make me wait
And every second’s like torture
Hell over trip, no more so
Finding a way to let go
Baby, baby, no I can’t escape

The bed’s getting cold and you’re not here
The future that we hold is so unclear
But I’m not alive until you call
And I’ll bet the odds against it all
Save your advice ’cause I won’t hear
You might be right but I don’t care
There’s a million reasons why I should give you up
But the heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants

This is a modern fairy tale
No happy endings
No wind in our sails
But I can’t imagine a life without
Breathless moments
Breaking me down, down, down, down

The bed’s getting cold and you’re not here
The future that we hold is so unclear
But I’m not alive until you call
And I’ll bet the odds against it all
Save your advice ’cause I won’t hear
You might be right but I don’t care
There’s a million reasons why I should give you up
But the heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants

The heart wants what it wants, baby
It wants what it wants, baby
It wants what it wants
It wants what it wants

The heart wants what it wants, baby
It wants what it wants


​Sick, the heart from hope deferred: dismayed.

The bindings loosen: slack, their tension’s part,        

Endorse the way, adulthood’s bubbling start,

For, free, the child to sleep, the funeral made.


Then here, I, fettered to the growing maid-

En’s hip. Will she, with eyes and ears depart

And steal my every turn of feeling, art,

And muse and sense of purpose, her upbraid?
To death with life, to death and no reviv-

Al, brightest shadow, failure’s torment smile.

Yet starlight sneaks among the heavens’ hive,

A midnight rainbow pregnant and fertile.

My soul’s strands knit to hers at every  seam,

To separate would never reconcile.

Red Eyes


She had red eyes, but not like the clear eyes commercial. They weren’t red and itchy, but they were a solid, glowing red that popped out of the dark the way a fox’s eyes might when they gleamed against the moon’s clear-night grin. Nothing but those eyes could be seen in the midnight’s barren snow hills. Sometimes when the moon would shine through the clouds, I could see also the outline of her crouched body, the robes of her black cult which hid the slender body of a girl barely deemed an adult.

Oh, how time flies. Yes, I think God sees even the magma burning with its desire–release from the tomb of the earth’s skin.
Today was not that day, or perhaps today was so much that day that it flew way over my head. Whatever the case, today was the day of the guardian; look, but don’t touch. See, but don’t expect to be seen in return. Expect all that you do, every sacrifice that you make, to be invisible to the person you are giving it all for, even if its the one thing that saves their life and kills yours.

I closed my eyes and focused the way they taught us at the academy; I could hear the wind blasting bits of snow over every cubic foot of space within a mile. I could hear the angels singing in the choirs of heaven–or perhaps that was the night birds whittling their native tunes out of the air. Then, I could hear the panting of the girl with red eyes climbing a snow hill. Her breath sounded hot and deep, like a sprinter’s. Navigating snow was difficult work on the legs and core, and so was hill climbing and hiking.

I pulled my bow from around my neck and drew an arrow from a quiver at my waist. Black feathers adorned the back of the arrow, giving light to the black hawk emblem carved into the wooden handle of the bow and stretching to its tips. I notched the arrow and looked closer. The cold wind burned my eyes and sucked the last of the warmth of my nose. I could barely see before I started squinting, but thanks to academy training, I managed to make out the images before me.

Behind the cultist girl, snow flew up as if from a little explosion. In the wind and chaos of night, I doubted she heard anything. She didn’t turn around to look, and she wouldn’t have seen anything if she did. When the creature popped up, I pulled back the bow. About forty meters and southwest of my perch, I took aim and released the arrow. It flew straight, curved just a little and burried itself in the neck of the grump. The grump dropped back down into its hole, and the girl was none the wiser.

I wondered what the girl would have said or done if I had not killed the grump. Maybe say I let the thing creep up behind her with its centipede body and get close enough to take a swipe with its knife. Then say I shoot it in the back right as it makes its strike, throwing it off balance and negating its attack but forcing it to fall into the girl. Then, she turns to see the creature following her, and she sees the arrow in its back.

She knows her life has been saved, though the creature is not dead yet. Another arrow hits the creature in the head, ending its movements and staining the pure white snow with brown murky blood. Now, all doubt is removed. Someone else is here in these lonely woods, not just her. That someone just saved her life–although for what reason, she couldn’t have the slightest clue. Then, she sees the twinkle of a shadow on a hill not too far away, just enough for her to ask herself, did I really just see that?

Then she starts looking, afraid to turn her back on her mysterious, freaky stalker who still won’t reveal himself fully.

I don’t blame her; I’d be afraid too. But it’s not like I have a choice in the matter, and its not like she had a choice, either. For her it was, let the stalker save my life and reveal himself, or, let the grump kill me because I didn’t know I was walking into a field of grumps and my devoted-to-death stalker, whom I didn’t even know I had, didn’t want to reveal himself.

But, the whole point of being a stalker was to observe and assist. No, that’s not all that I wanted. That’s not what drove me to do what I did. That’s just what I had to do to keep her safe. You don’t get to pick who you love; you just get to decide if you’re going to do what it takes to keep them safe, what keeps them fed, what keeps them alive.

So, don’t judge me. It could be said that I’m one of the best creepy stalkers on the planet, but you don’t know everything behind why I trudge through seventy miles of snow to make sure a cult girl makes it to the finish of her adulthood trial without being eaten alive by any one of a thousand prairy monsters. You don’t know why, you don’t understand it, and your brain could never understand it if I tried to tell you about it, so shut up and accept it. That’s what I had to do.

Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what all the creepy stalkers say. Only, I’m not trying to kidnap anyone or take nude pics to post on the internet or commit some other act of personal ethical weirdness or crime. I’m here to play the guardian angel.

I sighed thinking about it. If I am a guardian angel, I must have lost all my powers when I fell from heaven. Actually, I’m not sure I can even call myself a guardian angel because I am such a sorry excuse of an angel. And, I’m not really an angel in the first place, so, let’s drop the “angel” and just say “guardian.” That’s a lot better than “stalker,” at any rate.

Sorry. I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

But really though, for the longest time, that’s all I thought I’d ever be–a stalker. I had no reason to believe otherwise. Or, maybe I did, but the reason didn’t seem strong enough to be able to stand on with two legs. But then, one day, as I was minding my own business, her eyes turned red. Itchy, blood red. Like something even the Clear Eyes guy coulnd’t cure. From then on, I couldn’t mind my own business anymore. The fire in my heart rekindled without my permission.

That stupid, goddamned fire was the one thing that kept me running around in this snow. I hate the snow and the bitter cold, but for her? This is nothing. But let me tell you what is something. Having to hold back the sun’s burning brilliance in this heart of mine–the kind on bent knee and postrate, grovelling at the feet of the universe to let it be released; the oceans of the earth swollen in its womb and churning to be birthed across the face of the deep; the pitiless journey of Adam throughout the earth and all created things while he searched for the one missing part of the universe which, unfairly so, hadn’t even yet been created.

See? I told you that you couldn’t understand–you judgmental little prick. Your heart is hard and you cannot heart the voice of God, or of the earth or of anything else talking to you other than your ego. Go on–ask God to bow at your feet one more time.

Sigh. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t judge me. Go and heal your lepers and raise your dead; I’m going to be here in the cold, holding back the swirling universe inside of me and hoping I don’t get cut to pieces by the spinning tornado of swords slashing at the inside of my heart, at the nuclear detonation held back by nothing more than a paperthin wall of force many years in the making and turbulent with ripples compromised by years of pain and struggle.
I grip my chest and wonder that it won’t be long before something breaks–in me, or perhaps outside of me; probably both. I’m more than due for another breakdown. But, those damned red eyes of hers…they’re so…mesmurizing.



“Every person has their own personal language–and it seems that God will speak to them in that language, if they have the will to listen.” -Ninjafrk77

Sonnet to an Ailing Soul

Rip out from ribs this heart which, burdened, hurts

For to you, tied, your course my life’s sure end.

For if the winds do not make separate words,

The course of sails, then grave, mine, I should win


So dig the hole and load the chamber once,

The cheapened price of death, a welcome cent

For if I miss this tiny window’s grunt

All value of my beating heart will quit.


Love is cruel and cares not for a heart,

It cares not for its victim’s murdered soul,

Or the hurt and sorrow that imparts

Or fairness of the loveless burning hole


The days drop out like sands from hour’s glass;

Will they to funeral or wedding cast?

Love’s Second Name

A rotten wound blistering from the soreness of murder,
A stomach bulging at the pressure of bitter liquid—
Love is a scimitar thrust through the heart,
Love is the hand that grips the hilt, turning and twisting with every little sway of the universe.
Love is the sun’s anger poured over diseased skin;
Love is the finger of death held at bay from the trigger’s pull
While the whirlwinds of all the galaxies storm and rage back against it.
Love is the slap struck across the face, over and over, with no hope of its ceasing.

Love is the hurt which has no soothing,
And the anger which has no outlet,
And the sorrow that has no sigh,
And the payment which has no reward,
And the desire which has no hope.

It screams the seven agonies of life
While it reaches into the heavens as an adamantite mast,
A bleeding support beam for the stars;
From its burden it never gains relief.

Love’s second name is Love,
And its first, Misery.

Boredom, the Doorway

I, bored, so bored, search for the light of creativity in the aisles of man’s mental labor. Finding nothing to satisfy, I realize that I must make my own; for I am—and inside of me is—the very world of beautiful lights that I seek to walk through, that can satisfy the pant of the soul and the echo of the stomach’s reproof; they are those hallways of fables and legends which are ancient as Noah’s arc yet that have not been granted the downstream flow of the blockade. Once the floodgate is reeled upwards, then, without fail, the river will empty its mouth into the realm of the living, that land which is so thirsty for the things which no eye has seen and no ear has heard, which are locked in boxes and forced into silence until the heart of the owner of each key deems it wise and necessary to unlock and release it into the world.

If the world is boring, I will create a world that is not. I will make it one worth crushing by the hand of evil and then saving by the will of one fault-filled crew of heathens who, although differing in ideas and customs and languages, find the strength of their feeble hands much stronger in unison; it will be those who require the slaying of the seekers of destruction and the salvation of a world or universe far too weak and stupid to save itself.

For though they all be thieves and murderers, if they possess the intellect and the presence of mind, how much offense heaps upon their brow as they consider that, many eons later, it would be said that they were not able to “save the day” because they were too lazy or, worse, because they were incapable of victory in the first place? No, it would be said that they succeeded so well that only their laziness allowed the evil to rise in the first place, and even if they failed in the attempt, no one would call them weak or incompetent because on their museum gravestones it would be written, “the best bad asses of their millennium.”