Fallen Cinders ~~ A Halloween Poem


FOR HALLOWEEN

Fallen Cinders

Don’t know if there were other beings. So far no one I’ve queried has dyed-in-the-wool knowledge of their existence.

The Doors – People Are Strange

Measuring about 4’8” they had gray-green eyes and a snarled mess of teal blue hair that fell from their heads to their ankles.  A race of Cousin Its who had escaped from the Addams Family and mated with Smurfette.  Every so often there would be a great divide within these walking haystacks when tentacles would emerge, grasp the being nearest to them all the while emitting spores that enabled them to engage in a type of conjugal bliss harmonizing their universe and populating future cosmos.  Egg donors pushed out womb offerings for the spores’ consummation.

You must allow the bed to take you. It’s the only way. Pollination. Germination. Fruit.  Appendages.

Steles push up granite flowers. Stone Flowers. Stillborn. Alien stillborns cry out for vindication.

He’s just a middle-aged painted Lolita straining to call forth the waiting semen amidst a garden of extraterrestrial after-births.

The Beatles – The Fool On The Hill

Sulky gargoyles indulged in the meadow.

State bed

State bed

Date: ca. 1698

Culture: British

Medium: Wood, covered in blue silk damask

Dimensions: 12 ft. × 6 ft. 6 in. × 6 ft. (365.8 × 198.1 × 152.4 cm)

Sometimes I would watch as they chased and caught smaller humanoid beings decapitating them with a lassoed tentacle tug then planting their tiny heads as seeds with the promise of a shrunken head springtime crop during the moon’s 6th ellipses. Tasty. Delicious. Like brussel sprouts sauteed in olive oil.

Gathering at the ceremonial castle they marched in sync howling chanting:

Babbling Bitches have me in stitches.

The Babble of the rabble gives rise to bewitches.

On and on a series of feet stampeding through Wonderland. Wheelers keeping an uneven but steady tempo.

Aristocratic corpses shimmer in glee.

A dead Mariachi Band Member dances for filthy lucre.

The Cyclist body lay crumpled between sighing posts. Mangled beyond recognition. His bike wheels spinning waiting for its riders return. He was the color of repose.

Ahhh…. Look at All the Lonely People. Where do they come from? Where do they all belong?

Beatles- Eleanor Rigby

Somebody needs to check to see if Elvis is in the alligator. For there is an umbrella that will take you to the 13th floor.

We come from a long line of Firestarters, feeling nostalgic for another self but knowing that those above gather the fallen cinders.

The Old Castle

The Old Castle

Artist: Emanuel Murant (Dutch, Amsterdam 1622–1700 Leeuwarden)

Medium: Oil on wood

Marionettes


Vintage Pair of Black Marionettes-Entertainers (Puppets)
Vintage Pair of Black Marionettes-Entertainers (Puppets)

Marionettes

Are we Life’s marionettes? Controlled by an unseen master puppeteer?  Who actually dangles the strings of destiny? Us or an invisible mind forcing us to dance to an unwelcome tune. And at life’s who cuts the cord and meets out justice?

We merely at its pleasure jerked about from place to place never knowing where we may land. Then tiring from our unstable dance, the bored child man casts into outer darkness. Thrown in the land of misfits serving captivity and blame.

Shall I base my destiny on a fickle entity or wrest away the strings, slash & burn then take control of me.

I stand on the precipice ready to take flight or fall ignobly into the abyss.  I lost all sense of myself and gained only a hallucination of you.

No longer did my reflection appear in my vanity mirror, but instead a grizzled, gnarly stranger with hot breath and commanding tone invading my life like so unmanageable mutant alien beings taking over my body, my life, supplanting my dreams with your insane aspirations.

Then one day all the Muses and Goddesses convened, delivering me from subjugation SubSumation into an early manmade grave.  Yes…..He chased but my soul took flight leaving him earthbound gazing upwards at my Gossamer Wings.

The Workers Leave No Footprints


Dreams Never Die

Misty Foggy Morn

Youth said “Dreams Never Die.” Twenty years passed then Recession kicked in. New Realities were born. Twelve hour workdays became the norm.

Like a drowning man Dreams surfaced again and again only to plummet down to the watery deep. All the while knocking at 1% door watching them through one-sided window laugh, play, drink and party with no thought for the ‘Morrow’. We the unseen only imagining free time for our dreams.

Dreams that must wait until Social Security beckons if death does not reach us first. Fore bread, water, warm clothes and a place to live cry louder. Goodnight Sweet Dreams. May you one day resurrect to a New Dawn.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The Working Poor Leave No Footprints

Surrounded by a plethora of people who seemed to surface like bloated corpses after spring thaw.  Worker bees we are all meaningless specks of dust being recklessly scattered by blustery winds.  Modern day Robber Barons throw battle weary soldiers back into the battle while they sit sipping tea in Ivory Towers.  Thirty-seven years a professional, now placating rot breath Sabbath suits long in tooth, visions of Mammy dancing in their heads.  Limestone Liver spotted wrinkled bone bags befoul the air with endless demands.  Dontcha know Miz Daisy learned to drive herself and the Help all went to the French Rivera.

Foggy Misty Morn

I am Hagar cast out of my prosperous household, denied by the Master and Mistress I once served.  Thrown out of my protectors’ house my Dream-child and I await Our Avenging Angel of Salvation.

My Dreams now dead buried under work obligations, mountains of rules and regulations that I seem to constantly violate just by being. No miracles exist for me. Only years of mindless drudgery ahead.  Millennial Overseers govern my every move with their remote control mind games.  Freedom lies dormant within my imagination.  My brain has been put out to pasture because intelligence is not needed or wanted and creativity has become a sin.  Automaton Me clad in nondescript dull uniform easily replaceable by the next set of hungry hands yearning for the pence dispensed from the rich mans table.  Hey!! Who’s next up on the Auction Block?!!  Come lock step into the Plantation Mausoleum filled with objects which are valued more than drones who guard them.  We be Aliens in our own Land.  Serfs never reaping a hard earned Harvest.

Yet soon a New Day will Dawn, Dreams will bear fruit and Visions be reborn.

Island of the Damned -- Bocklin

A Building at Rest ~ Goth Holiday at the Museum


A Building at Rest

The museum Thanksgiving Day 2012
the museum is populated by a wonderful yet mysterious quiet & peace undisturbed by the frenetic masses. Silences punctuated only by flowing water, the endless hum and shifting of building machinery.

Even normal noises can be unsettling. Especially those associated with people. The building has become a living breathing organism Uttering creaks moans sighs groans from nearly 150 years of footfalls, voices, radios, songs, cantatas, the chiming of clocks, exclamations of awe & wonder. Whispers from an Archaic Victorian century long past to digital diversity.

Oh what secrets lie transfixed within these silent walls yearning for release.  The Hunger has been unleashed upon the populace.

The immortality of brick, mortar & steel record the march of ethnicities & nations who roam free these hallowed halls.

Sometimes the sudden interruption of footfalls becomes ominous, invading the sanctity of the Holy Sanctuary. Even the sound of my own steps is somewhat menacing. What spirits accompany me on perambulations among the saints and sinners?

The feeble burbling of the fountain stream’s half-hearted attempts to empty its essence, struggling to pollinate magnificent coins.

The day is at end, the light has faded. Now the night crew enters to continue the evening melody.

Hotel California
Hotel California

Reflections Goth Holiday 2013

Cadaver Mind A.D.D.

Heaving sighs and moans.  Creaks, chrupping of brick, mortar, steel and glass pane windows. Blood oozes and drips from open wounds in Laymen’s red brick walls. Elevator doors open and a thousand wailing, howling, grieving souls swoop through the air and into the Medieval Court crying for revenge. Flight of the Valkyries. The Martyrs avenge their unjust and untimely deaths. Swirling and whirling like profane dervishes from netherworld’s portal of the undead.

Angels Falling
Angels Falling

Hail Mary Echoes from thousands of Knights, monks, Nuns, bishops, and church saints racing through Byzantium corridors. Spirits of Reliquaries issue forth warnings and admonishments to modern day savages. Reliquary Fingers of Blessing Inflict Pain Yanking Opening Death’s Door breaking off bits and pieces of flesh, bone, teeth and hair for deposit into ossuary banks.

Slats opening and closing mindfully as though giving some secret Morse Code. Dioramas of Death act out murderous suicidal dramas. Eagle slays Dragon plucking out blinded eyes from empty orbs.

Medieval castle built long ago by invaders long forgotten. A grand foyer flanked by two long hallways of Byzantine art leading into Medieval Sculpture Hall filled with statues of Madonnas, Saints, Mystics, Relics, and tombs from Egypt, Europe, Greece, Cyprus and South America. Kali goddess of the sarcophagus raises her many arms in Victory. Subterranean pipes hissing steam clanking unrest.

Island of the Damned -- Bocklin
Island of the Damned by Bocklin

Secret panels opening up to Mausoleum subterranean chambers containing overturned ossuaries, bones bleached white scattered throughout the tombs.

Abruptly Angels on the Christmas tree come to life and like ravenous vampire bats attack unsuspecting visitors. Reanimated Reliquary Arms reach out to throttle throats of fleeing patrons. Fang toothed Egyptian mummies arise and break through display cases to satiate their ancient eon hunger upon frenzied victims. Their desert saliva spreading infection causing festering vile pus filled carbuncles to captive prey.

Emptiness and Futility of Life
Life’s ignoble Ending

Desire run rampant as sacrilegious effigies coupled and reached radiant necrophilia orgasm stone bodies now made supple. Mystics and Monks glowered lecherously all the while reciting Gregorian chants, dirges and cries for absolution filling the room with the intensity of their mating.

Gargoyles descended from illicit trysts with human females and warlock man beasts gave into the licentious behaviors’ anointing themselves and fleeing clienteles with seminal fluid oily slick.

Orgasm became an exceptional obsession.

Viscous gleaming blood, shimmering with glided preternatural flakes of light. Black Iris her breasts like soft fragrant pillows.

Descendant Daughters’ of Jephthah and Tamar


Descendant Daughters’ of Jephthah and Tamar

Rape of Tamar
The Rape of Tamar

Lord I Believe Help me overcome my unbelief. Father please remove all fears, self-doubts and my nagging sense of failure from my troubled heart and soul.  I am the broken winged sparrow lying shivering cold, bereft of hope, hungry for acceptance, on yon forest glen. A Woodland Tragedy. Will Jesus the Gentle Woodsman gather up my shattered heart and bind up my bloody infected wounds? Lord Hear my plaintive cries.

Which voices do I believe? The Judging critical voices of men with ravenous sharp toothed dogs or the brutal voices of women holding sharp knives ready to strike and drive men into grave ground. Or Dear Lord your Tender Still Small voice as you Cradle me in your arms, safety bound.  Oh God comfort the descendant Daughters’ of Jephthah and Tamar that we may find solace, peace and sanctuary in a weary heartless land.

http://www.aboutbibleprophecy.com/p349.htm