The In Outside

Now, open the door 

And step on through  

Into my suite of rooms.

And so very sweet 

My rooms can be...

Door, closet, cupboard:

Here, where most of 

What you're able to 

See, carries 'pon

Its crosshatched back

A silent sliding metaphor

Of a well masked majick door.

Then, with a stride both 

Noble and high-blood 

Dignified, you approach 

An Aeon in a gown.

And I may hide a prize in 

Disguise: an eldritch gate

To the beating black meat 

That is the heart of our 

Common cold and callous 

Eternity.

An eternity, not 

Of words, but just an 

Amorphous cloud of

Random 

Scattered 

Glyphs...

Haiku #394

Feel the moon, the howl 

An anvil in the alley 

Sparks turn flesh to fire 

Balance

You hate me 

I hate you 

In perfect balance 

Are we two 

With nothing that 

We have to do...

A relationship most

Perfect, ideal, and relaxed 

Lay back, end tension 

(I promise you won't 

feel the axe…)

We Fade Away

There are deaths that never 

Seem to die

Shadows that need no light 

Peace that demands 

A fight to arrive 

You ache to live yet 

You'll never survive…

Images

Death is the perfection of a life 

Death is its final form 

After all of the changes 

After all the rearrangements 

Comes the silence of immobility 

The entrance to eternity 

Cognitio Est Antithesis Fidei

Too young was I to 

Be set adrift 

To catch an education, 

But so it was. 

Course by course, in

Coarse conditions,

I wracked up facts, 

Dined on details,

Worked to make 

My mentors jerks. 

Or so they seemed; 

Empty pails, mocked 

Without relief.

But in the end they 

Won the game as

The more I learned 

The less I did believe.

After The Alphabet

After The Alphabet 

Rhetoric, 

The caustic sauce 

That forges words 

Into swords, shields,

Weapons for the 

Wily to wield.

Lacking kennings

Or couplets,

Metres or feet,

Jests for jousts

Then do without.

Seldom are the 

Silent trumped in 

Eloquence or 

Accused of sitting 

On the fence. 

Anachronism

In our nuclear age 

I'm powered by steam;

I will not fly, I 

Will not dream. 

I'd still burn wood 

If only I could 

But I have been told 

My smoke makes the 

Little ones choke,

That they'd rather toke 

When they take 

To those skies where

They know I won't go.…

In this nuclear age

I'm no longer a cleric, but 

Rather more a queer relic, 

Vaguely recalled 

By the so-called well

Schooled, 

But by the vast masses

More honestly 

Considered a fool. 

Still, mayhap it's good 

That I no longer burn 

Wood, for where could 

My chimney's smoke go?

Where'd blow the 

Breeze and who'd care?

Since the nuclear 

Fallout killed off the trees 

And poisoned the 

Remains of the air.…

Modern Life

Stroll any road, 

Pause by a flower bed, 

Where e’re you go 

You’ve a target  

On your head.

This world is cold and 

Evil’s bold;

Each turn you take 

May well be 

The last  

You’ll make.…

Our Lady Heroin…

In the day night dark 

Of my time of troubles 

Through shattered sight

By candlelight 

No man am I but a fly 

My faceted eye meets

Her Novocain gaze

Glazed with care just 

Beyond a  

Bubble of blood 

For an epoch or an age

I have preyed for this 

An eternal instant's bliss

My Lady's sepulchral kiss

Sucks away my pain 

All my dark, after 

The spark and spoon

Illume my room with 

Love 

I see no addiction here

Only her benediction 

Clear

Her fluids combine

With mine, slip and 

Slide along my

Spine to 

Banish 

Time 

Time 

Time 

T i m e

T  i  m  e

My Eldritch Witch

My will-o’-the-wisp, 

Lithe as the night 

I seek her in….

I wander in these

Weird warped woods.

I dare dank marshes.

I’ve come to play,

To volunteer,

For the rôle of bait.

For seeming ages I’ve 

Been hunting 

The eldritch witch 

Who rules my dreams.

Luck I’ve lacked and

Every day I lose 

Her elusive tracks. 

My will is worn, there’s 

Little left except one 

Ember faintly glowing.

There’s no comfort here 

Yet I’m driven on,

Foot by foot by foot.

Heart and soul,

Both maintained

By the flame within

That has yet to die.

My one dream 

Won’t be denied:

Fealty shall I swear 

To my elven queen,

Often glimpsed but 

Never seen.

Oh! How to be 

Some delicacy,

Some fragile treat,

Or liquor rare, angel sweet,

Robust enough to make

My shy potentate

Lick her glist’ning lips 

And, smiling, salivate.

If I can but such glory

Entice, draw her near,

My earnest hope that 

She accepts my offered 

Love and martial skills, 

Blest if in her service 

I am killed. My

Small mortal sacrifice,

Freely given, 

Without a price,

So that thenceforth 

I’ll evermore be 

Part of the magick

That lives in her weft,

Shades her heart 

Within her warp.…

Journeyman

By my will I’ll 

Employ my craft 

With fine-honed axe

And shaping adze.

For a shipwright 

Am I, and it is said 

That if you’d sail

‘Cross lake or sea, 

I’m the man you’ve 

Need to hail.

I’m also he who will,

With wood and occult 

Binding spells,

Build for thee the final

Ship you’ll ever need,

Made to finely fit

The human form. 

With it Gjöll you’ll ford,

With your shield and 

Spear and shining sword,

To feast with Gods and 

Stand with them, 

Heroes all, afore the doors 

Of Valhalla’s hallowed halls.

Quaff your final horn of mead,

Speak if you’ve a final rede

Then gather ‘bout Odin all,

Gods and men standing tall 

Who from blood-soaked 

Fields Valkyries chose,

Dead the flesh left to mould. 

Now sounds Heimdallr’s Horn, 

That long awaited battle call,

As peals of thunder bless 

The marching horde, in this 

Preordained final 

War.

Misdirection

A strange night ends

In meaningless morning.

Sebastian plays calming 

Chords just out of sight

But, I’m confused again:

Which of us is 

Truly playing?

Who’s the composer 

And who is composed?

And what have I lost?

At first I thought a script,

Then, the refined runes

Of a score which 

No one was keeping.

A musical notation to 

Fix the melodic pose,

The harmonic of 

The underclothes. 

Tweak and trim until 

It’s time to leave 

And we’re dressed to kill.

The sheet upon the 

Podium gleams pristine 

Stripped of its notes, 

Leaving but lines 

On paper 

In black distress.

Anachronism

In our nuclear age 

I'm powered by steam;

I will not fly, I 

Will not dream. 

I'd still burn wood 

If only I could 

But I have been told 

My smoke makes the 

Little ones choke,

That they'd rather toke 

When they take 

To those skies where

They know I will not go.…

In this nuclear age

I'm no longer a cleric, but 

Rather more a queer relic, 

Vaguely recalled 

By the so-called well

Schooled, 

But by the vast masses

More honestly 

Considered a fool. 

Still, mayhap it's good 

That I no longer burn 

Wood, for where could 

My chimney's smoke go?

Where'd blow the 

Breeze and who'd care?

Since the nuclear 

Fallout killed off the trees 

And poisoned the 

Remains of the air.…