Immortal Musings

your venomous fire,

  my black widow spider.

  Between your hips

  lies a solar eclipse,

  the final frontier

  pulling me ever nearer.

  Your nails in my back,

  I yield to your attack;

  a ship lost at sea,

  your waves crash over me.

  Shipwrecked in the morn,

  I again feel your scorn;

  love me then leave me,

  once more you deceive me.

  The Ripper

  He is

  waiting. In the polluted streets, under the

  soot-filled sky,

  He

  is

  w

  a

  i

  t

  i

  n

  g for her.

  Not just any her; the perfect

  specimen,

  the ordinary lusty harlot who

  shines

  like the summer sun in his eyes.

  Like Mary Ann, or Annie Chapman:

  He chuckles richly at the thought of their

  faces;

  at their screaming mouths reflected

  in the polished surface of his

  blade.

  The blood, the shrieks

  were kisses they placed upon his face;

  the thrusts

  of his razor was ecstasy, the purest

  climax he had ever known.

  Like Elizabeth Stride, or Catherine Eddowes;

  so sultry, so tainted, until

  purified

  by pain, by torment, by the

  baptism of blood

  at the edge of his stiletto.

  He feasted on their essence, on the

  tidbits he salvaged, so he could

  taste

  how it felt to be impure, so he could

  devour their sinful nature.

  And with their corpses

  tattooed on his brain, and the

  melody of their voices

  swelling in a chorus of pleading for the

  staying of his upraised blade; he

  waits

  patiently, nodding

  to the Whitechapel police who

  only see his gentlemanly attire.

  He waits, eyes passing

  the despondent and hapless, the

  poor, forgotten, used, unhappy souls,

  already in their purgatory

  as he, the Angel of Death, scorns them all.

  Until

  his

  eyes

  behold

  the one, the next

  participant, she who will know the

  euphoria of his blessing

  as he smiles and offers his Judas silver;

  the downfall of the weak and the mighty.

  She

  approaches

  almost shyly, hesitantly, the

  perfect specimen for his

  unadulterated rapture.

  They enter his coach;

  the mouth of darkness yawns as

  the door closes, and

  Mary Jane Kelley

  will scarcely be recognized

  as human

  some hours later, after the

  slicing, the surgical removal

  of her sinning heart.

  While he will be

  in heaven, in

  the dimension of hallowed nirvana;

  sweeter than opium,

  than the sex of a thousand virgins, almost…

  religious.

  He will be complete, while the

  laypeople will dread the very

  notion of his existence.

  They will fear the shadows, fear

  the night, fear his dreadful eye;

  and in their fear they will name him…

  Jack.

  Iron Maiden

  I see you, Iron Maiden, so

  lovely and fair;

  a crown of swords tangled

  in your burnished hair.

  Tell me, o stannic one,

  why must you be

  encased in such cold armor

  protectively?

  Do you bear the scars of

  faded wounds

  from the past, or

  from heartache and failure has

  your shell been cast ?

  I touch your face

  and gaze into your eyes,

  so I can dissolve

  your metallic disguise.

  To behold your beauty,

  a rose in full bloom;

  I wish only to save you

  from this iron tomb.

  So if you do not want me, then

  please

  tell me why

  tears of mercury glisten

  in your steely eyes?

  Unrepentant

  I would do it all again, is

  what he told the frowning priest, the

  one who sought confession and could

  secure his safe release;

  “But she is just a Jezebel, a Lilith and a

  whore,” is what the sour priest replied with

  venom as he swore.

  She is a dusky mistress, a lusty sorceress, for

  truth;

  is what the golden boy said, shining bright

  with all his youth;

  But late at night in my arms she cries tears of

  bitter sorrow,

  for sufferings and sins she’s caused in

  yesterday’s tomorrow;

  and with my love I overwhelm the

  seasons she has cried,

  and so the storms that we create can

  never be denied.

  So upon the morn the boy was placed before the

  roaring gang, the sea of angry faces that had come

  to see him hang

  for consorting with a witch, a pagan mistress

  from the wood, he would be purified

  of sin for the protection of the good.

  And right before he dropped, he saw

  her face amidst the crowd; her widened eyes, her

  parted lips just as their roars grew loud.

  And as his face turned black, he then exhaled his

  final sigh;

  for he knew she’d add his name into her

  chant of nightly cries;

  and as his heartbeat faltered, and his

  vision slowly dimmed;

  he whispered ever softly:

  I would do it all again…

  Colliding Worlds

  Written with Victoria Selene Sky Deme

  As the light dyed

  kaleidoscopes of

  colors ‘cross her face, her

  amethyst eyes beheld

  the look of

  wonder

  that he chased; and as

  her wonder curtsied,

  she dipped fingers

  in his wine; and

  out of blood in afterglow

  he bit her wrists and thighs;

  so that she smiled

  into his bones,

  a fragment girl

  grown bold, so kisses

  from her lips to his

  would conquer souls

  so cold;

  and with his fingertips he

  brushed her skin like

  voltaic feathers;

  his fire coursing from the

  veins of blue blood

  that she severed;

  with her intent

  her brow like silk against

  his calloused palm;

  whispering her secrets

  as she coaxed his

  dreams along;

  and as she writhed

  her eyes alit like

  ruby crimson swirls;

  and as he stroked

  her mental, he then

  bit the sky-named girl;

  and from the skye fell

  teardrops

  that would drench

  him to the bone;

&n
bsp; filled him with their

  conflictions, with the

  soul he’d never known;

  and as she laughed, cheeks

  stained with tears,

  she asked him “Do we dare?”

  “Yes!” he replied, as lightning

  flashed, reflecting

  in his stare;

  and so the waltz crashed thunderous

  as he took her by the waist;

  to dance across a happenstance

  around that haunted place;

  for feral things

  like she and he

  were never meant to dance

  to be that close, for fallen souls

  aren’t meant to be entranced;

  never meant to magnify each

  dirty word and deed;

  nor see the hungry

  children

  careless gods were

  meant to feed;

  nor meant to conquer complex thoughts

  of Woman to a Man;

  nor seek Understanding,

  that was folly, not the plan;

  for gods are moody at their best,

  their humor dark and bent;

  so the two began

  a danse macabre

  like devils heaven-sent,

  and so the lost amassed

  to watch the fires from their

  spark;

  and unheard was the sound

  of worlds colliding

  in the dark…

  Addict

  She has an aura of perniciousness;

  whether the razor edge

  of her words

  that dices the unwary, or

  the dash of menace in her

  smoldering gaze.

  Yet with every sway of her

  snake charmer hips, every

  huskily whispered expression, she

  kicks down my defenses with

  steel-tipped stilettos.

  My glazed eyes pass over the bland

  Stepfords; those automatons who

  bore me with their unresisting compliance.

  I seek a tigress, a hedonistic sea witch

  with a tempest in her smile, and

  manacles

  swinging from her hand.

  And yes, I’ll be her captive, if her

  kisses can eat my passion

  like the fire eats the forest, or

  the raging ocean eats the

  world’s foundations.

  But only for a moment, for

  she is the billowing wind:

  knocking over trees and tearing

  shingles off my rooftop.

  Then as quickly as she blew in, she

  subsides,

  while I shudder in the

  wreckage of her storm,

  wishing there was insurance for

  the damage she inflicts.

  And I now know the allure of

  a moth to the flame, or

  a surfer to a

  tsunami, for I know that

  she is antithesis of my

  equation; my Medusa

  in the guise of Aphrodite.

  Yet when I gaze into her

  iridescent eyes,

  I know my history is prologue;

  self-reflection becomes futile as I

  reach for her again…

  Purgatory

  They walk by alone at times,

  sometimes in pairs or droves, like

  the herds of wildebeests you see on

  the nature channel, or penguins

  in their crisp suits, briefcases in hand,

  mirage thought bubbles of significant

  purchases in mind; justification for motivation.

  High heels click like watches

  synchronized to music played by entertainers,

  rebels of the rat race who like me just observe

  the to and the fro, the swift pace of those

  who roll in hamster cages.

  The train arrives, a sleek Horseman

  of the Apocalypse, taking all in its maw to

  destinations undesired, yet they smile

  all the same as they disappear into

  darkness;

  replaced by other drones

  in the ever busy hive,

  waiting, moving, coming, going,

  in a cycle that never ends.

  Beautiful Disgrace

  A beautiful disgrace I see

  every time she looks at me,

  for like a raven to a dove

  she feels unworthy of my love;

  she feels passion is satisfied

  by counting all the tears she’s cried.

  And I can only watch forlorn,

  as she walks calmly in the storm,

  yet pouring rain cannot erase

  the tattooed tears that carve her face;

  nor can the darkness ever hide

  the gaping wound she feels inside.

  For into it her soul has fled,

  and though she laughs, her smile is dead;

  as empty as a cloudless sky…

  still, she holds on to the lie.

  Vantage Point

  She is tired.

  Tired of the whispers, the stares,

  the contempt from strangers, the

  falsified dentures in an upside down frown.

  If only she were a dragonfly, she thinks;

  she’d fly somewhere that those

  hypocrites,

  those Janus-faced pity sprinklers

  didn’t know who she was.

  She looks at a reflection of flaws;

  a carnival mirror of distorted proportions

  and doesn’t recognize the person who

  stares back at her with rain in her

  eyes.

  If only she could see herself as I do,

  from the shadows where

  she glows like a million paparazzi flashes from

  the fighting spirit within;

  the fragile grit teetering on the brink

  of succumbing to the assault from her

  wounded self-esteem.

  I can only whisper words in the dark,

  for she can never know my

  desire, my almost unbearable ache

  to liberate her from the

  asylum of her depression.

  She can never know these things,

  but confined by my straitjacket of

  self-restraint,

  how I wish that she did…

  Siren Song

  Sing to me, o siren of the

  storm, for I have braved the

  maelstrom for you, I have

  sacrificed a world of land and

  security

  to pursue the intoxicating resonance

  of your voice; I have chased

  your honeyed melodies for so long that

  sandy shores and the perfume of cedars

  have become ghosts that flicker in the

  cemeteries of my memory.

  Sing to me, o siren of the

  storm, feed me with your hymns, for

  food and water are ashes, pale and

  waxen substitutes for the nourishment

  of your voice, your dirge that

  sears my flesh, my soul… my sacrifice

  is worthy, for I give my all, my

  beating heart is yours for you to stab with

  insatiable delight.

  And I am ever resentful of the water droplets

  that slide down your silken skin, the wind that

  snatches back your flowing tresses; for they are not

  I, the lone survivor of the wreckage.

  The ruins of my life are flotsam upon the waters, my

  fortune lies spilled into the depths of the expanse, my

  existence lies upon the teeth of sharp and jagged

  stones.

  Sing to me, o siren of the

  storm, let your ballad envelope me, pour

  down my throat and fill my lungs wi
th

  melodic bliss.

  Asphyxiate me with the allure of

  your voice, pull me into your malevolent

  embrace, your undertow into the swirling

  eye of your siren song, where

  at long last I will lie back against the

  bones of the world,

  content;

  my arms outstretched for that last

  view, that final glimpse of your

  splendor, the glimmer of malice and

  seduction in your eyes before the dark and

  jealous current

  washes me away…

  The Tunnel

  He caught the next train to the future,

  to recapture his past, for time was

  nonexistent, neither first nor was it

  last;

  for in the past was something

  he wasn’t sure he had quite

  lost, a Very Special Something he

  had suffered at great cost.

  The stab wounds in his heart had valid

  reason, he was sure; a lesson learned

  from past mistakes and blunders he

  endured;

  and every lovely woman that came to him

  he calmly wasted; into the maw, the gaping

  wound of heartbreak that he tasted.

  And dismayed by cauterized emotions he then

  boarded

  the future train at cost of all the

  pain his soul afforded;

  Destination unknown, forlorn into the tunnel he was

  cast,

  in hopes to capture memory long lost

  to him at last.

  For the Lonely

  This isn’t for the lovers, the

  intertwined souls, the overlapped

  heartbeats

  on a floating divan of rose petals

  and hovering angel wings.

  This is for the one who

  yearns; who

  coats her pillowcase with

  salt flavored diamonds, who

  listens to the wind

  at night as it

  whistles

  through the hole in her chest, the

  cavity where her happiness

  used to dwell.

  I am but a shadow,

  a shade, a ghostly reflection, yet

  I can still recall pain, the

  unexpected shattering of

  visions of glittering tomorrows.

  So take your hand into mine;

  fall

  into the embrace of the dreamless,

  sleep

  the slumber of tranquility, as

  in the darkness I sing this

  hymn to you: the precious

  forgotten, the lost

  and lonely…