I. Queen of the Leaves (First of Two Tales)

I sought the broken moor-fields outside London

to speak to the dead woman kneeling there

between the trunks, grin snared in the branches.

Removed with these truanced fingers, calling,

to beseech her of a fledgling daughter:

what to do of decaying Solanaceae

amongst the shortest day of the year.

I strayed between foliage, reached skyward

with eyes so dead tired of dissolving

again & again into supple tear-craft,

to deliver my amends to such myths.

Faerie: a darkness visible to me

she spoke through dust, each minute catching word, cotton;

sharp-edge attachments on fetid breeze.

Caused a pause of breath & misstep backwards;

a falling to knees where I glimpsed her form

through the disturbance, passed cupped fingers.

While she laughed, French giggles which turned my world

word vertical, save those tortured eyes

carved upon the distance, which held dear me

crying out for simple understanding.

Shades changed as pictures turned

lounged upon the boughs till she fell cackling;

one autumn leaf dancing on spoiled air,

tempting the soil below with casual lore.

Her toes broke the earth where she touched down

clapped rigidly, then asked me to speak,

spitting violence through that beautiful smile.

I went to ask her about her daughter,

drinking heartily, blurring the edges

of my world, I asked only one word: why?

Watched the day burn off with her slow answer,

while blood fell in stages, where it striped soil

of moisture, froze into the red hardpan.

So long, the willows shifted to hemlocks.

I averted pupils for just one second,

one instant more of mute light clutching hard,

knew (heard) it was time then to leave this place.

To walk the longest road home-bound, loathing,

while I hemorrhage; one arm clasped for support.

Knowing it is time to cause a blunder.

For I'm a devil at a quick mistake;

when I make one, it takes the form of lead

II. Les’ Chemins Du Desire (Second & Conclusion of Two Tales)

When I enter a great city at dawn,

each of the hundred thousand, or million

souls contained in steel, or concrete sheathings

beckon with a sound - heartbeats subtle, true.

It's a pale comparison to deceit,

or the many shadows that come from lies;

Enough to form me in the pleasure throes.

To live in the throat of the corridor,

where she fucks hard during the dead of night.

My street starts right where the snowfall begins,

requiring marked footsteps, soft tracings

before bloodspouts can embroider such silk.

Death may often linger upon the dusk,

but has a simple soft side for high noon.

Hard drink has slowed snowsquall, but not the aim;

oddly caused pauseure before I entered

to ponder one star falling from the sky.

Is it a godhead, threading through white specks?

Perhaps an ink-spot catching the soft wick,

or the oily darkness in my blues churning?

Both startle at the disturbance of the door.

I have walked along pathways of desire,

ran sideways upon the walls as well

with a slow squinting of eyes to sight

this loving girl of flame, yet not to burn.

When all choices rot, the decision seems

to murder this girl, bury her in blood;

feed her sickening stench to hungry ooze.

Dilation? I left a him new hole,

formed from all six shots of the revolver.

One to catch the softened, hallow teardrops

or finger fuck to his own heart's content.

To her, I merely took the knifes sharp point

pressed firm with a kiss, stealing the last breath

perhaps reaching forth to call my name.

Waited till the surprised eyebrows slackened,

the questioned smile slid from her naked face,

then took her form to the mud as promised.

Called out for each good citizen to hear!

Shook the golden locks in the swirling air

to show what broken promises will earn.

Walking on, clots drying on my throat, I

dropped her facedown, where none yet dare to move her.