Loving Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar, leading your flock 
of raven hounds,
could you smell it on me: 
despair and weakness
with a whiff of amontillado?

Do you possess a sixth sense?
Am I the low hanging body 
on your corpse tree?

Would you love me, 
then leave me, bury me,
mourning me with a proper lament?

Brick me in with your own hands,
whisper sweet nevermore in my ear.

Could we role play in a sepulcher?
Let me call you cousin.

Rise and fall for me, Edgar.
Swing your pendulum round and round.

Feel the tell tale beat of my heart,
served just the way you like it:
cold and seasoned with despair.

Find it here.

Love of the Red Death

Bricked up.  Sealed in.
Your own Montresor.
Love and hate barricaded
in equal measure.

I slid in gently,
indifferent to the snap of bone.

You wore your gloom, unknowing.
Your beaked mask protruded,
limiting your vision

You stroked my inspection, 
heavy with ambergris and mint.
Your fingers were already blackened.

Gird your wall, Prospero.
Iron your gates.

I can feel the telling rash,
heated and heavy.
The infection is already within.

Find it here.

Dance with Death

The ground is softest behind the pond.

Ankles lost in the mud.

The shovel grows weary.

Your neat package of tape and plastic

is fraying around the edges.

I reveled in the calm.

I never had to answer questions 

that were never asked.

The loneliness ghosted my nights

until you oozed your way 

into my every crevice.

I waited and waded through calls

and messages of self doubt and uncertainty.

Scheduling became my master.

I longed for the lost quiet 

even as I enjoyed the rush of being

pinioned and over powered;

the gravity and the thrust,

the taking of flight.

I forgot my way,

and crossed the streams.

The cost-benefit ratio weighed

against you.

I chose the silence.

The neighbor has a new dog.

I need to dig the hole a little deeper.

Find it here.

Demon Lover

I knew you, but briefly.
Your words a flutter on my lips.
You boarded your airship to anywhere,
leaving me, altered and alone.

I peeled your skin
to make my own suit.
Curled your mustache.
Flowered your beard.
Bow tie or cravat?
Both suited you.

We waltzed in dazzling splendor,
strolled in the depths of the catacombs,
Our conversation balloons
followed in slow triumph.

Your phantom weight strained
even as your incubi fingers
found all my secrets.

Until, fleshed, you returned,
breathing in my castle.
Your weight collapsed 
all my architecture,
ephemerally perfect.

My demon lover imploded,
Xanadu, revisited.
The goo will leave a stain.

Captain, board your ship.
My port has closed.

Find it here.

One in 7 billion

A few days ago, I was at an exhibition with a friend.  

I don't remember the conversation that led up to it, but as we paused for a moment in front of a depiction of voodoo ritual, he commented, "Did you know that there are over 7 billion people on the earth today?"

I waited for him to continue, expecting some further reflection on overpopulation, dwindling global resources, maybe even something about the effects of climate destabilization.

Instead, he said, "You would think that in a world of 7 billion people that there would be even one person that would just get me."

In that moment, I thought I had never heard anything quite so heartbreaking, and so very, very true.

Yes, yes, oh yes, I realized, that is exactly what I want; all that I have ever really wanted.

Why, in a world of 7 billion people, isn't there anyone who understands me?

I'm tired of facing the endless crowds and the lengthening days, always alone; a mask of competent resilience carefully in place.

Find me, please, I'm right here; waiting, just waiting for you.

Find this piece here.

Vintage Odd Couple - TAW challenge

Sometimes we love not wisely, but too well!