A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

Downshift.

We had drawn up this road map so grand,

the highlighted route to the ending we planned,

the flutter of cards as they dropped out of hand,

the calling of Gods in dreams we understand;

poor odds follow close, wherever I am,

fleeting as granules of time-whitened sand

fickle and pickled in the spices at hand,

between promise and oneness,

that same ol’ ominous numbness,

parlor tricks performed in a deserted land;

peopled with embodied nothingness,

void of all the sugary fluffiness,

where you are is ever where I am,

when I’m asleep that’s how it stands,

I dig in the deep with my polished hands,

driven mad by a fiendish hologram;

dropped from the attached strings,

to your heart’s working guillotine,

you never came back for me,

left me miserably, deservedly

just as I am.

Bled.

I will kneel at the feet of the man or the beast,
depending on which one has his teeth sunk into me…
and when the lips peel back upwards,
to bear the double edged,
dripping red, set of razor teeth…
only then, can be determined,
which one I’m currently worshiping.
I can blend myself in with the white or red skin,
belonging to either clan through a split blood relation…
and when the day has ended,
to become the grey-scaled,
chain-mailed, cell of my own prison…
the only way that I’m able to stay,
shine light on what’s mine once again.
I can keep up still, alongside the fin or the gill,
towing my heaviest anchor and its affected blood-trail…
and when the buoy’s been rounded,
to become blinded once again,
the line of vision, breaths get exhaled…
the single-handed curse:
my belovedly bled best friend.

Crooked Finger.

I know you’ve made the effort,

to fish me out and throw me aloft,

you’ve been on belay for a decade,

awaiting the tension on my end to let off,

you typically would never bother with,

hand-holding of the incompetent,

you have no patience or tolerance,

with things that lean to your detriment,

yet somehow your open palmed hand,

remains out to me, wherever I am,

even if I don’t know where I stand,

the bear blazes trails to the lamb,

I probably disappoint your mind,

and let your spirit down all the time,

I probably don’t very well epitomize,

the things you stand for in my own eyes,

I guess I feel heavy against your soaring flight,

like a weight on your ankle without any right,

I want you to achieve the dreams in your life,

with both of your hands free to win the fight,

            you’ll need both hands to accept the trophies,

            to stab at the person breaking and entering,

            to sign checks, breaks necks with your badassery,

            keep your hands free from the mess known as me.

 

 

 

Min Ven.

Americana Injustica

night horse

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

day horse

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