On Leaving

It's not leaving this earth that frightens me....
But who would look out for those that I care so
deeply for.
So blessed. So grateful. So tired.

In the Rye

Remaining...in limbo...

Where wind blows but isn't felt...
Where pain exists but doesn't plague....
The rye it calls her soul..
She devils with a chemical cocktail like Hercules in Hell...
Oh Death, why do you not long for her as she longs for you...
Like a lover...a fix...an end...rebirth or recreation...
Why do you shut her out...
Tired is a soul...take her into the rye..
Where she can haunt no one, hurt no one, ever more.

Last Call

Late.

Dark.
A warning.
Time in a bottle.
An end. A beginning.
One last ounce of courage or pain.
The rain.
Night.
Without a fight.
But flight.
Because it's over, when he makes the last call.

Night Creatures

Like animals twisting, turning, grinding...yearning. I sit and watch a hoard of hookers as the music thumps...new, old, sexy, bold...give them a pole and it's like a grand strip club...grand ...now there's a word I really hate so much I could puke every time I hear it. But give them a pole; they will come, cum or come alike. Short skirts, stockings, boots, some hot..some definitely not, they eye the pole like  some sort of competition...sizing it up then eyeing  opponents. Consuming poison until the courage meter's about to split at the seams and it all seems like a dream, and I wish it were a dream...because one after the other they take their turn...spinning, humping, grinding pumping that fucking pole like it's some sort of sex God...and I just sit in hiding, camouflaged, at the credence table, is it real or fable ...a wooden pole they christen ..when they awaken, splinters like winter will bite their softest flesh..I slink into the nothingness..watching from the rye..I know it's crazy but it's where I'd rather be...in the rye.