The Haunting

There is a ghost
haunting my steps.
A phantom glimmering
of a life lived well.

Possibility's wraith,
of mistakes not made,
of promises that were kept,
of betrayals not felt.

The spectre of lost hope
that cries of my despair,
born of disillusionment,
of stillborn dreams.

Opportunities squandered
and left abandoned,
only mirages casting shadows
of Technicolor holographic dreams

I am left in the ruins,
knowing only the bitterness
of unalloyed Sorrow,
sweetened by the gall
of what might have been.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2018

Quicksilver Fancies

Sometimes my thoughts escape me
like the quicksilver fancies
of a mildly psychopathic
but ultimately benificent kitten
where it doesn't know
which plaything to choose first
I flit from inspiration
to fascination, from dream
to thought to idle musing,
borne by currents
of which I have no ken
letting the tide take me
to places I never conceived
I would go,
surrendering to Life's happenstance
like a submissive
to his Mistress' whim
knowing only that enlightenment
dwells in all places
and enchantment exists
in all facets of creation.

Like an adolescent Tom
I bat at one tantalizing idea,
only for my eye to be
caught by another,
which I pounce upon,
drawing it close to me.
I rake it with every claw
of my exuberant creativity
until, losing interest,
I chase a mirage
around another corner,
losing all reckoning
of the thought
that drew me hence.

For that reason I despair,
for which dreams have I
brought to fulfillment,
and which have I forsaken?
But I can do no less
because the world lures me on.

I am caught there,
gyring high into the air...
aloft in the eye of the cyclone
to be left behind in some realm
I never dreamt I'd find,
living a life that seems
merely serendipitous.
Seeking the reasons why
it rains in China
when the butterfly sings.

Take This

Take my guilt,

there's plenty

I owe, and

to spare.

Take my heart,

for there's nothing

left inside,

for any to care.

Take my pride,

for it's been lost

years ago when I chose

to stay and fight on.

Take my hope,

for any of it

for our better lives

is dead and gone.

Take my future,

because all it is

is a litany

of unending strife.

Take my validity,

because nothing else

matters to you

but your unyielding self.

Take it all,

there is nothing left

but what you take,

and that stays till death.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

My Responsibility

It is my choice

to stay and fight on,

though every cell says

I should be long gone.

It is my debt

I have chosen to pay,

and so I remain

day after day.

It is my love

that is never believed,

because how do obligations

come into being?

It is my responsibility

to be your husband,

which I strive to be,

unsuccessfully.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Permanent Impermanence

When love is as impermanent
as frail blades of grass,
how can we say
our passions are forever?
Or is that an illusion?
Is it the only constant
as we travel the wheel
of impermanence in life?

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Transitory

Such an illusion,
this invincibility
we assume for ourselves.
A supremacy,
proven to be a facade
when life forces us
to realize exactly
the fragility
of the breath of life
that brings
a vital spark
to our leaden flesh.
This shock
to the unwilling,
our view
of self-importance
dispelled by the reality
of how transitory
our corporeality
truly is...

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Inconceivable

There is no way
to predict the touch
of fate upon the heart.
It cares nothing about status,
body type or distance,
differences in age
or other factors.
Instead,
the arrows
of blind Cupid
can bond the most
unlikely of souls,
making a romance
that was truly
inconceivable.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Unseen Spectres

Tell me again,
from the where and when
of everything, then
explain to my ears
the battle of tears
lasting thru the years
of faith and fears.

Neither seen,
razor-edges keen,
from the child we wean
to the aged, who lean
to keep upright.

How can we separate
what we cannot incorporate
into our senses, disparate,
making us desperate?

The fears of faithful
addressed by the prayerful,
but never assuaged
to drive demons away.

But yet our dreads
often rear their heads,
creeping into our beds
and stealing our dreams.
They differ, or so it seems...

Both the gleams
of evidence unseen,
but we draw what our lives mean
from between
these influences.

Many a man
bases his plan
on the material, what he can
sense and prove.

He denies faith's power,
says it's facts' hour,
that the religious cower
behind superstitions that tower
over the hard reality
of what we can see.
Yet that man, he
lets his terrors free
to torment and bully
him into choices
not based on cold truth.

So don't chastise
one whose faith guides closed eyes,
for they see no disguise,
can evade sensory lies,
and follow a vision
that denies the division
between the spheres.
For their faith sees clear,
just as do your fears.

Both as spectral as each other,
alike, yet dissimilar
as sister and brother.

(c) 2017 Tortured Cyclone

Serendipitous

Sometimes,
your life intersects
with another's,
where the bonds between
seem to have always been,
but not known till now.
A lover from some life before?
Your unknown soulmate,
at last at your door?
Or mere chance,
bringing two together
whose souls dovetail
like puzzle pieces meant
to come together.
But then, too soon,
you two are reft,
and you are left
with questions.
Was it too late?
Too soon?
Merely a fantasy
that should never
have bloomed?
A dress rehearsal
for another life's destiny?
I may never know...
So I rage against
serendipity,
although it brought you
to me.
For it took you away,
and the place you made
in the depths of my heart
remains empty,
a wound unhealing,
bittersweet agony.
The contradictive irony
is the fact
I'd do it all over again,
knowing the end,
dancing the same steps
from one life to the next,
and I'll love you
forever.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Paparazzi Poet

You never forget your aim,
to find someone to blame
for the degenerating shame
of the wars of digital flame
you gleefully ignite,
spreading chaos and lies in your wake,
telling others to awake,
that evils threaten, their wills to break,
to ostracize, for fuck's sake,
torturing the mark for each mistake
they are goaded to make
by your convoluted plot
to make tempers hot,
when they respond, they're caught,
and their disgrace is wrought,
as you delete the cause,
the inflammatory attacks
that pushed them till their backs
were against the wall,
and you keep pushing til they fall,
because their reputation, you'll maul,
and their followers, appall
with your savagery.
But your game isn't fixed,
and the outcomes are mixed,
for they know your tricks,
and they stand proud,
ranks composed,
faces severe, silent,
waiting for the moment
when you go too far

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Improvisational Harmonies - Sneak Peek #4

Come and Save Me Tonight

One of the recurring themes in my writing is the redemptive power of love. For it has the power to save us – from life's sorrows, from the consequences of misdeeds, even from our own inner damnation.

It is no surprise that the power ballads of the late '80s and early '90s hold a special place in my heart. For a few years, love songs became in-vogue for the previously asskicking-, sex- and decadence-obsessed hard rock and metal bands, as they sought to spin off into a much greater audience by showing their more sensitive side.

True, the corporate formula of rock song, power ballad, rock song, power ballad became predictable, and an oft-derided component of the hair band era. The recording houses saw that there was a large, undersold-to audience that ate up the power ballads like candy. Correspondingly, every band, new or old, in the scene, had to record them to sell albums.

It was only a matter of time before the market became oversaturated, and the backlash against the record studios began. And that spelled the doom of the hair band.

Fortunately, Aerosmith recorded a few gems during this era – including a song about how the love of a good woman could even save a raunchy old rocker like Steven Tyler.

Of course, I was inspired by it. What self-respecting reformed buttrocker wouldn't have been?

Angel

Drowning,

in my tears,

that's where

you found me.

Without hesitation

you dove in

after me.

I was lost

without a prayer

until that fateful moment

you intervened.

Now,

you're my Angel.

Come and save me

tonight.

Inspired by “Angel” by Aerosmith

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2015, 2017

The Tease

The Tease


Your game is madness,
trying to dispel your sadness
and hatred of your life,
getting back at he who made you his wife
in ongoing campaigns of marital strife
by playing the game of hearts,
never caring who you tear apart,
hoping from the start
in the digital Sodom
to taste the forbidden
and experience things hidden
from your world of just existing
that seems to be mindless twisting
on the gallows of discontent,
for truth is evident,
this depraved descent
is to find the one
who makes you come undone,
with debauched rites
and possessive fights
and cruel might,
making you a slave
with the gift that you gave,
unknowing, falsely brave,
your happiness buried in an early grave
He showed you how much
by dint of his touch
that you are by so far
the wicked person you think you are.
And those you touch
who aren't good enough
you discard their broken souls,
in your attempts to make your mind whole,
you broke them like pottery bowls
and crushed them under your feet.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2017

Community Spirit in the Digital Community

I believe that people
have valid feelings,
no matter where they may be.
Whether in person,
by the telephone,
or hidden behind
the digital veil.
We have a responsibility
to be ever mindful
that what we might see
as merely a harmless game,
is something more to them.
This is why I cannot
countenance online trolling,
because I cannot be a witness
to a wrong and do nothing -
to my way of thinking
that is no better
than being the villain
that commits the crime.
So don't tell me
not to get involved
when I see someone hurt,
because I will not,
cannot, listen to something
that is anathema to me.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2016

In Search of Poetry's Soul

What is the soul of poetry?

A deceptively simple question, for most people (myself included) would probably be able to come up with an answer within moments. The answers would invariably be subjective and, as such, have much more to say about ourselves than this form of expression.

As is frequently the case with other questions that lead to subjective responses, many of us have a tendency to view our answers as the right ones, to the exclusion of others. So we tend to exclude ideas that contradict our own, because if we're right, they can't be, right?

Wrong.

For some, poetry is about the cleverness of the writer. How the poet uses her knowledge of language to entertain, to demonstrate their intelligence, independent of emotional context or even comprehensibility.

For others, poetry is all about capturing an instant, creating an image that the reader can be captured within. Using their words and placement to convey an image that is undeniable in its clarity.

Yet others see it as a medium to express the emotions that wrack our psyches, and the ones that make our spirits soar. The language of the passions.

Yet others see it as a dogma where the rules of a specific form are all-important. Where it is necessary to harness the words to the mastery of rhyming and meter, stanzas and couplets.

In truth, poetry is all of these, and more. And we are the ones who choose to limit it by perspective, saying only our vision is "good".

So, if we create in different ways, can we at least respect others for following their particular vision?

After all, the artist is only half of what defines poetry. The other half is the person who reads it.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2016

Look Deeper...

This discontinuity,
the demarcation
of "real world"
and Internet,
the insidious persistence
of the damning idea
that the non-physical
is less significant
due to the absence
of the tangible.
Look deeper...

For our reality
is defined
by our perceptions,
ultimately,
the product
of neural stimuli,
perceiving the shadows
on the walls
of a Socratean cavern,
with no basis
or proof
of the accuracy
of our perceptions?
Look deeper...

We create "reality"
out of the stuff
of our perceptions,
not knowing,
but firmly believing
the shadows
are real.
The digital realm
casts shadows, too.
Look deeper...

What if the shadows
we perceive
are our own?
Myriad reflections
and eclipsing occlusions
of the light
of consciousness?
Look deeper...

And what if
what we call
our consciousness
is merely a shard
of the fractured psyche
of an infinite universe?
The nightmare tormenting
a mad Creator?
Look deeper...

Then all are
interconnected,
distinctions
of offline/online,
Brexit/EU,
Trump or Clinton,
culture, creed, race,
gender identity,
sexual orientation
do not matter,
what affects one
has fractal ripples
that touch all.
Look deeper...

Perhaps all this
is only obfuscation,
discussion of matters
that don't matter
at all...
But the only way
you can ever discover
the truth or falsehood
of my words
is to look,
deeper.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2016

Improvisational Harmonies - Sneak Preview #2 - "Danzig Tryptych"

I:

Mothers,

keep your daughters from me,

for I will lie to them,

I will seduce them

with promises of pleasure

and romance,

and when I'm done with them,

when their innocence is gone,

and I'm bored with them,

I'll leave them behind

without a second thought.

II:

Mothers,

guide your sons away,

lest my words they heed,

and my lessons they obey,

to abandon conscience and love

for cruelty and lust,

and should they follow me,

they will be driven forth to ravage,

or to bleed out, savaged

by my cruel fangs.

III:

Mothers,

most of all, stay away from me,

for I will teach you the lessons

of madness and passionate extremity,

driving you to forget everything

as I make you feel alive again,

only to leave you for another

plaything, returning

when I grow tired of her,

to twist you even further.

Inspired by “Mother” by Danzig

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2015, 2016

Losing My Religion - Sneak Preview #4 - "Forbidden Things"

Your touch,

forbidden me

by so many things,

still, a man

can dream,

can't he?

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2014, 2016

You Stayed, You Gave, You Loved

For my wife...

When I said,
"Let's leave the world
you and I know,"
you didn't complain,
though I couldn't explain
the journey we were starting.
Instead of listening
to your doubts and fears,
you gave me your trust.

When I insisted
that love was more complex
than the single-minded focus
on one other being,
though you didn't understand,
it wasn't how you planned.
By my side you still stayed.

When every cell
cried out to you to say farewell,
you chose the harder path.
You picked the eye
of a savage hurricane
of paradoxical passion,
and believed in our love.

Now, looking back,
I see the heights we've climbed,
and realize without you
I'd have fallen far behind.
Because you stayed,
you gave,
you loved,
I soar to the heights.

Losing My Religion - Sneak Preview #3 - "Knots"

In the hands

of my sanctuary,

each knot tied

becomes a chain broken,

each one a worry

given up,

a weight I don't

have to carry

because I am Your captive,

bound by love,

held in place

to please Your eyes,

to sate Your flesh,

to use

or not

as You see fit,

to await

Your will.

To be free

from everything else.

For now,

only You matter.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2014, 2016

Losing My Religion Sneak Preview #2 - "Devotional"

This piece was inspired by the Depeche Mode song, "Surrender"

Devotional

An infidel, kneeling in prayer,

to the only deity he's sure is there,

doomed to be a burnt offering

to passion's goddess,

a sacrifice in your holy bed,

prepared to be broken,

my world reshaped in your hallowed name,

wholly surrendered to your flame.

Burn me,

consume me,

with tenderness

subsume me,

grant release through ecstasy's grace,

and stamp your visage in God's place,

through the faithless door then send me,

to a cruel world bent to end me,

my fate writ like a lottery token.

My heart,

my soul,

they are your tokens

of my devotion.