Metatropolis

His imagination
was a multi-tiered tiara of
themes and tropes and plots,
his skull crowned in a cumbrous
cityscape
of characters
all struggling in unrest,
screaming for their voices to be heard,
wanting their stories told, no matter
how obscure and anonymous
in their high-fantasy high-rise penthouses
or their gritty ghetto alleyways
of realism;
yet, through neglect and age,
diversion and decay,
genre-gang violence and civil war,
trope infighting and
work ethic entropy,
that skyscraper-crenellated crown
toppled and crumbled,
beset by plagues of
personal turmoil,
quaking faultlines of
time schedules and menial hours,
and that great destroyer of all worlds,
DOUBT,
and, through these natural catastophes
and simple attrition to
details,
that metatropolis
succumbed, degenerating to nothing more than
schizophrenic
flights of fancy,
all lost to the fog of
forgetfulness.
That overburdened monarch,
mobbed by the fomenting rabble,
abandoned his city-crown
and went into the Elysium of
exile, hearing the
vox populi
no more.

Free “Chloe Among The Clover” giveaway.

Chloe2coversmallscale

 

This weekend I will be having a giveaway for my children’s novel “Chloe Among The Clover” on Amazon kindle. The novel follows a chick in the (literal) Summer of youth and is intended for children on a surface level, but also is intended for adults in its symbolism and subtext. I have received positive feedback from children and adults, so if you want some light reading, give it a try. There is a paperback version too, priced at $8. I hope to have the sequel, “Stormy Within The Strawberry Patch”, ready by Christmas.

Cast-Rated

Death by a million cuts,
his agenda faltered and fell, headless,
dickless,
at the bladed ballot box
and its executioner’s block.
Headsmen, one and all,
neutering with a
scratch of the pen,
the pull of the lever,
undercutting his
tyrant’s optimism
and
approval rating.
And here he was,
only yesterday,
swollen with
self-satisfaction,
engorged with his glandular
ego,
and yet
the rubber ring is set
as we band together,
his testiness blackening
while his testes constrict
in a tightening noose.
Gelded by the
“losers”
he disdains so much,
there is no more pleasure for him—
only impotence and loss.

Keystone

The house divided
one against the other
as each derided
sister and brother,
yet, despite the split
having halved the whole
it was a good fit
leaning bole to bole,
codependent to a fault
(pun intended)
and though having ought
to have just ended
in a collapsed pile
of a resentful jumble,
their crush held meanwhile
so neither could tumble,
and their wedge issue
kept them apart,
heads butting where two
were at odds, that heart
of the archway, their hate
being the keystone,
which was a stalemate
better than standing on their own.

Cold

Standing in the cold,
I watched snow fall last night,
white specks drifting down
from a great black height
and stared at one snowflake
twirl-tumbling down,
inevitably, its uniqueness
arrayed as a crown
lost in the distance, the dark,
obscure in its detail,
its fractals of personality,
its soul, as it fell
to the wet, glistening ground,
on the hard concrete,
and it melted upon impact,
next to my unmoved feet;
and I wondered if Someone
in that black-and-white starkness
looked on as we all fell,
from darkness to darkness,
and, bundled up warmly,
cocooned indifferently to all,
it did not deign to catch us
as it watched us fall.

Tisiphone

Bullets beget bullets, thus,
as seeds to trees to seeds,
a violence which enslaves all of us
until murder, itself, breeds.

Pernicious pandemic of profiteers
pilfering the dead for a lucrative cause
and promoting a life of arrears
and chaos from order’s laws.

Your seeds bloom from fertilizer
afforded by endless blood debts
in the hearts of each survivor
who, aggrieved, never forgives or forgets.

And so the paradox bears fledglings
as fear and anger born of Love,
for the slain dead spread their wings
in every heart—hawk born of dove.

The Fury comes, serpent-haired and wild,
cloaked in blood and flayed skin,
raising Cain as Christ is exiled
and seeking vengeance against sin.

Each bullet is a snakebite
envenoming vendettas ever onward,
pursuing a perpetual fight;
cycles into cycles, culling the herd.

It is a cull to credit the coffers
for those whose creed is Fear,
prostituting the Fury with offers
of human sacrifice, year after year.

Behold the war to hereby become
king of the corpse mountain,
the rest of us desensitized, numb,
while blood gushes as a fountain.

Thoughts and prayers to the dead,
but offer blood to our new idol,
and a space in your heart, in your head,
subsuming all else dear and vital.

And join us beneath our beloved goddess
whose serpents bite their own tails—
her bandolier is but a bodice,
each bullet increasing its own sales.

Hunter’s Moon

chikagefinalsize

Shepherd with a crescent scythe,
wheelchair-bound in a field of flowers,
pondering the Dream, this unseeming life
beneath the Presence and its blood-drunk powers.
Brandish the blades, chamber the guns!
Summon the Hunters against the cursed
while throats thirst for the blood that runs;
a river swelling forth from Laurence, the First.
O Amygdala, scion of the Nightmare,
deliver us to the gravestone labyrinth
so we may witness the ritual in the red glare
whereby Mensis may cleanse us, bathed in absinthe.
May we Dream forever among the secrets of Kos
and ascend the fickle flesh and eclipsed thought,
seeking backwards, and forwards, the Primary Cause
of our making, our unmaking—what paleblood wrought.
Gift unto us Eyes, Eyes to see on the inside,
Eyes to see beyond this finite, futile plane,
and to see and seek beyond the stars, far and wide,
to bring humanity upwards into a new time, a new reign.
Let us make contact! Let us be enlightened
by the fungal crowns, the phantoms of stelliferous light
so, as the Pthumerians before, in tombs heightened
to serve you, above and below, beyond our beastly blight.
Let us not succumb, as those fools in the Choir,
nor the degenerates of Cainhurst and their vile queen;
let us instead endeavor righteously to aspire
for the greater good, as Rom does in the Lake’s sheen.
Ah ha! These beasts and their throaty ashen itch,
for which only a Waking death is the certain cure,
will wallow in the wayside, as corpses in a ditch
while we ascend, ascend, ascend— lightsome and pure.

 

Author’s Note:  I am a devout fan of the videogame Bloodborne for not only its addictive gameplay, but its ingenious reconciliation between Victorian vampire and werewolf tropes with Lovecraftian cosmic horrors.  Hidetaka Miyazaki is possessed of a brilliant mind for storytelling and I really hope the Bloodborne universe will be expanded upon in the future.  Currently I have been writing (gradually) a short story set in that deliciously monstrous universe and hope to finish it eventually for this blog.  Often I am scornful towards “fanfiction”, primarily because it is so often of such badly wishful wet-dream quality that I cannot stomach it, but this universe is so perfectly realized that it deserves (what I hope to be) a good quality story incorporating its myths and characters into a fully-realized and properly executed story.  For anyone with a Playstation 4, if you haven’t played Bloodborne, go do it.  I must have rage-quit three or four times before I fell in love with it, but it is a wonderful game.  As Gehrman says, “The night, and the dream, were long…”