Dominus Thanos

“I suppose”, said the shadow when I asked about my heart. As you may not know, I have found some holes that I supposed it would like fill. I know which tools carved these internal chasms; I dare say I sharpened them myself. Though the last time I tried to fill them, I took away pieces from someone else. Now something needs to take up residence, lest the emptiness decides to grow. I fear a dream would not fair me well as they so seldom reflect, let alone represent, the truth of life and love. Besides, there are enough dreams in me to disappoint my soul; I need not add to my masquerade in the hopes of feeling whole. As for a new desire, I dare say it would come to naught, for as it stands I struggle to satisfy the desires I have already caught. Far too long has hope prolonged this most decrepit state, I dare not allow more to take hold lest I believe in fate. The tenant I fear most of all is most certainly my hate. It’s far too unstable, unruly, malicious and unkind. Were I to allow it in my chambers, I am certain that soon after, there would be even more missing parts that I would find. So I opted to for the shadow, so complacent and clam. Its presence infers there’s a light that I could find. So I waited for a long time after its first response, for I was in dire need of something, with which I could be close. Then it shifted and then it asked of me “have you considered love?”

In My Room I Found You

I arrived to find something new in my room. Amongst the pieces of my past, tokens and weapons lay a new doll. It was worn by the many miles it had traveled before this moment. It lay amongst many well know items of mine. They must have brought it along to keep them company. I found myself drawn to its imperfections and marks. Slowly many of my other possessions became trifle besides the time I spend engorged in the world amidst our play. Steadily the doll started to become imbued with meaning. No longer could I hold it in my arms and eyes as a meager representation of life. It had become real, alive and closer now than I thought it would when first I saw it. At first I delighted by the life it had acquired and hastily made it fine lodging in my heart. I had forgotten why I had vacated live from my room so long ago. Now alive, what was once a doll now was now subject to the imperfections of life. These were unlike the tatters that had drawn me to it. No, these were the barbs of individuality and agency. As sweet as its ability to choose me could be, as bitter was its capacity to scorn me. As the blood started to clot, and the wounds sporadically close, I found it inconceivable to recant the life that looked back at me from behind the eyes that were once so vacant. I tried, that I cannot deny. Alas it no longer resided outside of me, but in its being lay a part of my own reflection. I had lost control of yet another part of myself. I am now too afraid to open the door to my heart, for I fear the condition it has been left in

These Sheets Have Monsters

She lies naked in my arms, her hair in my face, annoying me. Exposed I try to cover myself with her skin, clothed in warm contact. Though the closer I move into to her shape, the more difficult it becomes to find a comfortable position. Either my head is too high up on her shoulder or her hair creeps into every orifice in my face. Now disgruntled, I move away into my own space and press gently on her shoulder. She buckles and stares closed-eyed at the ceiling. So, bored and disenchanted, I pull the covers down to her navel, like unwrapping a present you wanted two years before you got it. Unlike Jeannette Winterson’s romanticism, I did not look upon her like young explorer in an uncharted exotic world. Instead, her body was a minefield that threatened to; piece by piece, violently dismantle the serine ideal I made in passion and intoxication. I feel more like a veteran of ugly conflicts, which in their heat drowned my mind and body with adrenalin and fear. She still smiles when I touch her, even though she is not completely here with me. I know I should be flattered. But I am not.

Coming down

Torn between the craft and cast of the ideals I molded from the cooled steel that dripped from my eyes when the heat of your heart turned their fires into streams of incomprehension. What am I now to call shuddering moments of certainty that felt so warm within you? The door, whose key should never have been mine, but in the fleeting moments in which it was, it gifted me entrance to a place, space and sensation I cannot call anything less than the home I was always certain to be mine. Were I to wish any other moment above it, I would be lying to the deepest cove of my being.

Carving, From Fallen Rocks, a Face To Strange To Love

The weight of its features and the taste of dust

are the prices I pay for a face that won’t rust

But also my back buckles and my waking is strained

Still, this face is impervious to the wind and the rain

when I came to the river, I was so scared I’d drown

So I sat by the water, at home with the ground

till I met a man with a face made of skin

He jumped in the river and started to swim

Every road he had taken was carved on his brow

The scars of his travels he wore like a crown

The madness of him, to live so unguarded

was juxtaposed to the life he had fathered

So alone I sat, as even more passed me by

If my eyes were like their’s I think I would cry

From Page to Person

In terms external to you, your life was unpacked before us. With cold and careful surgical precision, your mind was made bare for us to see. A mannequin of symptoms, of signs painted on your lips and limbs. Twined between criterions was a narrative of you, though that was held in question by many a varying view. So stroke by stoke I recorded the unfolding image in black ink. I underlined the headings and made my points succinct. There was process, pace and structure in the discerning what did cause your mind and heart to rupture. Graphs and tables were set, and its cutlery polished. Every meal was served concisely so that uncertainty could be abolished. Behind my eyes you were pages, a process, and a diagnosis. I could not have foreseen the face that induced that construction’s necrosis.

Something soft and broken had been festering beneath the skin and smile you wore to help remind you of a lie, though you clothed yourself in a weakness and the need to be held high. I have loved many like you; perhaps I’ve saved a few. I know those eyes, that walk and bleeding, it has stained this skin before. I know the road before you, and it will tear your bare feet raw. For heavy are the arms that heave the longing for a dream, for as my pages do not reflect your face, nothing is as it seems. The tearing of the tendons from the thorns coiling beneath your skin, are whimpering then crying to be reconciled with any type of kin. Their seeds have all but withered in the recesses within, and soon they will start flailing as the death of them begins.

Though set aside the sorrows, the scars and hurt; for beyond our norms and wedded dysfunctions lie the individual as vast. I cannot help but wonder, how much of her suffering is hers, and how much is the cast.

So Then...

Despite our resolve, the embers of our convictions will not allow themselves to simply be shrugged off our shoulders. We fan them as we pace towards the shade. All we can try do is ignore the smell and pray the scars fade soon. To the simmering of our skin we drawn into the arena of reflection. There logic as hard as lead is sharpened and brandished against the certainty our past projects with shields of hearts and tears. One can seldom hail a victor until the final blow is swung, but never is there an encounter where no blood is spilt or no eulogy sung.