Cocaine Skyline

He hurls the motorbike into the sharp highway corner, skipping gears as he leans the bike to the side. His knee almost grazes the pavement. The speed whipping his long hair back behind his ears. The wind drying the tears from his eyes. He's not running from anything. He's not running.

He's not running from his pretty rich boyfriend on the other side of town. That perfectly angler face and full lips. The way that pretty boyfriend slips naked into bed and then into him. He's not running from that pile of cocaine sitting on a mirror on the coffee table or the insessant ringing of his cell phone. Rich junkies are just as shady as poor ones.

He's not running from that professor he's having an affair with when her husband is out of town. So much older than him, but beautiful in her experiences. She talks about philosphy and poetry over breakfast. He sits fascinated but soon enough is weaving through the heavy traffic back to that those moutians of cocaine and his soft lips.

He's not running from that innocent girl in his calculus class that keeps batting her eyelashes at him. He wants to taste that virginity dripping down on his tongue. Finds himself staring at her, imagining what she would look like with her knees in the air. That school girl look crumpling into sheer hunger. He shakes his head and is running agian.

He's not running from all that Catholic guilt his mother bestowed upon him. The guilt that eats at him like the cocaine eats at the membranes in his sinuses. The guilt for every moment of sexual bliss. Every moment of druggy release tearing through his veins. The guilt pushes the bike faster. The yellow lines become a blur as they rush by. Faces in passing cars become streaks of light and flashes of teeth. The skyline darkens; the night takes on a blue hue. The guilt takes flight as he goes faster still and all the weight lifts up to that dark heaven.

He's not running. He's just trying to find the fastest way to his own destruction.

Lumpish

I wish I was dead.

...
Wait...

I'm probably just being overly dramatic.

My muscles aren't fitting right. The government is taking all my money. My lover doesn't love me. I don't have no booze in the kitchen and I can't even get drunk. I smoked all my drugs up. These pills the doctor gave me to pull it off don't do nothing fun. The phone refuses to ring. My teeth are clenching and won't stop. There's a dead horse in the ditch outside. A hooker stole my shoes. The junky down the street keeps singing off key and I forgot the words to those hangman hymns. The dentist called me all angry that I hadn't paid my bills. I'll owe student loans still in my grave. They will be taxing my headstone. I've got my soul on the lay-away plan so I'm having trouble feeling anything clearly. That tree I planted last year in the yard sprouted up a thorny bush. The fucking condos are creeping up the street and blocking out the sun. My love letters get returned unopened and with postage due. I've been hanging out with the ghosts downstairs too much but they have better cookies than I do.  I have a gun but it only shoots water. I can't afford the bullets.

...
Wait...

Maybe I do wish I was dead.

The Witch You Could Not Burn

I am surrounded by hard men and soft women. And all of them beautiful.

I am talented with sex and excessive drinking.

I never give mercy, I touch softly, I feel everything in the face of mountain gods and wood nymphs.

Whirl to a beat. Sway to that thrum. Throw yourself about the floor to wild sounds pouring out of large speakers vibrating the room. The mass undulates, twists in sweat and flailing limbs. They take us down in that dark room. We hold each other close, drunk on whiskey and secret adventures. We are running through dark streets, violet light tinging the sky. So soft those delicious curves under my hands. So smooth this milky skin, delicate feet and small fingers lacing into the wrought headboard. Cry my name.

Darkly, your head in your hands. Anger and pain rippling down your muscles. So taunt. "I just want to be happy again." My heart breaks. I try to make it better but I push too hard. Try too forcefully to make it right and just frustrate you. Can I make it right? That part of me that wants to save the world tries. I just want to pull all the hurt from you into myself and carry it away. This is something like love, but it is one sided. I find your body and soul so very beautiful, drawing me in. Quick sense, quick movements, powerful, violent, a wounded sensibility. I smooth your hair back and touch your face. Kiss at the furrowed place just above your eye.

I am both savior and monster. Lilith flew off to the land of demons and she is my mother. I devour and give pieces of myself back; little sugared cubes falling from between my legs on gossamer wetness. I can save the world in my kindness or I can burn it down in my anger. Furies are my sisters. Beauty in the inky darkness. Those forms coming to frighten me; or make me one of them. Whiskey and blood are my altar, the Goddess forms above me. In the white moonlight, I know the truth. I see the universe split and hunger for love and sex and fast drugs. I want to wash my limbs in the ocean, find the way through the trees, howl to the stars pounding down the green fields banged on with a million points of light.

Come and follow my witchy ways. You never know where they might lead.