May the Third be With You (5/3/18) -M.Weisgerber

Heartbroken (but can still have fun)
Heartshatter (but doesn't mean forever 'on the run')
Bloodletter, once this day is done

For to be a, Trendsetter, in all the ways we wouldn't' believe,
our song; a invitation against the timing of the screed
This letter; a loving note to those in need

To Wake (5/9/18). -M.Weisgerber

To wake before the dawn breaks,
to see trouble brewing hard - to see time a looming large
like the dogs bark - harsh and raspy, as my nose
pushes up against the thick glass.  Hard.
as the time lasts, smears there
with no tear strike to warm upon a humbled cheek.

I'm weak.

It is in these many hours I write to you, oh sweet
Jezebel, finding fast how long a heart holds
how fast the day's snow, turns to gold
sand slipping fast between our hands,
then faster still past our toes, out with tide coming
To claim me, faster - faster still!

Always, forever flowing outward.

Its in these beautiful moments,
When the day begins, before the dawn breaks.

I lie quiet; hollow still.

The Tired Times of the Festival, Cherry Blossom (3/31/19). -M.Weisgerber

Oh, and how with just a simple memory, a subtle stirring of the hand, 
and I am shaken, am slain. 

Giving in to these passions of the heart; a beating, a subtle needing 
- a shudder within this cage of bone. 

And now, when this weather changes once again, I find myself a stuttering.
Still the same old name and foolhearted smile as always meant to be? 

Fighting against this cold they sometimes name Spring,
Again, my heart it bleeds,

trying against the waterwheel of joy, that once, so surly, you brought beside to me.

Oh, how we lied.

Oh, how in these words we cry.

Sometimes (Sept '19) - M.Weisgerber..

Its hard sometimes, but my love, shes worth it
Knowing that we arn't alone, seeing these thin streets or mighty lanes crammed thick along with
So many voices, so many strong tales of overcoming;
What joy!It's hard sometimes, my love
But each day to tarry on feels worth it.

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.

Gone to the Hair, Bear, Rabbit and Fox

Who am I, to sojourn inside?

This kindly place, all of stone,

Here, where we had written to exchange,

Me for the first time, her to judge.

Both ready for the gallow plunge.

In this place, we are guarded, 

duelists ready, cocked

hammers prepared to fly,

Enough time to laugh behind a smile,

While expecting to see London Ivy creeping,

threading tendrils around flailing hearts.

I stood, thereby wishing to sit afloor.

Watching her first, calculated movements

the steady clack of polished nail,

high upon the card, lips lightly pursed:

 

Slicing fingertips on loose parchment, giggling

Yet underscored with a haughty grin

Oh yes, those thirty white horses

All in a line and cooing.

Deftly ready to consume. 

 

Oh, she has partaken once before,

this ordering game.

Her poison a sitting, ready smile,

and today her sign is gin.

Ahh, dearest dank apothecary shop

Whose guts contain we two,

exchanging soft touches between drinks

We provide a front to guarded minds

Long glances over dark thoughts and lauded riddles,

 

I glanced up upon that first sip, 
Expecting delicate curves to form: fangs?

Instead finding small cuts to wary knees

Following traceries of silk ‘kerchifs up

aptly ready for loose, or nearly empty throats

Her eyes, a hazel circling dilated darkness

Teeth gnawed, some dulled,

At least five glowing brightly

spiked arrows: when will they call out?

Are they ready to gnaw my breast and hump?

Her choice being me, mine being spiked.

A booze, not of liquid exchanges

But neither of love or form held close.

Only enough to scent her smile.

Here, I am a ravine, carved in dank clay

Little rivulets of blood filling,

A sweat-stain worthy of rising,

There, she drinks long, and heartily

Of a soul ready to give and be receiven

I am hers, for now, 

A sound to be crunched beneath boot-heels

Fuzzy, slipping some on the quality of the wine.

Giving, now gone.

Follow us then, down.

Into the mud of my mind.

We will lie.