Choking on Praises

let not your heart go cold with the frost that claws deep into the ground. may it burn with the passion and protection of the roaring hearth. let not your happiness be power outages cut short by the power lines exploding in cold blue light. may it forever trickle into the frosted windows of your smile. let not your soul be silenced in the howling winds and weather warning forecasts. may it be the northern lights that illuminate the sky. let not yourself die, and wither hard like the gnarled limbs of the icicle hung trees. may you be soft, sweet, welcomed and true as warm frothed milk, sprinkled with cinnamon.

HOW TO WORSHIP I. Leave your ego at the door. Bury it like a shameful family secret. II. Surrender. To prayer. To devotion. To all that is (Un)Holy. III. Find solace, comfort, in cheap wine poured. In routine. In being nameless. IV. Lose yourself. Scream. Praise. Forget what you used to Be. V. Quarry; dig yourself apart down to the bones. Burn them in offering.

come to bed with me. turn off the cold fluorescent lights that always strain your eyes lift your feet off the frigid tile floors ‘fore they’re blue take off the piled up bundles of itchy sweaters that rub raw come to bed with me. tangle your legs, your arms, your everything, with mine let me nestle my face against your neck and breathe in your scent massage the parts of you that you hate– your thighs, your wrists, your tummy come to bed with me. brush lips and spill giggles along collarbones rustle cotton sheets, playfully snap bra straps and waistbands delve fingers, dip mouths between valleys and thighs come to bed with me. I love you.

dragons blood incense and blood red lipstick kisses.

Haides is found in the somber hush of a funeral procession; the black garb and all they pass bowing their heads in respect.

Instructions for a walk in the woods

i have a sweet tooth but not for food no i have a sweet tooth for her because she’s so sweet god so sweet that i yearn for her regularly sometimes i think about space and how you can’t breathe up there and then i realise that’s why i can’t breathe around her because she is the galaxies she is the extraordinary beauty the no gravity but mostly she is the infinite

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger.

we said ‘i love you’ at each other so many times as if it would fix everything we destroyed when we couldn’t make sense of ourselves we lost love along the way repeating it million times until it lost it’s meaning consuming us dry leaving us empty killing us softly

“Why you didn’t choose a luxury beach, or the old chapel down the street from your house?” “Why would you choose early October over the fair weather of mid-August?”

breathe in. breathe out. inhale the good shit. exhale the bullshit. spider leg fingers, alabaster pale and cold as the corpse, wrapped around their little fly: Marlboro smoked down to the filter. chain smoker. warning labels tossed to the wayside with the empty packs. never once the choking rattle of a jalopy without a motor. nicotine. formaldehyde. tar. can’t kill he who reigns over the kingdom of death. they’re actually pretty good friends.

Apollon Paiôn, beautiful deliverer of healing to we mortals, He who averts plagues and evils of the world! Mighty God who heals with divinity and medicine, protective God who saved his mother from violation! You are our divine rescuer! If I have ever sang, wrote, danced, painted, performed, in your name, and it be well received, I beseech you! Please ease my pain, both mental and emotional. release me from the dark chains of mental illness, so I can walk in your light. I ask you to stand beside me, in my hospital bed, in therapy, the prescription pick-up line, or the ward, or to simply allow me to rise in the morning, out of malady-stained stale sheets, to face each day so I can give my utmost devotion, and provide arête! Praise and thanks be to you, Apollon Boêdromios, who aids us in our darkest hours of illness and suffering!

The Gods love you, little one. They love you so, so much, more than all the pebbles of the earth and all the stars of the sky. The Gods love you, you whom they called their child, you whom they embraced in stillness and light, you to whom they gave life, you whom they support and soothe and carry forward through your sorrows.

fingers dancing like prima ballerinas along the cold press paper, leaving glides of hushed black; their tutus. golden eyelashes a flickering halo over crisp blue eyes as they note minute details in delicately smudged shadowing. a faint twitch of a smile on cherub lips. calloused hands telling tales of arthritis and burn scars and ash. sweat dripping down a bronze forehead smeared with forge dust, collecting on the furrowed and scorched brows. a chapped mouth coughing up centuries of tar and embers and soot.