An Exercise in Necessary Evil

Don't get cute with me, sweetheart
I'll lean on you till I get what's needed
Information don't cost a dime
So cut the act and cough up

I'm following faint tracks in the snow
Across desolate fields and railroad sleepers
Finding faded photographs hidden in the walls
Of lonely half-burnt houses

I've consulted carnival fortune-teller witches
And telephone clairvoyants
For $2.99 per minute
So much for priceless knowledge
I'm right back where I started
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The Casting Couch

Take a bow, and vow to never say goodnight
Behind the curtain, I'll be waiting
To grab and push you into the dressing room to undress that gorgeous actress
Kiss the places the flashbulbs wished they illuminated
And be strangled to near-death by the B-roll
Slightly bleeding on the cutting room floor
Silhouetted she stands, knife in hand
Ready to carve this heart into the shape of love
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I miss the days when I
Would drink myself into oblivion
Wake with the weight of indecisions
Heavy on my head
Or find I was sharing a mattress with my old friend Regret
It's been a while since I messed up that bad

The day can only get better from that moment on
And I'm sick of starting out so fervent
I burn out by midday

I was forever tired when I drank
And now I'm sober haven't seemed to wake up any
Then at least I had the epiphanies found in endless star-studded nights
 I just want to feel something again
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The Lost Art of Letter-Writing

Operator, I’m begging you
(!the lines are down!)
(the switchboard’s spitting sparks like loose teeth)
This conversation’s not fit for the party line
(!!!spin the dial like Russian roulette!!!)
It’s not telepathy
And even less reliable
(The ink bled out)
(Before it had a chance to dry)
How can I begin to explain?
My heart’s been lost in the mail

The Lost Art of Letter-Writing first published in Aphelion.

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We Grew Old Before Our Time

Childhood thwarted by realization and experience
A darling boy with streaks of grey
The falling stars burnt holes through upturned palms
Before setting the tree house alight

The scars still sit upon the neck
In the shapes of little kisses
Our bones now creak
When we try to take a lover’s hand

Can it be regained?
It floats just slightly out of reach
With sparkling eyes we watch
As it all just fades away
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There's Always Mexico

Trying to keep the aces in my hand
But these fingers won’t cease to shake
I’ve developed a penchant
For trying my luck at Russian roulette
No matter how hard I try and pretend
I know it’s just a matter of time
Each and every day
I make myself sick to the stomach
And do my best to hide in fiction
But this is more surreal
Than any pill-induced dream
And she’s just a fey as I am
So I’m putting down all I have
If all else fails
There’s always Mexico
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Lassitude and Longing

There’s blood on these hands
And death in the air
I’ve been gone for so long
That I can’t recall
Where it was I came from
O, but I have a destination
Someplace to travel
With my head held low
Solemnity can be the greatest of weapons
In the war against time and self

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Summer Legs

The susurration of corn fields
Omnipresent and lulling
Skin is blood-warm beneath the floral-patterned fabric of her sundress
The roof tiles are sagging
Windows thick with timeless dust
The sunlight pools on the creaking floorboards
Strawberry-blonde hair billows in a silken cloud
So exquisitely lost
Longing to never find our way back home

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Beyond Repair

Call me misanthropic, but
I grew sick of making people feel special
Of the concept of folie a deux
Inkhorn hearts and friendships formed
In a mutual forlorn feeling

Call me misogynistic, but
I am oh so sick of women wallowing in conceit
Of falling for the idea of a love so true
Plaintive soliloquies and bonds never broken
As long as two hearts beat in sincerity

But I am the grandest of fools
For part of this delirious brain
Still holds tight to a blood-soaked slither of hope
And regularly gets lost
In dime-store romanticism
And fervent dreams
Of brown-eyed girls
In idyllic small towns
That could never exist

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Alone in a hospital room
Reaching a trembling hand to the frosted window pane
The woods are calling
But I have no way to leave

The snow tumbles down
Swirls and flakes that aren't mine to taste
I think I can make out the tracks of a fox or fisher cat
Or maybe it's Church come back from the dead yet again

I'm afraid
I cannot survive on artificial light alone
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I’m growing ever so tired
Of half-dead mornings
Shying away from direct sunlight
Like a vampire caught in a tricky situation
Or a werewolf stumbling homeward

I’m growing ever so sick
Of the dirty floors and thoughts
And surprisingly unchipped coffee mugs 
That double as ashtrays
That I feel like I wake up in

And I’m reaching the end of my tether 
With these overconfident girls 
And my stuttering shameful self 
You can never learn
When it comes to instincts
I’ll never learn 

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