Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
If words are difficult,
lock them away
in the pages of a book,
for many languages
I speak,
but not this one.
I lie still,
bound at the spine
with threading and with glue.
Should I grow musty,
release your breath upon me.
The words
will bring me back
to you.
My knight arrives
in unexpected garb,
but
I know him.
One kiss
in the slanted
evening light
and a beast
awakens.
I scream.
’Twas only shadows
stirring memories,
making me hungry
for the past.
Celtic angel,
your love
leaves gaping
wounds,
temptations.
If love is true,
look upon
my face and
know my secrets.
I bow before you,
offer my life,
then walk away,
remembering.
Sniffing about,
nose to air,
it seems almost
proper
to prey upon
the weak,
something deep
in our psyche
guiding us to
quash and
conquer.
If your primal
needs a booster,
there’s nothing
for you here.
I’ll hurt you
if you force
your hand.
Don’t rub
your scent
on me.
On a bus full of strangers,
freedom dances,
recites poetry,
sings, quite
like Tweety Bird.
Being caged
for too long,
freedom tastes
slightly bitter.
But the smell,
ah, like jasmine,
is sweet and
unmistakable.
It ignites in me
a hunger, quite
impossible to feed.
She was
a beautiful insect,
who batted
a thousand eyes.
He was aroused,
he must admit,
but tried not
to lose his head.
a girl
a girl is not her mother
and expending much energy
she strives not to be
longing for
often stumbling
on the rocky footpath
of finding her own way
a mother
a mother sculpts
her misplaced yearnings
into a daughter’s pliable flesh
longing
then bored
abandons her piece
before it’s finished
for herself
i almost died
you didn’t notice
herself
you almost cried
i refused to see
longing
We’re alike
you and me.
The world
on our shoulders
we keep
to our kind,
waiting.
Unable to tell
friends
from those
who seek to
destroy us,
unable to save
the world,
we wander.
When the world
was old
only the old
ones walked.
We drink
their memories,
feed on
their strengths,
thirsting
to save
our souls.
You’re the new kid,
pretty,
but harboring
your share of demons.
It’s hard to fit in.
Aware
that good and evil
often wear
the same face,
you play it
close
to the chest,
trusting no one.
Know your losers.
The misfit club
is open to
new members.
Take refuge.
Strive to be
normal.
Even if someone
puts a dead guy
in your locker,
laugh it off,
toss it out,
bury it before it
begins to stink.
This is high school.
Take a pill.
Soak the bandages.
The pain is just beginning.
We all live over a hellmouth.
Above,
our lives project
upon the world’s screen
in a series of home movie images
we entitle reality.
But below,
like the midnight run at your local art house,
an interior film plays,
starring
two-headed monsters
and nasty, soul-sucking demons.
We put on
our dating face,
our Sunday school smile,
and parade
before the cameras,
while underneath,
singeing the soles of our feet,
are boiling cauldrons
of hatred,
uncertainty and death.
Oh,
and sometimes love.