The Sky might be gone





and the sandstorms…

hardly a place left 

all vaporized eternity 


And nothing to do

Nothing like Rave

City of Vampires 

and porn stars


Nothing too swag to stop

Nowhere left to run 

clock ticking on you 

flight leaving the tarmac


My puddle stompers 

strapped to my knees 

not going to die 

and then move on


leave the flight away

and fuck it anyway

why ask why they always say


I cloud close your eyes

revel in eternity 

and be left alone 


the sky might burn

and then look insane 

like an endless sunset


the sky might be gone 

and craters burning in the sun

with sandstorms raging 

with no hope to move on 


it wouldn’t matter

if she was gone.  


We can grin

What else can we men do?
We can grin
When things are grim
And when the sun rises you’ll hear us laughing
What else can we men do?
The world is large and we are small
What can we do
But smile and grow more Haggard
As the years go
What can we do but smile all the more
When after all to smile is what these lips are for

Cadillac margaritas

Cadillac margaritas-
Cold in my hand
Shot stiff and empty
Water glass running
Ice cubes melting
These nights never end
I know these nights never end
I know a thousand hearts
Everybody’s got their special feeling
But nothing compares
A Cadillac margarita
In my baby’s arms

I used to bike all over the city

I used to bike all over the city
My aunt’s mountain bike would take me places
My friend and I we saw robots at Starbucks
And monsters outside of chase
Los Angeles is a crazy world

You can see anything really

We biked past scientologist strongholds that watched out over
Paltry comic shops and comedy clubs
I fear for the upright citizens brigade-
They are too close to the source
And without protection

The stronghold may snuff them out

You see comedians are like philosophers
they point out awkward truths
They show you the city is a mad place
A world of cyborgs and silicone saints
Yet beneath it all still remains

A clouded yet very real- very human place

In the streets- if they are so surreal
I lose myself in waking
As I am unable to
In sleep.

Sonnstag Traum Journal

I dreamed I was a pale, baroque thing with thin reaching limbs so long and fragile.  I was driving my truck, my bleeding, aging, pick-up truck with my long, pale limbs so thing and fragile.  And it was terrifying.  


My limbs were weak and my truck was fading.  It wasn’t long before I found the breaks were dead.  It was night and now I was just booming on, speeding ahead and then suddenly, smack, I was dead.  


When I woke up I found my lover next to me and her cat purring on my chest.  I took solace in this if not in dreams nor in waking thoughts during what people call reality.  


And strange to me, my dreams have darkness in them.  As if someone is trying to tug at the frayed threads on the fringes of my conscious, the places where strange things alone may take hold, the place where things are generally ignored.  It is as if a malignancy stalks me and haunts my dreams with its presence but that I am so much of love that I remain out of its reach.  Nevertheless, this dark circles me and pollutes my dreams.  


Perhaps I would find out what this means and then face what must be fought?


writing these spells

I recognize

the dusk is fading

As I take wind & sea

forest and jungle tree

deep down into the orchid

abandoning the magik of death

as best I can

Death still like a swamp

a stinking smell

that lingers on


perhaps I will wash it away

perhaps I will grow strong

Godzilla- it’s no lie!

you’re not so secret 

walking down with your hair on fire

your dress in shreds 

hunger in your eyes

your not so secret

like you never tried 

burning down cities

ending peoples lives

your not so secret 

Godzilla- its no lie!

An alleyway incident pt. 2

A pair of blue shadows stood flickering and edged towards me. The hooded man stood up and let the cold of his eyes glint in the dark. Beneath him the girl lay still. Her eyes burned unholy and neon green. Vapor trailed from her mouth- I had caught this schmuck in the middle of a hasty resurrection ritual. His poor timing and lack of situational awareness painted him as an apprentice. Someone new to town. This fuck didn’t know the rules yet.

“She’s mine. My kill and I claim her.”

“You know I’m just walking home.”

“You look weak, are those spiders your familiars? You look very weak.” He said.

“I’m broke. You try fielding an arcane study on this budget.”

“The kill is mine.” He said again.

I wasn’t about to take it either. I never did have much traffic with murder. As I said before it ruins the magic for me.

Next door I heard a ruckus in the bar. It wouldn’t pay to be caught next to some murdering mind magicked death sworn Mage, not outside of this bar at least. I did my best to defuse the situation. I could probably take this one creep and his weird blue shadows, but I couldn’t handle a bar full of Irish mer canneries and their friends. That would go downhill fast. It would be a storm of knives, the crack of a shotgun and then silence.

“Keep the kill, let me pass.”

“Tribute.” He demanded.

I rolled my eyes,

“I just said I was broke asshole.”

Fucking tourists think they can to town and start conjuring the dead like its nothing. I wondered if this guy even knew how hot this alleyway was.

“Pay it or I will take it.”

“You don’t want to dance here.” I said

“I think I do.” He replied.

The blue flickering shadows soared towards me reaching out with bubbling ghost flesh that hardened into talons. A pair of bird spirits maybe, or something he’d built in his free time. Either way they stopped short and drew back before me. The twin Geisha ghosts I’d been given by my old mentor rose from the slick, black concrete and growled beneath the pouring rain. They appeared fierce and ethereal- choosing in this moment to bare rows of sharp diamond teeth.

“I’ve seen those.” He said.

His shadows buckled and vanished. My geists stalked around him snarling.

“I did say you didn’t want to dance here.” My voice was a soft whisper. “You should leave.” I told him.

His eyes shone bitter blue- mind magic, cold though and tempered with death as well as something that felt and smelled older.

“This is my kill.” He repeated.

Some people you lead to water and they’ll still die of thirst.

He sent a barrage of memory damaging magic towards me. It flickered blue and swift like silent lightning in the dark. It caught the rain and echoed off of it. Now it was all around me but I just grinned.

“Every old lady in Boyle Heights knows that trick schmuck.” I held up a charm of the world tree- a surprisingly potent investment from Tibet. “Your cheap spells won’t work on me.”

“Aye but I hear bullets do.”

I didn’t bother turning. It was the Irish. Now we were proper fucked.

The hooded murder Mage turned to face them though and that was his last mistake. A red dot found his forehead and sniper found his shot. The bullet flew wordless and left him brainless. He fell like so many potatoes tumbling in a sack and collapsed across his kill. It was his kill. Her eyes still glowed- halfway through the conjuring and still she burned undeath across her brow. Perhaps she hadn’t been ready to be dead. I knew I wasn’t.

Rough hands seized me and put a bag over my head. My hands were bound and my geishas slunk through the shadows frightened and embarrassed. They were a fine gift but as my teacher had warned, only as strong as they’re weilder. Right now they were as blind as I was. I felt those same hands drag me up stairs, across floor and then down stairs once more. I was tied to down and left wiggling on the floor, my eyes still covered. The geists nuzzeled me from the shadows but could do no more.

“Keep a watch on that one while we fetch them corpses from the street.” Someone said. And then I was alone in the darkness.

Slow and full of steady caution I heard the scurry of my spiders. The young came and whispered to me. I knew their tongue. They told me the mercs were outside and that something had their attention. Vampires I hoped. The spiders said they weren’t sure. A larger one began nibbling at my ropes. I promised him the sweetest blood I could fetch from flies if he’d hurry. Then they began to lift the veil from over my eyes. The guard wasn’t looking- I set my geisha geists upon him. He went down the scraping crunch of stone upon stone- rows of sharp diamond teeth grating against each other. There was no body left. The spiders lead me through an exit where everybody just so happened to be preoccupied with a ruckus in the alleyway I had come from. I didn’t bother finding out what, I slipped through the front and winked at the bouncer stationed there. I started running and was gone before displeasure and recognition played across his ugly face. Behind me trailed spiders and before ran those the spectral dogs- the geisha ghosts. Free for the time being.

An Alleyway Incident pt. 1

It was raining as I walked through east Hollywood. The dirty streets broke out gleefully with graffiti and street art. Skulls and anarchist charging- death on the winds. The alleys were not as safe at night, east Hollywood is not the Chinese theater- it’s more like Bukowski’s bachelor pad after a run of bad luck but some of us still call it home. Hell some of us were born here. I know I was… That’s how I got caught up with everything anyway. Hollywood is simply rotten with undead. Hell- necromancers even have it on the short end of the schttick. On one end of it the mortal authorities generally kept corpses off the street. Fresh ones were easy to get- gang fights, robbery victims, crack heads drawing there last in the park at night on Tuesdays- anywhere really but you had to move fast. The mortals hated death. It sucked given that I courted her. And then of course on the other end of the sthickkk were vampires and lich kings running rampant throughout film, television, music, shit pretty much every department of everything throughout the city. Couldn’t so much as bat an eye or take a leak without seeing some crumbly faced ice kings and strange greedy demons. Basically I had nothing to work with really and I refused to dirty my hands in order to replenish my stock. Some necromancers think murder is a good option, a step on the road to getting what they want but I think that just ruins the magic. Lives and deaths of mortals aside necromancy itself is a very beautiful thing. For me it’s sort of like the best punk show I’ve ever been too. There’s an art. To it. And I won’t bore you with it.

Basically I was going down the alleys of east Hollywood not far from my basement lab and looking for stuff that had died or could be overcome. I kept a few rats here and thither for scooting and sniffing around and spiders, I had tons of spiders running around and laying little zombie spiders eggs everywhere. At night sometimes they would come running back to me with whispers. Mostly gossip though…. Something in the soil made them prone to it. But once in a while something good. Tonight, they had told me, was a great big old bloody old disgusting ass vampire initiation ritual involving most of the fresh dead for the night.

Shit luck sent me down a narrow road choked with five separate factional posts. Over here was a shop held by a pyromancer, there an inn that served as a front for Dionysian revelry, a barber shop held basements of vampire and necromancers and their dead. The bar was owned by some tough fucking soldiers- badass fucking mercenaries with no love for the living and hatred for the dead. I did like that bar though, an Irish tavern, guys from Boston, formers boxers- bouncers and bar tenders there. Not pleasant on their bad days…. All that down one road I walk when I need to do these dark deeds by the moral code I learned living in the woods. That things aught be nurtured and things of the wild aught to roam free in their own right. For my day to day that meant keeping the dead kicking when and while I could- was it so wrong if they happened to step to my tune? Was it my vault I gave the undead Mohawks and guitars? Was it so wrong for a necromancers to dabble in orchestral rock?

I walk the streets with a black acoustic guitar. I don’t mean to brag but it’s a fine piece of art. I’m really just a man of art. Right. I strum chords down the alleyway. The squeak of rats, the scurry of spiders greets each performance. But something more tugs- the murmur of horrors- dirty old spirits I’ve got working for me. At least it seems they work for me.

Murmur my geisha geisha and find me something. Find me something for my spiders to meet. Not too large and not too meek.

A simple spell to set the spirits flooding out in the avenues and alleyways.

The rushed low and smoked across the concrete in thin valor trails. Black things from the underworlds or whatnot. My spectral guard dogs with grinning diamond teeth. My geisha geists. A rare gift from an old mentor. A rare thing, rare enough to keep me alive at night even on these streets. If only I could say the same of cars…

I passed the bar and splashed my boots amongst t he puddles in the crags those Irish guns called a parking lot and god damn me sideways and upside down but there stood before me a serious problem.

A rich fresh corpse lay in the road. A dead girl. Shot in the heart. A young heartless dead girl. Her eyes burning green chemical death, und earth and above loomed a robed figure and a pair of shifting blue shadows.