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Dawn of The Dragons

Invictus

Beast Of A Different Burden

Sonbather

The Snowman

Peacemaker

REMINGTON GRAVES

Like slumbering blurring lions, the baking blonde hills below had closed their eyes, and from atop a black steed he leaned to the right to give his aching back a break. Squeaking gloves carrying numb, hot fingers waved in warmheartedly into the mare’s mane and for a moment, squeezed and pulled; she sighed and neighed, telling him such gentle gestures meant the world to her. As he lifted his gaze to the haze of the faintly pink expanse, he counted three volitant vultures venturing south of no north.

 

 

”C’mon, Lilith,” he uttered almost in a whisper with a tender tug of the reigns. “We are not alone.”

 

Caressing the worn handle on his Colt with a bruised left thumb, beads of sweat scaled down his stubble, broken black boots twisted in their holsters, and with a hungry belly, he began the arduous trek down into Hell’s Valley with an undaunted twist of the mustache and a winking eye to the sky. Death was less than a day behind and he had found that was the secret of his success: to furtively feel whilst inhaling the perfumed breath of the void on one’s neck, claiming to rip you asunder, to uproot you and extinguish you into the blackest and quietest of nothings. And so, unkowningly, he became the agile agent of annihilation—Death’s Back Door Man. For in his pursuits to find a worthy contender, he had failed to realize the ultimate truth of his birth-given-scripted truth: He was Death.

 

 

And the horse’s shoes clipped then clopped…the sequence of beats in left-hind left-fore, a brief pause and right-hind, right-fore; each hoof creating its own cavernous sound in echoing angelic sequence…resounding through the canyons…spreading to the valley…gliding above water streams below.

∞

 

 

 

From Here To Wherever

REMINGTON GRAVES

O Humanoid, why not hail hosanna and discard haughty heterodoxies—report to headquarters immediately, run down labyrinthine hallways, huffing and puffing on your way…the cosmos slowly whirring, stars meticulously spelling thy name in twinkling array. 

 

 

Monstrous engines humming. Metal blades delaying. Envelopes granulating.

 

O Superman, without a dial tone how can the forlorn stand? Sententious citadel, harboring a holy hell, a pale rider with sword in hand…and the stamp of the psychic vamp with his fragrance of defeat waves through a black hole—no longer with a right hand.

 

 

Oscillator Operator

from here to wherever

Rusting in the circuitry

of blasphemous endeavor

∞

 

 

 

 

JOHN CAGE

“If you develop an ear for sounds that are musical it is like developing an ego. You begin to refuse sounds that are not musical and that way cut yourself off from a good deal of experience.”

 

 

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And Waiting

REMINGTON GRAVES

An anomalous crew conspired curiously like the pearled iridescence of the leucistic monocled cobra under a showering full moon. The mutiny began like the faint hiss of the serpent assembling in symmetry with other culebras, and there, Mephistophidian in scaled oblivion, did congregate with its contriving cabal. The Me that I have always referred to as the Terribly Three, sat at a round black marble table, and whirred in tongues centered in the middle of six white walls. Cold and sterile, silent with peril—what expediency lied beyond the adamantine gates? What cubed and shifting labyrinthine lasciviousness must lock itself in rows in order for you to confess? 

 

“Honey…?”

”What?”

”I was talking to you?”

”Did you not see me in thought?”

”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

”No, it’s quite all right. What is it?

 

 

”The waiter is waiting for you to tell him if more pepper on your salad is ok.”

”The waiter is waiting…and waiting…and…”

∞

 

 

 

The Beat On The Street

REMINGTON GRAVES

The humid hot breath of summer huffed and puffed at everybody’s strawed doorstep, and all the little piggies in my pit of a town, stayed put and posed prettily for phony photographs. All together now ( in Beatles choir voices). I usually stay indoors, and when I should the most, my rebellious nature kicks in and drives me to do the opposite of what the drones do and all that drivel. So, I jumped in my new car, of which I hardly ever drive anymore due to my new found affection for the motorcycle in my driveway and drove around to see what kind of drag I could get myself into.

 

He was a tall, slim Caucasian man wearing cheap, beaten white sneakers and his wife was still young and cute enough to catch a creep’s eye; two sons and a darling daughter—dirty-faced cherubs with fear and uncertainty in their face. Mom and dad argued back and forth while she swung that sweet ass in her tight denim jeans, and he tightened his fists, whiteknuckled and silently whining.

She was losing what little respect she had left for him and he knew it on a subconscious level. There was nothing left to do but make all their lives miserable, he figured. The children began to rub their eyes fighting hunger and tears.

I have never been a family man. I tried my hand at the game of life and it just simply did not take. Regrets? Sure, I’ve had a few—but then again, too few to mention.

 

”Hey, bud, you wanna get the fuck out the road?” I said glancing at his wife and smiling like a wolf.

”Eat shit, man,” he responded angrily and hesitant.

”Ok, you asked for it, you cunt,” I screamed while parking the car and jumping out determined.

 

He reeked of uncertainty and so I walked slowly up to him, fist announced a mile away. The dim chap took the bait and hit me hard with a leveling left and stars exploded somewhere between my ears. The asphalt starting cooking the right side of my face as he kicked me three times to the ribs. His wife screamed after him to stop. You know, I never did mind the taste of blood, I remember thinking. After a few more punches, the soon to be X became exhausted and stood up and said, “That’s—that’s…right, mother…fucker.”

As they walked away into the supermarket, I inched to my car and turned on the ignition. With satisfaction, I beheld her arm firmly grip around her husband’s waist proudly. He smiled a bouncing-buffoon-of-a smile and inhaled deeply the stagnant summer air as if it was a Hawaiian gust. His spawn cheered for their triumphant father.

 

Driving away, wiping the blood from my nose and putting my wayfarers on, I thought to myself, “He is going to pound that pussy like a venerated Viking…She will gaze into his eyes as sweat falls from his brow to wash her doubt away…and as her ample breast bounce in missionary mammary matrimony, the moaning will carry through the house like a loving lullaby as the kids slumber in peace knowing their parents love each other once again and all is right with the world.

So what if I’d didn’t work out for me? So what if I pretended to be a pitiful pugilist? And is it a crime to get off on a good beating from time to time?

 

The beat on the street…I heard it at birth…and all through my life…in every parking lot…where my mother was missing and my father couldn’t be found.

∞

 

 

 

The End Of All My Enemies

REMINGTON GRAVES

Brutal lyceum, unctuous are thy halls, where charlatans selfishly share the air with sullen song, Satyricon.

O Petronius, may the scarlet ribbons flow from your yawning wrists, pauciloquent and pallid, and with maroon clouds forming in the hot bath you sat in, a plaudit storm erupted on the other side of that wall.

 

The tempo interminably languid, and at times, de rigueur—bowed with fucked diffidence and florid felicity.

How nitid, and fitted, diluted, and resplendent; luciferous, like pines and mares, in winter foggy stares, behind the monolith that binds us.

With glean the dream did summon, a many face of mine on rusted swinging pikes, and I beheld the unholy beast that burdens.

 

And yet the field posses nothing more that natural chaos; austere the morning deer, and stern you lie in fear behind the fern where sheeple calm themselves from lions.

Futile to discern, anthropomorphic and forlorn, grey in sex and lupine jest, must the dust ask again and again?

The fear you ingest, ineffable at best, the way it lashes and besets…on all sides, with false pride, the golden age of youth: you know now,without a doubt…must say good bye.

 

 

Now swelter in my symmetry and try hard to think of me.

This day may very well be

the end of all my enemies.

∞

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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