Illustration for The Beast Has a Name

The Beast Has A Name

At least we know the pursuer                                                                                                              He is no monster in the closet                                                                                                            He is not in any books                                                                                                                        He whispers and growls in your ear                                                                                            Then takes you to dark and terrible places                                                                              Which smell like burning flesh                                                                                                    Places where your guilt is etched in the walls and                                                                           There is a woman who is already charred to death                                                                         In horror, she stares at her teeth in her hands

Every person in the world has a name for him                                                                                All of them are different                                                                                                                   None of them remembered

He lives on the ceiling                                                                                                                          He doesn’t have a face                                                                                                                         But somehow he’s handsome                                                                                                           And he smiles at you                                                                                                                        Lulls you into seeing all the ugly parts                                                                                            He says you’ll thank him for it                                                                                                          He says that it’s just bitter medicine

I’ve killed him once… twice                                                                                                                  A knife in the stomach the first time                                                                                                  A beheading the second                                                                                                                         I seem to be the only one who can                                                                                                And, alas, there he is again                                                                                                                Smiling and handsome                                                                                                                 Asking me to dance                                                                                                                            With a grin of charcoal teeth

Illustration for The Optimist II

The Optimist II

The slow blink of large black eyes                                                                                                Tired behind them, deep in the  sockets                                                                            Replacing a light in the eyes                                                                                                                 She is a body of sockets to be filled                                                                                        Fighting fog with pale fire                                                                                                           Golden toast in a grey house                                                                                                              An offering for the dead                                                                                                                         A luminary sans ceremonials

Keeping the small hours company                                                                                                 The ghost in the kitchen                                                                                                                      The grey lady of the house                                                                                                                 She only means to watch without troubling                                                                                 But sometimes she shakes and cries in silence                                                                        Bitter and unrequited                                                                                                                         She shakes beams and plaster                                                                                                         Why do we leave food offerings for the dead, knowing they can’t eat?                                    We taunt them in their endless hunger, never realizing

She prays for him to come around                                                                                                 And electrify the house                                                                                                                       To turn the lights on                                                                                                                        With long fingers and bright eyes

Things Falling Apart and Bitter Almonds

The Queen of Ice

The Things I Don’t Understand