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Dawn of The Dragons

Invictus

Beast Of A Different Burden

Sonbather

The Snowman

Twelve Heads A Small Price

REMINGTON GRAVES

I have seen the sadness in your eyes–that slow drowning, it is also mine.

 

And the way you plead your cries–the clamoring capricious stare, yare and young–toothless pleading old almost ancient now receding.

 

These sedentary habits interminably do lavishly let go, languid in their language, far and flowing down below; as an ancient dragon digging deeper I consent to nascent nagging evoked by the hero in your woes.

 

You should admit you were remiss, and now the fervent word would come close to fickle, as memories of me sweating body will not let go.

 

Little horn, seven eyes, seraphim singing off-key through the Ophanim. Enoch, the way back home is longer, take this noose instead, made of rope woven from the fictional fabric of your very existence.

 

we inculcated

sounds amiss

longing bells

that ring through

esurient valleys

where men and

women bacchcunted

like the hunted

limbs outstretched

while feet lost toes

through trite steps

called dancing

 

Cull commencing beneath a black sun

Hooded robes while  farouched canaries begin their song

Stoned giants quietly labyrinthed in postition

The conundrum seemed purloined

As the resolve was simply hid from the right side of the path

 

I want your daughter to dance for me in her idea of all opulence

Twelve heads will I deliver on four platters

Sliding whilst mounted upon sanguine sauce

Up to half of my kingdom will I allow her

If only she dances on you–her mother’s corpse

                                                          ∞

 

 

All Debts Paid

REMINGTON GRAVES

“Have you considered my son?”

“Your son is worthless. He will have no use in my service.”

“No use? He is a virtuoso for his age at playing the flute. He sounds like nightingales in love, believe me, my wife and I stare out at the stars sometimes and we lose ourselves while he plays.”

“What else does he do?”

“The boy cooks and cleans…he hardly talks, he is a fast learner.”

“Does he do well with violence?” He grunted as he dropped to one knee observing the child from a distance and twisting his mustache, unaware of his thumb resting on the butt of his sword. The slobbering Saluki rested at his feet loyal and poised. “Is he…afraid of a little blood?”

“Our boy…well, he is a pleasant creature, Lord. We don’t believe he was designed for that sort of thing; he is, shall we say, soft-hearted and quiet–not given to wrath. The arts…nature…these things are more what interest him. And the love he has for animals is extraordinary. We believe he prefers the company of them over his own family.”

“You do owe me a considerable debt.”

“Yes, Lord,” they uttered almost in unison. Staring at the ground humbly, the wife teary-eyed as she gazed upon her bleeding and dusty feet; the husband biting his lip and tasting the blood that tasted so very much like anger and shame and loathing.

 

The sun was a gargantuan bloody spinning sphere with promises of death and drought and famine. Brush strokes of burnt-orange and hues of hellish honeydew hallmarked the cosmic glowing, gleaming helm. In the distance were a multitude of trees appearing as hands reaching upwards–paused forever to be bleached by the sun, to be eaten slowly by its rays, to be ignored by the breathing world in a quiet and paused pandemonium.

 

“Call the quiet child hither, I would like a word with him. Let us see if he was born with fear in his heart,” He bellowed as he stood on both feet and grabbing his loyal dog by the collar, drew him to attention.

“Yes, Lord.”

 

 

The boy approached quizzically and with an amiable bow pulled his flute from his back and as if nourishing the instrument, released a tender note–causing the canine to whine then whimper.

“You really are a master with that instrument, boy, your parents were right. But now we must talk like men. Your parents owe me a great debt and I am here to collect. It appears you are the only thing they can barter with. Unfortunately, I have no room nor appreciation for weak, useless things.”

“We are sorry, son, Lord Mmamon has been quite patient with us over the years. He is here for payment. Your father and I suggested he take you, but he seems convinced you are…well…too soft for his palace.”

“Listen boy, your parents lives mean nothing to me. You mean nothing to me. And quite frankly, this place is an empty nightmare. I would need to make an example of them–you would be left behind to fend for yourself. So, I need to ask you a very important question.”

“Yes?”

“Your parents tell me you are a gentle child…perhaps too gentle. Are you afraid of violence…are you afraid to kill a living thing…do you fear the sight of blood?”

 

With the large man looking down at him with a searing scowl, the boy lifted the silver flute to his chin showing them their still reflection. And as a hot demonic wind whispered, he leaped and screamed with all that his little lungs allowed and crashing with every ounce of strength, his lustrous instrument cracked again and again at the skull of the yelping animal.

 

Lord Mmamon’s mouth slightly ajar and mustache quivering with the breeze. His parents gripping tightly each other’s hands.

 

The boy’s rib cage filling up generously with air as he stood up with flute in hand as it dripped in the dust with blood.

 

He walked away for a few seconds, stopped and slowly turned. His small mouth became a smile as he stared at the empty skies. Wiping the wind instruments on his white pants he stared at the man and said,

 

“All debts paid.”

∞

Vijay Nath, 12 exhibits his harmless sand boa. His family stays on the lookout for police: Snake handling has been outlawed since 1972. Gujarat, India, 2009.

 

 

 

 

Three Jisei

SAIGYO SOKO SENRYU

 

I wish to die
in spring, beneath
the cherry blossoms,
while the springtime moon
is full.

–Saigyo (1190)

 

 

Inhale, exhale
Forward, back
Living, dying:
Arrows, let flown each to each
Meet midway and slice
The void in aimless flight

Thus I return to the source.

–Gesshu Soko (1696).

 

 

Bitter winds of winter
but later, river willow,
open up your buds.

-Senryu (1790)

 

 

 

Just Missed Him

REMINGTON GRAVES

“Sing, sing if you must, but sing loudly. Feel…feel like they do, like the rest of the bozos out there– don’t nibble on the trigger finger! You’re on the chessboard, like the rest of us, so make a move. Calculated ones are good, but don’t wait too long. You wait a long time and some other guys gets the girl. You hesitate and some other joker gets the job, gets the promotion. Smell the roses, sniff some panties, smell the brittle pages on old books. Drag your feet across recently polished floors at expensive hotels. And tell them I sentcha! Make love to a couple of women–at the same time. Tell them you love them, but don’t lie, mean it when you say it. Let them feel your hurt. Let them grip your hammer with their hoo-has as you take them by the throat and with your eyes say all the things they’ve never heard.  And with their cries that call you god, they surrender completely, they will want you to take them by the hand…into dark and thorny roads, where the asphalt ends, where right and wrong come to a halt and wave goodbye in the distance behind you. Get yourself a goddamned dog…name him Lucifer. Kiss a schizophrenic broad behind a bus depot and close your eyes through the penny-taste in her mouth and give her a romantic moment for heaven’s sake. Listen to your mother from time to time, I mean really listen to her. Sit down with her and have coffee, especially if it’s past your bed time. Remember, women are not your equal, they’re your better; we are lucky to have those celestial creatures care at all about their cowardly counterparts. I’m gonna tell you somethings, and if you repeat it, I’ll deny it: shoot something up a few times. Like morphine, don’t fuck around with heroin, that’s for spics and niggers. Of course, I was in love with a beautiful African girl in my salad days…good grief, did this woman have a behind, her ass was such a masterpiece it’d make bishops kick holes in stained glass windows. Face of an angel, this one. I’m getting off topic here. Listen to those old records no one wants to buy, the ones sitting in libraries: Schubert, oh shuby-shubes, Beethoven, Wagner, Liszt, Wolfy and the rest of those assholes. But listen, don’t just hear it. Get off that damn device and look around you or you’re gonna miss it, you hear me?! Drink cobra’s blood and get your dick sucked by a man…or two. Don’t tell your grandma I said that. And if at all possible…kill someone…but only if you’re certain you’re gonna get away with it, and it helps if they’re scum and you’re doing it for money–it sits better. Oh, my dear boy, the tigers I would tail tug to have your time…”, he said slowly aiming his chin at the ceiling and exhaling as he rubbed on the grey hair on his bare chest.

 

The beeping and hosed machines whirred and gurgled and the scent of mint garnished the garbage next to his bed which was tortuously turning his guts. The sound of a 747 vibrated on the windows slightly and he pointed at an empty chair.

 

 

“Dad, who were you talking to?”

“The child that came in here and woke me up.”

“We didn’t see anyone walk out, dad.”

“You must have just missed him.”

∞

 

 

Feels Good To Be The Boss

REMINGTON GRAVES

I am a loving mother of three beautiful and crazy children–a boy and two girls. A megabitch to my employees at a leading law firm in Boston. My Rage Grover runs all day to and fro and Starfux gets my business at least three times a day. The walk-in closet in my home contains designer everything in black and a few garments in dark-grey.My mother and father are very close and dear to me and I attend church with them at least two Sundays a month–I know it means the world to them. I attend my children’s plays and sports games, depending on the season. I was voted “most likely to make people laugh” my junior year in high school and some yearbook entries read, “…and to eat your lunch if you’re not careful.” Calling myself a porker would be putting it mildly. All my old friends, and those who I dreamt would be, now reach out to me on Facecrook to tell me how gorgeous and how much like a super model I have become. They claim they’re jealous of my success and I believe them. Wherever I go, I demand respect and set fire to insecure women’s hearts; their men stare and I pretend not to notice, I pretend not to care. The truth is, I am glad they notice…I revel in it. I take pleasure in knowing that when they tuck themselves in at night, and the husband spits on it before he slides into that old, dull hole, he’ll be thinking of me.

 

Today is Friday, and that means its “fun day.” I got off work an hour ago and am on my way downtown to meet Kalpi for a drink or two. I spray a small amount of Fod Tord’s Black Orchid into my cleavage and check my lipstick in the car before I walk in. Kalpi is an Indian girl I met at a bar a few months ago. It was a chance meeting and we hit it off quite well. We always have a good time with each other–she’s got a great sense of humor and an amazing body. We talk and drink and ignore the myriad of guys that hit on us. You should see the hate from these lame assholes. I have no time for little boys trapped inside men’s bodies.

 

 

“I am so glad you got a chance to come out with me tonight, Kalpi. Feels good to be free of the little devils for the weekend.”

“Of course, the pleasure is mine. We have an amazing time together, girl–always.”

“We do, don’t we? Hey, I forgot to tell you, I just hired another lawyer. He’s gonna be a great addition to the firm.”

“I envy how strong and successful you are, so driven.”

“Thank you, Kal-kal, you’re so fucking sweet.”

“I mean it, though. It’s so sexy.”

“Ooh, you think I’mmm sexy.”

“Oh, shit, stop it.”

“You have any particular time you want me to drive you home in the morning?”

“Just some time before ten.”

 

My home is my palace. It is huge and surrounded by a hundred trees. We have dogs, a pig, a few ducks, and a blind rooster that bumps into trees all the time–poor thing.

 

We walk in and I scream as I take my dress off and look for the Dindori Reserve Shiraz. I got the wine for her. She loves it. She says she needs to feel relaxed in order to enjoy herself. I indulge her with pretty things, expensive things, it makes me feel good to put a smile on her face.

 

“Kalpi, are you ready, my dear?”

“I am, mama. Wooo!”

“Follow me, ” I say as I grab her by the hand and lead her into my bedroom where it’s dark as cedar and vanilla candles burn quietly.

“Will you be joining us this time or just watching again?”

“If I feel like you’re fucking my husband the way I want you to, I will join in to show you my appreciation.”

“In that case, I will definitely look forward to you joining us tonight.”

 

 

With a glass of wine I sit back on my vintage chair wearing my work suit and sip slowly and quietly.

 

Fuck, it feels good to be the boss.

∞

 

 

I Need You

REMINGTON GRAVES

Arabesque etchings surrounded the pause in her pupil, kaleidascaping past her porcelain countenance,  reaching elsewhere without effort, without thought. The coppers in her hair faintly took the sun by its golden strand, with a hazing, quivering hand, and slightly smiling as her bare feet crunched beneath dead leaves, wet grass, pine needles, whilst the smell of tobacco and warm vanilla guided the way. Cedar and patchouli with, at times, oakmoss grazed upon her chin. The blurring webs of silhouetted branches contrasting the flowing flame, that was her long hair, exhaled with a breath of juniper berries, pepper, vetiver,musk, amber, basil and jasmine as she ran. Her heart beat like a tribal drum.

The black swan on the lake, turned its head slower than any eye could detect; It’s iridescent feathers spread like a million fingers, ripples spread forth and tapped gently the edges of the grass as it drunk. The orange and brown leaves drifted out with calm resolve. A skipping brush stroke across a hued pink sky turned and transformed into the words she had longed to hear all of her life, the phrase that lacerated profoundly past the postulation she had fallen prey to, and she fell on her knees–instantly ripping them open and feeding the fields that housed her. Her blood drowning the green and gasping blades, her hands on her face providing no comfort. Tears cutting hot with dirt into her cheeks, as she mumbled the phrase in the heavens with a trembling tongue–knowing she was now in hell.

 

The moon had left its dark side and hid behind the fog that hovered. Wailing wolves wondered. Pine trees stood quietly the wanton witnesses. And time communed with the vault, the vault that is the heavens and azurely they concurred–far too fair this fawning maiden, far too faint her neck did lean, almost breaking, almost taking, the breath of life left in so obscene.

 

 

The winds rushed in chillingly and spoke their peace…

“Her words are the words of mortals and now she knows the lofty language…the language that broke the cold black marble, the words that rend veils in two, these words that shan’t be spoken, now surely have infected you.”

 

 

With puffy eyes she turned and looked at you–the you that sees herself in her…sore from sobbing and body tired of convulsing, she raised her face and calmly parting, her soft-pink lips opened like a treasure chest, and pushing forth the fervent phrase:

 

…”I need you.”

  ∞

 

 

 

 

Pharmakon Live At MOCAD

PHARMAKON

“She glowers in measured silence as often as she shrieks, and ever serrated tone cuts straight to the bone, a carefully calibrated interplay between frequency and resistance.”

–Spin Magazine

 

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