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.

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

Aftermath of A God’s World

You’re warm like summer and silky as cream

Slipping past my fingertips

As I raise you above your planet

And spill you back to whence you came

You are the sand that caresses my palms

And I feel every grain

I value every creature, every child that is mine

From the empty-eyed doe to the bow legged goat

Lovingly, I whisper life into their lungs and light into their minds

Bite me all you like, I shall never harm you

But bring destruction upon yourselves, that is when I cannot save you

You are hot like the summer and white as sour milk

The pearly bones of your existence slip past my fingertips

As you are risen above your planet

And crushed inside my palm

And spilled back to whence you came


This is a re-post from my Instagram. I felt that all poetry should eventually find its way back home to here, no matter where they are first birthed.

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

Prince of Ink Stains and Soft Wind

He is of fair face, fair as willow maiden hair and a voice once kin to the wind, but captured and enveloped within the most delicate of wind pipes.

They say he moves like windchimes, pleasantly swaying to where ever he sees fit, only to return in one piece when the orchestra of adventurous air ceases to play.

Skin like oil paint, smooth and perfectly toned to capture every length of celestial light, no matter where he turns.

And tangling between his fingers and spilling from his lips, light blotches of softened petals bloom on the branches of saliva from his mouth. 

They cascade down his figure from an inky fountain within his mind, endless and ever-growing, a deep, dense coal-toned abyss that brings life to every feature of his always changing body.

He is a prince; a prince of ink stains and soft wind, Of delicate lifeforms with black-bolded bones, 

Of intertwined words that slip the mind, only for him to draw them back deep inside.

Ode of A Luna-tic

To my dearest,

Its been quite some time since we last spoke, almost nearly a decade. It’s been so long that I’ve started to forget what you sound like.

I truly miss you, dearest. Every time the night draws near, during the deepest hours where everything becomes still, that is when I think of you the most. Your silvery hair and night-dyed eyes keep me awake. I see them imprinted in the air, floating towards the ceiling. I know that isn’t you up there, but sometimes, when I’m lying in bed alone and thoughtless, I reach my hand out to your apparition only to be met with your figure distorting like a dissipating fog.

Why must you torture me like this? Plaguing my mind during the night when the sun is no longer up high to guard my thoughts from you? It has been so long that I would hope to have forgotten you completely by now, and yet, here you are. Not quite alive, but not quite dead either. A marble statue in the core of my memory, standing tall and ever present. I can speak and beg and cry to you all I please, but I will only be met with an empty stare, lifeless chest, and cold marble skin.

Oh dearest how I long to see you once more. To hear your bell-like voice chime through my ears and send shivers down my spine. To sing me to sleep with your dreams that float from your mind and prance onto your lips.

But you are gone, dearest. Yes you are gone and never to return to my arms for you were never there to begin with. All I have is the light that shines above my head when the night comes by, lights that dare not interrupt the suns daily course. These lights I shall remember you by each time I lay my head and peer out the window. And the moon, yes the moon. May the moon be my reminder that, somewhere, you are waiting for me, up high in the sky like a celestial body deep in slumber.

So goodnight my dearest, I feel much less alone now. May you rest fitfully and may you dream the sweetest of dreams for me. May you be bright, my dearest, and if your light does cease to shine one day (as it someday will), I shall take you in my arms and shine for you.

– Ode of A Luna-tic

An Ode for the Girl Who Glared At Me

Do you know what it’s like to cry for a stranger? It’s the strangest feeling in the world, my heathens… I’ve done it before, many years ago. I wish I could do it now. The only feeling I can manage now is a slightly more empty soul and a feeling of restlessness.

Her sensations still linger as wisps and fragments in the places she used to sit, in the people she used to speak to…

I didn’t love her. She was just another voice in a room, another hilarious pun in the hush and stillness of awkward confusion.

But her absence still has weight. A weight that can be passed by on a mere glance but the more you focus on it, the heavier it gets.

I barely knew the girl who glared at me those many years ago. Her slim, petite figure and flaxen hair are all worthy of the minuscule memory she has in my mind. The jumpy eyes and bored-to-death tone mingled with her baggy hoodie and sweatpants that hide a lightly blemished face, every detail becomes more obscure the less she is here.

I barely knew her, my heathens. Barely. All I know of her are the whispers of her friends and the slight movements of her falling out of chair from the corner of my eye. That is all I will ever know.

We may not have known much of the other, but I will still hang my head for her. The dead deserve respect, my heathens, from the unorthodox to the unspeakably plain. All life is meaningful and the extinguishing of it must be commemorated.

So hang your heads, my heathens. Close your eyes and send her fleeting soul your best of wishes, your fickle goodbyes, for when the time comes when she can no longer be sought, she will be totally and absolutely gone.

-Cap

In honor of A.

Midnight Drabble

The heart aches

The lips shake

Every little cavity fills with fire and earthquakes

Craving the flame, it’s burning destruction 

To break down the lungs and shatter the bone

Let it burn, let it burn

Young hearts never learn

Young minds never grow

Let it burn, let it burn

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