Fight or flight (we’re running out of options)

What did you think?
That distance and
inward difference
would drive out
the inexorable,
obfuscate the clarity
of ghastly recollection,
dull the rusted tip
of memory’s unspeakable knife?

You’re in the center
of interminable winter,
the stark white faces
of immortal demons
bearing scarlet teeth
and singing for the offering
that quivers under your skin.

Delusional to dream
that the landscape
would morph
over the course of
casual vagrancy,
that the sinister terminus
of winding blacktops
would diminish in its
abominable potence.

Don’t think we don’t see how you choke-
your throat closes with every voyage
into the caliginous domain of insidious horrors,
headspace reeling and amygdala aflame as
the technicolor film plays out in every corner;
you’re bleeding out the strength you sought and won,
seething with unshakeable panic and pleading
for some goddamn reprieve from these black inundations,
shrieking in your sleep when unconsciousness
can’t vanquish the monsters that slithered
through your ear and
into every dream.

This is fight or flight honey,
and you’ve already tried
the latter.

So for the sake of
salvageable sanity
and those who redeem
this noxious wasteland
into something livable,
find a means to subsist,
a way to exist with dignity

in the midst of the devil’s


Waking revery

“So,” she asks finally.

Did you die?”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Awhile ago.
Back to sleep, my love.

“But where did you go?”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Agoraphobic to boot-my boxed up
room is kingdom now.

“Is it warm where you are?”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Maybe if you slide another
blanket under the door.

You fold into all the dresses and robes
hung like old skins
gaze oozing from the cracks in the armoire.
All the skeletons playing post-mortem in imaginary worlds
hide-and-seek with curl-toed children shrinking into their sheets
listening to the bone clatter in the closet
while their weary-eyed mothers
promise it’s just a fear of the dark, nothing
behind the pearly wood of that upright coffin.

And when the door clicks, the panels shift,
wallpaper peels away like an old scab, and you
slither across the bedroom floor, one shadow
at a time till your tongue is in my ear
slimy whisper licking across my cortex
till my eyes roll back in my head

I am your paramour.
Best make room
underneath that sweat-soaked blanket.


Sullen gargoyles perch on the other side of sleep
stone eyes that crack the shell of every dream
buttress-wings that cast inky shadows
that dance like frantic tongues.

By midnight I’ll be rotten through
adorned with maggot jewels and yellow sinew sashes
and purple nails curdling as blood bubbles up
to stain our hands new shades of red and sin

Our infinity is in the catacombs
making honest love along the wasted flesh caverns
that groan under our feet
So similar we are, such spitting resemblance-
you wear my stolen eyes
ripped clean from my sockets
The tendon ribbons snap like rusting
The caverns in my face yawn in grotesque
God only knows how
I can see you
But when I do,
a bit of me ensconced in the devil’s face.