I am black and blue; bruised from the words that have bounced off of your back and slammed into me. My swollen eyes couldn’t make your face out of a crowd, but the way your hips sway, I could see you leaving for miles. My ears burn from the muffled hypocrisy that you spew, something … Continue reading The Loudest Discount – remixed
Olde Punk rocks my world. Dark and deep and so fkn good.
Murder in the thirst
There is always the murmuring first
Anticipation is just the worst
Do you not think?
No do not speak
Why we brave the waste
There is ever aught but dust
And folly, ever the tides rush
Close to our feet
I’m trapped in the past
And I know you are the last
Of the crimson knights of defeat
Feel my heart beat
In time with the rhythm of demise
I despise and deplore
Blood on the floor and all over
Your precious face
Oh angel of disgrace
Never are you more beautiful
Than with the fear of death
Perfuming your breath
And heavy with the knowledge
Of my damned divine curse
Shadow clouds over the moon
As dawn and dusk meet
Clasping hands over the finality
I embrace you lovingly
The taste of your blood on my tongue
I listen to the dearest murmur
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Meet my new writer crush: David Augustus Smith
Jesus Christ, this is everything
You can’t disappear here, I am already gone, a ghost of my ideal self, person you wish to rescue you from the dark angles bearing down on you. I am a flame, a nightmare, a cloven-hoof vision that is inverted and bloody, woven into the patterns of a life that was lost in the rain, in the Spring, in a million deceptions, secrets, secrets, secrets…”everything will come out eventually.” They keep telling me that. I cringe and think about a stinging sensation in my neck, as I am inundated by unsolicited pep talk.
Just another day. We all need one more day. It will all be okay tomorrow. Pinned-out eyes, ground-up teeth, the hours that repeat themselves–the eerie eternity. The silent misery, the collective sigh of death heaved on the shoulders of ants, and bees, killing themselves over labor, over love, over the nuanced mystery that leave us all in…
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The first arrived
in an envelope incased,
nostrils flared, perfume.
The second, I guess,
may have been on that curious Corvid, in ‘Man at Crossroads’.
Third, held aloft, Blackbird,
on some wispy June evening,
The fourth, let’s say, Phoenix.
Cast into a Samhain cauldron, let go and then surprise, risen again.
Fifth, in faith – if even a feather.
Of a new sun birthed, not of woman,
but this man, shaman, and the One.
Do I need to drink to see you again, cut myself open again, to bleed you out in a rush? You’re gone now, packed up and left again, always fucking again, until again means nothing unless I drink and I drug, again, and I split the cosmos, again. Until I scream louder, again, and faster … Continue reading to Drink and to See You, Again
A golden oldie that just fits today
My moods have been predetermined and prescribed.
Seven tiny compartments measure my days.
Pink and orange match the sunrise
and taste bitter with my coffee.
I chase them with water so they
mellow in my blood,
as if water can render toxic harmless.
Yellow sticks in my throat every morning,
and steals my happiness before it can shine.
White dissolves under my tongue,
it can’t get in fast enough,
the impatient little fucker.
If white is late, I start to itch.
Blue makes me saddest of all.
Without blue, the rest is just candy,
and I will never sleep again.
I’m always packing a rainbow wherever I go.
I have seen sinners saved from bloody knees, and heard angels sing from holy things. But you, my love, are the bells that ring, in a heathen's choir when the devil sings. © Nicole Lyons 2017