His Whiskey

Maybe it's the way he sips his whiskey,

has cigarette smoke that stains his clothes

with an ashy smell, or the angered grit in his voice that turns me on

to this perfect stranger. A crooked smile with jagged teeth edges

as if from grinding them down to the root.

If only he'd grind my way.

Grind the hostility out of my life...

the pain, the suffering, the melancholy of longing for him.

It's unbearable at times.

He is a constant variable in my mind and in my dreams.

Suspended in the sunshine I see.

If only I could hold him...if only he could hold me.

Talk about all there ever was and all there will ever be.

 

Maybe its his presumable valor and my honor he will defend,

holding the wrath and strength of a thousand men.

A bottle in one hand, my hand in another,

his rambunctious temper and the love letters

he has yet to write me.

The anticipation of our encounter and a bottle of his whiskey,

caught in a landslide, closing the sweet worldly blinds,

flinging the door open and wallowing in loneliness no more.

 

"Somewhere Up North, Caught Down South"
Photo taken and edited by Skye Lyon. 2013.

Candy Coated

Walk with me, to the end of me.

Where the weeds seep and screams reverb down

across the rubble wreckage beneath my feet.

Fall in love with the chaotic fury that engulfs me.

Where heated anger flows out like passionate lover’s sex.

Never vex of cause a hex on what is good about us, babe.

Wait, what was ever good about us? Don’t hold back…

Ink splattered tears stained my cheeks black.

Ruing my melancholy for all those years and

my unborn happiness I will never get back.

Vacantly listening to songs pressed on vinyl,

yearning for those lone hearted desires etched on wax.

Bed sheets painted our arguments mad -

kisses sewn in with candy coated lies were the only memories

I have ever had of you.

Who can blame my surges of madness, when all your lies turned true.

So when it comes down to the fact:

No, my once sweet surrender,

we will never get back together.

"Blue, Little Red"
Ink sketch by Skye Lyon. 2013.

Holocene

Politicians laughed and the poets dreamed,
and our love was showcased like artwork in the Holocene.
I decided to reach out to you, across the Atlantic engorged in blue -
I have so many things I’d like to say
but hesitation has me waiting yet another day.
Writing out all my points to get across,
as I look at the neighbor’s windows turn to frost.
Sifting through all the rumors that were never true...
smoke clears the ashes of our past, us being one of a troubled few.
As your promise to me reflects a gilded hue, the only man I see is you.
Dense mystery cloaks the night as I lay in bed -
God, allow me to rest my tired head.
The grandfather clock casts its devious spell,
with every echoed chime, my prayers all turn to hell.
Our bed is made, the stars are crossed.
A revolution is brewing, babe, and you’re the boss.
Nerves strum across my fragile chest
as I feel his fingers add pressure on steel, cold frets.
Sleepless minutes morph into early morning hours,
he bows before me - I turn my heart away, walking the path of a faithless coward;
but maybe now is the time to shed my fear…“oh, not now, let’s wait another year.”
The inertia in my soul outweighs my desire;
a stick, a match…fire strikes - I watch my hope burn on a funeral pyre.

 

"Good Luck, Kiddo"
Photo by Skye Lyon. 2012.
Kaori Japanese Sushi Bar

Wine In a Coffee Mug

The sun is sinking and is awfully missed.
Cold breezes are for the keeping and lay motionless
in dark hair. Fragile lips count the teeth in a lovers mouth,
and the town elder rests stout in a rocking chair gazing upon what could have been
years and years ago.
Now loneliness is hidden knee deep in a blanket of snow
with each coming winter. As long as we have each other,
babe, spring will lead us back to the moment
when we fell in love. In the midst of autumn’s cusp.
You, my awkwardly beautiful man, wrap your lips tenderly
around my coffee mug - drinking the wine given to me by my mother
years and years ago, under fragmented stars
that we interpret as scattered gold.
Hiding secrets told to me by October’s harvest moon.
Sacred riddles no one will ever know – no, no, no.
No one will ever know.
 When I curl my body into yours, will you tenderly

whisper in my ear…the new daylight rays
will mean nothing to me if you are not by my side.

Only through the insomniac down time, do I learn to shed my pride
 'cause we will all leave eventually,
oh, but darling, nowhere near our “now”.
The boreal lights lull me into your private needs

as they signal us for a final bow…
until tomorrow, my love.

Gossamer Hearts & Primitive Promises

A gossamer gown ruffled with tule,

encapsulating the autumn light and violently

spewing it out into the winter darkness

for lazy eyes

to gaze upon in foolish glory.

Too much beauty to take in.

Too many cowards to bring

back down

and realize a false idol

stands before them.

Believing she is a pagan symbol
to put faith in,

to trust again,

to be that lover
who makes to the end;

however, she is a god
who regresses deeply

into primitive promises,

dwindling into solitude,
paying homage

to her former flame.

Love for a needle that pierces

virgin flesh,

draining the fruit of innocence

from that single incident

when he walked straight into

her gossamer heart
and molded that fervor
that would rip her apart.

She dies of delirium
and uncontrollable greed

for her top priority need.

Her lover succeeds

in stealing that iridescent seed,

wrapping the delicate trophy

like a prize.

Spewing the last ounce

of her memory into the rivets

of a new era.
Together...everlasting,
the stars are alive.

"Gossamer Heart"
Photo taken by Skye Lyon. 2012.

 

The New Native

I learn to run

and eat away at my

inhibitions of yesterday,

as cannibalistic

as some may say.

The natives said it was ok

to forgive those who

have disowned me...

oh, but how they

overtake me.

I learn to keep

all of my foes at bay

as I eat away at my

anxiety...that is what all

the shamans say.

They confirmed there is no way

to seek sanity

as renegade soldiers
continue to

butcher away

at my idleness.

I run from the east end

to the southern bay,

screaming a victors cry

that must be heard somewhere,

heard in the cross hairs

of belligerent play.

I sit in disappointment of

another day

as you rest in complacence

scavenging the bloody bits

of feeble prey...

I say ok...ok...ok, ok, ok

I am done,

so done.

I can't run.

The village does not
believe me?

I am done,

so done.

I can't run.

You cannot hurt me...

anymore.

Found Under Crooked Keys

A note from you was found under crooked keys,
folded in fourths. It was all I had to get me by.
Strange to say, but you’re the only one who opened
my locked door,
swept into my life on a virgin floor.
You were all I had.
An unfamiliar home burrowed deep in my chest
seemed so much warmer than all the rest.
Now I freeze to death under an open sky
knowing with full certainty I could never tell you goodbye.
It seems so easy how you change your mind...
as if you lost track of all this time.
The door slams shut...
the fighting within myself has strained what we once had,
has clouded our minds to what is sane.
You hurt me bad,
yet, I still pray like a pagan hoping you take me back.
My letter to you was found under crooked keys,
folded in thirds. I was all you had,
when you craved your needs.
Do not speak, darling,
I have seen this many times before.
Do not come near me, babe,
you will only leave me sore.
It is hard to see you in the threshold,
dancing alone,
isolating your body from your thoughts that roam.
You saw my kindness as a chore,
bruised my elusive ego
so long ago
but somehow, I do not think
I care anymore.

"The Night Owl"
Picture of Skye Lyon (2012)