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13 Poems From Auroras of Orpheus, My Original Poetry Manuscript


Lilith and the Lion-Hearted Man                     9.2.12


He still saw bright towers in her absent eyes

When in love-gone seasons

his heart agonized under rudest skies –

His woman stilleth

the sapling joyous;

Here was Lilith!

(In love’s flesh riotous.)


Where they made love a home

and roaring future,

Kept like his pet lion, ‘Victor,’

In the halls of infamy and delight

Become hells when wooing hearts

Turn traitors on whimsical heels.

He, to the virtuous blood-aims devoted

Watched his dearest creature become

Blasphemy, bloated.


‘Staunch this wound, O love, and let me

in life walk free,’ said he.

‘I cannot make a home with you again,

Once a heart has changed its name,’ said she.
And with her army of slaughtering harpies,

Killed all dawns and celebrations in the land,

Retreating him to roar like the Minotaur

In his hollow alcoves’ privations;

The lion Victor his only consort,

All his calls and letters vain rejects

To pad the mouldering gate

Where grey is the heart of anxious fate –

Lilith in love – with him, no more!


But then he spied a burning totem –
To take the lion’s heart as his own!

To walk the pure beast from kingdom to kingdom

and make mincemeat of hers – a natural recompense,

as natural as pearls!


Where she took some new Solomon

To better suit her plans and eyes,

‘Traitor to divine love, goes she,’ Victor

said in voiceless guise.

And they walked the path to karmic reverie,

a chained heart growling, hungry for

comeuppance, howling,

A vengeant bone of wrath to pick.

To devour the source of sad blood

And cruel fire needs careful timing,

‘I will have her one more time, my friend,

Before you on dead love dine.’


Was that her flowered gate he spied?

Reveling figures in windows decried

‘A party, ah. This visitation will send them

To scatterlings.’

‘Twas the lion that led him, then,

Forthright, when his reason paused.

The great beast led and tugged the chain,

And had become the man’s very heart and claws.


‘Now, my wrath shall eat what is mine,’ spoke he,

‘And let all her eyeless revelers see what scheming

traitors in love receive.’


And with that said, the wild pair entered

the doorgate, and silence o’ertook the manor;

Laughter ceased as the cat’s chthonian roar

hammered, that could from Zeus have issued



Frozen were the pale masqueraders now!

As he let slip the chain whose beast sought

She, and knew by instinct to feed upon the sow

Who’d littered forgotten floors with her vows.


For where…where is love now?




















Digital Daughters (From Lilith’s Journal in “Victor and Lilith”)


Breezy edges descend

through tired swarms

heretics may recommend

Pain’s temple fleshed out

Until knowing stops.


Digital daughters

engender wrath

in housed passivity

conformed to no wild wind

Nature’s laws broken blind…

“Now now, girls, follow my blood.”



































Ode to the Mystic Mountain

It nods
through our sun, why
and holding road of breath –

To talk of relations, seeing
that once knows, and with heart goes –
The mountain brings magic life, we
lost not but in the green highs
tangled in moss of the fae
where we could be always;
we’ve become sunlets in stray cosmicity
where forge we soul friction and pass
beyond this will of the way,
grasping pearls of alpine grace.


































To Chase the Small Gods (Inspired by the film Blade Runner)


He bleeds fury at the fount, who kills –

Watched by a strange heroine who fills

His empty nights with a deadly beauty –

Cast out into the night like a child,

Where hunting the simulated human strikes

A latent chord of grim, desirous love, without

Cries. Lumbering in the teeming night

Though Off-World beckons, the riff-raff

Toys wait – Killers, all, though they can’t kill fate.


And, what of the grievous night gives light?

Roy’s a manufactured Lucifer – brightest,

Prodigal Son the company could create.

Bright! Though captive of time, savage twins –

In this grand chess match, no one wins.

The Elohim in his tower and robe revisits

His fiery angel, once fallen, now out to rob

The cradle of Life. Where the small gods imitate

The propagators of stars; when a manufactured soul

With plastic hand seeks vengeance on his maker,

The sun of his wit and seat of his love, irreal,

Heavy as L.A. rain, doth crush the life out of

The small god’s reign.


Whose Jericho awaits on grimy neon streets?

To fulfill some heartless mission in hovering

Fleets? Where scavengers of love find only pain,

Until an unlikely Satan heralds the second flood

That buries ancient hate. The hunter dreams music

But carries attrition’s tool; he toys with existence

And makes himself the fool – his quarry a daimonic force

Who hears the strange howls of abject life pool

In the chaotic deluge. “Not yet!” he says, and

Crucifies the sense at hand that death won’t avoid –

Nailed like Christ, he lifts the man from the void:

“Time to die,” and the white-souled dove’s released,

As down bright locks the flood’s cascades increase

Staunching the folly of our debauched police,

Then breaking to a brighter sun.









The Man Who Split Himself in 2


“I have no language for this,” he said, and bled and bled inside his own head.

For truth, for love, for time eating themselves did he say – “It verily cannot remain this way.”

Lovers in a House of Mirrors, images don sagacious leers. He follows her in, but twain the chorus

Did he hear.




Starface – will of the wind bids him afar and Adieu. Happy lover, laughing friend! Now in places two, alike, upon the verge where we must ascend.


He felt a pocket sad full of laughs split holes and drop its seeds at last.


Orion sleeping on his side dangled celestial danger like a pop star’s balcony babe. The honeyed hunter of hellacious heights stands by, right where love spread new feathers singing why.


“I eat time, and love!” he yelled in the crowded marketplace, going chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp.


Then, at last, the human ceiling blew off, and the maelstrom tromped

Entire genealogies where the pruned limbs stabbed.


Now he walked the worlds above and below,

Split in two ways mapped, just so.












Untitled Oregon Piece


Jaunt to the bardic citadel –

I absorb all it tries to tell.

This pocket of western expansion well knows

The hives that map this luster outgrown.

For a séance with Eustacia would I go,

Or for a flower of karmic sun.


When moved the mountain

On map-blown whims radiating,

We trek a Sunday off-taken –

Toss good times off the bridge’s throne,

Hesperia, deduce!

How long this fleshy home of mind and bone?

Has this light finally learned

To fill its own well?


Here on the volcanic plain

Is love a found strain, just if –

Where crows the claiming spot which ate,

As seas of possession evaporate.

And cage the fiery eye of these October ides?

Where south of nowhere go our tripping days?

Up wanting’s path do we smile at last?

Canticled flights of fury

Will November our pasts.


And so now we run among the ruins

Now we flee to highlands shining in the dark;

And when the suns of our best sight set

We immortalize them in panegyrics stark.

Undying, where bard meets bard,

Disembodied in opposing ages’ yards,

Across frontiers of these hearts’ stages,

Does a new Romantic sky adorn this land of plenty…

A new image of the Great Ego emptied?








Monster of Light


Shed upon waste and greed and blight

Gluttonous stupidity and beauty unending, too –

The monstrous tyrant glows, reverse enemy,

Made for us in our image, and we in its,

And lo our own fire, unchanging!


Descending into these deserts

From California heights

Aplomb with promises

After ascending, amongst the devas

Of mountain hermitages, and

Royal forests crowned,

Confirms this living pyre,

So let us now raise our

Hearts to the sky,

And this

Monster of Light,

Our true home.









Panegyric: For the Belle of Amherst


Your dazzling brain
And the world entire –
All you needed as companion, save –

Your fire!

Churning out evidence of God,
Weaving, like a spell,
Each thought, through pen
Inked on each page well
As mortals shuffled past –
A one-woman conservatory
Of blooming faith
Needs naught of the drab
Society of cross and nail.

Kneel and supplicate,
Bow and pretend,
Though upstairs in silence were you left.
As Amherst whispers
About a godless myth –
Who scorns Human contact,
Unreasoning with.

“Edward’s eldest daughter, the spinster daren’t go out” –
And passersby may crane their heads to see her
In the windowpane above the door stone –
“Look, there’s the Belle of Amherst –

face like Winter, and locks tame as a mole!”

She suckles not but Ignorance, who will not suck –
In a charcoal dress, her prim and plain visage
Gently braces ‘gainst the coming life
Of desires lost, tragedies private,
Mourned to the moon.
Moored in the phantom tide,
Blithe womb barren as Mars,
Shedding the scarlet lining
To fall beneath a father’s eaves,
Baking solitude a daily bread,
Offering poesies to Zeus instead.




Threnody for Francesca Woodman


All I had was the moon to go out to

All I had was dead love to swoon –

Breasts of a tortured artist to adore,

Now dead; freeze-frame

Recondite lunacy

Our spoiled phantom-girl

Forgets her failure

Wearing bark & plaster,

She paints and captures

The dead things alive, turning –

All I have is the moon to go out to

Since I drink none of this culture anymore

Imaginary suicide –

Perfect Halloween story

Emily Dickinson with a camera

Makes ghost gestures

Then discontinues herself

Where the vain masochist’s always looking,

And frolics in the taboo tide

Until Orion dives down

To take her on a forbidden ride.


And now Reason’s funeral march my only bride –

This was her poetry:

Self-framed in crumbled castles

Piecing together her existence

In the vagrant shadows poised

Stripped, ephemeral estate

Our peasant sophisticate of The Village

Leaps up with angels and sparrows,

Messiah snapping miracles to open unknown eyes –

The soul fighting back, outsized,

Against the crush of cities,

Prison rooms paid into,

Song of the entombed heart –

Scattered beauty softly spoken of

In ex tempore tongues,

In scenes of besotted moons orbiting,

These fragile souls, too open,

Are fresh kills in heartless canyons.


Francesca, Francesca –

Beware the city’s wraiths!

They are, at last, more ambitious than you,

O long-departed ingenue.






Tales of an Erotic-Existential Alchemist Wandering the Deserts of the Heart




I forgot to buy pumpkins –

Two small ones to put on my balcony.

Oh well.

I am busy sizing up my oeuvre:

There are vipers and razor blades in it,

But also orchids and colossal vaginas,

And there are snaking tendrils choking

(As well as sapphire skies),

This tiger in me sleeping

In an ancient olive grove

Fears false feelings obeyed

Bulging within me, the iron stomach –

Saline blood tide,

Toxic lip sedate, normalized;

Nausea’s garden vines

O’ergrowing the forgotten town,

And pushing cars into the sea.


You will open your eyes,

Like eggs they will give birth to their white dreams,

As crazed snakes emerge

And slither through the Maze of Destiny,

Toward you.

Through the strange towers,

Through ultimate blackness,

Through their own epiphanies,

Floods, vacuums, cycles of existence –

Wild machines & invisible dreams,

Where peasants eat invisible meals

After the fecund earth fails

and the men of rot mortally



But even when the gestapo comes

To stop their foolish fantasies

Of imagined sustenance, nurturance,

They fork invisible mouthfuls

To the firing squad’s dismay,

And long after the genocides,

When art became your religion, too,

We walked those once hardened fields

Where the tanks rolled and hummed

Like hurdy-gurdys

And we celebrate with hot tears

The advent of a bluebird.



This cup was not rinsed with the hot jets –

Let its former residue flavor this round of satiety!

Let entropy dance its inevitable bolero.

We must let these former fires and traces

Feed us now,

In the shower of their darkness’ false vows.

You must wakeful with skull of hair

Growing wrathful, lustful, wrinkled, isolated

Darken darkness,

Blind to its grasp.

To filigree the newest specter of late joy

(which, yes, may also lie),

Putting the eye in die that’s a dotted l i….. ne.






Happy Halloween, mother.

You are the dancing ghost in whom

I cannot confide.

You are the privy skeleton hung on the old door

You are the witch upon the ancient broom,

As the north wind breathes upon your fallout hair.

You are yesterday smiling a pessimist’s smile;

Written upon the bourgeois tomb of dead possibilities,

The bouncing frame of Bunuel’s film is

Yet another ghost visitation

But which my eyes can discern.

I still recall you, relating

The hard facts of life

Wrapped up in your work and cold thoughts –

Small comfort, joyless,

You became tired of so many boys:

Boys in the trees

Boys in the hallways

Boys yelling, running, asking questions,

And finally relished your empty nest

After the irradiations and health-stripping drugs

To contain the rabid growths within your horror,

So –

Happy Halloween, mother.

A good day for you,

As your spirit found death is best.



Blood like sorrowful sap, at last –

At the window where debutantes amass

In new-breasted wonder,

In delicate phalanxes deceiving,

Marching to the alpine abyss,

Thereby the sylvan festival, miraculous,

Lorded by Cleopatra’s asps,

Blood like sorrowful sap, at last,

Broods in corners of forgotten beauty,

Pools, then stains the wall of indifference,







Laguna Soulfire Coronations


Here’s a handful of

Fire-echo starheart diadems –

For ghost-framed, leaping Leviathans!

Photonic Ophelia ossifying, sleeping,

Guards my watchwell sweetly –

But what kind of echo has this fire?

When my starheart bursts with such vertiginous


The self-framed soul sires this flame, leaping

From untenable windows

Into the unutterable boiler rooms of Time.


The gross yardstick of time, though,

Cannot touch it.

Neither manufactured catastrophes heed

The ripples racing outward from these lands

Like harbor swells.

Where beggar laughs

And tyrant drowns,

TV dies,

And music abounds.


The darkness of the sea

Spoils your whitewashed misery –

Too much in the devil’s pay,

Both sides in black, on the take

Inside the Age of Chaos, cracked.

Swimming in the dry tide of light,

Lost in ancient coves, lovers seeing with

Ocean eyes.

Wind will…surprise.

“I think we get better,” said the sweet

lover, motoring away from The City,

In her happy lover’s ear:

He’s as tall as the horizon –

The sea’s as cold as kicking junk,

With her arms like memories

In the wavy dunes, barren and soft.


We all love

And lose love

And cry for love –

Celebratory love!

Revelatory love!

As candor squeals in mayhem’s arms,

And the aging starlet laughs, unharmed,

Ripe aura flowering, dispensing,

Oraculating light languages,


In the veritable window of the sky

That guards the crawled-over earth,

ruined by blindness.


The catatonic miser rises, blank,

Her heart dead – to face the

Darkened day again

Just like the moon

And all the fish in their ponds

Or how strange tongues speaking

turn the radiant wheel.

Time, the great editor knows

The graceless snows

Of tired Purgatory

And the violet fire that grows

Like a child

In the waiting sun.


Madrigals, laurels –

First ones that claim my heart

Where the blond girls laugh

And the bays all shine

And blue-eyed angels remedy

The ailing earth

And feckless species howling;

Venetian funeral barge

Carries this memory’s lass away

Afar to Barbarian lands,

Or to Heavens superlatively fair.


Fountain of kundalini fire

implants strange desire –

Travels the Golden State,

Stakes a formidable spire

Where Laguna priestesses consecrate

Divine love in multitudinous ways;

Variegated as terns in these coves

Who sup the endless tide that roves,

Engorged by expedited love.


And behind the bloody snake wall,

On the tantric bed,

We aim our energy into the heart

Of the black-beast dread

And make magic reign,

Plucking the blood-eye out of the reptile,

To transmute the lingering poison cabal

Which strikes back with daggers ripping the sky.

Enemy gods, you have no quarter here!

Here by the magic sea there is no fear.

Where pelicans pierce the mellow tide, free

And the sun and sea tantalize us,

Hypnotize us, eternally!

Here, in the light will we forever abide

In the fruited promenade, spoked

With sacred-flame jubilee,

Smoked in Sun-Ra pedigree

Where the coronal visage smiles and disagrees

With the vicious pallor of false

Love & belief.







The Selfing Tide


To give an inky damn

Ecstatic, purloined, rammed

By heathen strives in castles high

In the course of the cured eye,

It stammers belief;

These lions are drinking from ponds of fire

On journeys from which we never tire –

Languors of grievous and hailed

Searches and surf,

Deified seasons claimed,

As the fogged map blows

Conflict back and forth like

Confused rains.


I now plunge into these

seas that waited, hiding the

secrets and codes

of the great war and divinities;

Where interloping images of our past

Filigree the chambers of this cast

Of strangers, familiars, and phantoms

Enlivening the partitions of this dream-dance,

Where soul-fire dawns askance

Of the expected tidings, tithes, and tides;

Where true love, estranged, still hides,

But knows her name, all the same.


The great work impromptu

Threatens a vast, imploding empire

And has them on the run –

The great work

In our anonymous dark

To unleash the solar blood codes,

And call in the New Light,

Release the dead, and increase our might

Brings their self-incriminating reaction,

Only speeding their further detection

And immanent downfall.


Alms for the most deceived kingdom,

Airs of the beleaguered fiefdom,

With diseased plebiscite

Uplifted – false applauded,

Dying like a bellicose king

Who shouts orders, beheadings, tortures,

Invasions, as the peasants only half-heed, questioning as

The royal death rattles hide,

Done in by the Selfing Tide.











Wine of Life and Death-House Dream


Every Mozart has his Salieri –

The veins harden, and the hairs turn grey;

An end to every bounding beast

(But not his soul to slay);

And even each soft, soul-singing day.

These memories recede, yet strengthen –

Each one a life of their own,

To flourish in the mind’s wide lands;

Where tongues waggle, taste the vine,

Then quiet into uncanny dreams offline


…like this dream: in the House of the Dead,

Who’s come to tenant the lunatic’s palace?

“Oh, here’s where he ate, what he read…his

Belongings piled up like skulls…like weeks

and months and years. Travel the big picture

book in the corner, with leaves of a northern valley

Adorning it; and stuffed haphazard into this

Unkempt hovel are other tenders of the recent

Dead; who come and go as if caught forever

In that dream where all dreamers and dreams are bred.”


What memories unknown – yet known – have

Receded into these dark seas so expressive,

Someday to be known, when the collective

mind is given up to abstrusest skies? But, like

A woman who wants to be tortured and raped,

Who claims the subterfuge of sado-masochist

Fetish, the happy mind in the dark dreaming hours

Invites death and horror, when dispatched to

Know all things, though Light is broadcast

From a different Tower.