Relics of a Bastard Age

Left spent in the detritus of
This extinction of moments that overflow
Those anticipations that now lie rotting
Upon a floor that groans with the gravity
Of imprecations and censorious guilt.

Abandoned to reverie and incubal madness
This unseeable absurdity of delirial prophesy
Eats away at useless apology and regret
And there in the dead of this hour of my wolf
I suffer the relics of a bastard age.

Red Truths

Less purposed reason, what remains is
The faint discord of softly falling water,
A brief slander of expectant seasons
Cut too short by shears of moiral law.

That homeless madness wrecks black carnage
Beneath conventioned words of cultivated gravity
Like the jester’s bold washed cacophony,
By cold design to eclipse red truth with lies.

When only that same cold design might serve
Borne in tainted hands sworn here to solace,
Must Desire bow now before Need,
And anguished, sever one’s only comfort.


This clock toils on in silence
While present ambiguities
Eat all presence of
Both weight and mind

Laboring under the effort of
Its own leaden weathered hands
Time reaches forth to
Strangle all conceit of hope

Soon only the past might endure
As sand spilled out upon
An imprint of shattered glass
And measured minute dust

That arrow that has but little
Far yet to fly carries with her
Memories on raven’s wings
Endured by the stone below


The sun crawls over a sky full of time
Flaying the day of the grey shadows
Scalps skinned from each pass to sit
Collecting in the dust of my own dread

But like the dusk annihilation cannot
Long be withheld, and whether by short
Or by struggle the thread will be cut and
However far it is will always be wanting

So with hands empty I watch this day die
Red light spilling like innocent blood
With knives carved of both morning and dusk
Their cost the bitten price of my own lingering


Caught in the familiar shade of
This my historical envy
That bitter truth shadowed by
This memetic lie

Always siezed in the copper light
Of this my collective community
Only an alliance of cold enmities
For my happy reward

And now trapped in these borderlands
Cut by my own circumscribed mind
Silenced by loathed dignity
Captured by pride

Werewolf Sonnets, Vampire Limericks, and Zombie Haiku

51JJiNewfNL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_If the perfect poetical metaphor for a zombie is, as is popularly held, the haiku, what are the appropriate metaphors for werewolves and vampires?

Obviously, sonnets and limericks.

At enormous personal risk, I have collected these works from a wide array of supernatural sources, often at considerable danger to my own bodily and spiritual integrity.

(Actually, that last part isn’t true. I’ve been on their side since the beginning.)

Available now from is a (new!) wood pulp collection of my various poetry of this peculiar subgenre. Most of what is enclosed have been previously tweeted, WordPressed, or Facebooked, but there are a couple of new ones in there.

Plus, if you pick up a copy you will be the envy of your friends for having the absolute top tier of bathroom reading among all of your social circle.

Sunset’s Child

I stand and shed this traveled hide
Behind I leave fourteen tines
And when, again, through darkness growls
The Huntsman’s cheerless horn

Here will I rise from salted foam
There shed the black and loam
And from the arms of tempered time
Comes promises drenched in wine

This crest of light that chooses night
Reflects that self-same echo
What favors sun cannot this be
Ambushed in our conjoined plight

For to me you stand like fire pulled loose
From sunset’s red-gold breast
And dusk in obeisance will bow down deep
To descend into an ocean of night

Coming Home

So, this one has a bit of an unusual origin.

While I have been working my way through ORG short fiction at a pretty good rate, Kelly Hallman asked if she could write a short story of her own in that same 25th century dystopian solar system. Of course I said, “Sure, why not?”

Kelly came up with a great story, with the end interspacing with a song about a prisoner on his way to his execution. It worked really well with story, but it had the minor problem of being, well, still under copyright.

We needed a new song. And I certainly am not the type to shy away from writing another murder ballad.

Coming Home
I know the whole damned lie
They told on the prosecutor’s bench
But the joke’s on them
‘Cause if they ever knew the whole of it
They’d’ve shit their own pants

    If I could send that judge to Hell
    He’d be coming home
    At last he’d be coming home

But Death, she loves a jest
So I sit here condemned
For the one I never touched
While sixteen others lie
Forgotten in their holes

    Where I left them each and every one
    They were coming home
    At last they were coming home

But can’t wrestle the hangman
When your eyes lack even two pence
And even though they’re all set
To take it all from me
They can’t stop the fact that

    Now at last I’m coming home,
    I’m coming home,
    At last I’m coming home.