The Killing Moon

I am a pale dancer dancing through forest and time.

He has no name or age. He is just himself. He is whatever I want him to be, but he always turns out the same. Always slender, always pale. Always gentle yet unafraid. Always my hunter, as I am always his prey. True, at first, I was terrified. So I ran from the ocean to stardusty hills till I could run no more. And then I was fallen prey. He did not use a bow, a sword, an axe, a knife to slay me. He merely gazed into my eyes and thus my soul. And here he saw, my hunter saw, the frightened doe and the wild huntress all inside me. All present and accounted for, always living and dying.

We dance under the killing moon. We swim in stars. We both are waiting for the day I never leave him. We are waiting for the day when we can slay the wolves that keep us apart. Hungry beasts in my head. They howl and claw at us when we kiss. But my hunter is a stubborn one. He pulls me close, and the wolves howler louder and bite harder. He pulls me closer still because he knows I can stand the pain of tooth and claw, because I am always his huntress.

If we run hand in hand and fast enough we can evade the wolves for a little while. That is when we love and dance, lay in each others spaces and hold close the whispered terms of endearment. But it is not long before a howl breaks the sky and barks of fire shatter our glass courting.

The moon turns red and all lay still, save our beating hearts. Save my trembling hands and his words of hush to try and sooth the doe inside me.

Moon drips of blood, blood of huntress, blood of hunter, blood of doe and wolf. Shattered cries and whispered words, a dream broken and glued together and broken again; a cycle as frequent as the moon herself.

One day the wolves will be slain and the blood will drip no more. And hunter and I will love. But the killing moon still rises, and all the woods grow dark and still. Expect for beating hearts and teeth; that gnaw and gash at pale flesh.

Killing moon rises and we kiss.
Killing moon falls and we kiss still.

We kiss until the wolves call.

Playing Destiny.

I play Destiny now-a-days.

It’s something I’ve gotten pretty good at.

I turn my book and lay bones,
My fingers,
I mistake them for bones sometimes,
Across these pages.

Soft,
Silk,
Cool,
And occasionally gentle…

Sort of like how you are.

I don’t like this part.

Blood for blood.

He died a long time ago and yet…
You still feel loss.

Wash your hands.
Wash your face with your tears.

I’m right here, Dream.
If you just looked up you could see someone that loves you…

But I am Destiny and you won’t look up.
You won’t see me cry even though, I am.
And little tiny dreams and desires fall from my eyes; gateways to the truth.

I whisper to you. Lips pressed against paper bodies hoping for a glance,
Or change.
But I won’t change you.


Because I am Destiny and you won’t look up.

A reflection

I've been waiting six years. This makes me sound old... maybe I am. I don't know. I'm listening to The Love Cats now with the biggest smile on my face. It's strange to get a peice of paper and suddenly everything that happened today becomes a blur. My mom knocked on the door. I stood up and opened it. And she smiled and held them out. I looked at her, then her hands, then her, then her hands again.

"Well?"

I held them tight and spun around in circles.

Failure

You taste failure on your tongue. It's a little bitter but you don't care anymore. Across the hall someone blast West End Girls and you want to punch them. You want the perverted physical contact of nuckle on cheek. I don't blame you. It's normal. You go back to your thoughts like the rest of them. But all that you can think of, a good excuse is that you hate the Pet Shop Boys.

Low lifes.

Dogs.

But you'd rather have a date with failure. Because failure is the common, almost, homely comfort of your generation! ... Or so you write, ever so boldy. Success is a whore, but not a trashy one. She is a...a... a well paied hooker. More like a call girl.

And what is failure?

Failure could be your mother or someone hopelessly in love with you and you can stand them. It's not what you want, but it's alright. It's routine you are used to it you know its embrace and the human mind enjoys familiarity.

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i love my art friends.

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Plainsong

Every time I listen to Plainsong by The Cure I feel so… warm. It’s like I’m being held again or kissed. But it also feels like there is nothing around me, and I’m alone again. These two feelings at once are draining me, maybe even hurting me. But I keep going back and I cling to the first one as much as I can but it always fades away.

Swimming in the sky,
Twirling by the touch of your hands.

Laying in stars,
The few that I can actually reach.

I only see two,
and they're in your face.

So is another day.

In Another Place

My dad is not here now.

He is in some other place,

Another river in the ocean of time.

He is not here.

He is not in 2012 on 7:09 P.M.

Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young flood our ears.

And I glance over.

I wish I had his eyes.

Blue and watery like the ocean he adores so much.

We listen to Helpless.

I hear his Southern accent come out in his off key voice

But its hard to keep in time with Young.

So it is forgiven.

But he isn't Helpless.

Or here right now.

He's in another place,

Somewhere before I was born,

Waltzing with the Country Girl.

And, I love to watch him dream.

Although it saddens me to know,

That he will be thrown back into reality.

Back into the cold country road we travel to go home. And though your confidence may be shattered... What does it matter?

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Myself.

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Dream

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