Hit and Run Veteran
By
Anthony Bernstein
Life's dervish frenzy moments
spin at me from all angles,
ultra vivid, out of tune.
I drive my vision to the future
only to behold a hungry tomb.
I speed into the slipping twilight,
embracing the death rattle
of another doomed day.
My faith is fueled by acceleration.
It runs the lights, lights the flame
and braces for that sitting target moment
promised to all who take the wheel.
I see not through darkling eyes.
My ears, a wash of strange voices.
My tongue gives breath to dictions
estranged from the lexicons of history.
Yet, deeply my words drill holes
through this mad mortal coil.
Here frolic lurid red-bone brides
parading in clockwork masquerade.
Here cavort the moon-glazed madcap
architects of quicksilver mayhem.
Here the greased mechanics of time
engineer their blackest mockeries
of flesh and chrome.
My faith steers by shadows alone,
always seeking terminal velocity.
It is a freeway to futility
on which I am wrecked-
a hit-and-run veteran laid low
under the grinding wheels of entropy.
Published, HWA July 2003 newsletter in essay Red, Red Marionettes
For Randolph Carter
Flying the nightmare
millions of membranous wings
ghost the dreamer home
Dedicated to H. P. Lovecraft
and his novel Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath
Into the Eyes
Between her father's fist
and angry slap,
under his savage hand,
his leather strap,
within a ghastly circle
of a dozen drooling family men,
below a turbulent sky
piling insane purple clouds,
filling the heavens and threatening
a murderous deluge,
beneath her home's gilded archway
triggering constant reminders
that haunt, harangue and cut
deep red ribbons of meat.
before the shining stars
and well manicured streets
of Beverly hills
and behind the shattered visage
of this seething teen beauty
broken into pieces
by a secret fury,
broken into pieces
between her father's fist
and angry slap,
and under his savage hand,
clot serpentine nursery visions
into future solutions chiseled to a fine point,
and gushing buckets of crimson laughter
through her baby-soft, sour cherry lips
straight into the eyes
of a dozen stricken candy men.
Anthony Bernstein is a writer of strange poems and tales, also nonfiction. Bernstein is an accomplishment musician, beginning his writing journey as lyricist for his edgy Rock bands. Originally from NYC, in the mid-nineties Bernstein moved to Providence RI, land of HP Lovecraft. His writing appears in many publications, including Space and Time, Rhysling Anthology, PanGaia and the now defunct Cthulhu Sex magazine.
By
Anthony Bernstein
Life's dervish frenzy moments
spin at me from all angles,
ultra vivid, out of tune.
I drive my vision to the future
only to behold a hungry tomb.
I speed into the slipping twilight,
embracing the death rattle
of another doomed day.
My faith is fueled by acceleration.
It runs the lights, lights the flame
and braces for that sitting target moment
promised to all who take the wheel.
I see not through darkling eyes.
My ears, a wash of strange voices.
My tongue gives breath to dictions
estranged from the lexicons of history.
Yet, deeply my words drill holes
through this mad mortal coil.
Here frolic lurid red-bone brides
parading in clockwork masquerade.
Here cavort the moon-glazed madcap
architects of quicksilver mayhem.
Here the greased mechanics of time
engineer their blackest mockeries
of flesh and chrome.
My faith steers by shadows alone,
always seeking terminal velocity.
It is a freeway to futility
on which I am wrecked-
a hit-and-run veteran laid low
under the grinding wheels of entropy.
Published, HWA July 2003 newsletter in essay Red, Red Marionettes
For Randolph Carter
Flying the nightmare
millions of membranous wings
ghost the dreamer home
Dedicated to H. P. Lovecraft
and his novel Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath
Into the Eyes
Between her father's fist
and angry slap,
under his savage hand,
his leather strap,
within a ghastly circle
of a dozen drooling family men,
below a turbulent sky
piling insane purple clouds,
filling the heavens and threatening
a murderous deluge,
beneath her home's gilded archway
triggering constant reminders
that haunt, harangue and cut
deep red ribbons of meat.
before the shining stars
and well manicured streets
of Beverly hills
and behind the shattered visage
of this seething teen beauty
broken into pieces
by a secret fury,
broken into pieces
between her father's fist
and angry slap,
and under his savage hand,
clot serpentine nursery visions
into future solutions chiseled to a fine point,
and gushing buckets of crimson laughter
through her baby-soft, sour cherry lips
straight into the eyes
of a dozen stricken candy men.
Anthony Bernstein is a writer of strange poems and tales, also nonfiction. Bernstein is an accomplishment musician, beginning his writing journey as lyricist for his edgy Rock bands. Originally from NYC, in the mid-nineties Bernstein moved to Providence RI, land of HP Lovecraft. His writing appears in many publications, including Space and Time, Rhysling Anthology, PanGaia and the now defunct Cthulhu Sex magazine.