Month: Dec 2020

Emptying The Guns

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And she painted her rooms black, every edge, every single wall.

The intruders thought she’d gone mad when visiting her that fall.

No one asked out loud though, they let it slide for the sake of it all.

She painted her rooms black, then laid on the floor dressed in white

Just to feel small.

And she cut off her long hair, she shortened her skirts and dresses.

The grass tickled her thumbs when she ran away from all the messes –

No one seemed to notice though, no one ever stopped the presses.

She cut off her hair and sold half of her closet,

She burned up their old addresses.

And she walked for miles gasping every time the glass cut open her skin,

The people throughout the city promised to cut off her fins.

No one said it but the intention was clear – no witch, no sin.

She walked the city, and each blade they pushed in her back

Felt like a tiny pin.

And she carried on, walked even faster, and readied her boats.

The village folks triumphantly whispered, “Witches never float.”

No one screamed in pain, they simply collapsed all at once.

She’s carried this weight for decades,

Let her finally empty the guns.

-JW

Your Death Wasn’t Televised

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Delivery notes piling up on your doorstep, Christmas lights still in your window.

Will they ever even notice how your worn-out sofa is missing one beige pillow?

The time passes and much to my chagrin nobody seems to care about your absence.

I drown my mind in self-loathing, waste my money on pricy gins and absinths.

But day after day you fail to make the headlines shake with vulgar excitement –

Was your life truly this lonely, were you left to rot in this world’s confinement?

No, I’m not sorry, at least for you, it’s cruel that I had to stay behind to watch,

To witness how your lifeless body wasn’t recovered from the pumpkin patch.

A week has gone by, only now I see the neighbours snooping in your garden,

Knocking without any luck, growing paranoid, offering the Satan a bargain.

Some detectives show up, some prints are taken, some folks are interviewed.

The bloody hammer cemented in my basement wall won’t let them prosecute.

So I observe from a distance, yet I’m never close enough to connect the dots –

Can you really blame them? You were shy, backdropping those who called the shots.

At least it’s what they repeat – but I knew better, I got to see the very worst.

You called my phone and you banged on my doors for weeks, you had the thirst

But you didn’t have the motive which made you the perfect stranger to me.

You peeped through my windows at night, sang about my mezzanine.

I didn’t know your name, couldn’t tell what you looked like, goddamn bastard.

You thought you’re in charge but I used your garage like a splashboard –

Possibly in that lurid moment your vicious brain realized what it’s done,

And when the hammer landed, your hellfire started blazing like the sun.

But it’s all good if I deserve the eternally unforgiving flames too,

I’m not looking for excuses, pardons or second chances.

As long as you’re the first down there, balancing on razors in the sinners’ zoo,

My blissful heart whirls in mysterious dances.

-JW

And The City Lights Followed

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Too often I forget that it’s never completely and utterly dark in this city.

I crave the feeling of opening my eyes at night, my despair sitting with me,

And staring into the pitch black darkness. It’s rather revealing.

But I wake up each night to sirens or the neighbours viciously heaving.

It’s never dark enough for me to stumble upon something yet undiscovered

So I put my head under the covers to distract me from the blossoming colors.

The white noise coming from the electric buzz of neon chases me,

Down the halls, across the roads, into the trees which once sung me to sleep.

Have I even slept for the last couple of years, have I really dreamt?

The city lights pour down my jawbone humming, “You have been exempt

From the long hours, scary shadows under the trees, from your own claws.”

Yet nowadays my lips reach for the phone when a yesterday calls.

Perhaps I’m narrating this because it could be taken away if I stop,

If I look back one last time and the woods no longer echo the plot,

If the paths through our favorite pines or birches forget my flowery scent,

I might wake up one day burning my sanity to cover the rent…

Therefore I ran and the city lights followed,

The noose around me glowed fluorescent.

-JW

The Blue-Skinned Girl

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The trees are no longer calling for my blood or reaching for my neck.

They stand tall, branches oscillating steadily, all roots on deck.

I hear the stories still making their rounds about “how they oppressed her”,

“The blue-skinned girl turning the forest too distant and dismal.”

Rest assured, I never begged anyone to deal with my chaotic conundrums,

Never broke a branch I couldn’t grow back during one of my tantrums.

Yet the word is faulty and rumours can get flimsy, they flit.

The power of one well-timed curse can make or break the fire pit.

I’ve received my fair share of burns, some of them – self-inflicted.

The trees added insults to injury, they stirred the fire until I was addicted,

And people kept saying, “That’s what you get when you dance in the dark.”

So I stayed in the forest, counting my bruises, cutting open new marks.

The years piled up, the black sky grew quieter, the villagers got hungrier.

My house settled, all the spiky walls turned softer and sturdier.

The trees are no longer calling for my blood or reaching for my neck.

They stand beside me, branches saluting calmly, roots bowing in respect.

-JW

The Man In The Forest

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He looked at me through the window each night. He was there at 9 PM without a fault.

You could barely tell if you didn’t look hard enough – but if you did,

There was a cigarette burning in the piny vault.

The forest surrounded the house tightly. I know, it was highly unlikely for anyone to be in this lair.

But… look at the trees by the shack and tell me that you don’t see

A lighter sparkling like the state fair.

There was also the noise, rain dripping on his plastic coat ever so gently. Impossible to miss it.

I’ve lived in these woods for two decades, this is way off, yet the cop told me:

“Don’t be so hot headed, little missy.”

What else could I do? I locked the doors, bolted the windows, left the knife close by just in case.

Each morning I found fresh footprints in the mud, it almost seemed

As if he’d picked up the pace.

And then he started leaving me gifts. Was it a cruel joke, was it just to prove nobody cares?

He knew I haven’t had any visitors since he started this charade.

He knew I’m unravelling tear by tear.

I moved into the second storey three days ago – hoping more doors will grant me some peace.

There was a photo of me sleeping on the kitchen table the next morning.

It seems the bastard has my keys.

So I’m not sleeping tonight. I’m not bravely waiting by the door, I’m under the living room table,

Terrified, small, feeling the adrenaline punching a hole in my brain,

Waiting for my pulse to become stable.

He can’t see me if he comes in through any of the doors, can’t hurt me or frighten my chilly bones.

For the longest time I don’t hear anything at all, it’s suspicious.

“But he would know where I am if he’s already inside my home.”

The thought reaches me too late, he rushes in from the kitchen and blocks the way.

It’s too dark to see his face but I can tell he’s smiling as he speaks:

“A lovely hideaway, dear, too bad your daddy refused to pay.”

-JW

The Unholy Visitor

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A cigar in one steady hand, a red rose in the other.

She comes closer, cryptically bewinged and unbothered,

Ashes on her grey dress, she’s so pathetic.

There’s stillness in her movements, it’s ironically hectic.

Currant coloured blood trickling through the cherry nails.

She leaves a slimy path behind her, irony and stale.

The dress soaks up some of the liquid as she sways.

Her legs are bruised and shoes have seen some better days.

With the pale face partially hidden behind a shiny mask

She ogles, her presence feels holier than Pasch,

The fabric of her dress burns, it takes my heart’s place.

I want to kneel, I want to preach, I want to praise.

My limbs stay still as the floor kisses my forehead.

She whispers things I can’t repeat, tales lustrous and morbid,

As the touch of her fragile fingers slowly fades away…

Ominous silence snaps me back into a dusk, silver grey.

-JW

The Race Of The Lucky Ones

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Another heart beats on, not mine, not yours,

The heart of an innocent being,

Gentle lashes and velvet pores.

We wonder why the world is weeping.

Another one passes by, not me, not you,

Would’ve been neck and neck,

This race for the promised youth,

But we couldn’t pay in a cheque.

Another frozen soul neither here nor there

Caught up in icy words and neglect.

I do know why, I do know where

The ship that sailed was always decked.

Another day droops through my fingers –

And yours,

But the snow stays in our hair,

The bitterness lingers.

We’re such fools for fighting fair.

-JW

Rising

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Brave the winds, brave the winds, brave the winds.

The waves are going to drown you out,

Crash you on needles and pins.

Brave the winds, brave the winds, brave the winds.

The stream is circling around, let it hold you

And do not wince.

Crash the tide, crash the tide, crash the tide.

We are dry as a bone, we are dying

With nobody by our side.

Crash the tide, crash the tide, crash the tide.

The foam is blocking our tracheas.

Let me lose my breath before I lose my mind.

-JW

Conjure The Storms

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“You never write about bright things and calm meadows,”

She says laughingly, cocooned in white blankets,

Sipping on Bordeaux.

“You don’t mention honeycombs or the soft skin of your lovers,”

She whispers leaning closer, teasingly smirking

Over the covers.

And she’s not wrong, her sweet breath makes my shoulders tense

But I’d rather trade this all away

Than give my life a tinsel-lens.

She’s always right to call out my sad little trope of a life

Whenever I drown too fast in its glory,

Yet – I’d never be dressed in white.

“Hold back your “sorry”s before you paint my pages all vivid,”

I sigh, anxiously spinning a pen in my cramping fingers.

She feels so livid.

When I gather the courage to look back at her surprised face,

I don’t notice a tear or a wrinkle,

She knows she’s won this case.

“And you’ve been put in this world only to conjure the storms,”

She mumbles to herself, graciously, ferociously.

The bites in her stare come in swarms.

-JW

The Secrets Of Mahogany Street

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All the leaves are soaked in the ruby evening sun

Setting over the heads of city’s sin-eating scum,

But they do not notice, no, with their horse blinders,

With their grubby Bibles, one cent for seven binders.

The dusk flourishes in all its glory, it nourishes me.

The smooth silk of the night covers us in polishes and glee,

And we’ve been starving for a silent moment like this,

Trembling as the mahogany monsters tie up our wrists.

The buildings surrounding us stare too stoically –

Scarlet lights make this scene taste of crude loyalty.

We’re taken down the street, blinded and submissive.

Not a sound in the salty air, it’s not the noise we’re missing.

The wicked walk comes to a full stop, the wires loosen,

We see the city glisten miles away, we listen to the music.

Perfect circles forming around the maroon shine of the fires.

I’m ready to revolve around the flame, my heart’s a liar.

As the bodies grow warmer, the monsters grow greedier,

The creatures sneaking closer to our necks seem seedier.

But if we just keep up with the song, we might be alright –

“These dark rituals can only be carried out during the night.”

Not all persevere, I see some faint, I watch them stumble.

Just before they’re never seen again their minds crumble,

They collapse inwards as another bulb in the city goes out.

My feet rest on the hot coals, heat fills my veins like grout.

And all the leaves get soaked in the ruby morning sun

Setting on fire the heads of our city’s sin-eating scum,

But they do not notice, no, with their horse blinders,

With their grubby paws they point and shriek:

“You know where to find us.”

-JW