Inventory

And Angel Fetch
Raise your flag, young angel
Anticipate the first note
Of God’s trumpet blaring, blaring
Piercing silent air as your feet brush the
Grass blades akin to cumulus folds
Stand proud, young angel
Divine and clad in gold you
Are the messenger, you are the prophet
All eyes fall to you as you let your
Flag fly
Silk singed at its ends as
heaven thunders to earth
Blind rage and blind adrenaline
Cold steel sears your fingertips
Raw and biting inhale exhale like knives
Puncturing your throbbing lungs
And for a moment the music stops
And for a moment you are floating
You are divine, young angel
Raise your flag high

A Be Impotently Fitly Rot
Fast and loose brain chemistry
Count the milligrams, up the dosage
Warning labels ignored in negligence, in
Pursuit of that dizzy feeling
I am a husk with and a husk without
Gripping a sword that buries its blade
Into the palm of my hand
Languished blood dripping down
My soul like bitter promises
Like the promise of autonomy
Of freedom, of godhood
But i am not the god of my own body
And as I fail to swallow those twenty milligrams
I hand my fate over to broken neurotransmitters and I
Submit myself to the foul, ugly beast of withdrawal

Nobly Diviner Fog
The fog rolls in over icy waters
Cloaking rusty steel and shuttered island
Nineteenth Avenue pulsing like the city’s artery
Thrumming in cardiovascularity’s steady beat
I believe not in saints and miracles but
I believe in the boy born from the fog
From the corpse of waterways and
The skeleton of cliffs
A man emerges from the mist
Golden poppies at his feet
Brass gleaming in in the sun’s muddled rays
I reach out a hand to him
Loving, caring, desperate
His fingers ghost through mine
And leaves through which he came
He is swallowed up once again
Disappearing like fog in the sunlight

Anarchy Theme Smut
Hands fumbling under black silk dresses and inky neckties
Hush, hush
A hand ghosts over the other’s mouth before
Desperation leaks into the funeral hall
So much for respecting the dead, he says
We don’t owe them anything, she replies, pulling him closer
Chrysanthemums celebrate the life well-lived
Craning their golden heads up in reverence
Warm bodies crush yellow petals in feverish passion
A hunger so saccharine it disrespects the living
It’s just us, he mumbles between staccato breaths.
Us and the flowers.
The church bell tolls, a loud, horrible sound
Hands linger on bare skin before pulling back
They lean in for a final kiss in parting
a goodbye less final than death
passion tasting sweet like chrysanthemum tea

Contends Within
Contained in worlds I cannot call my own I am
a warrior
a fighter
The chosen one
No one need know who I am on the other side
Fantasy turns a blind eye to cowardice
I will begin this hero’s journey once more
I will take up my word, my magic, my destiny
A prophecy that I choose for myself
For fights nestled in the palms of my hands scar
Less than the torments of life beyond
Bravery only bleeds true on
Imaginary warzones
For in battles waged in code and pixels
In cel shading and open worlds
I will emerge victorious
But I deny myself the glory for I am
only a fighter in my deepest hopes and dreams