More than music...
more than pretty pictures...
RockstarRaverBoy values the magickal power
of language. Words are powerful symbols
influencing our thoughts,
evoking feelings
and manifesting subtle changes in your mind.
Prose, poetry, and spoken sentences are
gateways allowing transcendance from
the mundane world into the sublime.
His song "Your Words" for the "13 Loves Songs"
album, was inspired by his love for the
hypnotic power of his favourite poet.
We are currently in the process of transferring
RockstarRaverBoy's voluminous poetry and prose
from his personal MYspace blog. Until we complete
the process, sample the works below, or visit
his personal MYspace profile by clicking HERE.
For all the works above and below:
© 2006-2008 Baron L. Toler / RockstarRaverBoy
A Sorcerer’s Story - Part I
Part I: One Ring To Rule Them All
Once upon a time, there was a young sorcerer
who spent his childhood days exploring
woodland labyrinths and conversing with
birds. Over time, the tree lined halls
gave way to brick and mortar where he
was expected to parrot back approved
answers to his so called teachers.
However, this one was a rebellion lad,
and his would be masters took great
dismay in the drawings his markers bled
upon their pristine white parchment.
The masters imprisoned him far from
home in a concentration camp designed
to break the weak. He never yielded.
Instead, he studied the rules of their
game, and played them like a grandmaster,
outwitting, outthinking, outmaneuvering.
The sorcerer’s greatest weakness was also
his greatest strength...he loved the feeling
of surfing the tides of chaos. Just outside
our normal ordered universe the random
flows. Waves breaking upon a structured world
send most fleeing in panic, but he desired
to ride them passionately again and again.
He grew in age, but never lost his magick,
as most do. Instead, the drip drop trickle
from the energy faucet opened explosively
into a full stream fire hose. We’ll get back
to this later, because first you must know
the story of the ring.
The ring was an odd one: Large and shiny, set
with a most rare gem, forever fascinating
the boy. Having been passed to him by his
late grandmother who happened upon it
during her world spanning travels, he
knew it was a nice heirloom. Other
than that, he knew not of its history,
but he could sometimes look into its
depths and see the past and the future,
so he knew it was special.
In his teenage years, the boy had read
many dark grimoires, but was too lazy
to gather all the necessary ingredients
for summoning the beings from beyond.
Books, some say, are dangerous weapons,
for the thoughts contained within jump
from the pages into the mind of the reader.
There the words may lay dormant for years,
until suddenly a connection is made, a
synapse fired, and then...
...all hell breaks loose.
The face he saw in the mirror was not
his own, and the voice he heard in his
ears was sultry and smooth, the way
he always imagined a demon would sound
if it was good at its game. No grating
Linda Blair Exorcist garbage here. She
was pure, refined, darkside seduction.
They talked for a while, and made a
deal...which the boy later broke.
No, he didn’t sell his soul to her.
That wasn’t what she wanted anyways,
she wanted another body, so she could
live amongst the mortals again and reign.
He saw through her illusionary front.
Too deep to fall for poorly played games
of a shallow phantasm, he left her there...
trapped on the other side of that mirror.
Her reach extended far, and her wrath
caught the boy, wrapping him in chains.
The world was collapsing around him,
and the first wave of tests began.
He took out the ring, and placed a
bit of his soul in it for safekeeping,
in case she attempted to repossess his.
With each passing day, the strangeness
amplified. Leading up to a night which
tested the limits of his stretched sanity.
He sat quietly one night, surrounded
by noise, and found a moment of peace.
"There is no law", the raven girl told
him. She appeared out of the mists,
wielding two blazing swords which she
tossed into the air. The weapons spun
around him and danced. "May you always
be protected", she said. He looked into
her eyes, and the image burned fast
into his mind, sealing his future.
Years went by, and he never reversed
the ring’s spell. Each day he walked
thru the world, wearing a piece of
his soul on his finger. A little gem,
glittering, brightening the mundane
with a gentle flicker of subtle magick.
The ring had fascinated others, who
begged the boy to let them wear it.
Once he did, and once it was taken
without permission. Each time, the
wearer went temporarily insane. He
began to view the ring as cursed,
a burden he must carry. But then
he began to think, what if the ring
wasn’t really cursed? Rather, since
it housed a fragment of his soul,
could it be sentient? Perhaps, to
only be worn by one deemed worthy
by the the ring’s guiding force.
All others would be driven mad.
So, when the fair lass sat across
the breakfast table from him,
he at first hesitated, fearing
she would fall into madness
twisted by the ring’s warped
non-euclidean consciousness.
At that moment,as he stood on
the precipice of uncertainty,
he felt something he had never
felt before. The ring moved.
It was just a slight movement,
barely at the edge of perception,
but he still felt it, like a
wave moving through his body,
intense, then calm and flowing.
With his right hand, he removed
the ring and placed it upon her
finger. Against her wishes, it
wasn’t the first finger he chose.
Glancing at her little fingers,
he thought the ring would be
too big for the chosen one.
Somewhere in his mind, he
worried about the dreaded curse,
but shrugged off the thought.
He knew she was strong enough
to handle anything this world
or the otherside could dish out.
Now dear readers, there is much
more to this story, but time
runs short for this evening,
and the narrator has much to
complete before sleep comes
to him. Rest assured, at
a later date, this strange
saga shall certainly continue.
For now, as you snuggle your
pillows and fall into dreams,
ponder this question:
Who do you trust enough
to let keep your soul?
Monday, March 24, 2008
It was a cool evening, like the night I met her.
And I knew before our eyes locked
for the first time in many months,
she was going to steal my soul.
Or perhaps, that’s a bit too harsh,
a slow seduction describes better
the way she snuck into my mind,
because its not theft when
you give it away willingly.
I was already deeply ensnared
long before that first perfect kiss.
I knew she was not of this world,
travellers in time and space
tend to recognize one another,
knowing at first sight
what is to come.
Her words had been the trap,
that captured a formely
wandering white rabbit.
They were written in blood drawn
from my veins at a future date
When she placed her hand upon my heart,
capturing every beat in her palm.
And the way she described hell
made it sound so inviting:
"its all just fucking and smoking"
a perfect way to spend eternity.
So I willingly signed her contract
with a pen filled by my blood.
I don’t regret my decision.
The true account "fallen" angels has been obscured from our view
by those focused on an certain agenda. After much meditation,
the following is my retelling of "the fall":
(BTW, in the interest of full disclosure:
I'm not denying that I have an agenda too,
but y'all knew that already, right?)
------------------------------------
For millenium, the angels lived above in heaven.
Most felt content, but one felt something was missing.
He was immortal, yet had never been able to feel truely alive.
Walking amoungst the clouds, gazing down upon the earth,
he spied a gorgeous woman. Entranced by her flawless frame,
he peered into her soul. She sensed she was being watched,
and responded by stealing his heart in one fluid motion.
"She is more beautiful and perfect than anything in heaven.",
he shouted, so all the universe could hear, then he descended
from above to below to meet this perfect being.
Luckily for him, she had just broken up with some guy, after they
had a little dispute regarding who would be on top that night.
They talked for a while, playfully trading insights,
pondering life, the universe and everything meanigful,
quickly falling madly in love with one another.
God called the rebel back to heaven,
but he replied with a resounding "NO!".
The skies shook from the sound of his voice.
God, needless to say, was seriously pissed.
Angelic minions were sent down to retrieve, to
decieve, to manipulate, to force him to return.
But he never gave in to the unending pressure.
Each assault just strengthened his resolve.
He refused to return, for one simple reason:
For the first time ever, he truely felt alive.
He married his love, and they
lived a long, happy life together,
in a small and incredibly cozy house
atop a mountain overlooking the sea.
Jealous and angry, the angels
barred him from returning to heaven,
but he didn't care. Neither then nor now.
He knows what the angels don't:
true love on earth is better than heaven any day.
A work in progress...
CHAPTER 1
"The human soul needs actual beauty more than bread."
- D.H. Lawrence
Hairline fractures appear upon a mirrored wall.
Cracks slowly moving into the form of a door, which fades into
ethereal mist. The vapor saunters towards the middle of the
room, slowly coalescing into the form of a young woman.
Smartly dressed in designer jeans and a fitted top, her
shoulder length hair styled to perfection, she stares at her
reflection in the five enormous looking glasses surrounding
her. The stark white floor and ceiling emit a warm light which
complements her flawless skin. She vainly smiles in admiration
of her beauty. "You're doing well, girl. Twenty-seven and still
looking not a day over twenty." Her narcissistic confidence boost
lifts her spirit, giving her the courage to complete the
loathsome task she will soon undertake.
She takes her place at the edge of a circle etched above and
below in the center of the room. Sitting quietly outside its
confines, she mediates for what feels to her an eternity. Her
lips move, spewing silent sounds, swirling vortices of
syllables heard only by inhuman ears.
The circle fills dense with wreathing fog. Her nostrils fill
with fresh ozone, forged by lighting strikes circumnavigating
the barrier drawn. The arcs of power cross the divide, flowing
onto closed lids. Her eyes open to reveal, a sterile chamber of
pure white. In the circle, a hideous beast belows:
"Who has summoned me!"
With a sigh, prepares for what she must do next.
"Corozon, like, really, get over yourself.
I know lightning, and you're all thunder."
"Who dares insult the great destroyer of worlds, the lord of
carrion, the illustrious general of the Czarack legions?"
"Its me, Saura."
"Oh...Hi Saura. What's up?"
"I need a little favor. We've been having problems translating
a scroll found in some Mayan ruins. It appears to be a prophecy
of some sort."
"Ok. No problem. Let me see it."
Saura unfolds a photocopy of the scroll from her back pocket
and tosses it into the circle. The demon grabs it with the
pointed tip of a long, un-manicured nail.
"Good catch."
"Thanks."
"That is why we're giving you photocopies now, instead of
originals!"
"HAHAHA!" the demon laughs maniacally before gaining his
composure. "Well, what else would you expect from the great
destroyer."
"Riiight. Now about that translation."
"Yes, ok. Hmmmm. Oh! That isssss just delicious!"
"What?"
"Well, I guess this does fall under the classification of 'a
prophecy'"
"Awesome! If I get a really good one, they might make me a partner.
You've got to tell me!"
"It says...mix flour, salt and water in a bowl...
Roll the mixture into a ball...
Knead the mixture until firm..."
"So its a spell?"
"Uhm, kinda...
Place mixture on a stone. Place stone in fire until cooked."
"What?!?!?!"
"I think its a recipe for bread."
"Aaaargh! Why me? Why me?"
"Oh, Saura, not every scroll contains earth shattering prophecies.
I'm sure you'll find one someday."
"This is so wrong. If I don't find something soon,
I know they're going to fire me."
"Just relax. You'll find something soon.
In fact, I think you found something already."
"What do you mean?"
"Tonight. You've got a date with that movie producer you met at
the Avalon club right?"
"Yeah. Hey, how did you know about that?"
"I'm a demon. Word gets around. We know stuff."
"Since when has my virtually non-existent personal life been
important enough to warrant the attention of the other side?"
"Well....You are employed by a supernatural psychiatric
hospital, right? And now it appears your personal life isn't
quite so non-existent."
"Let's hope so."
"Be careful what you wish for. There are things you don't
know about this one. You could be doing something more
dangerous than anything you've seen before."
Saura's trance is interrupted by the vibration of her cell phone.
"Hold on, Cor, let me get this."
"Be my guest, mistressss."
"Hello, Saura speaking."
A deep voice on the phone replies,
"Hey Saura, this is Tristan. I'm leaving the office.
I heard rush hour crashes have the freeways backed up,
but I should still be able to get to your place by nine.
I'm pick up some wine. Do you like white?"
The demon leans in towards Sahra, cupping his hand to his ear.
Saura balks at the demon's rude behaviour.
"Can I get some privacy here?", Saura whispers in a annoyed tone.
A mischievous smirk sprouts up the demon's cracked face.
"As you wish mistresssss!"
With a theatrical bow, Corozon disappears in a cloud of smoke, laughing.
"NO!" Saura screams, waving her free arm frantically in the
direction of the sulfur scented plume.
On the other end of the conversation, Tristan recoils in pain,
Sahra's loud screech putting most banshees to shame.
Regaining his composure, he calmly places the phone back to his ear.
"Ok. I get it. You really don't like white wine.
I'll pick up a bottle of red then."
"Oh, no. That wasn't...oh, nevermind.
Red is fine. See you at nine then?"
"You know it."
CHAPTER 2
"Freedom means the opportunity to be
what we never thought we would be."
-Daniel J. Boorstin
With a turn of the key, the car starts with a smooth purr
in a moment recently becoming the high point of Tristan's day.
His car was sporty, but modest. Unlike most of his fellow
producers, he holds a nostalgic view of automotive symbology. A
car to him was not a marker of status, or a glitzy bauble
dangled hypnotically before awestruck twenty-something
golddiggers. He sees his car through the eyes of teenager with a
newly minted license to drive...a corporeal embodiment of freedom
forged from living steel and rubber.
The octane fueled high, quickly crashed and burned. His office
mobile screamed for attention. Taser zaps from invisible wires
shocking him back to consensus reality.
"Yeah. What is it? I just left the office?"
"Good news, bro. Mara signed on for the project!"
"Oh, really? Good work, Armand."
"You ready to green light this one yet?"
"Green light? Yeah. Let's go.
Just don't call me again tonight.
I'll be busy."
<P>"You got it, boss!"
With a quick flick, Tristan closed this day's hectic chapter.
Turning out of Universal Studio's parking lot, he cranked up
the car's stereo. Blasting the gridlock with the melodic
guitars and demonic shouting of a band from the valley.
Directly ahead, a dilapidated black sedan spewed an acrid
black cloud. Coughing furiously in its wake, Tristan thought to
himself..."Green light. Go. Yeah, right!"
CHAPTER 3
"Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature.
She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to
syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer."
- D.H. Lawrence
Saura returned to her office. Bundles of arcane parchments
haphazardly labeled with blinding yellow Post-It notes littered
her desk. She stared blankly at the crusty detritus of ancient
wisdom before her. "No, not tonight." she thought. "I need more
than this. One more day won't make a difference, right?". Her
jacket hung on an antique coat tree. As she removed it from it
the grip of the branches, she couldn't help but wonder...do
coat tree nymphs frolicked in her office while she was away.
She turned off the lights and closed the door. Giving a wink to
nymphs as the portal closed. The thought of her office
containing a small fragment of joy, no matter how imaginary,
brightened her mood instantly.
CHAPTER 4
"Imagination, industry, and intelligence - "the three I s" -
are all indispensable to the actress, but of these three the
greatest is, without doubt, imagination."
-Kitty O'Neill Collins
Tristan squared his car's odometer with the clock.
One half a mile in thirty minutes. One thousand
eight hundred seconds too long to be trapped in the wake of the
infernal black sedan's toxic puffing. Lesser drivers would have
been overcome by road rage or begun to whine. He maintained an
otherworldly calm in the face of daily tribulations and the
simple act of being on the road seemed to calm him even more.
The soundwaves cascading from the car's speakers did their part
to keep fresh air flowing, if any air in L.A. can really be
called "fresh". Still, he felt compelled to pull over, like he
was being drawn towards unfinished business vital to his
future. Spying a liquor store on the corner, he realized the
source of his feeling. He needed to buy wine for dinner
tonight. Tristan escaped the suffocating presence of the black
sedan and parked his car in front of the store. Walking inside,
he took solace the isle of white wines, of which he was
familiar, before taking a leap faith into the unknown realms of
red wine. He haphazardly selected darkened bottles, inspecting
their labels not for vintage or vinery, but for their creative
artwork and design. Running out of time, he selected a bottle
of Cotes de brouilly by Vins Gagliardi.
"I believe this will work." he muttered.
"That's an excellent vintage." said a young lass standing
beside him.
He was a bit shaken. She had seemed to appear out of thin air.
Tristan wondered if the words he had spoken were not an ancient
formula in some long dead dialect used for summoning an
ethereal sommelier. She did seem to have an otherworldly glow.
Her pale skin radiated with such intense life-force that he
suddenly regarded beach borne tanned flesh as disgusting
sunbaked leather. Her fiery hair seemed to capture every ray of
light meant for the bottles of wine, to the point they appeared
to hold nothing more than inky pitch.
"Thanks. I, uh, don't know much about red wines.
I'm quite fond of sweet whites."
Her hand brushed against his, as she took the bottle from his
grasp. Holding it up, she carefully eyed the bottle, backlit
by dim flickering florescent lights.
"Oh, I looove to drink red...wines.
You could say I'm an expert."
"Its good to have you here then. I'm Tristan,
Tristan Knight, and you are..."
"Lillian. Lil for short.", she cooed.
In one fluid motion, she extended her hand in a greeting
manner. Like a master of sleight of hand, somewhere in the
midst the handshake, she returned the bottle to his possession
without him noticing.
"Its a pleasure to meet you Lil. Now, if you'll excuse me,
I'm late, late for a date."
Tristan began an abortive attempt to turn away.
"With a lovely actress I assume?"
Tristan's body refused to complete the rotation, returning to a
point fixated in Lil's line of sight.
"No, a psychiatrist."
"Ha! Ha! Ha! I should have know. All you movie executives have
to be a bit crazy."
"No, she's not my shrink. We met at Avalon.
And...how'd you know I was a movie producer?"
Lil leaned in towards Tristan, pretending her words were a
secret, meant for his ears only.
"I saw you leave the Universal lot thirty minutes ago...and
before you say what you're thinking in your head right now, I'm
not stalking you. I was walking by the lot when you left, and
you've been stuck in traffic."
"Well, I'm glad you weren't stalking me."
Lil feigns an arrogant pose. Tilting her head, crossing her
arms, and raising one eyebrow ever so slightly.
"Yeah, you should be, but...
...I didn't say I wasn't looking."
Mocking her pose, Tristan adopts a similar stance.
"I agree, you are quite a looker."
"I know, but I don't really reflect on it that much.
I consider myself more of a performer."
"So, you're probably only talking to me because you want me to
cast you in a movie, right?"
"No such thing, lovey. I've been in the theatre for a long,
long time. I'm quite happy there."
"You're a rare bird. Most girls in LA as beautiful as you would
at least be doing extra roles on the side."
Leaning in towards Tristan, Lil's voice takes on a ominous cadence.
"I prefer lead roles."
"Agreed. Who doesn't"
Lil's eyes appear to blaze with intensity as she speaks.
"The theatre has a certain sublime power you just can't
replicate with film. Its the feeling you get, a full panoramic
immersion that draws you in, and holds you tightly. You can't
get that from a screen. Now is a very exciting time. I'm going
to be doing Faust, starting next week."
Tristan begins to fall into a state of wonder, intrigued by the
ferocity of pure passion she's radiating. "Is she's acting
right now...", he wonders, "...or is she naturally this
entrancingly intense?". He feels words falling from his
lips, "What role are you playing?"
"Only the story's most essential character...",
Lil gleefully giggles. "...the devil!"
"Lil...devil. HA! That's perfect."
"More than you know!" she wryly remarks.
Her eyes lock with his, growing brighter. A smile creeps upon
her face, as a devilish light bulb of ingenuity illuminates her
face.
"Why don't you come see me? The Green Door Theatre on Vine
Street. Tell them Lil sent you, and I'll make sure you get very
special treatment. You'll have a bloody good time."
"Sounds wonderful. I'll make a point to come to your show."
"Excellent. Have a good night. I'm off to hunt...
...for a bite to eat."
CHAPTER 5
"If you don't know where you are going,
any road will get you there."
-lewis carrol
Leaving the liquor store, Tristan froze. He felt as though he had
just awakened from a dream. Confused as to where he was, where
he was going. He stared into the glowing light of a streetlamp
until the image burned into his transfixed eyes. He shook his
head in a motion to clear the fog from his tortured brain.
"Suara. Dinner. Drive." the words popped into his mind like
ticker tape instructions for a robot. He sat in his car unable
to turn the key. His vision transfixed, watching Lil walk down
the street. A knock on the window, shocked him back to reality.
"Hey, man. You got a little change?"
"Yeah.", Tristan replied. He reached into the car's console.
Grabbing a handful of coins, he dumped them into the beggar's waiting hands.
"Thanks man!"
The beggar walked away grinning happily.
"A little change", Tristan thought. "That's what I need too."
Tristan looked down the road, now strangely clear of the
congestion gripping it only moments ago. On the horizon, the
Pacific was blazing, nearing completion of its evening meal.
Tristan reignited his vehicle of freedom, and drove ahead
towards the land of the setting sun.
CHAPTER 6
"Bad cooks -- and the utter lack of reason in the kitchen --
have delayed human development longest and impaired it most."
-Friedrich Nietzsche
Saura apartment door slides open like the mouth of a ravenous
beast. A deafening screech paralyzes Tristan, as smoky tendril
lurch forth, wrapping their noxious fibers around his body,
filling his lungs with the remains of charred life. Dazed and
confused, he summons the will to call Saura's name. From the
haze a shifting feminine form begins to materialize. Standing
in the midst of the fume, she speaks...
"Tristan!!! I'm so glad you're here! Uhm, sorry about dinner!"
Suddenly, Tristan's vision shifts back to this world. He sees
Saura, standing in the doorway, frying pan in hand. Charred
remnants of what had formerly been prime cuts from some unknown
farmyard animal seethed a rich black plume of foulness. He
rushed forward, hugging Saura with one arm, to avoid the still
smoking skillet.
"Oh my god, I'm glad you're ok. I thought your apartment was on fire!"
"HA! I does look like that. I was just trying to cook you something special."
Tears begin to form in Saura's eyes.
"Baby, its ok. Its the thought that counts, right? We can just
order some Chinese...or...I we could try again...together? What
do you have?"
"Uhm, macaroni and cheese? I burned everything else."
"Ahh! That's my fav! Let's get cooking then!"
"OK", Saura quietly sobs.
"First, let's open up the windows.
The smoke appears to be making you tear up a bit."
Tristan raises his hands to Saura's face, wiping away her tears
with his thumbs. She lowers her face slightly, and looks up at
him with a shy smile.
CHAPTER 7
The best-laid plans of mice and men (in black) often go awry.
-Robert Burns (paraphrased)
The black sedan's engine idled in waves, slowly damaging a
newborn pothole resting beneath the steel monster. Across the
street lay Suara's apartment. The men watched with blank
expression as two figures appeared in an 2nd floor window. The
two figures were close together, with hands failing about. They
appeared to be struggling, not with each other, but with the
window. Years of neglect and untold layers of latex added by
unskilled painters left the window unmoved. It held fast
against the two humans who's curses and shouting just added to
its litany of pain. The window pondered the futility of
existence. Losing its will to resist, it acquiesced With a loud
groan. Grey clouds of smoke belched from its maw, until the
indoors reached equilibrium with the smoggy LA sky.
The two men in the sedan passively watched the drama unfold.
Warm street light rays fell sick upon touching their waxy skin,
kept company by the aged weariness of out of season department
store suits. A crackled voice interrupted their distant focus.
"Unit 7, coming in..."
"We read you controller.", said the driver.
"Report.", the far away voice commanded.
The passenger responded, "Initial interception of the asset
failed. Asset was unaffected by sedative aerosol particulates."
"We've had problems with some of them having immunity. We'll
have to get the lab to mix up something more potentiality. What
is your current position."
"4200 Wilshire Blvd. We are monitoring the asset. Extraction
will be made before sunrise."
"Good. Return the asset to your base immediately upon
extraction. I'll send a team over at noon for the transfer.
Do not fail me again gentlemen."
With a jolting crackle, the radio returned to the sound of dead
air, hanging between stations. The two men appeared unaffected
by the threatening tone of the conversation. They continued
their silent observation of the open window.
CHAPTER 8
"It takes very little fire to make a great deal of smoke
nowadays, and notoriety is not real glory."
-Louisa May Alcott
Haze hung fast in the air of Suara's apartment. Occasionally,
the mist reached into their lungs, like ghostly robbers
attempting to steal precious oxygen vaulted within. Tristan
laughed to himself, recalling fog machine house party disasters
of years past. Suara was in the kitchen, frantically attempting
to salvage ingredients for a ghetto gourmet meal.
"Did anything exciting happen at work today?",
she queried from the safe shelter of the pantry.
Tristan paced around the living room, trying to
breathe as little of the stinking air as possible.
"Not much. Just a standard day, dealing with
the usual big megalomaniacal egos, dark politics,
and infernal production delays. One ray of light
thought, we signed on Mara to play the lead in
our new production."
Suara gasps for breath, as she walks towards the living room,
"Mara, you mean, Mara Sogno? That's big!"
"Yeah. I was surprised, since she's afraid of
being typecast. Its a sci-fi/horror story about
evil forces creating illusions to trap and
destroy a couple of heroes trying to save the
world. If it goes over well, we plan to do
a trilogy."
Suara's eyes widened, as she looked Tristan over.
"Sounds exciting. You wouldn't happen to have an
unfilled roles for a hot psychiatrist would you?"
She coyly ran her fingers up and down Tristan's tie.
"Hmmmm. I sure I could pencil that in to the script!"
Suara placed her arms around Tristan's neck.
"I'd like that...alot"
"Well then, why don't you tell me about how your
screen-test went today."
"Huh?"
"I mean, your day."
Suara recoils and strikes a pouting pose.
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"Oh, I understand. I just have to seal deals
and make sure the drama and insanity conjured up
by our writers, actors and special effects teams
actually makes it to the screen. You have to
deal with people's personal demons. I can see
why you'd want to leave that at the office.
Suara turns back towards Tristan.
Looking into his eyes, she sighs.
"That's my problem. I've been brining my
work home all the time lately. I'm beginning
to lose my ability to detach from my work."
At the end of the day, I want to come home
and not have to explain what happened.
I don't want to talk about magic and demons
and vortices and all the insanity
I see all the time...uhm, at the...ahm...hospital,
you know. What I want, I mean really want, is someone
who can just look in my eyes and just know, without me
having to say a word about the mind frying things I see,
and give me a hug, take away some of the pain, leave all
the supernatural baggage and just spend time with me.
And if they can cook too, that's a plus."
Tristan mouth opened slightly.
She could feel air from his
lungs flowing towards her.
In her mind, she could hear
what he didn't say...
"I know. This is a tough life. Somedays that's all I want too."
Saura's eyes drifted down, falling upon Tristan's
rapidly approaching lips. She closed her eyes,
waiting for the split second of eternity to pass
before she could feel the last image witnessed
pressed against her own.
To her suprise, he completely missed her face.
Instead, she could feel the presence of his lips
close to her ear, his words ticking her eardrum.
"I'm in the mood for something sweet..."
Saura didn't care what he was going to say
next, and chose to finish his sentence for him,
"...let's skip dinner and go straight to desert."
Down below on the street, a comely voyeur watched the couple
thru the apartment's open smoking window. Squinting her eyes to
focus on the movement inside, she hissed in rage. The pressure
flinging droplets of blood from her stained lips.
Her body began to tingle. She felt it move thru her being,
the sensation of a watcher being watched.
Twirling around with fluid motion. Her eyes meet the dead stare
of the men in black.
"What are you looking at?"
Like still frame photo negative tar babies,
the men in black said nothing.
"Brain dead fuckers", she fumes.
Again the men remained motionless, saying nothing.
She wrote their parting lines for them.
Syllables of their last words formed by the sound of fists impacting craniums.
Grey matter, red upon a grey sidewalk.
A Postmodern Pyramus and Thisbe
(Written Sunday, Nov. 4th @ 1PM)
Pyramus and Thisbe ran away
riding fast all night and day
stolen whip broken down
on the outskirts of Jericho
their boombox sound
broke the walls down
walking over ruins
shared vision perceiving
beauty in disaster
holding onto dirty polaroids
in scrapbooks leather bound
they found a safe place
falling asleep on soft ground
stars falling across aurora skies
making all your wishes come true
Hands locked.
Eyes locked.
Lips locked.
Eternal slumber.
It's all right.
Kisses on your window
my hand curled in a cage
held close to my lips
I wispered flight plans
gentle breeze flowing
caressing invisible wings
my open hand held high.
final words spoken
seconds from liftoff
into blue water skies
fluttering thru the night
streetlights tempt them
begging for one fatal tryst
distracting, so distracting
they know they must not touch
the moon above guides them
so much better than the streets
beacon, fixed, unmoving, in the dark
sleeping upon starry satin sheets
so, if you hear a tap, tap, tapping
upon your windows glass at night,
open wide the pane and you'll feel
kisses sent to the light.
Money can’t buy you love...
A Sleepy Time Story: Juliet
Listen to a bedtime story now...
Juliet
A Sleepy Time Story
by Baron Toler
(Respect 2 Billy Shakespeare!)
Her fingertips felt cold
pressed against the glass
pane separating two worlds.
Outside, snow fell silently.
Wind whipped soft powdery goodness
into submissive quivering mounds.
Looking out, she could see clearly
her reflection, arched high above
a dark horse in a crystalline palace.
She lovingly licked the broken window,
blood and saliva sliding gently
down the smooth slippery surface.
Her vital essence, poured fluidly
etching deep canals, staining glass.
She moved back, admiring her work.
A masterpiece too divine for containment,
cathedral decorations drawn, sublime.
Backlit by the moon's beaming grin,
streams glistened, frozen in time.
Inside, a fire burned fiercely,
casting haunting shadows upon walls.
Her chest heaving, dense with smoke,
she dared not breathe nor speak a word.
Rivers swelled in her vision, flooding
cheeks. A face covered in ashen mascara,
disguised scars from unconsummated dreams.
Longing to be free from suffocation
she recalled sounds of a powerful voice,
which once had broken her chamber's seal.
She took a deep breath. Her lungs burned.
If she could now call upon the tones,
if only once more she could feel the frequency,
she knew in her heart that she would be free.
The fire raged on as she fought to remember.
Higher than ever before, singing with passion,
resonant notes filled the room, vibrating.
Exploding. Shattering. Flying. Fragments,
moved out into the world. Falling so fast.
Little pieces, carefully eaten by waiting snow.
She breathed deeply. Ice filled her nose.
Snowflakes numbed the pain she felt inside
her mouth. The taste of iron and frost
rolling again across red lips, she cupped
her hands beneath her face, catching the flow.
From them she licked every delicious drop.
Savoring flavors of her own lifeforce, becoming
dizzy with sensation, drinking herself away.
A flick of the wrist, and buttons undone,
clothes slid down, falling upon soft carpet.
Playing with her hair, whispering softly,
a cool breeze caressed her naked body.
Her eyes scanned the wardrobe for a match.
Enrapt by her flowing white gown, she smiled,
camouflage cover for a wintery escape.
She knelt upon the glass strewn floor.
Her hands moved blindly until they found
a large shard, plunged deep into her bloody carpet.
She stroked it firmly. Feeling the hard edges
penetrate deep into her soft skin, she squealed.
With rapid bloodsoaked bushstrokes she painted
her names upon white parchment coving her body.
Standing in the fractured frame, her final portrait,
she spread open her limbs wide into the night sky.
Turning to be greeted by a starry procession,
her joyful eyes lit by crosses from their milky churn.
Wearily, she fell upon her bed, ready for slumber.
Covered by snowy blankets, Juliet slept peacefully
wrapped in the warm embrace of loving earth.
Total Recall
Names spoken to the skies,
carry deep across resonant breeze.
Spring blossoms scenting Summer air.
During these perfect days,
the young at heart play,
pulses racing, whisked away.
Bound by nightfall's cloak,
starlight fills lovers' eyes
twinkling on moonlit pavement.
Waving to the air, blowing kisses,
sent to land upon your window,
pecking gently against glass walls,
tapping eight letters in morse code.
"Bedtime nears", harsh tones shout nearby.
Call a distant voice to drown them out.
Fall now, soundly sleep, my dear.
All your worries fade without a doubt.
Dreams float, nightmares run.
Paths entwine and separate.
Should dense fog liquify your vision,
on this course, so dark and twisted,
follow your path onward without fear.
Its eventual, all roads lead to Rome.
Wild days
Recall wilder days:
Our final moments,
time in the Sun
spent wickedly sweet.
A smiling moon resting,
wrapped in white cloud cover.
She illuminated mind's vision.
A few winks of seductive sleep
before we ride hard again.
Close your painted deserted eyes.
Look deep, see in your mind
stars rise and fall on the horizon.
Will they hold their place forever?
"Maybe", says the moon with a sly smile.
Fall silent into a blinding morning.
Beacons replaced by mirage filled skies.
Continue upon our predestined path.
Memory shall guide our way.
Your morning paper
Morning paper in your mailbox
delivered by a boy before sunrise.
wrapped words and pictures
printed at the prior midnight.
Everything you need to know,
straight from the horse's mouth,
its right there, bundled nicely in circular color.
I hope you can read between the lines.