Notes from beneath the weight of the moon and Baudelaire
Charles, that dark minx, rises with that blue minstrel,
the moon, that oozing menace, that croons with silent
screams. THESE DREAMS!
These obsidian epiphanies
of doom sing of scuttling insects on scratchy feet, of sin and syphilis, and I'm off, driven into the arms of night.
Black roses bloom beneath every streetlight.
In the alley my mind roams, hungry for desperation, food
for my demons. Love is but a spent prophylactic, glued to my
shoe with some pearl-hued glue of procreation's expectation
as if this modern Laudanum, these spirits that whisper
hadn't rendered my root mute, even moot, the night,
Dry.
"REFUTE! REFUTE!" I cry from beneath an oily verse,
to roust this curse, this Faustian weight, this heavy ghost
of Baudelaire, of the moon...
Cause and Effect
I would live intentionally above all,
lest I blame the author of me
for some unhappy accident,
and name it god.
