They Crave Only Her Skin

Carved up.

Hung out to dry on a winter’s branch.

He’s not going to come back around.


The hand that caressed so gently

held the surgical precision that exercised so slowly.

He’s not going to come back around.


Grasping the snowflakes of memories.

They melt on contact when desperate urges lash out,

too brittle for a bandage to blockade against the knife’s turn.

There’s always a hope from a fading lantern’s glow

as the lightbearer faints under the weight of their guise.

The cloaks pulled down show the hidden faces of the dear ones.

Words snake about to snare a riding hood,

dressing up as smiles that never bear meaning,

with an apple in their sights ripe for the picking.


Stranded in the snow.

Drowning silently.

Carved up without a lung to scream with.

Carved up and wishing for a hunter to reverse its shot.


Those eyes paint a portrait of lust beyond your frame.

Ashes eat away at recollection.

Dust will not hold a name in a sea of falling snow.

He’s not going to come back around.


An arrow is drawn taut and fired true.

The shields in its path bow out of step for a finishing blow.

Dream in the grip of seasons with crimson coloring the ground.

It is already off and away to the next vessel to strip.


Disposed in a forgotten triste.

Carved up.

Consumed.

Left empty in the breeze.

Not a thought will be spared for the scene.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dreamhouse

Refusal of a farewell to picket fences.

Adjusting the metrics of memory to compensate for loss.

Exclude present thought for a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

a past fit only for dolls.


Dressed up in expectations expired,

luring in for discovery with bright walls and passion calls,

visiting rooms of unborn embodied by industrial recollections.

Current views through the mirror scrape off the paint.

Relevancy infuses disease into the bones of a home.


Out of state to the rhythm of children’s footsteps

as they rove about a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

inhabitants fit in a vision of us

that died in a closed door,

severed phone conversations;

hurried steps from the imaginary.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dissected Attention Span

Hers was a fatal nothing.

Stretched across to negate awareness,

a back is pressed to the wall,

scratched delicately with fingernail signals.

Savored sensation

absent of substance;

inundation through imagination,

searching for more in laughter than reaction.

Caressing impressions ethereal,

mere mites on a mind

lacking conscious form to compose itself,

registering desire in tandem with attention,

in purgatory perpetual,

undermined in persistence.

The foe is an unspoken encirclement,

existent in the air between bodies

so meticulously intertwined

without ever been close from the start.

Crown the Kings of the Taproom

Gray slate has no reflection to state.

Penciled in are the features I know of you,

but nothing’s to show that speaks of a person.

Were it a mirage, none would blink twice.

Pressed into a walking statue makes no difference

when placed into the populace of a city of naught but stone,

where the self is rendered nil,

satisfied in its barest form of a predatory instinct.


Follow the fermented pool wherever it leads,

passing thru stranger’s doors for the promise of escape,

digging into the trenches of a barstool to stake out the closing time.

A final drop is a disappointment.

An empty hand must be a fallacy.

Clamor for the coming round as Malthus brings his thumb down.

There’s never enough to feast upon.

Disregard that which compels pause.

Everything is false and the hunt is where truth lies.


I no longer perceive whoever you could have been.

I no longer know what I shared with.

A car door slam accompanies a squeal towards the night,

dragging my ribcage behind as its thrashed about,

tugging out ligament by ligament until firmament empties.

And in the carnage, I’ll caress the carnal urge to be subjected to,

having spied the edge of the bottle’s domain and strayed clear.


Plunge me in.

Drown me in.

About without the thought of me.

Plunge me into the meaninglessness of mine.

Drown me in the impact I’ve lacked.

It’s clear I’m the losing half.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Villain Has a Butterfly Net

On a proper dose,

I’m blinking through the fogged windows,

having clarity when viewing the shapes of your arms

and the damage done by a scavenger’s talons.


Left scratched up in the far side of the ward,

there wasn’t a phone ringing.

Despondently turned towards the infinite blankness of white walls,

you brushed your fingers across my palm

and swore this had to be forgotten,

and if there were any vultures peaking under the door,

the story that’d come out would clip away your wings.


Shaking in an unstable state,

I felt I turned to paper in the plea you made,

softly resting on the tiles without a heart of gravity.

Peering through the spyglass of a drained capsule,

I saw you as the pen writing the narrative out;

two shattered bottles of ink embracing in the crash,

focusing thought to bring a solid out of a melting dream.


Yet in a flash that reflects back to me from the black,

a carnivore’s face is bursting through the hospital,

and his blazing eyes are locked into your stare.

Yet in a flash that reflects back to me as I tremble,

I spy ten thousand lies described on the shadows dwelling on my face.

We could trade our scars for a chance to pass the stars.

I’d tear and twist the fabric of our foes

to build the escape that’d see us careening out of step,

but so dangerously alike in the limp that plagues our wrists.


I couldn’t promise then if the door was wide enough.

I couldn’t promise then there’d be no letting go.

I couldn’t promise then and I can’t promise now,

but I’d wish more than anything to take you home.

Nurse the power left in those beating wings.

There’s a chance in space where spinning out is ever closer.

For this, I’d charge through debris with you,

further every mile away from the sway of a vulture’s preying.


On a proper dose,

I see the handle turning

as you take a plunge outside.

It was as if I never knew you.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Boy, in Parts

Truth comes foul

when the comfort of falsehood

loses footing in reflection,

geometry proven irregular in critique

with wanting eyes plowing for faults.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

tripping over cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.

Dead-end motives

seek the next trial

to fall first, headlong,

losing by default in absent glances

where lust swings wild,

its direction uncaring for appearances

like cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

enraptured by the rupture

cleaving through action and reason.


Desire comes aimed for the aimless;

quick fix dilemmas.

Lipstick scars

bandaging the whispers of displeasure

until withered

as plastic roots undo,

support decayed in reflection

when wanting eyes see only “no” as an answer.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affection in the Age of Wiring

A brightness permeates in a shadowed room.

Another sleepless twilight beckons from beside the bed.

The next flash could be a sign.

The next flash could be a chance.


Sound pierces a quieted space past midnight’s hour.

The morning crawls into view a second too soon.

I’ve yet to rest when sleeping on a cliff’s edge.

I’m waiting for the next message you’ll never send.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dante Didn’t Go Far Enough

Tell it again

exactly how it’s planned

from forearm to cheek bone,

where you’ll lay down an empire of stone,

buried into skin’s fabric

where razor edges cannot grant escape

and a heavy touch comes a weighted reminder.


I watch you sink deeper in my dream hell

poking a pitchfork from floors below

to prod the anxiety to action,

prompting inaction at the doorstep,

seeing a blank parking lot

and the only path taken by its population of you and me,

as I got along a separate way

drinking in the fear of my dream hell

as a disrobed obsession rings the bell,

guiding her off on an odyssey temporary,

providing nothing to chance.


Pulling the plug out of urgency

to drain the pooling jealousy,

knowing now how it’s planned

from frozen toes to ruffled hair

where you’ll construct an empire of stone,

tucked into nooks beyond reaching,

all feeding the nervous engine to splutter

in the depths of my dream hell.


Lurking low in lost landscapes,

it’s an eternal calling card

of a sinking, sad fantasy.

( ❤ Mitch)

Closed-Heart Ventriloquism

We stopped talking about the blaze.

Kicking about in the ashes,

scattering remnants of once-proud timber,

we eliminated all mention about it.

It tracked on the carpet.

Soot stained the sheets.

A day’s shine could clean for a time,

but the thought proved braver than ignorance.

We stopped talking about it,

yet we know it will never leave.

Unfortunate, to be the Fault

To fail forwards on a single message,

I am wed to be at beck of your convenience,

my expectations consequential to your command.

And in tracing steps in rubble,

no footprints match your own in dust and discard,

as if I were but a passenger to this obedience.

Outlined in rags is where my reflection lies

when understood in the veins of your demand,

crawling to craft snow angles out of fragments.

Failing ever far forward for futile fables,

I am awed by the absence of convenience

when my own messages are unheard.