Celebrate a pagan holiday the right way with inexpensive liquor in huge abundance and dancing rites in clearings of dark forests. We can put lights in the trees to give our midnight walks an eerie and effervescent glow. Something akin to candle light through more than likely electric to keep branches from immediately catching fire and burning, covering our bodies in showering flames.
Come on baby, this is a masquerade. Everyone shows up on their own. Guest list would ruin all of the mystique and the invisible monsters on a huge dance floor. Disguise your voice and no one will know you. I will show up unannounced and dance with you quietly in the center of the room, not daring to speak in my true voice, not wishing to be ridiculed, singled-out, slapped and embarrassed, naked dragging behind the shreds of my tattered clothes after the wolves, hungry, reach me and devour. We can spike the punch bowl with hallucinogenics. Allow the nightmares of waking life to jump off the page into the arms of these ghosts. Everyone looking the same in matters of invisibility. You would die to know how much it kills me to be here.
Face aghast, having seen a supernatural being hanging beneath the chandelier, squirming and struggle in the throes of death, again. But there is nothing. You and your children's imagination. Poor creature. The woods in the night give way to this kind of expressive belief of the disastrous. Reaching blind through the unknown vacuity and monsters growling and snarling moving in from the darkness. One day realizing in horror that you never left that forest and you are still the little boy screaming through the menacing trees with huge branches intending to scrape and maim, evil laughter pervading all bright thoughts and running from the potential pain, the incredible panic of someone in a disaster situation, the personality breaking apart at the seams and the true colors identified in terrible glory when the bus tips and everyone becomes a life or death see saw, one way or the other, the balance being offset by the violent nature of collision. In the night, I still hear things that could not be anything but werewolves rummaging through the neighbors hedge, somehow unable to sense my presence enough to break through my thin walls and destroy my body, as if internal combustion occurred. Though a massacre of the type only happens when entirely unsuspected. Extreme bad luck to think about the potential of a mad man to come screaming, bomb-strapped, into this quiet coffee corner... and then witnessing it all happen. Prior to death. A notebook could be incinerated in a fire but the internet remains. This is the fear of being forgotten. No one remembers the little boy who strayed off the path into the vengeful burial grounds of a violent deceased native culture. They torture and murder all wanderers as a form of ritual for those who disgraced their ancestors. Ghosts become beacons in the sky for where the invaders are on the trail. Then they come out, chanting, in a great mass of surrounding death.
Every house is haunted when the power goes out. Contrive a story... but hell... it could be true.?
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Taste the ocean
in the air without a care
kick back in the sun
magic potion
full of emotion
nothing to fear while we are here
drinking all the rum
salt the earth,
make the worst,
wake up in a hearse
what's all this commotion about recursive life?
sharpen your knives
until the edges are right
emotional plight on a reckless night
extinguish the candlelight
we are in the dark
the walls are stark
pull the thread apart
bursting at the seams
threadbare reasons
mind expanding with the seasons
high treason
make believe
you can achieve
sit tight my darling
we will soak up the sensations
our eyes peeled like oranges
watch clouds take shape
over vines with purple grapes
hands interlaced water tight
sound could not escape
with what's at stake
a life lead together
what feels like forever?
vacant minds leading happy lives
neighbors building fences
feeling safe in that haven
the bomb shelter in back
in case they attack
there are always others to replace the last.
darling there is nothing for us in the past
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'I would not want to marry the 'artsy type' - and all other gutted conversation around the table, with candles burning in hot box momentum, a head count and the addiction of candy when so low, raise up the blood sugar in spurts of 20 calories all possible to remove from the scene, getting everything ready for a few physical achievements, displays of strength and character. having already written today it is much more responsible of me at this point to sleep and to sleep well.
