Wishing Well

Wishing Well

Saturday night begat Sunday fire,
the morning bloodroses in the clouds
each one the chariot of an angry pagan god
chased out by one true passion.

This sunrise is only a decoration
unlike the one before
which may have meant life or death
--we've all woke up dead
in time for the fire to burn
it's mark of one more day alive.

this one sunrise is for your eyes only,
enchanted and drunken as they are
by love's
shot glass whiskey barfloor dance.

The sun sets us to burn.

The floors are on fire--
we are drunken well-wishers
casting pennies into darkness

you threw them for luck--

I threw them
for one endless weekend

Sundayrise tells us to try again
very soon


Written By Eric Bachman

golden apple

his soul sings silently,
threaded
in gauzy and golden light
my heart impales itself
on this melody
my soul cleaves
to his lyrical luminescence

his great, flowing essence
quenches my thirst ~
this scorching yen
that scars
of successive past lives
have woven
into my very essence

he washes me
away from myself
leaving me bare,
somewhat macerated and bare
exposed ~
for all my frailties and wounds
... he sees ... he knows ...
he hears the whispers of the universe, too

that sacred light
of his core
flickers softly,
and with each flash,
he carves
another spark
into my weak, low-burning ember

in the glow of his mantle
his innocent generosity cascades
endlessly,
scented with divine wisdom
the beauty of him
touches that raw, pulsing
and forbidden corner of my heart
which eats fire

cherished ~
the grace of his movements ~
cherished ~
the gentle contemplation
of his speech
cherished ~
my golden apple

~the.red.mantissa~

velvet rapture

skin
against skin
surge, electrifying - i,
a vessel, felt him
inside me
throbbing, engorged
he filled my cavern
with his sweet, milky essence
holding my breath --
waiting to exhale
... rapture ...
folded into
slow, softly dancing
and infinitesmal
beadlets of sweat
panting. breathless. silent -
two glowing orbs
of glistening pulp
dangling,
from the barbs
of delicate carmine kisses

~written by the.red.mantissa~

Nightbirds

Past the dwindling twilight thread;
Flesh rose-tones and a hint of petculli
the only things that matter
are in very good hands,
or are covered by darkness
from the rest

Some find it easy to fly
by day, but some only sore
at night when the stars talk
about ancient stories still
lived out on the earth today;
Hydras and Dragons, the dogs run
everywhere.
Hunter and the Queen
impossibly meet because
at night they are alive,
above and below the stares

Nightbirds sing to bring the dawn back
We sing for the same reasons
Nightbirds fly seeking the safety of shadow
But we fly for the same reasons we sing,
shadows being only another layer
to shed, stories that peel away
cast on the floor,
like the anticipation of each new sunrise
an event foreshadowed
by so many love songs
heard whispered in the dark

Written by Eric Bachman

Flight of a Soul

hidden -
lurking
in the shadows,
where the heavens meet the earth
where dawn touches dusk
where the sea embraces itself

hidden -
lurking
in the faded, distant memories
locked away ... inside
my frail and tattered soul
why have you gone?
i cannot see you -
i cannot feel you
here, alone
in the deepest stalk of darkness
i waiver, without you
why have you gone?
i thirst for you,
why have you gone?
you have left me
shattered,
shredded and torn -
an empty desiccated shell

hidden -
lurking
in the loneliest
cavern of darkness,
a miniscule and frail
shard of light
i shall find it
blossoming
in the deepest stalk of darkness

Written by the.red.mantissa

Flowers

I dreamed you were my private flower,
close to my breast, you knew
my heartbeat, my thoughts, my sins.
You forgave me everything with your
delicious spice that enfolded me in the
greatest love I have ever known.

Flowers forget the end to eternity;
they breathe life into stale air.
You breathed into me; your inhalation wove its
way into endless weeds that clouded my mind,
making me clear and whole again.
How can I not love you for that?

Yes, I do. But the truth of love lies only
in flower beds, tended like children. My love grew wild;
more weeds clutter us. Now I know that
fragrance is transitory, like love you share that
later wilts in the winds of winter that says the end.

Written by Cruel Virgin

Michaels House

It’s good and solid,
built of fresh scented wood with tough brick—
all multicolored—warm to the touch like a glass of mulled wine.
He cries: “Michael’s house!” every time we enter.
But it’s nobody’s house.
No one lives there.
They come and go, a way-station for the severed.

I think of the hospital, cool and bright,
forced smiles, nurses waving bye-bye,
off to half-way houses, group homes.
Michael doesn’t want to live there.
His eyes beg me: “Let me heal!”

The doctor says no.

Do you feel the shivery wind
blowing through the empty house
like the silent breath of the bleeding Lord?

Written by Cruel Virgin