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Caress



As she stretches along my bed, she moans

And I hold her in my grip,

My body against hers, pumping black blood

Through our veins,

Down her breasts,

As we lay dead in a bath of sulfur and fire.

She tastes liquid hot as these desires of darkness

Run like honey down her naked thighs.

Her eyes reveal her lust

And her lips open wide to my seclusion.

Distant thoughts are my only illusion.

Her skin, so soft in shadows,

Rubs up against me

And without end she holds me in her arms

With her eyes,

And with her thick, red beating heart.



-Brian Grisham, 2001

Guilt



Quickened breath,

clenching fists,

a desolate thought that only I can taste.

Soft and black and broken

are the bones I hold--

as I touch them against my skin,

my cheek,

my lips,

and I speak with words

that are full of agitation.

So heavy in my hands--

fingers deceive-- and my eyes are wired

to baleful dolls, so beautiful--

so filthy, ugly, gray.

I usually pretend I’m not forlorn

by some unruly concern for affection, but

these thoughts open up doors I cannot close,

nor hide from.

They are there, these thoughts,

all of which cry out to me

for a whispering wish to be heard,

to be seen with eyes that dance

in the desolate fiction of a man that never was

or shall be.

I can always hear their lips move

in the corner of my ear,

talking to me, singing in the winds

of stilled air and cold placidity.

There are times when I cannot fathom

my own mishaps and failures until I awake

from my long slumber of foolishness.

And, indeed, they are long like elongated fingers,

pointing down on me with old hairy, wrinkly skin

In judgment.

I am not hungry for isolation,

or starving for guilt that thumps in my somber heart.

For now,

these bones are no more but servants of death.

Was I ever responsible?

No, but I should have been...



-Brian Grisham, 2001

My Blood



Her body, white-

Tainted eyes,

Night colored black

are her lips...

are her passionate lips

as she runs her tongue over them.

Red. Sweet. Delicious tongue- oh so wet...

Silver nails-

Sharp teeth-

Thrusting hips,

Those are her hips...

And her lips speak to me

Without sounds... only movement.

Caressing,

Biting,... tasting.

I grip her raven black hair

and my raven red blood

spills from my raven black heart

over the thin sheets around us.

White... luscious to our touch,

Soaking my body-

My blood,

Her breasts with my hot, hot blood

dripping from her chest...

Tainted blood,

Tainted eyes,

Tainted heart...

My ever-beating heart.



Brian Grisham-

Captured



She is a coffin and her flesh is my grave.

As she holds me close,

her arms are covered with blood

and I am imprisoned in this casket of ice,

never realizing the horror I had witnessed

from so long ago.

I am captured

in this unforeseen darkness,

but I am not dead...

I am not forgotten by those

who wear hidden masks upon their very faces,

I am not forgotten by those

who wish to do me harm.

No, I am not dead in their world.

I am captured,

and drowning in a soul that is no longer mine.

I am in torment, ensnared in anguish

that can never disappear on a whim

nor, touch the spirit that hides deep within myself.

No, they won’t allow me to live,

and their hostility overwhelms my mind.

As I stand here, frozen in time,

I await for my life to begin.



-Brian Grisham 2004

The House On Thomas Street

Brian Grisham



With my fingers, I gently touched her face

as she wept in the open, moonlit room

that was to be a part of her home

with great windows stacked high overhead,

and hushed candles to the left, to the right --

their flames put out just moments before -- and a winding staircase

that lead skyward like some abandoned trestle, twisted and broken.

In this glowering moonlight I could see the sadness in her eyes,

and the darkened contour of her face as she stood there,

silent,

with weary eyes and a dying heart.

But, I was still there, wasn’t I?

It was as if she couldn’t see me, and, yet, she could.

Her mouth drew close to mine, and she whispered to me,

like a thought that could only be heard in one’s head

rather than a throat, tongue, teeth and smile.

She whispered to me like a candle that was just put out

and only the smells and smoke were carried throughout the room.

And, I almost cried.



-2005

Withered

Brian Grisham



I stand, defeated, in the open night air

With old broken walls surrounding me

From far away distances.

Ah, but isn’t this what loneliness is?

Cold, stars gleam in the ocean

World of midnight eyes.

Forever thinking about those I have known

And those I will never see again.

Or hear, nor taste with hungry eyes and

A starving throat for words that may,

Perhaps,

Bind a dark soul onto my faith.

To drink a hunger that has no words or taste,

No feeling or substance.

There’s no color that resides in me

As I stand here with my thoughts keeping me company,

Like an old man that never grows older

And never grows the wiser,

Talking to me as if I were a former pupil

From a time I cannot remember.

Chained forever, am I, to this secret rot --

My mind, my sadness, dying slowly

As if it were a disease of madness coursing

Through my wrists of red blood, spilling outward for all to see.

Still I am frozen in dark sorrows,

Never changing, never feeling and never able to escape.

I am bound and forgotten by those who once loved,

Who once set eyes upon my thirsty face of risen bone.

And forever desolate,

Am I,

In a star-filled ocean

Of sadness and loneliness.

COMMENTS

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Crystalstar
20:22 Apr 10 2011

beautiful my friend

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Demons and Lizards Touch Tongues

Brian Grisham



The living look upon death

as a crashing wave on crushing rocks

that tastes of flesh and earth

and stings in quivering hearts that hate

everything else, but themselves.

And within themselves they find death

and blood-crippling hands that offer

not pain but vigor emotions.

Can’t you see their wishing red lips?

Their cold bodies so rigor,

like twisted gates churning before a storm.

Listen as their dried blood flakes upon doomed seas

and crashing sounds of heart and life beat

as two...

always as two.

Deep within my dying self,

far upon my living self,

so that I may finally be at peace

and close my eyes and taste my spit

between hard teeth and a coiling tongue.

So final, so warm is the air around me,

are the spirits around me,

as they watch me patiently

without faces or words...



Published by Down in the Cellar - 2007

My Lasting Darkness

Brian Grisham



In the cobwebs of night she reaches out for me

and gently caresses my shoulder

with her pale, sinister hand;

black nails jutting from her fingertips--

in her other hand, a rose brushes against her lips.

Without a word, I rise, my back turned toward her,

feeling the coldness of the window pane.

Oh, how it soothes my flesh

In such a way, so like the rain.

I listen to the rain falling, dripping over my soul.

Heartless and hypnotic when you know that you're alone.

Icy, black nails creep down my back.

She's behind me, whispering dark desires,

searching for a way to release me into her arms, into her eyes,

down her throat to feel the rhythm pulsating all throughout her heart.

Finally I turn toward her and stroke her face, from cheek to chin,

realizing what I had lost just a moment ago.

I wipe the tears streaming down her face

and disappear into the bedroom shadows

just as I arrived from images past.

Forever gone into darkness,

for however long this darkness may last.



Published in Sounds of the Night - August 2008

COMMENTS

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Crystalstar
06:29 Apr 01 2011

very good

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IhrBlutDivine
05:39 Apr 04 2011

*smiles* I enjoyed this one....immensely.

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