The Lost Adventures of Artemis Dobro: Episode VII (A Dove in My Hand)

it was in the slow heavy days of august

i watched the tragedy unfold

a tidal wave of sorrow filled with a singular rage

a focused purpose

her majestic grace would falter as each new torrent battered without mercy

in my soul i could feel the tears she refused to cry

her wings clipped

she could not escape

her spirit slowly faded

until one day she let the hurricane of emotions swallow her

as her last whisper left rose in defiance

i wished her peace as i unlocked the shackles

The Lost Adventures of Artemis Dobro: Episode VI (The Strange Birth of Artemis Dobro)

into the den of steely eyed monsters

i enter with my hands on my head

and my head on a pike

my heart exposed to the beasts 

and the beasts exposed to the blood on my soul

all it's poison flowing wildly

in this chasm of decadence

where i have come to worship

faces in the gallery distorted in perverted ecstasy

my hands placed on sacred flesh

guided by forces i yet do not understand

the rites of debauchery continue

as worlds are opened up to me

worlds of pain and pleasure

worlds of time and memory

memory and pleasure

pain and time

on this plane these worlds collide

the faces in the gallery my recollections

 the monsters my infinite desire

the beast am i

the poison consumed on the day of my birth

it is the wine of my being

and from this truth i shall not hide

The Lost Adventures of Artemis Dobro: Episode V (Should Rebels Live to See Fifty?)

i still carry a little book with my poems

these days it's blue instead of black

and the tones are a little more grey

is it time that mellows

or is it the punishment time deals out in waves?

the endless sorties flown by the pilots of indecision?

perhaps the barrage of artillery from the gunners of doubt?

all i know is one day i woke up and the black book was too heavy

the stones of age and dysfunction grind slowly but with certainty

the harvest of this autumn is fear

and this winter will last forever

did all of your words get written?

how many lines left in the canyons of wasted days?

what good did you leave undone in the stillness of nights forgotten?

so i scribble away

line after line

blue notebook this year

maybe yellow next

and pink the year after

finally one day it may be white

-the year i give up the ghost-

-the year the voices stop-

-when i can no longer hear babies cry or women sigh-

-when my rebellion is a fuzzy memory-

and my salvation no longer sleeps next to me

A Mate Burst

subtlety glides

vibratory divides

wishing fools do meet

 

(don't you want to)

 

holy water

lonely squatter

washing undeserving feet

 

(don't you want to)

 

english teachers

southern preachers

sinking admiral watches fleet

 

(don't you want to)

 

spanking fetish

with teenage twist

all for beating meat

 

(yes, you want to)

Looking Through Squinted Eyes

some people like feet

some prefer hands

leather straps and whips

metal objects can be grand

some taboo

some left unspoken

some we just shouldn't think about

 else a therapist we'd be seeking

pocket clingy's

latex thingy's

a harness for swinging

fun and ritual just a bit institutional mostly unconventional

all for one extreme moment

and then it begins all over again