“This pumping thing”

This pumping thing, a black crusted muscle of ancient parameters, resembles
nothing like a heart, and yet that may be exactly what it is. Oh, but what
is that to you? It beats on, giving me every impulse, pain more prominent
among them. Yet I ask not for death, choosing the more difficult and
colorful of paths, whereas the other would just give me a noble black. Oh
how it hurts me. I stare at the dreadful thing, the part of me that is
supposed to carry various emotions.

Lies. It feels cold in my hands, and Valentine is not near. He is making me
wait, punishing me. But I only stare mildly at the sky, blue in its
carelessness, wispy in its laughter. The crow threw its laughs at me with
reeling condescension. How can you take him? it sang. Such a silly masochist
- endless suffering for his sake... What a pity. I start peeling the crusted
black flakes off of the muscle in my hand, wincing as each separated. The
outer skin is not completely dead yet. I should make sure it doesn't bleed.
When I've rubbed most of the flakes off, I put it down upon the porch. It is
now night. The stars are beckoning.

Clouds cover the coy moon, exposing only her voluptuous upper half. I stand
up, spreading my ashen wings. As the wind caresses me merrily, she brings
also danger. I smell it. You dare challenge me, vampire? Alighting on the
shingles of a roof, I turn to confront my follower, who artfully flips
upright and crouches in front of me like an animal. Amusement pulls my lips
into a grim smile.

Scaling the Cliffs

Lost in reverie of the lurking not-yet -forgotten,

a door creaks open for a restless giant to enter

and I imagine an ominous end for another soul

when the souls of the world are chained

strapped to their own poison pouches

mine contains witches, princesses, and martians

stories unseen and unheard until that one time

told not by a fireside or hearth but in fearful rain

puddling at his feet to scoop up like his buttons

or penguins, marching into the horizon

like pregnant women in need of a bathroom

today the clouds of rain still lurk, so i get up

to look for the wind to blow them away

blow them up and away, i'll die another day

perhaps rock climbing the cliff of the Ring

envy of the Ring, envy of the grass

I find no support on the cliff as she said

"Not in a sexual way at all" and he defines me by it

or our love by it, mine is more obvious

I cannot lie even if I tried, his are unspoken

locked away in a little tin box not-yet rusted shut

I will be less green, someone must believe in me

like a flower that awkwardly blossoms late

in the face of her own spiritual adversity

He will open himself up too, unlike

a small mammal camouflaged in pretty colors

his not-quite tin box will soften, keep pumping blood