Close Your Eyes, Passerby

Close your eyes:
A tortuous path ‘round leaves,
a smoky inhale,
an acrid, honey exhale
smiling sweet in the pane.
It’s nice, they say,
when your eyes open
and that place you stay...

The ocean at the end
of the lane, 
out there.
Quietly waiting
with the sun, we stare. 

Digging my own grave
inside a bottle of Jack.
Living life worth leaving
and it ain’t half bad.
Kill me with a smile;
never take it back. 

Don’t know what’s waiting,
passing through trees out there.
A hazy, white wolf 
with a welcome-home glare. 

A knock at my soul
hello to the ones who stay.
Chilling with my friends
fuck the rest away. 

The Stylist’s Curse

Foreword: Though the elements of horror fiction commonly make their way into my writing, it is oddly one of my least common reading choices. The bulk of which, when I do partake, is centered on a psychological component. In appreciation, few other subjects offer a laboratory as free for exploration. I felt, in holiday spirit, what’s the harm? Hope you enjoy.

Bar Setting

Message from the awful truths 
nothing stronger than full proof. 
Bits and pieces of presumption. 

Little takeaways for view - 
pleasure emptier than the room. 
Rise to the occasion or rise to nothing. 

Gracious notes from old to new: 
scrambled eggs and beatnik floof. 
Flowers on collars and shelves of buttons. 

Let the setting scene
fade to view. 

A Moonlit Garden

Foreword: I have wrestled with myself for about two months now as to whether or not I would share this story with you all. I wrote this as I pondered potential edits and revisions for my “Midnight Rose”, and when the story came fully to fruition I was, admittedly, somewhat displeased with the results. I may yet make another version of this story which I can find more entertaining, but given our current situation I wanted to release more content that I hope you find entertaining. In these awkward times we must find other ways of connecting.
That said, I appreciate your patience with me as I indulge myself in the perpetuation of this little fantasy. Though it may not set itself completely apart from the original inspiration, I hope you enjoy it all the same. The original poem came to me as I thought about rewriting an old assignment from school and from there this developed. After all, “The thorns of the past can become the buds of the future.”

All the best,
Josh

The Midnight Rose

A rose in the garden 
 
 grows ever sweeter. 

 Lovely white petals 

 soften a thorny demeanor. 

 Though twinkling between twilights 

its pale beauty casts gloom; 

 a baneful silk shadow 

 by light of the moon. 

 Safe in the small hours, 

 but deadly at dawn: 

 the buds draw in, 

 the thorns begin to yawn. 

 If stung in the light 

 there's no time to feel sick. 

 The petals glow red 

 as blood from the prick. 

 Forget your family, your life, and your friends. 

 Off to a new garden 

 you roam to make amends. 

 To his mistress, the moon, 

 the rose does take. 

 Another stranger - a sacrifice - 

for his mistake. 

 You won't wonder or think. 

 Your mind has gone. 

 As you lie and wait 

 for the last light has shone. 

 When daylight has faded; 

 now covered in dirt. 

 You twist and tangle 

 as stems with white flowers, 

 from your skin, 

begin to spurt. 

Chooglin’

Passed around the campfire, 
like cold whiskey rye, 
has long been a story 
of a river boat on high. 

A siren on a Saturday 
in line with a row of smoke. 
Chugging through the Mississippi 
where fools rock the boat. 

Crying, "don't you believe me!" 
"Well, what's it take?" 
A half soul and three pence 
for a jug and icing on the cake. 

The sirens wailing, 
said, "come have some fun." 
Those sailors jumped right in; 
danced to the sinking sun. 

Hootin' and hollerin' 
to the wild wicked moon. 
As crazed as dog bane, 
but you'll sure pay soon. 

Up came the toll -
hat passed around. 
The sailors had nothing,
not a soul to be found. 

That's what yah' get, boys, 
when you give the devil due, 
but he's a fair poker; 
now you'll be too. 

Folks don't believe me 
when I tell my wary tale. 
Those damned rosewater's  
for a night of glutton and ale. 

Mark my words clearly, 
when you see a ship of white 
turn stern and flee 
or work the Devil's shift all night.