~damned to be rabid dog bitten~
~the twisted vein at the business end of a needle~
~molested by someone’s older sister~
~or was it your own~
~alone in the bathtub~
~the only one in the room~
~cryptococcus in the tomb~
~c’mon l’il girl~
~got somethin’ for ya~
~brethren misguided~ ~the woman has broken his heart~
~says she loves him too much to love him~
~unable to say goodbye~
~she refuses to say hello~
~the mystery of gender is elusive~
~islands are free as they stand~
~defenseless in the face of tides~
~the loss of love is a nearer death~
~as its constituents are breathing still~
~a double suicide as it were~
~grief, a shifting wall of shadows~
~the pallbearers were blindfolded~
~united in their stilted, stiff-gait stride~
~a corpse enters & owns any room~
~he longs to be the last man standing~
~the whole damned world has gone to sleep~
~the refrigerator and tick tock clock~
~growl through his sleepless insomniac mind~
~is a wizard buried under a dead tree~
~whose roots strangled the life from him~
~when he attempted to ingest its seeds of knowledge~
~he is the prefect of loneliness~
~a crowded voice in an empty room~
~ten-penny wishes on saturday night~
~the tinsel voice of the woman says I love you~
~as recorded on the telephone machine~
~so long as you promise to stay away~
~& realize I need not to need you~
~his flesh is onion skin stretched~
~o’er the starched bones of mediocrity~
~a spider web bouncing on his eyes~
~whose maker has seen who he is~
~& eaten her way through his brain~
~is a thin masque veil of death smoke~
~rising from the fading ember life~
~she told him & his brother~
~tostand up & act like men~
~they argued, fought over bananas~
~chased naked women up & down halls~
~life gets swallowed by alleys~
~mad dogs on the moon~
~he said he was glad she was dead~
~either a lie or the tears in his eyes~
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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~VI~~the son standing in the hallway~
~listening closely~
~ear to the door~
~waiting for a commercial~
~so he can ask momma’s permission~
~he wants to go play in the yard~
~mustn’t interrupt her program~
~he feels it winding up~
~an expert at timing~
~he nudges the door open~
~the telephone rings~
~she answers it~
~dismisses him with a wave of her hand~
~she is weeping~
~speaking with her mother on the phone~
~the pretty man in the show died~
~they are afraid for the commercial to end~
~how can life go on without him~
~the boy closes the door silently~
~lays down on the floor outside her door~
~puts a thumb in his mouth~
~begins to suckle & drifts away thinking~
~he doesn’t like her very much~
~his mother~
~VI. Television Dawn~
~window situated western~
~no thing as perfect~
~so television dawn~
~echoes as sideshow~
~four walls gone~
~her eyes are closed~
~ghosts play tag on her face~
~hide between lines of age~
~the dawn she misses runs there~
~view-screen reflected flesh~
~blue/gray in the afternoon~
~this last promise~
~a thing broken~
~even her ghosts abandon her~
~body slack & unvisited~
~no thing as perfect~
~so television dawn~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~V~
~dark in the motel light~
~vacancy~
~room for prisoners~
~saddle-sore cowboy truckdrivers~
~ravenous to mount~
~tickets to ride~
~amerikana momma~~rodeo queen~
~hotrods to hell~
~doin’ it with her boots on~
~ridin’ on the mud flap~
~tearin’ up the bed~
~she was a love child~
~then she was old~
~nothin’ in between~
~V. Blood Trail/Lust~
~two soon lovers born~
~torn from a sheet of night~
~wanderlust~
~a forest adrift~
~shadow~
~wisp of smoke~
~fire dreams ignite their passion~
~heated blood~
~illusion or not~
~when flesh is a flame to touch~
~desire becomes~
~the fuel of innocents~
~& sinners alike so once begun~
~hell is loose until fire~~devours fire & death~
~is the lesser evil~
~wolves who are born to run~
~a leash of feral fang & eye~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~standing on the parapet~
~drifting~
~falling away~
~he combs his moustache~
~tries the lock on the door~
~he can’t get out~
~she can’t get in~
~he laughs at his own sex games~
~a prisoner of id~
~aware~
~startled awake~
~a leather thong about his throat~
~locomotives blasting through his mind~
~bird-speak in the outside yard of himself~
~darkness fails to quiet the night of leather wing & dervish whispers~
~The Danse/After Midnight~
Listening to a train again blowing down the tracks, his room has a window he refuses to look out of. Do you have any idea of your timelessness, how you took his breath away in a single note of dismissal?
With pen in hand, he is strong. He wields the slender instrument, uses it to dig holes in himself, with firm hand and quivering gait to pen mystery, bravely walk away, weeping to that monster awful shrieking whistle – God! Damn those wandering tracks of love.
You tied a strip of rawhide around his wrist, kissed him sweetly in your poor lost house. You smelled and looked lovely, asked him to leave so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye in the morning, in the blue morning, there to attend him, birds in the yard, creatures who speak a language he understands.
It is the hour before midnight, a time of deep, blue/black darkness. He is a leather wraith drifting down the road, climbing out of the muck of himself. Established of ebon spirit, he experiences liberation, divinity, vulgarity of faith as he seizes the opportunity to finally know who he is, discover through crumbling walls of reality, the bare dangling roots of creativity, the mangled remnants of his self-worth tied inexorably to a lady lost, you, to yourself, in yourself, seeking. He is not the knot of leather tied.
He hears a child laugh while enjoying conversation in a room full of strangers. This night he is claimed of shame, a man failed in the midnight hour. He damns his tears their salty tracks, prays to deaf gods for the peace of leather dreams, faces the night alone in his icy human flesh.
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Zedidiah strumming his guitar~
~we’re lookin’ into the fire~
~spendin’ time with my kids~
~ah the rewards~
~a new song to add to our war bag~
~a first for my youngest son & me~
~we visit Tommy~
~my oldest son~
~he sprinkles some of his magick~
~we have a first cut result~
~me & my boyz~
~What You Do~
There’s a lion asleep
in the bottom of the well
his secrets died with him
that’s the story they tell
There’s a lone one watching
yeah, the trees have eyes
I confess that
it comes as no surprise
Don’t tell me
don’t tell me
don’t tell me
what you do
We been talkin’ all night
making love at dawn
I been voodoo trippin’
you are the drug I’m on
I almost made it
past your lies
but the truth between them
made the lion die
Don’t tell me
don’t tell me
don’t tell me
what you do
You hear the lonely lonely
it’s the voice, they say
its echo of madness
chase the moon away
yeah, the lonely hearts
at the wishing well
toss in a penny
on the road to hell
Don’t tell me
don’t tell me
don’t tell me
what you do
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
Fists was surly that night which was unusual because he didn’t usually wax surly unless you got on the wrong side of him. You didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Fists. Oh no, you didn’t. He’d been out of sorts of late because Tinker, the guy who wrenched for him, had disappeared a few days ago. This, in and of itself, wasn’t all that unusual. Tinker was a drunk and had a liking for meth when in the process of doing what he liked the most, diving to the bottom of a glass. He showed up late for work more often than not, red eyes, puffy cheeks and shaking like a flea-bitten old dog. What was a bit unusual this time is that he hadn’t shown up at all. Oh, and Fists’ crank was gone too, a whole ounce, three thousand dollars worth after the cut.
Willy handed Fists a baggy with white powder in it. “Here’s the half ounce of mannitol, all ready for the cut. I got a commitment for half a ‘Z’, twelve hundred bucks.”
“Later!” Fists said tersely. He tossed the bag on his desk. “We got something to take care of tonight. I need your help.” He handed Willy the keys to his Eldorado. “You drive. Take I-70 east to the Last Chance exit. We’ll get off there.”
Willy took a deep breath, got in the Eldorado and backed it out of the garage. He waited in silence as Fists let the dogs loose and locked up the shop. His mind was loco-looping, wondering what the hell was going on. He didn’t like the feel of it and wasn’t about to ask Fists any questions. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Fists. Oh no, he didn’t.
The moon was around ninety-nine percent and Willy let the Cadillac have its head. Smooth as a baby’s butt at a hundred miles an hour. “Slow down!” Fists ordered, “You’re behaving like a pig magnet.”
“Nice night for a ride,” Willy said offhandedly, thinking wistfully of His and Fists’ Harleys parked in Fists’ shop.
“Not tonight,” Fist said, “Just drive.”
Last Chance, Colorado, A blink into Kansas and you missed it. Willy followed Fists’ instructions, took the off-ramp and bump-bumped the Eldorado across the rough dirt road in a farmer’s field. “Stop and open the trunk,” Fists ordered.
Willy breathed a little easier. Now everything was beginning to make sense, hideout guns and cash. That’s what was probably in the trunk. They were out here to do a deal, maybe take someone down. Fists wasn’t usually so closed mouthed about details.
Willy turned the key and the trunk popped open. Fists stepped forward and smashed the trunk light out with the butt of his forty-five. “Should have taken care of that before,” he said.
Willy blinked his eyes. Had he seen what he thought he saw in the instant of bright light before Fists put it out? Tinker, a bandana stuffed in his mouth and bound with cable ties. Fists gave him a nudge from behind and placed a set of wire cutters in his hand. “Here, cut him loose.”
Oh, this wasn’t going well at all. Willy and Fists had talked about him making his bones but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go that far in and he sure as hell didn’t want to earn them by offing Tinker. Tinker was a drunk but Willy had a soft spot in his heart for alcoholics and drug addicts. His father and brothers were of that ilk. They usually hurt themselves more than anyone else.
Willy reached into the dark cavern of the trunk. He had to feel his way to the plastic ties binding Tinker’s ankles and wrists, difficult because they were trussed up and linked together behind his back. “I hog-tied the sumbitch,” Fists offered.
Tinker climbed out of the trunk. “Thanks, Willy,” he said sheepishly.
“Get that pillow case out of the trunk,” Fists said to Willy. He took Tinker by the arm. “You come with me.”
The pillow case had some heft to it, something metal clanking together suspiciously. Willy wasn’t about to risk a peek or put his hand in there. He followed Fists to where he had taken Tinker. They were silhouettes bathed in the moon of the still night, so dark and desolate a mantle of stars was visible. Moon or man could not own their light in the true domain of earth and space. Tinker was on his knees. Fists’ hands held his gun, arms stiff, a shooter’s stance, the barrel of the gun pressed tight against Tinker’s forehead. Fists twisted it a bit and a trickle of blood ran down the man’s face.
“You regret lying to me?” Fists asked.
Tinker groaned, an animal sound deep and lost inside. “Agh, yeah, I am..”
“I got customers,” Fists said softly, tapping the pistol against Tinker’s head. “You lie to me and I lie to them. I don’t like that.”
Tinker pressed his face into the gun. “I didn’t mean to. I’m no good. Just.. just.. you know.”
“You been running your mouth in the bars,” Fists said. “Telling everybody you don’t care if I find you. Well, here I am.”
Fists stood away, tucked his pistol into the back of his jeans. “Stand up and take your clothes off,” he ordered.
Tinker struggled to his feet and began to walk round and round in a tight circle mumbling incoherently. “Undress that sonofabitch,” Fists said to Willy.
Willy took a step forward. He reached out and touched Tinker’s arm. Tinker jerked away. “No, please!” he begged. “I know you’re pissed cause I took your speed but I’ll pay you back, Fists. I promise! I’ll work for nothing, show up on time every day. Please!”
“Did you hear me?” Fists addressed Willy. “Or was that cockroach making too much noise?”
Willy grabbed the front of Tinker’s shirt. Tinker turned to run and the shirt ripped from his body. “Get ‘im,” Fists said softly.
Tinker fell face first into the freshly plowed earth. Willy, a football player in his high-school days, had run him down and shoulder tackled him at the knees. He pulled Tinker up from the ground and marched him back to where Fists waited on the moonlit path. “What are you gonna do?” Tinker whined plaintively.
“You won’t like it,” Fists chuckled. He pulled the forty-five out and pointed it at Tinker’s head. “But it’s better than being shot in the head. Now take your clothes off, all of them.” He leveled the gun, took a step forward, and nestled the end of the barrel into the spot between Tinker’s eyes. “A man should always have a choice. I respect that. You didn’t. This is your choice.” The distinct noise of the metallic mechanism of the pistol owned the moment as Fists pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “Last time. Take your clothes off.”
Tinker pulled down his trousers. He had begun to choke and sob. His hands were shaking terribly and sharing some inconsolable rhythm with the gurgling sounds coming from his throat. “Pull down your boxers,” Fists said.
Drool running from his mouth, Tinker was barely coherent, literally shocked out of his mind at the mere prospect of what might be about to happen. Fists nodded at Willy and he pulled down the man’s boxer shorts. Fists stepped forward and slapped him on his bare ass. “Ya know, Tinker, I could have had you the first day you screwed me around.” He waved his gun toward the moon. “I waited for that because I wanted you to see the full light of your mistake.” He chuckled. “And I need light to do what Willy and I are about to do about you.”
Willy was almost as apprehensive as Tinker. He had no idea what Fists’ plans might be but hoped it wasn’t what he was thinking. He couldn’t do that, no way he could do that. He glanced at Tinker just as Fists slapped him hard in the chest. Tinker fell flat on his ass, a loud oomph of air rushing from him, forced out in a surprised gush. “Take his shoes off!” Fists ordered. “I want him butt-assed naked and we’re running out of time. We got things to do.”
Tinker stood on his tiptoes, arms reaching for the sky. “Turn around,” Fists whispered. “Now bend over and grab your ankles.”
“Oh, God, God…” Tinker moaned.
“Now for your part.” Fists grinned at Willy. “Go clean him up. He done shit and pissed all over himself, then fell in the dirt, poor l’il guy.”
Willy used the rag of Tinker’s shirt to wipe him off. “Make sure he’s dry everywhere,” Fists advised. “We gotta have ‘im tight ‘n dry.”
Good God, Willy thought. This is some crazy shit. Any sympathy he had for Tinker was quickly dissipating as he began to wonder how he was going to handle the next few minutes of his life. “Hand me that bag,” Fists said. “Then go over and reach into the hidey-hole of my ride. We gotta get ready for the next part.”
Willy returned with a can of WD-40. Fists smiled at him, dark and evil. He took the can of lubricant from Willy’s hand. “Good stuff.” He unscrewed a false bottom from the can, palmed a vial, winked and tossed it to Willy. “Have yourself a blast o’ that. Tell me what you think.”
Willy held the vial up to the moonlight, squinted his eyes to better see its yellow/white powder contents. “Hurry up!” Fists said impatiently. “We don’t have all night.”
The cap of the vial had a tiny plastic flip-out spoon which Willy used to scoop out some of its contents. He placed a finger on his left nostril, applying pressure to hold it closed, while he inhaled the powder up the other side of his nose. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, extending his arm, offering the vial back to Fists.
Fists waved him off. “Do the other side. I can’t have you runnin’ around in circles on me.”
Willy laughed and loaded up the other side of his nose. Fists took the vial and quickly had a couple of blasts for himself. He stashed the vial back in the base of the WD-40 can and handed it to Willy. “Well, what do you think?”
“Holy shit!” he repeated. “It’s great! I feel like someone’s taking the back of my head off.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He held it up for Fists to see. “Bleeding like a stuck pig. That stuff’s a little raw.”
“Yeah,” Fists agreed. “A brother of mine cooked it up to help cover up shithead here rippin’ me off. Made me a good deal and did it quick. Too quick maybe, he didn’t cure it right.” He glanced thoughtfully at Willy. “Hey, while we’re dealing with Tinker here, you be thinking about something to name this shit. It’ll smooth out some with that mannitol but it won’t take the yellow out. Shooters won’t like it one bit.”
“Sure,” willy said, casting a worried sidelong glance in Tinker’s direction.
“Go spread his butt cheeks,” Fists ordered, all friendliness gone from his voice. He was definitely in back to business mode.
Here we go, Willy thought. Tinker jerked violently when Willy touched him. “Knock it off!” Willy hissed. “This will be over before you know it. You’re just making it worse with your bullshit.”
Fists, in his directorial voice, intoned, “Turn his asshole toward the light.”
Tinker shuddered as Willy arced his body around. “He has dirt on his ass,” Fists advised, “Wipe ‘im off again.”
Willy picked the rag up from the ground and pushed it up and down Tinker’s butt crack. He heard Fists pick up the pillow case behind him, whatever was in it clinking and clanking in the still darkness. “Hold ‘im just like that,” Fists crooned. “We gotta start in the tight spots.”
A tiny steel ball ding-ding-dinging against the inside of a tin cup. Willy’s mind jumped back to his poor-boy childhood, aggies and steelies, turf wars in the housing projects. He glanced back at Fists and just didn’t get it. The man was standing there casually shaking a can of spray paint as if he was preparing to prime a gas tank on his Hawg. Hold ‘im tight,” he said. He held the nozzle a couple of inches away from its target and began to paint Tinker’s asshole. His eyes were next and under his arms. Then came the pecker. Willy had to hold Tinker’s balls up because he was shaking and gasping and literally couldn’t get hold of himself.
Fifteen cans of florescent green spray paint, that’s what was in that old pillow case. Fists stood back to admire his work. He had Tinker turn in slow circles, tried to talk him through a pirouette but the man was way past being able to manage such tricks. “Hey, Willy,” he said. How do you like that? Is that better than killing a man or beating him up or what?”
“I don’t know,” Willy replied. “I just don’t know.”
“Must be all right if I put one over on you,” Fists mused. “Did I miss anything?”
“Hell,” Willie said, “That man is green everywhere but the bottoms of his feet.”
“Good man!” Fists exclaimed. He gave Tinker a shove. “Sit down. You ain’t done yet!” He tossed a can of paint to Willy. “You finish ‘im off. Get the bottoms of those feet and in between his little tootsies. I’ll lay us out a proper line on the mirror before we send him on his way.”
Willy was relieved to finish ‘im off as it were, glad it didn’t seem to require a bullet or baseball bat as finish ‘im off usually did. Tinker kept trying to ask him questions but Willy refused to engage. He had a feeling this was going to turn out okay, no dead guys or anything.
“Go get yours!” Willy jumped at the sound of Fists’ voice. He stepped away and Fists ordered Tinker to his feet. If it was going to happen, now would be the time. While he was on the way to the car, sixteen steps, or when he was inside with the hundred dollar bill straw giving himself another nose bleed. It didn’t though. He returned to Fists and Tinker and found Fists in a campfire stories kinda mood. “See,” Fists said to Tinker. He tapped him on the nose with a stiff finger. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
Tinker winced as he forced his eyes wide open, flinched when Fists’ hand moved. “Burns, don’t it?” Fists said. He pulled a tissue from his shirt pocket and dabbed at the corners of Tinker’s eyes. “You’re just skittish as hell, aren’t you?” he chuckled.
“Farmers hereabouts been reporting flying saucer sightings longer ‘n we been alive,” Fists said in a conversational tone. “Most of ‘em pack iron for skunks, eagles, coyotes, any critter posing a threat to their critters. Don’t know how they’d react to a green man come to the door.” He looked off to the west. “Denver’s about forty miles from here,” he said. “That’s where Willy ‘n me are going.” You can too if you care to. Thing is, me being a man of my word, I’ll kill your ass first chance I get.” He pointed to the east with a crooked finger. “Kansas that way, Dorothy, Toto, and all that shit. Scarecrows and tin men, maybe they’ll think you’re just another strange character jumped outa some writer’s brain.”
Fists pulled out his pistol, made a big display of ejecting a shell and jacking a fresh one into the chamber. “One with your name on it,” he said to Tinker. “I’d get packin’, I were you. Make your choice.”
Tinker went to Kansas.
“Clean up this mess and let’s get out o’ here,” Fists said to Willy. “I’ll drive back. You drive too damned slow!”
Interstate 70, speedometer pinned, four o’ clock in the morning, beatin’ the sunrise to Denver. “Well hell,” Fists pulled his fingers through his beard. “What we gonna call it?” He made a cluck-cluck sound with his tongue. “I wanna draw some connection to tonight’s events but not directly and I want something catchy, some snazzy assed thing to draw in the shooters. We gotta move this stuff quick to cover our ass.”
Willy stared through the windshield, mesmerized by the predawn silhouette of the Rocky Mountains against the sky. He glanced across the car at his friend, green fingers tapping out a beat with ZZ Topp, “Easing down the highway in a new Cadillac.”
“How ‘bout ‘Florescent Horizons’ Willy said dreamily.
“Goddam if that ain’t it!” Fists slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He flipped the vial across the seat. “Glad you was with me tonight, Willy. Let’s get to shakin’ and bakin’! We gon’ make some Florescent Horizons.”
So they did, down the road, singin’ with the radio, “I’m bad, I’m nationwide!”
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~trees through the window~
~shaking medusa heads~
~the snake is long~
~seven miles~
~a rich woman’s son stole his songs Doris~
~the monster Zarathustra~
~put your head between your legs~
~kiss your ass goodbye~
~for the love of a woman~
~Nazi disguise~~boots & lies~
~mad synthesis~
~Poe, Nietzsche, Morrison, Manson, & me~
~Cave Jams/Suicide Promises~
Remember me in your days to come as the man of seven summers. Your words and girlish excitement ignited a frightful explosion in my heart. A bowl of strawberries and a beautiful woman, I had no idea what they meant. In the forever of my life they will wear your name.
Sorrow is a tempter, a loaded gun. Loss is the finger on the trigger. Equanimity demands sanity, equilibrium. Being sane and sensible drives me crazy. The inmates are running the asylum, arming our children and stealing our faces. I am a mad beast howling at road signs.
When night pulls its masque o’er my face it is ten ton terrible to be alone. The monsters in my brain are afraid. They send minnows out through my eyes to chew holes through the fabric of darkness. Life is a flesh-tone shroud we wear to fool the mirror and the face of death.
There is a place where only we go, you and me, woman. When I am away from you as I am now and go to that place I am not so lonely. Though alone, it is good to always know that you are there for having been there, never far away for the same reason.
The churchman has opened his door. Its shaft of light divides my face. He chooses sides against me to support his religion, a proprietary bent toward you as if he hails from a house of Lords. Fear owns the loose juice of my bowels, the price I’d pay to do what must be done with him.
I favor songs about hearts of stone, the impenetrable forest, man’s id of trees pounding his breast and stomping his feet, howling epithets against the feral night. You step nimbly through the seven of my senses, frail and quick-footed, nude dancer. Woman, you are a twelve pound hammer.
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~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: V~
~birds at the sepulcher~
~black wing twisted waistcoats~
~looking through the window~
~her lover disturbed him~
~a dead one-eyed stair~
~climb me up quick~
~don’t wanna drown alone~
~the semen dream~
~bathtub coffin~
~Music the Winter Moon Invites~
My brother called me a liar. Some days he knows me better than I have strung words around my throat. One day I might just jump off this planet. I feel like the moon owns me. Fearful of water, I am drawn to tides. The drowning man contemplates suicide.
If hell existed, this would be it you know. I’m hiding in the body of my former self, telling it no, refusing it succor. The woman it loved is poised and ready to bury her fangs and rip off its head. Some folks are too ignorant to be afraid. They become the next brave victims.
We made noise like cannibals, aborigines in the desert pounding dry sticks against hollow stones. Drug lions pounced from under cars, stole away the children from our used to be. He has a live puppet for a wife and a corpse for a bed mate.
Wondering as I pull the winter moon down to my eyes that they may yet be drawn to it without her at my side, the sky reach of our seek. Will she share it with a new stranger while I fade from her heart, disappear from her dreams. I truly dread the end of winter. Summer lightning without her will rip through my heart.
Children with your sidewalk wagons come rolling down to meet me. There is nothing in the world like their laughing, its absolute synchronicity with my being. Bells, bells, do you hear them peeling, peeling. Where the church spiders live, my eyes follow them alone and no one sees.
Tomorrow the ten-penny city awaits. Counters mete out the coin of the realm. In the shadow of the woman stands a boy, his face a face I have come to love. His father devours and I must run away because and before he swallows them both. She will not have me; there is nowhere left to hide.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: IV~
~damned to be rabid dog bitten~
~the twisted vein at the business end of a needle~
~molested by an older sibling~
~alone in the bathtub~
~alone in the room~
~cryptococcus in the tomb~
~c’mon l’il girl~
~got somethin’ for ya~
~Brethren Misguided~
The woman has broken his heart, says she loves him too much to love him. Unable to say goodbye, she refuses to say hello. The mystery of gender is elusive. Islands are free as they stand, defenseless in the face of tides.
The loss of love is a nearer death, as its constituents are breathing still, a double suicide as it were, grief, a shifting wall of shadows. The pallbearers were blindfolded, united in their stilted, stiff-gait stride. A corpse enters and owns any room.
I have a longing to be the last man standing. The whole damned world has gone to sleep. The refrigerator and tick tock clock growl through the mind of the insomniac. The wizard is buried under the dead tree whose roots strangled him to death when he ingested seeds of knowledge.
I am the prefect of loneliness, a crowded voice in an empty room, ten-penny wishes on Saturday night. The voice of the woman says I love you, as recorded on the telephone machine, so long as you promise to stay away, realize I need not to need you.
My flesh is onion skin stretched o’er the starched bones of mediocrity, a spider web bouncing on my eyes whose maker has seen who I am and eaten her way through my brain is a thin masque veil of death smoke rising from the fading ember life.
She told us to stand up and be men. We argued, fought over bananas, chased naked women up and down the halls where life is swallowed by alleys, mad dogs with moons in their eyes. He said he was glad she was dead. Only I saw the lie in the tears in his eyes.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Nietzsche suggested we lift ourselves up on our own shoulders~~he was imprisoned in a madhouse by his loving sister~
~Manson asked his girls to do something nice for Charley~
~they gave him their best~
~Jim Morrison said it, lived it, & died it~~no one here gets out alive~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: III~
~Visions from the Gallows Tree~
The isolation of this cell is a discipline to be mastered one day, one hour, one minute at a time. As a potion prescribed by a healer, it must be consumed in doses. There are voices beneath the floor, no escape, shared wailing of the damned.
Having studied the history of men with a predisposition to self-imposed misery, one might surmise I’d know better. Seems we study ourselves in others, unintentionally and near-blind. We are not what we become, a conglomerate, a mere synthesis of our surroundings. They are only and all the earth keepers of our feet.
If Jesus were a country, an island, would you seek him out, go there to pray? Not I, it would be too crowded with sycophants, councils and committees. I am sufficiently intelligent to be trained, woefully antagonistic and un-trainable. Who drilled holes in the spanking board?
She steps across his body and wonders, did she have him or him her. Pondering this, she thinks (hopes) maybe he is dead. The reverend lights candles in the choir box. His singers have refused to sing. Having rung the bell himself, he knows he’ll have to find a ringer and find one soon.
Concerned citizens drive Cadillacs to a protest against oil magnates. They read poems condemning war, high taxes, gender factors and pollution. My fists punch holes in cardboard boxes. I crush aluminum cans beneath my feet. Why doesn’t someone clean up this goddamned mess?
There is no room in this room for me. It is full of ghosts and hobgoblins. A giant golden fish has swallowed my stars. There is a lady married to the sister of her protest mate. They intend to arrange non-emotional sex to impregnate her so the ladies can be fathers. There is no room in this womb for me.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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