Evolution of the Lifeless

Evolution of the Lifeless

"A predator is the culmination of its victims."

She is strips of meat
dangling between
the teeth of predators.

Her soul is
in their bloody breath
as they speak
the language of murder.

Unaware of herself,
she sleeps
in her killer's flesh
only to awake
to the scent of blood.
She is self-aware just long enough
to welcome future victims
to their new home
(a colony
of the non-violent
in the belly of the beast).

Alien in the Artwork

Alien in the Artwork

If God forgets you,
did you really exist?

The landscape painted
around my life
loses a dimension
and falls flat before me.

Perception is lost
and I fall prey
to the illusion of depth
as roads become walls
trapping me between frames.

Familiar strangers
speak in stop-action
disappearing when they turn
to talk amongst themselves
(abruptly re-appearing
when they turn again to face me).

Desperate for perspective,
I run to the edge of the canvas,
only to find my flesh
periodically rip in neat seams
as I get paper-cuts
from people in profile.

Surveying the scene,
I realize these shoal souls
with tinny voices
are not the foreigners in this land
and that I have become
the alien in the artwork
desperately seeking depth
in a shallow world.

Pretty Paper Hearts

Pretty Paper Hearts

She would wrap her heart
in pretty paper
and give it to people
she thought might like her.

But when they unwrapped
the pretty paper,
they would find nothing inside.

She later discovered
that her heart
was the paper
and the act of opening it
also ripped it to pieces.

Before too long,
she decided to keep
her paper heart to herself.
(But her tears made it soggy
and prone to ripping.)

When they found her,
she had drowned
in her apartment
clutching wet paper
filled with old news.

Jagged Dreams

Jagged Dreams

"and (they) said to the mountains and rocks, fall on us, and hide us from the face of Him that sitteth on the throne..."
--Revelations 6:16

He steals dreamcatchers
to harvest their nightmares.

He wrings them
with desperate fingers
into buckets of paint and blood.

He dips his brush
and paints
pictures of himself
on cracked mirrors,
broken bottles,
and shards of glass
that he franticly hides
underneath rocks
and used newspapers.

Each brushstroke
spreads him thinner
and further scatters
his shattered soul
in an useless attempt
to flee from god.

At a safe distance,
she trails behind him
with a wicked smile,
a broom,
and some glue
(force-fixing
the intentionally broken).

Note: Dreamcatchers are Native American amulets used to capture nightmares while sleeping.

Friends of Words I Once Penned

pricked by the thorns
of black roses,
she bleeds heroin
in mother's milk
and I suck
in her apathy
until I turn my
back on the divine
and drape myself
in the flesh
of loose women,
cheap wine
and heresy.

many years later
friends of words
i once penned,
find me
incoherent
and babbling of the
gods i have forsaken
and write an
epic of loss
(each word falling
like loose change
into the cup
of vagrant angels
too eager
to kick the
shit out of
a forgotten poet
who blasphemed
one too many times.)

Chalk Marks on a Dead Soul

This picture is entitled "Chalk Tears" and it was created specifically for the verse below.

Chalk Marks on a Dead Soul

A prettiness mummified by years of chalk dust.
--Richard Eder

We would take turns
counting our sins
in chalk tally marks
on the alley wall
beside her church.

It evolved into a game that would last
from cloudburst to cloudburst.
(The goal was to see
who could amass the most sins
to be washed away by God.)

So when they lift
the fingerprints
from the bruises
found on her dead soul,
it is no surprise
they are mine.

The hunt leads them
to the alley by her church
Where I kneel
with rivulets of tears
streaking my chalk-covered cheeks,
praying for rain.

A World of Belligerent Men

This image is called "Haystack Evolution".

A World of Belligerent Men

Her back evolved into pavement
and belligerent men
drove streetlights into her spine
so they could tread on her
day and night.

Some brought drill-bits and shovels
and would drill
through blood and sinew
hoping they would strike her soul
and sell her spirit in bottles
to those that had need of one.

Before long,
her frame began to fold
and she bore a nation
on her fragile flesh.

I know because
I would stray from the pavement
journey to her eyes,
drink in her tears,
and pretend
(for just one moment)
that I was important.

Counting Rainbows

This image is entitled "Shattered Passion" and it was created specifically for the verse below.

Counting Rainbows

At night, we fall with a kiss
into fragile sheets
that shatter into shards of glass.

Frenzied with lust, we are sliced
and cut with each arch and thrust
until exhaustion claims desire
and we lean against the wall
awaiting morning.

The day peeks through the window
and we are bathed in sun blossom
as the dissected light
of a thousand jagged prisms
dance upon spent passion
and we die in each other's arms
counting rainbows.

Stolen Sylph Wings

Stolen Sylph Wings

"Wisps of time
curl between Her lips
like misted breath
on a frosty day."

Sylphs dance on
Her wind-blown kisses
until summer rains
pelt them to the ground.

Frustrated, aroused,
and denied flight,
they roll in mud
with earthbound creatures
until they are satiated
and fall asleep in the arms
of mud-dwellers
awestruck with their enchantment
and myth.

Only when the rain stops
and they wake
groggy-eyed and wingless,
do they realize
they have been caged
by envious men
--jealous of flight,
jumping off cliffs
with pilfered sylph wings
ecstatic with a few moments
of stolen magic
before breaking their
damn necks.

Spirit Trafficking

This picture is entitled "Devilspeak".

Spirit Trafficking

On nights my tongue thickens
and I sit naked and dumb-eyed
staring at the witches
swimming in her veins,

she curses me, drags my flesh
to the light
and plucks the ghosts
out of my hair.

She gathers them in bowls
while singing lullabies
and when she has enough,
she drowns them in their sleep
with musk and sandalwood oil,
wraps them in pretty fabric
and sells them to tourists
seeking charms to protect themselves
from losing their money.

A Fear of Rose Water

This picture is entitled, "Angelic".

A Fear of Rose Water

The fine line between
flying and falling
is born in the aftermath
of an unexpected kiss.

Where fallen angels
rend useless wings
from their broken backs
and the disembodied stumps
flop uselessly
amongst oblivious lovers
who lick angelic
blood from tenuous flesh
and stuff pillows
with down that
was crafted directly
by the hands of
god.

She is the breath taken
before a warning.

The pillows become
a grave yard of tears
mixing with the blood
of dead angels
that litter the bedrooms
of the lonely.

She is the picture that
proves god,

burning in the ashtray
of a blind man
that has left
too many lovers
dangling at the
end of ropes.

Climbing rose vines
wrap around their ankles
and the winds are
trying to set them free...
trying,
but they fail in their intent
and merely serve
to drive the thorns
in deeper.

Their blood trickles down
pinking the water
I serve to my lover.

It tastes of roses,
and a vague sense of loss.

...and soon she falls
into my flesh
and we dance
and kiss
and ruin delicate
lace,

but we both know
we are doomed to trip
over dead angels.

A Place for Thrown Stones

This picture is entitled, "Thrown Stones". It was created specifically for the verse below.

A Place for Thrown Stones

[4] they said to him, "Teacher, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery.
[5] Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such. What do you say about her?"
[7] And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her."
[9] But when they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the eldest, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him.
[10] Jesus looked up and said to her, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?"
[11] She said, "No one, Lord." And Jesus said, "Neither do I condemn you; go, and do not sin again."

--John 8:4-11, Holy Bible: Revised Standard Version


Caught up in lust,
she once again falls into flesh
and soon finds herself surrounded
by angry stones.

She runs from her fate
only to find her savior suspended, spiked and speared.
She heaves herself beneath Him
into the dim coolness betwixt Him and the sun.

Resigning herself to her destiny,
she steps toward her accusers
--only to find that she is trapped
in the shadows of the cross,
imprisoned in the right angles of divine shade.

Crimson streams gush
down the wood and stain her soul.
She looses her flesh and becomes
one with the absence of sun.
Nourished by the grace
of a dead savior,
her only pardon comes at nightfall
when she is free to dance on darkened-clouds
and revel in the sweat of young lovers.

Every sunrise is a sentence to be jailed
in the shadows of tombstones
whispering to the dead
and hiding in their bones,
‘til Christ returns,
forgives her once again,
and takes her home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's Note: I have always been curious what happened to the woman that Christ saved in John 8:1-11. How did she take the news of his crucifixion? This verse is a continuation of the story provided in John 8:1-11. It attempts to look at this nameless woman in greater detail. ~Max

Heure Verte dans le Cimetière

The title of the image is "Cain".

Heure Verte dans le Cimetière

i am sugar through the absinthe spoon
awaiting the louche,
(moonlight reflects
the shadows that lurk
behind soft folds
and musky kisses
that whisper breathless pleas
to hungry ears)
discarded lace
deliquesces into white sage
and the confusion
that promises clarity
brings me closer
to the bit of my
soul that lay
in the ground
with you.

perchance the little green fairies
may dig you up and help
wrench that piece of me
from your heart...

but no,

instead i will
drip through the slotted spoon
fall into the fog
sleep with the spirits
and drown.
the licks of envious
Victorian fairies
still fresh on
my flesh
as they lay me
in the ground
--just inches away from
you.

Author's Note: The title of the poem means "Green hour in the Cemetery". "Green Hour" is simply a time to drink absinthe. "Louche" has multiple meanings in this piece. The first being that "louche" is the word used to describe the clouding effect that occurs when you add water to absinthe. "Louche" can also mean having the qualities of being disreputable, shady, or shifty. It can also mean something subject to two or more interpretations and usually used to mislead or confuse. Quite frankly, I love all those meanings --and they all seem to fit.

The Penance of Rebellious Shadows

This picture, entitled Cain's Regret, was specifically created for the poem below.

The Penance of Rebellious Shadows

Pricked, throbbing, and
kissed with fever,
playful shadows
tug at their Gods
'til the flesh slips
from bleached bones.

Frightened shades
(fearful of reprisals)
slip into vacant skin,
wear the sacred meat,
and have delusions
of humanity.

Becoming adept
at fooling flesh,
they live among the divine
and soon realize
the penance for killing a god,
is to become one.

Opposite Ends of the Earth

This is a picture of the pier in Fairhope, Alabama taken from the Municipal Park at sunset on February 4, 2005.

Opposite Ends of the Earth

"...and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life."
--Genesis 3:24

You fell toward the heavens
as I passed the equator
and the earth moved between us.

(that may be the closest you ever get)

I never knew the
difference between
good and evil
until I tasted you.

Adam's sin left a void
you constantly try to
fill. You have become
an addict to a drug you’ve
never had.

You wanted me to save you,
but I'm not a savior
and even if I was
you'd just end up
nailing me to a cross.

At the Murder Scene of a Soul

At the Murder Scene of a Soul

"...and how do you trace chalk around a dead soul?"


when we lose faith
we die

we become chalk outlines
scurrying across the floors
of believers,
slinking under their sofas
when their faith
is too strong,
and hovering on the ceilings
above lovers
that have yet
to learn the
art of deceit.

we wait for the
opportunity to slip
into an innocent's shadow
and satiate our need
to devour their faith
in order that we may have a taste
of what we once had.

Malady Darkfall

Malady Darkfall

She speaks in tangents
from a scalpel tongued mouth
and when she licks her lips
splatters of crimson kisses
drip like lies
between luscious breasts.
Her whispers are harlots
that breathe close to taut skin
reveling in the slaps of wet flesh.

But her eyes are hollow
with a wisp of fading hope
that maybe someone
will stay to see
her battered soul.

Moths

Moths

moths flail thick winged on the glass...
as sweat stenched pillows cradle matted hair
and dumb eyes.

crumpled sheets strewn about wet flesh
trap wayward limbs
and snag jagged nails.

but the moths...

flicker and flap
and whisper wicked taunts
and promise quick kisses
stolen from behind the
cracked mirror
where both my faces
bleed into
one

Spirit Wicks

Spirit Wicks

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.
--Edith Wharton (1862 - 1937)

Memories melt
into the wax
of our souls.

Our senses are wicks
that hold the fire
that will eventually
consume us.

God was the guy
with the lighter.

History Lesson

History Lesson

By the way, I took your advice
and tried to 'go copulate' with myself.
But thoughts of you kept
throwing of my rhythm.
Consequently, I went blind, broke my wrist,
and was the punch line of many jokes
issued by the emergency room staff.
But in the end it didn't matter,

because
you cry tiny gods
from fake plastic eyes
that I refuse to worship anymore.