A Nocturne

Nightmares sprout wings

And gargoyles sing

operatic dirges

To the sensitive ones

Red neon sinners

wriggle and writhe

In oil slick puddles

That stain squalid streets

The lost the runaways

The despondently confused

Wander this labyrinth

Where the rain never ceases

She passes by

Ms. Late Model Luxury

A call on her cell

Wrong turn she’ll be late

Someplace else

She’d wind up dead

Pieces of herself

collected as trophies

This lethargic cesspool

Lacks such motivation

Gutters collect waste

The unwanted unwashed

Pain turned inward

Voices berate

Needles in veins

Fetid whores to cruel men

Nightmares sprout wings

And the boy on the sidewalk

Finds hope in the thought

They will fly someplace else

Autumn

Tree at Prado by J. Wochholz

Hope fell

off the tree. Hues

vanish; cloud kissing, wind

dancing, all forgotten. Dry rot,

now dirt.

Untitled

Vincent Van Gogh, The Red Vineyard (1888)

‘Tis past the time of grapes,

Still small on the vine and not yet sweet,

What were your kisses then?

Shy and unsure yet much too willing;

Now, the field lays fallow,

I have missed the best pickings.

You pass me the glass,

Deep red blueberries and oak,

Imbibe with me, come taste

The bold mature flavor,

Entwine and swirl in the drunkenness,

As mouths share final robust kisses.

The last harvest has come and gone;

Laborers replaced by mourners,

Who share moist tears but no kisses.

Death does not require love,

Nor passion, just fidelity;

And this earth gives way for graves.

The Mist

Photograph by John Miller Whiteney (2008)

Gray mist

awakes, to creep

stealth-like between barren trees.

A chill passes, and my breath lies

silent.

Desire

The Vampire by Sir Philip Burne-Jones (1897)

'Tis not a simple flight of fancy

That leads me to your door,

Nor terrors found in darkened thoughts,

That make me come once more,

But hunger plain and simple

An endless thirst for blood

And yours I crave, yet never taste

For fear I’ll start a flood

A flood of tears I’ll never dry

Should you lay cold and dead

And so I come, but never take

Except to share your bed.

Night Scenes

Dark alley

Of trash, rats, and urine;

A stench both inside and out.

Dying lamppost

Breathes its last light.

Above, a window slams shut.

Approaching footsteps,

I suck in my breath;

So hidden,

He passes unaware.

I clench the knife tighter

Then, like his shadow

Begin to follow.

Like dreams;

Night scenes

Awaken my true self.

We Are the Dead

We are the dead

who skulk about

a scar on scraps

of memories distorted

holographic promises

full of meaning

void of substance

We are the dead

who find comfort

in one another

despite the presence

of specters and exorcists

The house can be rebuilt

New photos can be shot

Another mountain conquered

We are the dead

Who love each other still

We haunt each other in separate beds

and long for each others eyes

Alive only so much in places

where we co-exist in time

We are the dead

who know what it is

To live to love each other.