addiction art behavior history literature Music poetry punk religious studies theatre Uncategorized Urban Legends

old Mephistopheles damned sure could play the fiddle

Mephistopheles with sheet music


every word tumbled off

his biforcated tongue

was exaggeration

diminished reason


grand delusion

half truths

folded gently

into lies

melted pretty please

bullshit buttered

sweet peas

conspiracy theories

baked into

blackbird pie

melodic compositions

leaving a dense fog

of fetid floating

musical notes



devil in the details

leading his trusting musician

to snap

an unwilling head

in revulsion

when the truth emerged bloody

before burning eyes

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my tinsel heart

FB_20141221_09_04_48_Saved_Picturethe twenty-seventh day of december

in a year

we did not share together


afterglow of christmas beaming

from the tree

through my scotch-taped-back-together soul


tis the season to ache infinitely


driving through light strands

of red and yellow traffic

to the art museum upon the hill


with the little park beside it

where the son we will never have

took his first wobbly

bear dripping honey grinning steps


into your arms as i watched filming

jumping and cooing the way a mother does

over the littlest triumphs


but we never were, darling

our lips never touched


our breathy kissed love affair

ether white wedding by the sea

raven haired children

are nothing

but a shared

far away dream


an assorted pile of glistening

christmas presents

never to be wrapped

accumulating beneath

my tinsel heart

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

victim pool

to consider his victim pool
is quite staggering

all of them spent time
lashed to a provisional chair
a designated corpse
forced to wear a party hat

yet once they hacked their own arms off
to escape his attic constraints
each went on
to wondrous achievements

and it’s not because life with him
is an exclusive prep school for young women
with only one degree field offered
in overcoming sadomasochism

though it may be a touch to spite him

he abhors being less than
because bitch
you’ll never be equal to

no, no

it’s that he has a predilection
for attempting to destroy
the most beautiful things

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

battle hymn

this day

i am the way
james dean’s white t-shirt
clung to his rippling biceps

i am the moment bessamer
he could make steel from iron ore

i am the line of marilyn’s spine
in a backless gown

i am the sharpened bloody edge
of joan of arc’s sword

i am a snarling indian defending what is mine
by charging my painted horse
into war

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

the price of admission

there’s a bar in the kitchen
where i sit alone most evenings
but not tonight
as sundays are for communing with the dead

the hour finds me sharing a scotch
with zevon’s vaporous ghost

he sits beside me strumming his immaculate gibson guitar
singing that his shit’s fucked up

i concur
explaining how i have acquired the sickening habit
of being unable to ignore the truth

in the door walks every bloody sacrifice i’ve carried in offering
to the goddess of being a lousy cunt

the heaviness you feel when your head is resting in your hands
is the weight of every choice you’ve ever made

i’ll never know your love

this will be the last thought
as my coins are handed to the ferryman

this is the price of admission