magical realism

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Life in the Alley

Within silent streets
And deserted dark allies,
Lies the empty hearts
Of the degenerate streets
Seeking consumption of life.

-Hunter Coch

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Its Eyes Looked Beyond

Forest of twilight,

With trees thick, the path’s overgrown

To the hidden grove.

 

What light shines through the canopy leaves comes only in small rays that highlight the vibrant hues and make shine the tiny particles trapped within its beam. Small beasts scurry unseen in the dense foliage. Dead leaves crackle underfoot.

 

Vines crawl its stone face

Through lycan and moss of greens,

This ancient form stands.

 

The air is thick and heavy. Shadows move in unnatural ways and it feels like insects are following. The knowledge of time is gone. We walk the way disoriented, searching for the ancient rumor as the birds call from above.

 

The ancient idol

From beyond man’s memory

Waits for those who come.

 

What will we find? What lies at the end of our paths? What people would come to this hellish place to build in such a hostile environment? Do we seek a sacred grove of ancient wonders? What will we learn of this ancient people?

 

Into the distance,

It sees in shade and shadow,

It knows who’s coming.

 

The past is gone, the way is lost. We know neither direction nor distance. But we hear a call from afar, the distance song that sings to our dreams. We see a light in our mind’s eye. I fear, but we must move forward.

 

Light through broken leaves

Shines light on forgotten stone.

The way is open.

 

We stand up on a hilltop clear but for tall grass and a single stone idol, large and imposing. The sky is a light was fire; as the sun descends the stars flicker into existence. Filled with excitement, anticipation, and fear, he approached unwillingly.

 

Eyes of stone look deep,

From a time beyond knowledge

And civilized man.

 

My friends are gone. Hope is gone. We came in search of lost civilizations. We came to understand our own past. But this was not of human hands. I now know what lies within stone. I am gone.

 

Alone in the woods,

Stands an ancient stone idol,

Its eyes look beyond.

 


Magic Glass

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Shards of magic glass

Glitter through modern ruins,

Shining a deep light

In forgotten crevices

Where the nightmares came to sleep.


With a Spark

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A struggle for dusk

Is born in places between.

 

Empty worlds converge,

With a spark,

green as emerald,

That shines in the mind,

Ripping apart perception,

And giving a glimpse

Of worlds beyond consciousness.

 

What magic there is to see.


Creeping

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Creeping in shadows,
In caverns, eons unseen.

Lost to modern lives,
But for a whispered madness
In the stories of children.


Sex and Death

WARNING: The following haibun contains graphic depictions of sex and murder along with religious and spiritual themes that may offend some readers.

Sex & Death

Sex and death caress

Comes the sharpened steel through flesh.

Agonies beauty.

She stands naked at the open bedroom door with nothing but the bible and a bloody knife. Sweat beaded on her brow, her chest heaved with heavy breath. Her heart was empty of emotion, but her body was beyond orgasmic. Sex and death were no longer separate.

Her lover lies dead; he penetrated her, she penetrated him. They both came. The scent of sex and iron filled the small apartment.

The bible dropped from her hands (why was she holding it?). The knife was held firm, bloodied and bent.

 

Rain falls on bare skin,

Forgotten inhibitions,

Lovers touch and kiss.

 

Cheap liquor and refried cigarettes rest on his breath; it’s heavy and rhythmic.

Her tongue tastes of whisky.

They’re both wet from the rain and heavy petting. Clumsy they fall upon the steel steps to his building, pain shoots from his spine, but his agony only makes her more excited. Despite the pain he can’t stop, his wet hands reach up her shirt and tear at her bra. His nails scratch at her nipple. It’s cold and erect.

 

Lone drop of water

Sultry eyes follow its path,

Sensual shiver.

 

Time slows.

Her eyes follow a single drop of water down the green painted metal rail. It shimmers from the lights of the passing cars. She bites him, but her eyes still follow the drop. Only when he pulls her through the door does she stop following its singular beauty.

The hall lights flicker. Her ecstasy is what he wants.

He’ll get it.

They’re not quite making their way down the white corridor, the neighbors were disturbed.

She ran her nails down his chest with his back to the apartment door, red lines cut deep and he bleeds but takes no notice.

He fumbles with the lock while she follows the bloody marks with her tongue. It tastes of iron, pineapple, and sweat.

His white shirt is stained red and wet with rain.

 

Anticipating

delight from his forceful touch.

Torn, her shirt removed.

 

The apartment door swings open and they both fall into the small living room. Pain shoots down his back originating from his previous injury. He arcs with the sharp pain. She gets excited, opens his fly and rubs her palm hard against his erect penis. He forgets about the pain.

Drunk on whisky and weed, she lets her ecstasy consume the woman she was to become the beast she is. She tears open his cheap white shirt, grasps his nipple violently and kisses him, not as a lover but as her victim.

 

Rage and arousal,

The beast within emerges,

But for a moment.

 

He begins to feel concern, this woman who so eagerly wants to fuck. The power of lust suppresses the concern quite easily when her bra is removed and her breasts are free. She places his face between them and he licks the skin between; one hand holds her back, the other grasps the mound of beautiful flesh.

She pulls him to his bedroom. He’s oblivious to her familiarity.

 

Religions power

Forgotten by desire.

Salvation by flesh.

 

A bible sits on the disheveled bed.

He throws her to the mattress. He removes her pants; she removes his. Neither wears underwear.

He goes down. He’s gentle and tender to her and makes love to her with his tongue. He’s good, but she doesn’t want love or tenderness, she wants rough. She wants to fuck not make love. She grabs his head and pulls him into her vagina. He can barely breathe. She cums.

He gets up and puts his dick in her, he learned his lesson and puts it in hard and deep.

 

No love, only fuck.

The serpent rises within,

She has been summoned.

 

He thrusts inside her, she rips at his skin. She can taste the blood. She can feel the violent pleasure.

They turn and she rides him like the animal he is. She arches’ her back, her hands grasping his legs. Her breasts look to the heavens. The moisture beads and the light refracts. She is the image of heavenly pleasure.

 

Intensity, pure

pleasure rises through her, pure.

The serpent rises.

 

She feels the power.

“I’m gonna cum”, he whispers.

“No yet”, she demands.

 

Somehow, through the power of her will, he holds back the force screaming to explode.

And she rides longer and harder; the serpent rises higher within her and with each bite comes a shiver or a seizure, she can’t tell nor does she care. It’s a power within her, an enlightenment from raw sexual power.

 

She can taste his blood.

She feels the throbbing within.

The serpent’s ready.

 

“I can’t hold it,” he screams.

She doesn’t hear him, she’s ready. He cums with a beastly roar. She cums and the serpent strikes.

 

Bodies burst black flame

Flesh becomes that of dark light

The world, forgotten.

 

She stands naked and alone in the open shower. The water pours over the goose-bumped skin washing away the blood and cum. The water follows her dark hair down as she rubs herself. His body still on the bed opposite the wall.

Masturbation recalls the memory and emotion.

 

Touch, the serpent stirs.

She wiggles in the tall grass,

Coiled and ready.

 

He lays flayed, spread out on the mattress. She stands over, still naked and dripping from the shower. Her clothes are spread out through the apartment. Her shirt, missing. She takes one of his. It’s too big and you can see her black bra through its cheap white cotton. She doesn’t care.

Someone knocks at the door.

She can’t find her panties.

The door knocks again.

She remembers she wasn’t wearing any.

The door knocks a third time. This time she looks through the peephole. An attractive young blond woman stands. She looks aggravated. She looks like she’s been crying.

She doesn’t answer the door

“Tony, you there?” The blonde behind the door whimpers.

Tony, she didn’t know his name. She put’s her pants on but stumbles in the process.

“Shit,” she mumbles under her breath. But the blonde behind the door remained silent, or maybe she’s gone.

A crucifix hangs above the door.

 

She has no remorse,

Nothing is holy under

The sacred profane


March

The darkness of March
Rides death on a sky born horse,
Pale as morning clouds.
She gallops through the gray waists,
He rides her through burning doubt.


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Drifters Grave

Drifters Grave

Part of the Drifter and visual poetry series


Visual Poetry: Decay

Part of the visual poetry and magical world series

Part of the visual poetry and magical world series


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Visual Poetry: Desert Drifter

Part of the visual poetry series

Part of visual poetry and the Drifter series