Monday, February 14, 2011

The Etiquette of Black

The Etiquette of Black:
The etiquette of black  is to be used by those who dwell in shadows.
The etiquette of black is as it is said, a mystery.
And the first rule is never, under any circumstances, question the mystery.
Let it writhe and grow, live in it, accept it, but do NOT enlighten it.
Never refer to light as “safe”. Light burns and it hates.
Only in the dark are you completely safe, so do not deny it.
Remember: you have the right of free silence. Speak not to who you do not wish.
The life of black is a choice, walk with it as though it were a raven upon you shoulder.
Any who question this are not worthy of your concern.
There can never be too much black. Ever.
Silence is beautiful, only in what is not said can there be true truth.
“Silhouette” only means you were brave enough to stand in the light and keep your dark.
Beauty is nothing in absolute darkness, but that doesn’t mean you can’t dress up.
Spiders are not for any reason to be squished.
Don’t feed the monsters, they bite.
Your home is your imagination, your land is your pencil.
Always listen to the voices in your head.
And the last thing to remember is this: every person has a shadow, a deep pool of black.
Do not deny yours, let it fester and bloom.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

You Can't Bring Home the Tide

Another poem, in the same font even. This I wrote when I was rather bored (and being just a bit lazy) so I don't know if it has much meaning, but I thought it was pretty anyway.

There is wind.
It is on my hair.
Billowing my skirts.
Battering my bare skin.

There is salt.
It is on my tongue.
Encrusting my shoes.
Chapping my bare skin.

Be there cold,
Bitterness to taste,
Flapping of canvas,
Salted week old meat.

I am lone.
Thriving in my song.
Echoing around.
Pulling broken oars.

You touch me,
But the waves hold me.
Sea song encrusted.
Burned in my bones.

I will stay.
For you can’t hold me,
My billowing skirts,
Salt incrusted tongue.

All in One Breath

This is a poem I wrote a little while before Christmas, and semi forgot about. It is written all in one sentence, hence the tital and...well, I for me it is about humanity's relation to the universe. It could have a totally different meening to you though, so don't let that guid you.

 At the final day of the new end, as the screaming Goddess cuts her curving spine from her ancient back and drops it to the littered earth to form the great divides and gives you your separate kingdoms, which you fall upon more heavily than water to nourish power and the sightless crusade, your blind taste of survival as you plunge forward, listlessly praying for immaculate change and thanking those you prayed to when you change it yourself, and as years tumble through the opalescent desert and your bloodied feet fall one more time, the scorpion hides that his greatest wish is not to bite your shadow flesh, but to grow soft arms and assist your parched tongue to the waiting oasis, but he knows to well (for this has been done a thousand, thousand times) that you must find it yourself, and his dreams of kissing your calloused amethyst skin is a to far gone adlib in a play all for you hidden children that the goddess sold to the demons when she gouged out her beautiful eyes for your lights, and pulled and thrust hundreds of broken teeth to scatter the sky with untouchable gemstones that you ignore in your quest for everything, on one wailing in-exhale, to survive, to know, to escape the unknown dragon and fly free on his unseen crimson flanks, and you must tumble onward to the refuge of the carousel, and its sweeping song hiding in the human illusion of safety, while the horse beneath you continues his frozen scream as you break his back, vertebrae by vertebrae, and ignorant as ever, you continue to drive the pretty striped pole into his heart, and then your moving on, leaving his godlike form without even a thanks, back through the portal of the woman’s womb, where you must beat the goblin king and he hides his tears for you, whilst fanning  hate and thrusting you out, out, back to the desert of skulls ends and new twilights, just to trip and crash your clever head spectacularly into an innocent rock and bleed your life away, while the scorpion at your feet finally gets his wish and rises as a man to let his almost-man’s face brush your own, his sandy crew cut shining in the river of dawn light  you never lived to see, and somewhere a sacrificial Goddess finds the illogical time to shed a single tear for one more dead infant, like every good Goddess will, and scorpion whispers in your ear that he forgives you and all that you breath.