Black Cat

She creeps,
Along ivy-covered brick walls
And down alleyways cloaked in shadow

On silent paws she stalks
Church mice and sleepy-eyed sparrow
A midnight snack, blood-warm

Upon the window sill she sits
Preening coat with sandpaper tongue
Sharpening claws on weathered wood
Preparing for the future hunt

And she sees all
That the night offers up
There’s no escaping those green green eyes
But your secret’s safe with her
She won’t tell a soul at all
No hiss, no meow, no purr so deep
For she takes no mind of others’ lives

The coming dawn
So light and warm
Will find her curled into a ball
Fast asleep, and dreaming of dusk
Upon the cushion
Of your father’s wing-back chair

 

 

 
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Six Year Sentence

Meaning seeps from the words
Etched upon the wall

Write letters in my head
As footsteps echo down an endless corridor

Tune into the classics
Sung from the shower block

Grasp at numbers from the well of memory
But it’s too late for that one phone call

Sink the needle deep
Tattoo a forgotten saint on my forearm

Try and find redemption
For the crimes that I’ve committed


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April: Post Script


In two different hospitals, on opposite sides of a city somewhere in Europe, the lighting flickered out simultaneously, nurses gasped in surprise, patients did their best to sit up in uncomfortable metal beds, and at the exact same moment, two women in labor gave birth, one to a little girl, and the other, a baby boy.


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The Gorgeous Explosions

Paint the sky in Halloween
Flames illuminating the horizon
Streaked with plumes of smoke
The embers will drift from the heavens
Landing upon our warm cheeks like kisses
Sparks will dance in our fevered eyes
Spectral fireworks are burning over Eavestown tonight

We dance
In the beauty of this night
Shedding skin and letting go of life
I can say all the things that were locked inside
Let them pour from my mouth
Like fountains of holy water
We’ll drown in pure redemption

The only thing found in the wreckage
Will be good luck charms and wedding bands
All else
Will be completely gone
Erased from light and time
Never was, and never will be
Fading voices sing
This final elegy
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European Car Club

She’ll look great
Wearing nothing but the leather
But first, let me take off my driving gloves
Camera flash lightning storm
Casting her in its bold brilliance
Capturing her fleeting essence
To be resurrected in the darkroom
Another portrait for my private collection
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Oh City, Burn

Oh, City
Burn, Burn, Burn
Long into the night
Oh, city
Burn, Burn, Burn
Let your leaping flames lick
And devour my past sins whole

Oh, City
Please, Please, Please
Burn for me so bright
Oh, city
Please, Please, Please
Let their beds reduce to ash
We can gather the remains
And paint a scene worth stepping into

Oh, City
Burn, Burn, Burn
Like both our lives depended on it

They depend on it

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Fall Children (prologue)

August 16th, 2012.
Los Angeles, California.

The shrink’s office looks just as I always thought one would look.
                Reclining leather couch for the patient (that’s me) to lay back on, arms folded across their chest, or fidgeting with their hands, expensive looking office chair for the doc. Room decorated with impressionist style paintings (originals not prints), numerous pot plants dotted about the place, looking like they have been shipped straight from the Amazon rain forest – or what is left of it. Seriously, this room is straight out of a movie, and I should know – I spend a lot of time in front of the tube.
                But all clichés aside, the place is oddly comforting. The late afternoon sunlight is  coming through the west windows and pooling on the polished wooden floorboards in golden puddles. The air holds the faint scent of top quality cologne and furniture polish, hinting at some kind of order. And order is good.
                The doc gestures for me to take my position on the couch, and I comply. He takes a thick pad from his rosewood desk, then sits on the office chair and crosses one leg over the other. He absentmindedly pushes his glasses back into position with a wrinkled index finger, and retrieves a gilded fountain pen from the pocket of his tweed jacket. He gives his watch a fleeting glance, and our first session officially begins.
                The doc starts out with the expected starter questions: what’s my age? (28), what’s my occupation? (none), is this my first time seeing a therapist? (yes, unless you count Dr Jack Daniel’s – he doesn’t laugh at my attempt at a joke), how much do I drink? (alot), am currently taking any medication? (yes), what? (Xanax), how long have you been prescribed the drug? (a good while), can you be more specific? (hell, I don’t know. Five years I guess), are you currently in a relationship? (no), sex life? (apart from Mrs Palmer and her five daughters?), you get the picture.
                He then switches the leg he has folded over the other, and we get down to the heart of the matter: why did you come to seek my help?
                I smile, and ask if it’s okay to smoke (he nods, and gets a clean ashtray from a desk drawer). I thank him, and take my Camels from the pocket of my jeans. I strike a match, hold it to the tip of the cigarette, and drop it into the ashtray to burn out.
                I take a long drag, such the rich smoke into my lungs, and exhale slowly, letting the smoke drift lazily towards the ceiling fan.
                And I begin my story.

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Mirror Gazing

Dead children, pressing tiny faces against window glass
One hundred little hearts pierced with tips of knitting-needles
Left deflated and leaking, beneath your clean white sheets
Winter arrived, catching her unawares while catching falling stars
You relished her radiance, drowned in her delightful spirit
Before extinguishing the flame which burned so bright, behind soft brown eyes

Bodies stack up like lost limbs of countless trees
Blood drained, and collected in empty jam jars
They line your study walls, labeled in flawless font
Each bearing only a first name:
Sophie, Susie, Stefanie, Sophia
Little lives left for Death to collect like cigarette cards

Sleep soundly, savor the breath left in your lungs
For I am coming for you, on silent wings of night.
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The Implications of Time Travel

Falling in love with future saints
She painted her heart upon the bedroom wall
And reached for my face with slender fingers of porcelain
Before vanishing back into the time -stream

I drove to the library on fitful roads
Where I consulted metal filing cabinets
And wrote her name upon my arm in black ink
I bathed in the glory of my newfound love

A book, a thick illustrated volume
Will serve as my faithful guide
I will grow old as the years fall away
And hold your breath in the depths of my lungs
Until I’m delivered into your arms once again
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