June 9, 2008 by Deightine.

I look up to Urania and ask what I have done,
and glance over my shoulder at Clio stalking my steps.
I tell Calliope I am unhappy no matter how far I run,
while Melpomene powders my eyes in rosehips.
Erato no longer visits me in my dreams at night,
leaving me without even Polyhymnia to sing me to sleep.
I look to Thalia whom denies my laughter’s right,
and from Euterpe I hear not a peep.
Terpsichore never dances before my eyes,
no longer to have my presence graced with her light.
I swear to all above that none of them hear my sighs,
as my sweet musings fade off into dark night.

Let my prayers beat gently against the bottoms of clouds,
rising like clinging smoke from these pressed key exultations.
I find not my inspiration in parties or crowds,
but in those long moments of iris adoring invocation.
My bigamy is a tender thing of whispers and gifts,
each muse visiting in her own time and manner.
Every breath is saved for attempts at preventing their rifts,
when each speaks to another about what I’ve given her.

So I kneel before your collected inspirations,
tears coming to my eyes as I feel my dreams slipping.
Hear my plea to accept this broken poet with no patience,
and to grant just one moment to send his heart skipping.

I promise to remember you when I break heart or new bread,
and to cherish your murmurings every moment ’til I am dead.

Either way I give thanks before I sleep…
     into which dreams I pray you creep.

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June 9, 2008 by Deightine.

I beg forgiveness fair and silent Selyne,
for the moments that the poets prey on your image.
Tying ourselves in knots romanticizing your likeness,
when you deserve a fairer pilgrimage.

The wordsmith in me cries out at this very act,
in that I salute you in this common habit.
Always in the past we brought you flattery,
in hopes of wooing maidens; we began it.

And for these reasons my eyes part curtains of glass,
to chase your soft light across the sky.
Sorrow at remembering how few times I’ll see you pass,
in these stolen moments before I die.

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May 8, 2008 by Deightine.

I feel the quivering twitch of the old pain coming
old angers, new rages, old angst newly drawing
like puss from a wound that refuses to heal
scent triggered, memory lingered, a tired red weal.

My fingers go to the pen, tips touch the key
leaving me to wonder which writing it will be
An extension of the elbow, of the shoulder and mind
a curiosity surfaces over what I’ll leave behind.

The curtain draws but my words do not
it isn’t because I’m choke or that I’ve forgot
But because on my wrist lingers a tender brush
of hands not my own or in any rush.

I move to write, to vent, to feel and remember
but at that soft condolence my thoughts all dismember
And she brings to me pain unlike any I can recall
as fingers slack, mind hazes and I forget it all.

—-

Sometimes the most tortured soul is the one that finds forgiveness… because it sometimes murders the ability to feel when every second you feel pain, someone is there to pick you up. People consider it a blessing, but it isn’t for those of us that spend so much time coasting and only remembering what emotion feels like.

Sometimes we need to hurt… how else can we remember what it is like to be happy?

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April 4, 2008 by Deightine.

From the forward…

‘What is the use or function of poetry nowadays?’ is a question not the less poignant for being defiantly asked by so many stupid people or apologetically answered by so many silly people. The function of poetry is religious invocation of the Muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites. But ‘nowadays’? function and use remain the same: only the application has changed. This was once a warning to man that he must keep in harmony with the family of living creatures among which he was born, by obedience to the wishes of the lady of the house; it is now a reminder that he has disregarded the warning, turned the house upside down by capricious experiments in philosophy, science and industry, and brought ruin on himself and his family. ‘Nowadays’ is a civilization in which the prime emblems of poetry are dishonoured. In which serpent, lion and eagle belong to the circus-tent; ox, salmon and boar to the cannery; racehorse and greyhound to the betting ring; and the sacred grove to the saw-mill. In which the Moon is despised as a burned-out satellite of the Earth and woman reckoned as ‘auxiliary State personnel’. In which money will buy almost anything but truth, and almost anyone but the truth-possessed poet. — Robert Graves, Foreward to “The White Goddess: A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth”

Exactly 60 years have passed since that paragraph was originally written and framed. And yet… nothing about it isn’t still true. I find myself wondering what a poet is in this day, is it truly even a profession now? Nobody but the most entrenched in art and writing really know how to handle metaphor, or how to read between the lines. Everyone is so focused on a world of concrete answers now, kneeling at the altar of science and ‘facts’. Nobody says “What if?” anymore unless it is in estimation of a terrorist attack or a drop in the Dow Jones. Perhaps ‘everyone’ is an unfair quantification, but in this case I mean it to be the vast majority of the English speaking world. But then of course I had to define it here because I might offend someone unable to accept that maybe, just -maybe-, I might have used a generalization on purpose.

Such is the world we live in now.. and the poet inside me aches for what all of this time spent focused on concrete is wasting, all of the poetry, song and dreams going to pot; squandered and festering in the minds of creatives afraid to try to share.

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January 6, 2008 by Deightine.

Over widdle and wattch,
went the Biddlyblatch,
jumping and hopping each row;
But who gives a fiddle,
or dares answer the riddle,
of where a Biddlyblatch might go?

Not I! says the crier,
Maybe I? says the liar,
while the fool stands around and drools;
But a nuisance it is,
that eats our grapes and our figs,
and breaks every farmer’s rules!

Does a Biddlyblatch eat honey?
or look like a bunny?
Nobody seems to know!
The apple barrels are empty?
we had saved up plenty!
Where does all of our food go?!

We searched the widdle and wattch,
finding no Biddlyblatch,
and began to search the trees;
We poked them with sticks,
checked all the cricks,
but no Biddlyblatch did we see!

As we were about to give up,
maybe sit down to sup,
we heard the most haunting sound!
The farms were all dark,
the sound couldn’t be a lark,
and we kept turning round and round.

We gathered our weapons and sticks,
walked barefoot back through the cricks,
and approached a low berry patch;
We double-checked our greaves,
parted green and blue leaves,
to find the culprit we couldn’t catch!

A Biddlyblatch has lips made like bow,
mud on each and every toe,
and giggles the whole time it’s hid;
But try as we might,
to chase and to fight,
we could not chase down this kid!

So let this be a lesson,
an old man’s confession,
about the Biddlyblatch and its run;
We spent days stressed out chasing,
our feet sore from tripping and racing,
while the Biddlyblatch just had fun.

—-

A little tribute to the stylings of Carroll.

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December 29, 2007 by Deightine.

I am the Barker,
Lesser staged, all enraged;
A mustachioed siren calling,
hands out I beckon, harder as they reckon.

Leading back the timid,
my cane parts the curtain, a nickel from each certain;
The innocent veil their eyes but peak around,
pupils tag your every curve, blushing attentions swerve.

You stand with conscience tightly veiled,
eyes distant and cheeks redding, clothing shedding;
Steely eyed you regard the crowd,
jaws slacking eyes glazed, each blameless, phased.

But right as the last layer is exposed,
your fingertips quivering, the audience shivering;
I tap my cane and tell a quick tale,
even if it’s lies I weave, anything to make them leave.

With a tap and a point I direct them away,
they remember propriety and guilt, climbing pillars they’ve built;
As I pass you I’ll smile behind their backs,
and point them to the next tent’s sign, grinning because you’re mine.

—-

Just had the odd urge to write a poem about a barker and his stripper wife, a la a 1890s medicine show and circus’ sideshow.

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December 6, 2007 by Deightine.

An Old Muse

Gauzy see-through black flows sandy under nimble finger,
but not to catch and drag at fox-soft fur freshly shaven,
and feline grace beyond human reason prepares for this show.
They gather in the wake and starved nonsensical, they linger,
yet week after week do not whisper to those pale ears, voices craven,
they arrive skeptical but after the first dance, they know.

Back pressed to brass prayers while fingers climb them, that supple wrist,
marking subtle hymns down button chains while hips sway side to side,
pale skin blushes peach sunset from friction and spent sweat.
The men and women of the masses sit lips pressed and unkissed,
hoping to catch a sweet promise as thighs part from collide,
and wait awe stricken with need; their laps dry and minds wet.

—-

A New Muse

That cherubic tone of flesh and tenderness hides any worry,
while she smiles those bow shaped lips with no sense of hurry.
A caring visage of angelic warmth holding up against the storms,
while inside the darker choir sing-song laments against the norms.
The child of past wrongs and forced beliefs carrying new faith,
…while haunted by memory and imagination; demon, ghost, wraith.

But what makes the mind’s loin stir and quake for all it can take,
it is not the shallow hallucination that first glancing eyes rake.
The heat and tense, the taste and sense, the smoking souls incense,
comes from the depth of those eyes gazing back, emotions intense.
That sweet smile, coy glance, subtle grin; brings shiver shakes like rain,
hidden veiled spoken attractions, deviating that wonderful chain.

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November 17, 2007 by Deightine.

In a garden of darkened briar and shadowed bramble,
among the hedgerows and grassy fields of your mind,
grows unbidden a haunting reverie in white tumbled ramble,
the remnant silhouette of what you may soon find.

It is not sweet like suckle or as bitter as the beautiful lady,
but it has sharp thorns to keep the nightmares at bay,
and it stretches, tangled coiling away from spots shady,
its stalking green branches lifting white fruit toward day.

Cup it to yourself, the tender blossom against your breast,
and close your eyes tightly to drive away all pain,
away to another place whisked, and there find your rest,
to let go those hurts that wash your heart in cold rain.

But no matter the path you walk or wherever it goes,
remember that nothing in life is ever as it seems.
And rest thee well among the petals of your white rose,
warm from your hands and dewy with dreams.

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October 16, 2007 by Deightine.

The constant gardeners walk as three,
  their steps in tandem laying out verdant life.
Each a sister named in like, to Be,
  they give birth, let live, and bring every strife.

All three are named differently by each creed and land,
  the first praised most by young and old.
She is the mother with your seed in hand,
  sewing rows to birth each new life foretold.

The sisters tread evenly among both grass and rock,
  and the second tends to virtues above your mind.
Her gentle hands hold your thread and your cock,
  tying you off on garden stakes, rows lined.

It is with flowers where the third is best seen,
  among crocus, orchid, tulip and rose.
With tears in her eyes for all beauty that has been,
  this tender spirit has few following where she goes.

The first two smile divinely unknowing, vapidly vain,
  and the third is left to seperate your chaff from the seed.
And they walk on by, leaving only her to remain,
  to cut the rose and prune the weed.

———-

Not sure where this poem came from, or what inspired me to write it… But occasionally I’m struck with the urge to write something classical and I find it relaxing, lets my mind ease off of the heavier creative burdens that I choose to carry the rest of the time. It feels a little weak in places, and needs to be shored up… But I don’t think it’s going to be one of the pieces I try to carry on with me over the years. So, it might not see revision for quite some time.

For now, its locked away here where any can see it… Maybe it’ll inspire someone else.

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October 2, 2007 by Deightine.

Smoothing down the back of her robe, Syn’ found herself a comfortable pose on her large and entirely natural leather couch. Fingers ran down the authentic texture of 100% Cow and she was instantly happier that she chose it over the cheaper alternative. She soaked in her material wealth, a martini in her right hand and her left tapping out a cheroot. Syn’ made for a sensuous image, sprawled out with her head laying back on the cushioned neck rest and her bare legs propped up on a blown glass coffee table held aloft by two reclining Greek goddesses cut in marble. Life had been good to her recently, she thought, and at the rate things were going this would be her best year in some time.

Taking the cheroot between her lips, she chewed at the end of the small cigar-like vice and enjoying the taste of the little bits of fiber coming off to the sharp edge of her teeth when she rolled it back and forth. Her eyes closed and she focused on the music issuing from the walls of her entertainment room, a rolling drum and bass rhythm plated in gold stringed guitar riffs and accented with the sighs and moans of a movie starlet. Every now and again, whispers would echo around the room, tied very quietly into the music and only meant to be picked up by machines and Syn’s neuria-acute hearing. Taking the cheroot from her mouth, she layed it on the arm rest as always — she loved the way it tasted, but hated the smoke — and took a long draw off of her martini. Cool bitter fluid sifted over her lips in a slow waterfall, tumbling over her tongue and finally unhindered down her throat with one smooth swallow. Yes, life definitely couldn’t get better. She lost herself in the music, hips rolling with the beat and by virtue of dry skin failed to stick to the clinging leather.

It was at this vulnerable moment when Syn’ felt something cold and metallic press against her right temple. She didn’t open her eyes, adrenaline pounding up through her nervous system, and instead took in what of her environment she had access to. The metal was coldly smooth in a fashion mostly found with round, polished cylinders and bondage handcuffs. Counting out the latter option, she relaxed further to keep whomever now had her at their mercy from finding a fast excuse to kill her. The scent of gun oil was entirely absent, which was strange and she hadn’t heard them approach. Inwardly she cursed herself for not checking the 6 layer security system after her consort left for the night, taking for granted that its hard-intelligence would kick it in and bolt the door. Thinking back, she didn’t recall the sound of the bolt locking into place after it opened to let her toy out. Whomever was with her now had been either hiding here all night or found a way to circumnavigate the security intelligence. That meant a pro.

Opening her eyes slowly, Syn’ took in the figure leering down above her. He was in his early twenties, the gun clutched in a hand used to carrying a gun but not muscled enough to be used to firing it. His wrist shook nearly imperceptibly from nervous tension and a bead of sweat was clinging to the side of his nose. And what a nose it was, thin and hooked like a predatory bird’s beak and distracting attention from the acne pocked face behind it. His hair was lank and black, skin faintly shiny in the dim light and his eyes shined with the fervor of a man possessed. Whomever he was, he meant business and she carefully set her martini on the short table beside the couch. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she ignored the cold metal against her skull and spoke aloud. “If you meant to kill me, you would have done it by now.”

He did not react, the sweat bead on his nose collecting smaller ones and getting bigger. This detail was annoying her, it looked dirty and she wanted to take a shower just seeing it from her angle. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked, and again no response. She waited what seemed like five entire minutes before his lips moved, and his free hand came up to rub a sleeve along his mouth. Oh god, she thought as realization struck, his other hand had been in his jeans that entire time. He was some kind of pervert and by stroke of insane luck, he must have wandered across her apartment. Her very expensive apartment, with the door man, locked ascension elevator and hundreds of chits worth of security. No, she realized, he had to be there with a purpose to have gotten past all of the measures in place.

She wondered how much he had seen from during the show. It wouldn’t be even a bump on her public ratings if it got out that she fucked while DJ’ing but it would take a serious hit if he released -who- she had been fucking at the time. The man was an animal, wanted for breaking and defacing several other fighters in very demeaning manners during the cage fights and certainly not popular. She had found him interesting because despite the reputation in the meat pits, he was very well endowed both physically and philosophically. He had very pure opinions on things, even if he came off sounding like a homicidal maniac when he tried to explain the definitions of good and evil.

Bringing herself out of the mental wandering, she realized the man had been talking to her for several minutes and she had ignored pretty much all of it. Just like her, she thought, always skipping the parts that might tell her how to survive a situation.

“…and that is why I think you need to focus on more of your old style of material.” he said.

Syn’ quirked an eyebrow, he was critiquing her catalog and it really pissed her off. She could feel the heat in her face rising, possibly even beginning to warm the tip of the gun on her temple. “That’s very interesting… I’ll take it under advisement for my next compilation.”

For a moment he seemed speechless, like he had planned for her to be very angry about what he felt were superior tastes in the techno genre. He even almost quirked a grin at the edges of his mouth, pulling the gun back just a little as he relaxed his muscles. “That’s so good to know, I’m one of your biggest fans! I’ve been listening for probably 5 years now, even the underground stuff you played down in the club districts under the name TawnyKitten18-” and he tried to finish the sentence, but it was cut short by the shock of wind leaving his lungs.

During the moment the fanatic had his gun pulled away, Syn’ focused on bunching up all of the muscles in her middle and grabbed the backboard of the couch, making fists. Swinging both feet up, she brought her naked shins down on his shoulders and exposing the full blossom of her womanhood to his view. In that one moment, he probably thought all of his stalking and studying had payed off, she was offering herself to him like the god he was after all… Wrong.

With a quick scissoring of her legs, she grasped him by the head and swung her hips back down. He came with her legs, flailing as he sailed over the couch and down back-first onto the glass and marble coffee table. The resounding bursts of noise as the glass shattered was enough to make Syn’ wish he had died on impact. Gritting her teeth, she clutched his head still between her calves and kept his back arched at an unhealthy angle while his spine took most of the marble impact. He didn’t move a lot, but he tried to point the gun up at her. She smacked it away with a quick chop of her martini hand and leaned forward to pick the gun up from where it fell on the ground. Pressing it against his forehead and smoothing her robe back over her hips for the sake of a propriety that was mostly instinctual, she looked down into the man’s eyes.

“You’re going to lay here, dying very slowly from that spine injury and you’re going to listen to -me- for awhile… You have to remember your place, the listener. I’m the DJ, that means I spin the music and you dance to it. If you don’t like the music, you turn it off and walk away… There are all sorts of music out there and you’re bound to find something you like better than me. But no, no, that isn’t going to be enough for a hot stud like you. You came here to tell me the errors of my ways, so I think it only fair that you have to come to appreciate my newer music for what it is… An evolution, a new step in music that you’ve already become a dinosaur to. It evolved too quickly for your ear and now you blame me for it being bad when in reality… It is your ears that are behind, not my methods.”

She cocked the hammer on the gun and tears leaked from the edges of his eyes. She re-guessed his age, he couldn’t be any older than 20 but the dull look in his eyes had convinced her before he had lived a little longer. He did everything he could to keep from blathering and in some ways she respected that despite his madness. She layed back on the couch and tightened her hold around his head and neck. “If you move before we’re done, I’m going to break your neck and it will be hours before I report your death. After all, they could bring you back in perhaps half of an hour, but I don’t think I want that. I want you to have to listen.”

Syn’ looked up at the entertainment system, calling out to the hard intelligence in it. “Play prototype melody 5, Plutonium Afterglow.” she said, and the system hummed to life. She made a rare exception and began to listen to a new song she was preparing for an upcoming event. The man between her calves sobbed like a young boy, totally emasculated and terrified of the gun still pointing at his head. She glanced down, “You should have thought of all of that before you came here, to -my- house and did something stupid like this.” The music swelled from the walls and violins played a staccato melody, accenting the high notes and filling the spaces between with rich valleys of noise. At random intervals of 4 to 8 seconds, the remixed sound of a plutonium reactor exploding in the distance would play back in one of the major keys.

Closing her eyes, Syn’ relaxed everything but her legs. Legs used to having sex in the same position for hours at a time, hardened by martial arts and toned by years of Yoga. Her free hand reached out over her gun arm, grabbing the martini and drinking it sloppily. The man made his first attempt to shift and her legs forced him back into position, thousands of pieces of broken glass re-settling in his back and legs. It jarred her and she laughed when some of it ran down between her breasts, trailed over her stomach and pooled above her mons. “You made me spill.” she said, and she hummed along with the violins. Hum, huuuum, huuuum, hum, huuuum… bang.

The gun went off and Syn’s legs grew warm from the blood now running down them, knocked free from the exposed mind before her. She didn’t bother to look, reminded entirely too much of her first menstruation and how her mother had yelled when she ruined her best sunday outfit. She spoke out to the corpse, “Now, if you listen closely you can hear the point at which the sampled violin’s bow just barely clears the edge of the strings… But then, you probably won’t care. I get the impression you don’t really have a head for this sort of thing. Nevermind.”

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