The writings of Hunter Coch

Posts tagged “Slipstream


Drifting Wind

Drifting Wind

Part of the Drifter and visual poetry series


The Lonely Walk of Madness

On a night-time walk,
To clear this mind of sadness,
For a woman lost,
Became a tale of madness.

Through old oaken groves,
On a chilly starlit night,
Thick mists snuck in and
Words that brought consuming fright.


Beats sound from unknown
Corners as shades come by fog.
And fires flutter,
Scented embers brought gray smog.

Fetish sits center,
Hooded circle come about.
With barbarous chants
The alien minds call out.


Barren head of death,
Carved with sigils great and small.
Idol of power,
To the ancient ways recall.

With the heart’s rhythm
The shadows begin to dance.
Smoke rises to heights
The daemons begin to prance.


Faster the beats rise,
Frenzied are the shadow beasts.
Fog and smoke and heat,
Drunk on the mystical feasts.

By beats and chants and thick smoke.
Blue and black fire,
The gifts of gnosis evoke.


Deathly fetish glows
As a dark liquid light spews.
Burning cold and thick,
Shifting with unearthly hues.

Then all became still,
And the ghostly creatures stared.
Alone in the dark,
Motionless, afraid, impaired.


Shades and shadows fade,
Silence comes and the fog clears.
Dare I ask what came
Dare I look in deepest fears.

By the light of dawn,
Arrives the deep cleansing rains,
And clearing quickly,
Eyes widen to what remains.


Deep scars and pale rotting stains.

The Way, A collection of 25 Haiku

The Way


A river moves through

Stone and clay, weaving a path;

Its tenderness cuts.


A tender flower,

Small, petite, living in stone.

The petals flutter.


Old flame marks the trail,

Stone formations block my path,

I continue on.


A nymphs’ paradise,

She dances on damp green grass,

A seductive grin.


Suns’ ray touches dew,

Shows the magic of fungus

Growing on dead tree.


She moves wickedly,

Between the shadows and light,

Touching her damp flesh.


Ach! A thread of web,

It tickles the face with fear,

But no spider comes.


Armadas of ants,

Cleaning the forest of death,

Thrice they block my path.


From valley to hill,

Shaded path to sunny sky,

The way moves forward.


High upon hilltop,

The heat grows, no shade to help,

Resting on dry dirt.


Handsome nymph returns,

Covered in matted orange dust,

Dancing wildly.



White and gray clouds shatter light

Calming beating heart.


Single flower sits,

Of peach and red apple hues,

A butterfly sips.


Returning below,

Valley of oaks and willows,

A rippling creek.


Sophia slithers,

Long and black with yellow stripes.

She crosses my path.


Young bluejay perches,

His eyes follow as I walk,

Harsh and high chirps sound.


Old oak of wisdom,

Standing tall on the journey,

Gnarled branches reach.


Rippling creek stops,

Still pool sits by sacred grove,

Oaks and willows thrive.


On a single stone,

She lies in a ray of light,

Dressed in natures way.


Bug sits, a fish feeds

Small birds call, leaf falls then floats,

Trees speak in the breeze.


Sitting on a stone

By a clear pool of water,

Seeing the magic.


Cool wind as dusk nears,

And the trees shiver with life,



At the point of dusk,

From water a nymph rises,

Kissing naked lips.


Lips pressed, desire.

Lips pulled into pond of glass,

Lips filled with rapture.


Into cool wet void,

Falling into dark decay,

To sleep forever.

All haiku are numbered for future convenience. Some or all of these may end up as visual poetry.

Tanka: Tanka of Discord (or Birth of a Muse)

Light from the fire
of the golden apple seed
planted in ripe fields
on the flood plains fertilized
and fed from the river Styx.

Dancing with delirium,
Elysian fields soured,
Dreams of vile filth,
Deconstructions waking eye,
Sophia held by thick chains;

Born from the lotus,
and fathered by the logos,
she swam in waters
of the ethereal joy,
beached by creations left hand.

On the silver sands,
her spirit sings to the sky,
her being inspires,
born to give the world beauty,
born to give the world sorrow.

Serial: The Lotus and the Rose, Chapter 5

Lotus and the Rose
Chapter 5, Purity and the Snake

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

The day begins with internal silence. This morning I’m animated, feeling healthy. My mind is a jumble, and usually this is quite normal; this dawn is no different. The voice isn’t there, no whispers, no screams, only me and the happy silence ling in bed with my love. I hurt, but its that good pain.

Waking up ( . . . please no).

Eyes open, no longer in sleep. A spiders web directly above, no arachnid, no proprietor attached, clinging to no walls, a strand of silk floating in the still air a specter haunting or a ghostly snake slithering across the still air, stalking the innocent mouse; perhaps a trail of smoke from sacred frankincense. Yes, a snake; its tail lost somewhere in its sentience. Life seemed to eminate from the shifty creature as it levitates into a sly dance on the slight draft of my open door; teasing and intoxicating, lingering and laughing, seducing the space around my being and trying to weave its way into my thoughts (no). Again it tries, phasing in and out of my reality, folding the space it occupies. Continue: In my head and out again (no). Again it tries, hissing and screaming, pleading for this young mind to accept it in (no). “Please no,” then stop; silence, and a seeping pain in my being.

“No . . .” The voice returns like the silent sound of an echo escaped from the origin. Th echo falling back to the ether until silence was, once again.

A sad disappointment emanates as the snake levitates into the darkest corner of my room. It disappears into a shadowy corner (vortex). A light flashes. Confusion.

I get up.


Her face and body buried in pillow and blanket; still asleep in deep dreams, bare back dry to the touch and smooth, it rises and lowers; her breath in harmony with her heart, her heart in sequence to the clock. The clock seas sin . . . no six in the morning, by mind seas high noon; my corps has had its time to be rested. The clock is correct.

Stepping outside I saw no sun. A thick fog sheets the streets. Awesome is the fresh, brisk air; the river scent still hangs.

The fog lingered and waited and watched.

Shivers shook my spine. The damp cold touched my skin. Dim light shone in a glow through the ground layer clouds. I stood still feeling the uncontrolled rattle of my body; stop, stretch; my back, shoulders, and a few joints popped to my pleasure.

Back inside. kind-of dark; no lights were on and the blinds are shut. Apples and oranges and bananas all rotted in a basket on the partition. The neighbor baby is crying, odd; they have no baby. Mrs. Black, nice old lady; she always makes lemon pie and usually shares. That’s where the sound was coming from. Probably just a grand child.

I need a shower.

A diamond back rattler shedding it’s skin, a mammal in spring loosing its winter coat, as I am naked, exposed; not for sex but to cleanse.

The knobs are cold; the sound of the artificial rain, water falling, skin preparing for the for the wonderful feeling of searing , stimulating pain.

Stepping into the stream of water, almost burns the skin; just the way I like it. Ten thousand beads lash my skin and flow down the invisible fissures of my back, wetting me. The liquid deluge pours over me, breaking off impurities, rinsing away the stench of last nights ecstasy. Steam blankets bathroom as the rolling fog outside, everything is blurred, my mind id a cloud [small stumbles and quick steps] . . . vertigo.


Washing with soap. The bottle squeezed, ectoplasm essence lathers my body. Soft movements of slithering liquid, traveling droplets at war with the filth. I am becoming; clean. Sharp pain from the wounds. One weary traveler snakes his way down; a forest it finds, deep and thick; the traveler dispersed, never to be seen again.

Dried blood is being removed my wounds sterilized. The rushing water removes the soap. My hare is wet [hands run through then fall to the side, face looking down to the tiles]. Water, milky and pink, it coils, falling and dragged to the dark vortex.

Standing motionless, five minuets pass.

The heat is poison passing through the heart, weakening; the cold is an antibody that returns vitality.

Move [head lifts].

Water still pouring, then the temperature alters. I turn the shower off. Knobs hot. I feel faint.

“You still in there” She asks.

I remove my-self and dry. “Yea, be out in a sec”.

Towel wrapped around my waist, I open the door. “Love?” My hand on her hip, pulling her close for a kiss, “no hot water”.
“Thanks”, she replies. Sarcasm? “I like cold showers”, without deceit. A smile on her lips, her hand to my cheek, peck on the lips, removed then into the bathroom; door shuts behind along with her contact except for a touch of spirit left by her kiss and a shot of energy from her to me. I stand for a minuet with my back to the door, probably less.

I smile.

I move to the kitchen.

I cook breakfast.

Serial: The Lotus and the Rose, Chapter 3

Chapter #3
Damned by Divine Wisdom

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

I am a seeker on walkabout, on a journey through vast lands of beautiful groves, hidden cities, and burning furnaces, whose keepers feed the vortex fires.

I stand at the edge of a valley blanketed with high thick grass and yellow patches of mustard; everything moist with mornings dew. Scattered oak trees twisted and sublime spot the nest. At the center stands the largest and oldest of the ancient oaks; tall and grand. In its shade shimmers a still pond of pure water, fresh as if it just fell from the heavens, tall reeds at an edge.

On a bank, still but not stagnant, a log lays, half submerged in purity, twisted, sublime and wise. That twisted old log by the pure pond, resting in the shade of the king of trees sits an old woman drinking from the pool with cupped hands.

I now stand in the center of the valley, a distance of hours to walk, in a blink. A single bird sings his song, insects buzz in the distance; me and the old woman an audience. She splashes cool water on her face and with a look in my eyes and a sweet smile on her lips, a flute is raised by her liver spotted hands then she adds to natures melody. Chirp sings the bird and the insects chime in time, out of the void the womans flute begins and brings the harmony of natures voice. The old woman, in gypsy like rags, sits cross-legged on the twisted log, her eyes closed, her instrument begins an ancient tune.

“I want to see,” I say, “I want to listen to the harmony that can be between humanity and nature”. I feel the need to learn the way that may be, but is not. I want to learn from the old woman, hair of long silver strands, sitting cross-legged on the twisted log, in the shade of the king oak, by the pond of the pure water, ancient, sublime.

She smiles with glee, not loosing step with the song.

As the melody transpires, as the woman puts her breath into the song, I sit listening to the play between the musicians, the harmony of humanity and nature, nature and humanity, beast and beast, life to life and back again; to add more wonder to this magnificent setting the stage changes. The valley grows dark; filled and shaded by redwood trees growing high above low-lying ferns. Darkness consumes but not the darkness of night but a cool shade in a thick forest. The ground grassless with mulch, mud and mushrooms.

The melody never stopped but is in harmony with the metamorphosis of the habitat. The bird still sings, the bugs still buzz, the lady still plays by the pond under the old oak.

I look to the canopy, fog swims through the branches above, but no motion is felt. The leaves move, but without a breeze. They move with intention. Butterflies; ten thousand. They hold in clusters to the branches and groups; individuals flutter from bunch to bunch; ten thousand butter flies to a cluster with ten thousand clusters; truthfully uncountable.

Continuing metamorphosis: a sharp scent invades, the air dries, mud and mulch turn to dry hard dirt. Redwoods no longer; eucalyptus.

The monarch butterflies, flutter high and flutter by; a dance in the air to melody performed by flute and chirp, chirp and buzz then stop.


A single sound interrupts, like solid wood against hollow. Another strike, then another. Three strikes and a stomp. Across the pond the woman stood still in gypsy like rags but no longer old, beautiful and lithe, mischievous appearance, mischievous smile, in a sultry stance and a naked leg stretched from beneath the colored rags, flute to her full lips.

Strike; Strike; Strike; with each strike she stepped, steppes, stepping and to the end of her stomps the strikes begin again, each faster than the last, and each step of hers becoming a hard dance on the dirt floor. Each beat faster in the rhythm of passions spirit and in step with the percussions heart. No longer the harmony of nature but passions of the wild and she plays her flute in step with her wild dace to the beat of the invisible percussionist.

The pond was still and clean; air filled with the dry stinging scent of eucalyptus; the king oak proud, watching. The beat continued, the song quickened, and she danced and shipped and the air was saturated with butterflies fluttering by and dancing in tune with the music. The woman skipped, her bare feet kicking up the dry earth into clouds that caught the rays of the hot sun as the monarchs fluttered through.

I am surrounded by fire.

All became silent.

Then a kind womans voice said, “when you awake, run to the western mountains, though the mountains wont hide you . . . Seek the cave that’s shelters the adversary”.

Butterflies flutter by and around and around and around as the voice fades into memory; bright orange and black merge into streaking flames. Hot is the dust and wind in my lungs and it consumes my being. Floating in the vortex of flame searing flesh and burning hair. For only a moment within a moment, found in the flying flames, like the burning bush, floats a face. Its eyes hot with passion and malice and pleasure for my agony. It smiles with ash and smoke and embers of the deconstructed.

Some nights I sit alone thinking of existence and experiencing loneliness as only pond lilies and the sages do. Other nights I go out, socialize and play with great excitement and joy, injecting myself in to the hole of the moment. Now I am an infant ant the point of birth.


I see the chaos, the chaos takes me.

I am naked.

Bright flames, an iridescent shell. I am the fetus within; hunched over, exposed and protected. All dark and comforting, but a light is calling me.

I am born.

I am awake; naked, wet, bald and exposed. Under a glaring sun, on hot asphalt.

A frightened voice to my right, curses and the sound of feet running away.

In the sky, high above, orange and black butterflies rise.

Coyote corpses littered the ground around my nakedness. Sirens sounded in the distance. Sitting up a ghastly sight welcomed me. Crucified on the cliff-side was D. His insides piles the ground below his limp legs; vivisected.

Many running feet heading this way.

Serial: The Lotus and the Rose, Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Wild, Walking, and the Wakening Wisdom

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

One step, then a second and many more until the count is lost and conversation begins. It’s dusk, and the sky blends from the eastern blackish blue to a light lavender, orange, and reds, beginning with the western sun hiding behind the shadowed hills and slowly setting into the unseen horizon. A trail snakes it’s way through nature, skinned in black asphalt; calm, pretty, to be pitied; the river in parallel will consume the black snake in days, weeks, months, or years from now.

“Ware’re we going? D asked.

“To the old farmhouse,” I replied.


“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I already think that,” Stated D, “So, why are we going to the old farm house?”

“I feel I was called,” I replied self-consciously.

“Your a nut,” he said, “but it’s always an adventure when you say those things . . . you like her don’t you?”

“Last night,” I answered, “was amazing, I love her, D.”

A star lights in the sky, the first star I see, or is it Venus shining alone; we are never alone.

“How do you know?” Asked D.

Alone is all I know “I don’t know”, I answered with sadness as we walked, walk, walking, walking and dream, dreaming, dreaming and talk, talking, talking, until Nyx finished blanketing of the sky. A soft caress of of cold, the sweet perfume of the damp air, and ten thousand points of light in the sky above, as apposed to the lights below; little points on the banks of the slow moving river.

A white fox crosses the path. A path black as pitch, dry poison for an easy trek.

One, two, three and four, five, six and seven, eight, and nine lights in the sky and countless more to count and connect; making patterns in chaos that represent emotions, our ways, and heroes lost in perceived time. We idealize the stars and look to the sky when we should look within. Of all the stars and lights inside our beings, Venus alway stands out and sits alone.

“To me, she’s the only one to stand out in a sky of countless choices.”

“What makes her standout? Out of every person you’ve ever fucked, out of every one-night-stand, every person on the streets, why her?”

“She’s unperdictable; one moment a beautiful embrace, the next a hateful glare from across the room; she is chaos.”

“But others are chaos, others fuck the same, love the same, and others that have the same fire.”

Why is her fire special? To the sky my eyes wander to Venus; alone but why special? Eyes move to the seven sisters, but count only six; one hidden, the unnamed sister, “It’s unknown”, I’ll call it Sophia, “that’s the only way to explain it”.

“Better than nothing,” replies D.

Silence in the air, no sent, sound or motion; “this area is death”. One step brought us in and another took us out. A nightingale sings an excess of notes, some have said it waists its breath and song and looses its words, but how can a song be waisted and words lost when everything is the word. The song fades, distance increases, pase decreases.

Seemingly endless, narrow, and winding its way through the river valley; trail on cliff, to an small neighborhood, down a hill and up again to the edge of water. Fluid conversations in motion with the harmony of conflicts against the eroding stone and fallen trees of floods long past. Across the snaking, near waterless river, a pack of coyotes laugh at us. Hungry and slaves to that hunger.

The river is no boundary for the commands of starvation and blood lust.

“D?” I ask in near panic.


“Across the river.”

D curses, we run, and they in pursuit. Smirking with jaws frothing, a hint of euphoria in the laughter; howling and yelping and barking and running, as we run and run and run. Each step for us was three steps across the river for them. The beasts are bound to overtake our overly exhausted pace. No counting those behind, but one blocked out path ahead.

“Damn it.”

To the left a sheer sand stone cliff, high and imposable to climb. To the right the river to slow us down.

Dew is now frost, cold is the air. Hot are our bodies sweating adrenalin; I feel no pain, I am alone. D at my heels and a coyote lunging for my jugular. [Arm raised] A successful block, but the pursuit ends now with the clenching jaws tearing at my arm, however protected with a thick leather cote. The extra weight drags me to a stop.

D climbs a tree, kicking the predator while ascending.

The pack is on us; no me. Two jumping and snapping and laughing around D’s tree; many more attacked me, a shameful cry came from D, but I’m glad he’s safe. Jaws on my legs, pants torn; teeth on my arm, jacket pierced; two more pulling me down by the back of my jacket, many more circled waiting for my fall. Panic was coming to me. Mad fright of death coming.

Another coyote lunged and jumped. Everything got slower. A peaceful anger burned within and the eye inside opened. Passion was within. Thoughtless passion is the way of the body, and body is the way of the animal. I am animal. I was of the beast, but I am bigger. The purifying pain of pierced flesh. The flying coyote in perceived slow motion, knocked down to the asphalt by my free arm, crunching bone is heard over the laughing.

Grasping the neck of the dog latched on my arm, pulling him closer, while pushing with the arm he held. Skin rips, and the pain shoots, the animal squirms in panic as his jaw dislocates with a yelp of his surprise and agony. Released. He runs his jaw flapping, two follow, most likley to consume in cannibalistic need. It makes me sad.

Pain from my thigh, torn flesh and exposed bone. Fist to K-9 face, a wine with my blood flying from the wound to the black top; dead dog lying next.

Then three more on me. A whence from D’s tree. Then two more. I’m overwhelmed. I can feel the bites and the tears. Force of will depleting. But I’m still stronger. Grabbing the closest, it’s slammed against the sandstone face, his bones break, and his neck snaps, falling limp to the ground. These animals are not apart of this world, the natural coyote does not attack people.

The endless struggle continues, but for each one that falls two more take its place. Soon I’m pulled to the the ground. Blood is lost, and vertigo sends me falling. Force of will gone, the perception of time slows further.

A voice: “Do you like solitude?”

“What?” I ask of the voice.

“Do you like being alone?” Agony jets through my body like nothing before; migraine and melancholy fester as a boiling ooze.

“Who are you?” Deep inside I knew her.

“Answer my question.”

“Yes,” I answer. “Now answer mine.”

“I am the hell that will save you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why would you refuse me?” Time seemed motionless, my blood was not flowing; the coyotes latch in the morbid feast, stuck. But just as time seemed to be motionless, frozen is this fork on my path; but I have an iron will and my soul burns with the black flame.

“Leave . . . me . . . alone . . . ” I didn’t think I could refuse but I did.

New strength came.

Both hands grasped the closest coyote and in-caved her eyes and pushed into the brain; dead. Grabbed the ears of another and tore them off; ran away yelping. The one tearing at my thigh I crushed in a role, snapping its neck. And more and more came, an unnatural swarm. With each one dead, again two more came. No clothing was left untorn; no skin was left unstained by my blood. Another coyote dead, strangled by my hands, but more came rending and tearing. And more blood is lost. I continue to kill. The more that died the more life I felt.

I can feel it in my arms, life draining from the dieing dogs. Life rising into mine. Life fron animal to human. Life drawn towards life. Life slithers from the beast to mine; I don’t want it, but it forces it’s way. This was the purpose,  not to kill but to bring me to a savage ectacy. I don’t want it, but it compels me.

Another coyote in my fingers , slowly strangled. His eyes are awesome, deep almost human, sad and in pain; don’t die. Too late. These creatures of night time stalking are natural, however being controlled by a malevolent force. Please son’t die. Too late.

Limp . . . empty . . . dead . . . A shell holding symbolic meaning and acting as a physical representation of the life he once held. The eyes are open, but with out depth. A reflection seeds the center of its pupal . . .


In the dead eyes, a reflection within a reflection, divine like the virgin but more like the black Madonna. A reflection now thrice fold of the remaining coyotes; they pass before the divine mirror. Each emanating anger within the hollow and glazed eyes.

I no longer have the strength or will to resist, so I close my eyes and wait for the rending of flesh.

It doesn’t come.

The only sounds are the sounds of circling; it’s defining to my mind. Stars shine high above. Weeping in a tree. Venus to the right.


Temperature set to a cool comfort. and a kiss is placed on my brow [eyes open]. Four coyotes circle; one for each direction. A stunning woman, naked as the sky stands in the path. Silence in the tree. The depleted blood has taken its tole; spinning but motionless and the sky sparkles.

I hold to conciseness with a childes grip. Above, the stars shake and a voice speaks from earthly eternity, “do not sleep”. Not the voice that cane to me one day, it’s not a whisper but a projection of clarity and a lively, living calling; the stunning reflection of a naked woman.

“Help me,” I ask. In her steps the coyotes follow gracefully in a sort of unholy innocence; different than the patient stalking of hunters; more of a dance in melodic step with the one he follows, but none in the lead.

I seem to be caught in a fog, or is it a dying vision.

“What woman can walk with the coyote,” I ask.

“Living?” With a kind smile.

“What’s your name?”

“Quiet . . . and rest.”

“What’s happening to me?”

“Shh . . . Sophia’s coming.”

“Sophia?” I mumble, “who.”

“She is merely Sophia,” The name is familiar.

“I don’t understand . . . “

“Yes, you do . . .”

[fade . . . ]

Status Update: #2 (Serial excerpt)


Well I’m a little ahead of schedule; domain up but I still haven’t posted the first part of the serial yet. Well, a small change of plans. The first part of the serial will still be out in mid august, however between now and then I’m going to try and expand readership a bit.

Also, i am not happy with the way the site currently looks so you will see some, off and on, changes. Along with the changes comes a change of header and if you have any ideas please feel free to let me know by comment or e-mail ( If you wish to make submissions, by all means please, and full credit will be given.

In the meantime I ask, if you like what you read please pass it along. Now I leave you with a excerpt of the serial (Still unnamed):

EDIT: Forgive me, I’m still getting used to this whole, building a site from scratch and with limited help thing. I changed the layout in the quoted text below as I wasn’t happy with how it posted.

Andthen I saw her . . .

Melancholy joy,
Patrons within green forest,
Sipping liquid life;

In flows from future memories, a kiss, soft on the lips and smooth, open mouth, two tongs delicately game, our eyes are shut and our hearts open. Her breath is mine. Continue; open then shut, but lips always in lock, end; just a tease. The business persists passionately, not sexually, and into each others heart emotions flow freely. Continue; playing [hands petting her hair], I know her love, she knows mine, our auras lock and merge in rhythm with the shared breath. With her inhalations comes my exhalation and in reverse repeated. Harmony, as a dance of air, like water, but free and unbound; cool but comforting.

Color swings from my lips to hers.

Patrons privately,
Some woeful, others with joy,
Chat of unheard things;

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Status Update: #1

With a drink at my desk and a slight buzz this humble writer is here to inform you of my latest endeavor; the first serial on this site. The day this site gets it’s domain name is the day the first installment of the serial is released (sometime early to mid August). I also invite anyone reading this to be my mini-editors; typos & misspellings, feel free to point them out; constructive criticisms, great; praise, oh god please; hate, only if you feel like waisting your time as the more I’m hated the greater impact I’m leaving.

To describe this story would be imposable, though if your looking for a genre slipstream would fit it best. I hope it’s like nothing you’ve ever read, & if it is please point me to this author.

Also if you want the latest updates to this site along with all the other mundane ramblings, remember to follow me on twitter (@esahc).

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