Tag: "All The Dead Muses" series

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

Painting Lessons

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You can’t just paint my elbows blue whenever you want to.

Don’t dip them in watercolours and glue

Unannounced, impromptu.

I can’t smear all my blouses with paint that looks like bruises,

Can’t simulate the symptoms for you

Or your deceased muses.

All my summer dresses haven’t been ironed or washed out of fear

That you will grow jealous for me trying

More than once a year.

My jeans still hold juniper green stains from the day we met.

You still make my hair stand on end

With a single stroke and a threat.

-JW

The Green Period

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The echoes answered me over the emerald rooftops,

They palpitated through the evergreen hops

As I ran towards the rumbling mountains without a worry –

Some asked whether this was the Promised Land

But they knew this is a godless territory.

The voices chanted ageless rhymes I couldn’t translate.

I’m such a product of my times, all my morals are a bate,

Yet I came tête-à-tête with more olive branches with each step.

Most couldn’t believe their eyes, they stole glimpses

But always ended up holding a bayonet.

The whispers swirled gentler than the falling snow,

They landed in my hair, they muttered, “Darling, no.”

My body stood still, thoughts unruffled and lips serene.

Not a single soul dared to ask as they noticed my irises,

They were blooming sage green.

-JW

The Luxury Tiling

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They said if I worked harder, I would chase down the dream,

So I overthrew my best intentions, cut out my own spleen.

Now the man I love only tolerates me for the bright sheen.

The splinters in my cheeks are a part of some grand scheme.

No place for love at this side of the Coney Island type of paradise.

I suck it up, it can all be taken away with one roll of the dice.

Too bad – it is not me holding the winning cards or the casino keys,

And I want a seat in heaven but my place is on my knees.

They said if I ran faster, I would catch up with the rest –

So I braved the mud, rolled over on my back to be the best.

The one I love ignores how everyone calls him “The Blessed”.

He never learned the rules of conduct when it came to playing chess.

No space for errors at this crude side of the town, keep on smiling.

I hold it in until I am home, there I destroy all the luxury tiling.

Too bad, it is not me holding the credit card or the upside down frown,

And I want a seat in heaven but first I must get out of this town.

-JW

Fireworks In A Bottle

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Violent thoughts rolling down the hill like an old tire.

We both know too well –

As long as you’re in this city, it won’t catch fire.

Not for the lack of trying, not for the lack of toluene –

My charcoal palms prove

The combustion was never once obsolete.

Violet treetops and lavender sunsets keep me at bay.

As long as you shush me

The world will wake up to another tranquil day.

The ghost pepper burning inside me painfully swells

But we both know it –

The flames won’t hurt until the passion sells.

-JW

There’s Music In My Madness

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Seven scratches on my knees from the rusted barbed wire.

I chase my shadow down the rabbit hole, it’s dark and dire.

In the office building across the street they don’t let Barb retire.

I smile and my bright grin hides the more disturbing desires.

My boots softly lick the pavement as I quietly fantasize

About the good old days when city crowds weren’t polarized.

They’re kicking Bryan out of his home just to catalyse,

Just to prove that even the innocent can be penalized.

All the righteousness in my fists can’t fix the casualties.

Their records are clean because they remixed the guilty pleas.

I hear all the worst things in life come to you in threes

So let’s hope they enjoy the waltz I’ll play

On the blackest of keys.

-JW