A Young God’s Reprimands

I loved him past the tears he shed upon my head that drowned me in a sticky sort of web.
I would hold my arms up to reach his face and whisper for him to open his eyes and we would gaze silently into each other’s abyss.
When he would float too far past the Milky Ways and nebulas, I would be his tether back to Earth, ready to accept him back home.
I just…love him so much. I wanted to see him always well.
I would take his tears, his pains, his fears, I would take it all if it meant him breathing fresh air for only just a few moments, if meant him sleeping sound for just one more night.
But now, I am the regret and disgust left in shambles on his doorstep, ready for the mailman to ship me back to space where I will bite the nubs of my nails clean off my fingers in confusion and frustration for a thousand more light years to come.
If I loved too deeply, why was I not pulled up before my oxygen tank ran out?
If I cared too much, why feed me more and more honeycombs from your dead, rotten fingers?
But I may just overestimate myself too much, darling.
Perhaps, in your eyes, I was not enough to quench your inquisitive values, your fairytales of water-walking men, and perfect matrimony.
You have taunted my urge for perfection so much that you never realized your own imperfection in your lust for something so unreal and unobtainable.
Gods, how I hate the feeling of sweetly-dipped memories we shared, of tongue against tongue, forbidden fruit to mouth.
How lucky you are, child of hell, that you were given the power to taste my every feature with your eyes and your mouth, the very first might I add and-
No, no, no; this is not about you so hush your seething, forked tongue before I pull your ill-grown teeth right out your jaws with my fathers’ rusted pliers.
You evil little snake, devil of a man who crept into my temple and ravished the bodies of my oracles, I curse your very existence as you plague my origins with your depravity.
I see you, seeking out the freshest of the batch, tugging the robes from their shoulders and biting their necks while calling them ‘kisses’. The way you look into their eyes as you forget the goodness in your heart and take, and take, and take.
You spineless, coward, little, insignificant waste of breath, how I wish to snuff your light out, but your candle’s wick is far too stubborn to bend for any love of yours, too stubborn to even tilt for me.
May your bow-legged limbs stretch to the farthest ends of earth and snap and shatter into pieces you will never find.
May your jaws become weak, just like the teeth inside, and become unhinged for eternity, the same way you do when you lusted for my body.
And may your mind, yes your mind, become consumed by the ghosts of my oracles as I feast upon the remains of your shambled corpse for you are my greatest love and deepest hate and no one deserves to experience you but me.
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Mail Another Death Black Threat

Disgusting colors dress your face
Unmatched, mispatched gallons of paint
To be poured upon your grave and all those who near it
Shall know your filthy and unclean spirit
.
Empty voice in life and quiet tomb in death
A name no whisper would ever love or ever be kept
On golden records, stacking 5′ something high
No lover shall adorn it, no, not even I
.
To sweep out the dust from under your bed
Crumpled tissues, all used, my god, what a mess
The paralyzed kittens lay in creaks of your desk
Once shimmering promises lie, but now’s just regret
.
The unsightly chipped feature of your roaring beast creature
Always hot and bothered, steam pouring from its orfices
Musty old smells fill the throat where we sat
Where you once held my throat and made out in the back
.
Can’t hush these lips no longer with your pietous lies
Your senses must be dulled so wash out your eyes
Under the earth is where you lay, under your god, becoming the fray
.
And so please rise, oh galliant believers
Weeping as pedophilic priests do say,
“Here lies the body of What’s-his-face
And here stands his most beautiful and unforgiving mistake”

Honorary: The King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty

The world blessed his eyelids so that he can see the vastness of eternity, but never the minute breaths of those so delicately before him.

Past countless worlds he would walk, steps slow and trudging, as the fabrication of time upon his shoulders would drape past his ankles and cascade down into decades and seconds alike.

So lonely was this weightless Atlas, so countless the blinks of smaller life he glimpsed at for a time unknown.

And so the satellites dusted his domain to prick his feet while he stepped, and so those very same ones shall become nothing more than dust themselves.

Those smaller than him wondered what thoughts he possessed beneath that stoic facade of all knowing and power, only to find themselves still wondering at the gasp of their last breath.

So valiant this King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty, so valiant a journey you live for, if you can even call it as such. To live without taking a breath, to see without your own eyes, to be without truly being.

And thus he envelops himself quietly in stillness, keeping himself warm with odd memories that even he barely remembers.

Eclipsing

I feel the earth turn slowly in my favor,
and the moon and sun become mute,
to face the universe with a new found purpose,
and accept its flaws in whole.
From Pluto, to Mercury, to every galaxy in our cluster,
from what lies beyond the present and eternity,
extend your arms to grasp the entirety of creation,
lest it be living, dead, or so on,
and turn every particle to a being of light,
so that it beams and gleams and sparkles.
Thus when the time acceptance comes to an end,
and the earth returns to its steady course,
the sun and moon shall yawn their gifts upon our tiny world,
so life shall, again, march on.

My Cellar.

Girls and boys I love them both and keep them in my cellar,

One and two and twenty ploys I keep under surrender.

One day a man came to my door so I pluck a girl and tell her

“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t show him your bruised and battered feet, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”

So the girl greets the man in a solemn kind of way, she curtsies slow, they talk, he goes and at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

—-

The next day, the man came back to visit to see the girl again

But I dumped her body somewhere, I don’t remember where, so I grab a boy and whisper

“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t speak for your voice is hoarse and bleak, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”

And so the boy waves to the man, he grinned at him, he shook his hand, and after tea that gentleman went on his merry way

And at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

—-

The following day, that cursed man came back to speak with the boy

But I left him alone to starve and die somewhere far from this home

With no one left I can present to him cleanly (for rest of them had turned quite greenly), I came to the door with a coy and just grin, welcoming him quite sweetly

The man, however, did not react the way he once did as he swiftly passed my figure, through the door he wandered in and asked where were my children

“Oh them?” I ask, quite cheerfully spoken

“They are but away. Have gone away to their Uncle’s home and shall be back again some day,”

“That is quite a shame,” the man said low, shaking his head uneven,

He blocked the door, but right before, brandished a knife quite cunning

“Tis’ a shame your children aren’t here to see what I shall do to you, sweet.

Tis’ a shame they won’t know what to say when you are completely gone,”

I blinked with surprise, astonishment in my eyes, while my lips curled into a sneer,

“Do what you please, but when I die, you must abide to these rules as well, my sweet,”

He nodded stiffly and listened closely as I leaned in close and said,

“Don’t tell them what I hide beneath, don’t touch my steps with your filthy feet, don’t tell them what I hide beneath, or else,” I glared,

“I shall make you pay,”

And so he pressed the knife against my throat, both firm and very bold

A squelch, a squeal, a thrashing moment before everything went cold

He dragged my body messily across the polished marble floors,

He dragged my body and then he dropped me,

Right past the cellar door.

—-

And to this day, I must say, and all I know concurs

at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

Late August, Early Harvest

Of the bounds of silver branches waned
           And the flocks of who calls glory
                      To the empty, beckoned second tough
                                 Of days and weeks gone morning
                                      Why rushing winds do seldom come
                                                 To brush the ears gone blooming
                                                            And wipe with farce their gentle wars
                                                            Of hands so cruelly combing
                                                  To gather in my arms this years’ fruitful
                                                  harvest coming
                                 And count the number of months gone weary from
                                 waiting for her humming
                           Why rushing breeze do seldom past
                   And why flocks of glories steady
           To settle down on her evening gown
Of silver branches, peeled and ready

Etsy Shop Opening?

Hello, my Heathens. I’m going to keep this brief for you all, if you don’t mind, but I have recently opened an Etsy shop called ‘Miniagerie’. This shop is dedicated to the creation of hand embroidered pins and iron on patches (currently), but may have more products offered on it one day.

I just wanted to keep you all in the loop and know that I have not forgotten about you all. I have some new poetry to upload sometime either later today or on Thursday and I am currently working on a new magick post for the near future so be prepared to take notes. I’m thinking of writing about making poppets…

-Cap

Apocalyptic

Gently, I loved you under pale sunlight and disaster strikes
Crimson arrows shot from angry god’s bows streak in the reflection of your eyes
As I bring myself gently down onto you
Watching as your eyes flutter like hummingbirds’ wings for a split second
Before a stellar meteorite crashes down, crashing onto your lips
I seek refuge in the warmth of your mouth, in the palms of your hand as our estranged bodies become a little too familiar
with one another
Earth rumbles with a hunger, a growl from your throat,
then breaks into crannies, biting into the niches of your neck
My vocal chords are strummed like a harp by the dirt-sullied winds and soothed still by your calloused fingertips
And as the world falls out of orbit, I fall onto your chest, exhausted but content, the constellations of your sleepy smile draw me in to gaze at you more closely
For the universe has grown into a rush of cold
And we wrap into one another to keep warm until we finally crash
Back into the familiarity of our bed.

A Bedtime Story from Cap

How about a bedtime story? A change of tone, my heathens. I hope you don’t mind that it isn’t Sunday.

Today, I speak with you all personally about a dream I once had when I was a very small child. The thing about being a child is that there is so much that appears to be beautiful in our eyes. From the way water trickles down the driveway after the car is washed to the way the lavender-colored trees sway to and fro on a very windy day because they are just so enormously tall. A sparkle and twinkle in your eye, a grin spread so wide that it may just be good for something later on. Ah, and your hands were so small, just like all the clothes you used to wear.

Or perhaps you used to live near the sea? Where breezes were mingled with salt and water and the skies had a constant grey overcast, it can’t always be sunny after all. But there were still days where the sand would become littered in shovels and pails and little moulds of turtles and seahorses. Lighthouses that never really worked the way you thought they would. Wooden fences wearing down because the sea kept trying to face plant into it. How the world seemed so divided once your feet moved from sand to black asphalt, so different.

Maybe you lived somewhere stranger, like near a bog or marsh? I’ve never been to a place, but I know a dear friend who has. They live there in peace and fill my nights with love stories between cloud gods and thunder strikes, hot weather and rainy weather, the cool darkness of their room compared to the warm embrace of a million bedsheets.

Strange and crazy things happening right under your nose that they couldn’t possibly tell me for…reasons, I suppose.

It is such a pretty world we live in that sometimes I forget the monsters that plague us everyday. I forget the cruel truth of friendships and love, how the two seem so unbreakable yet, are truly very fragile.

I feel like we are stepping on a glass marble that will shatter under our heels at any given moment. So strange, yet so familiar.

I am happy we can be content in knowing that our existences are fragile. I am so happy.

Goodnight, my heathens. May your slumbers be ever peaceful.

-Cap

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