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Turn It Up.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

That's some horrifyingly beautiful shit right there

A Phoe Gyi

Where our deepest fears roam
Shall we, together, go;
And bloodless hand in bloodless hand
Our darkest fortunes know?
Shall we be ourselves for once,
My creature of the night?
Shall we tell the truth by candlelight?

Chain our souls to borrowed time,
Defy the gods above,
And leap into a river of souls,
Shall we, together, love?
Shall we summon an army
To strike our enemy?
Shall we call forth demons, thee and me?

 Dota 2 x Penny Dreadful

Saturday, July 15, 2017

I Would Start A Series But I Do Not Trust My Creativity


I picked you up, sweet test of faith,
In the vagrant days
When good old friend ruination and I
Ambled 'long our ways.
The halls of black and cowering rage
Would tremble in your wake
And I stepped off my brazen trail
For expectation's sake.

I held you close, my safest place,
When you had lost your own
And here, like branches forever twined,
Twistedly we have grown.
How much they spoke, the sightless beasts!
How much they spat and clawed!
Oh, how seethed the angered men,
And women deathly awed!

And then your hand, my solitude,
In mine I softly pressed;
Knew I, as ruination and I
Lay in bed undressed --
'Tis in faith our bravery lies,
And our encumbrance all;
And tremble will, these halls of pain,
From your inheritance tall.

Don't you cry for me.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017


With this, I'm out of publishable poems again.

St. Jude

Paper cuts in a million places, pen is mightier than the sword,
Sticks and stones will break your bones and so will potent spoken word.
Ink will fail to hold the faith you put in stroke and slant each day.
Rainbows will yield gold and, yet, your master's brush will paint in grey.
Cold will be your summer wine and warm will be your winter mead!
Scorch you may the land, but forests still will spring from springtime seed!
Light will be the blade you lift, their blood to spill, their hearts to cleave;
Weighted sins will lift your pride but you will die by songs they leave.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Edgy Foreign Title has Funny Unrelated History

As promised.


Come, O Disastrous Joy,
Bold and drenched in youth!
Come when beasts are more than men.
Come when lies are truth.

Come, O Treacherous Joy!
In laughter shy or proud,
Come, though every door and gate
Conspires to shut you out.

Come when life is new and fast
And come when life is old;
Come when blood runs boiling hot
And stay when blood runs cold.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

I still write

It had been a while since I'd last written, and then suddenly I ended up writing three poems in one sleepless stretch. This is the first one.


I live in wet country, where it rains without warning,
Where clouds arrive without wind on their tails
And leave without promising sunshine;

I live in war-torn country,
Where anticipation of disaster kills
More than disaster itself --
And more blood is shed in dreams than in reality.

I live in a land that is awake in what it knows
And asleep in what it does;
Certain in what it wants, yet wavering
In who it wants from, or for.

Loyal as I am to all that is familiar,
I return to history that I trust to repeat itself.
I track the whims of weather, scars of conflict, trails of truth.
I become a broken map
Of my imperfect home.
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