Archive for the 'Uncategorized' Category

“Remember thou art mortal,” cautioned he
Whose whisper in your ear — unwelcomed hum –
Still sliced knife-sharp through tumult of the sea
Of cheering souls, and marching footsteps’ drum.

“Remember thou art mortal –” though, ’tis hard
When borne upon a throng that chants your name
For deeds courageous past the skill of bard
To sing, or epic poet’s words to frame…

“Remember thou art mortal!” Pray, why so?
This conquered pagan realm, supine and spread
Before you now, none other’s hands to know
As master’s. “Queenly high, her laureled head –

Such proud and shining city’d never fall!”
‘Twas sacked! Destroyed! And pleased to give it all!

Copyright (C) Vox Mortuum 2014

Tags: ,

Amid the verdant leaves, a darker hue –
That shares more traits with emerald than with vine –
By movement now distinguishes to view
The sleek-scaled worm, pursuing meal to dine?

“Oh child,” the serpent laughs, “why thinkest I
Aloft among the shadowed branches wait?
No purpose dire could make me climb so high;
I seek only the birds to imitate!”

And thus he croons a hymn, surpassing fair,
As weaves his blunted muzzle slowly near,
His gleaming coils a halo of your hair.
His breath a faint caress against your ear…

So you, if thought be fixed on honeyed note,
Won’t even feel his fangs sink in your throat.

Copyright (C) Vox Mortuum 2014

Tags: ,

“A deep breath take, and hold it as you can,”
The voice I’d grown to love, over me said.
“Close mouth and nose and eyes — a second’s span,”
He promised as his palm submerged my head.

I did almost as bid, but glance I slipped
To watch the water’s surface close above:
A quiv’ring veil before him in whose grip
Lay I, the ancient beast made fool by love.

What trusting rube! I feel the seconds turn
To minutes, flowing present into past,
Then ages more… Although my lungs may burn
I’ll smile up to your gaze, until the last.

My heartbeat in my ears, a fading sound –
My love won’t die. All else is yours to drown.

Copyright (C) Vox Mortuum 2014

Tags: ,

My dearest Mark — I have not forgotten you.

Occasionally the storms of this terrestrial tempest have obscured the sky, but the stars shine no less bright for all of that.

I’ve come around to the place where I have to re-evaluate. It’s always a good idea to refocus again on the goal as it draws nearer.

What *do* I want?

As I put it to my friends today on other social media: Power, freedom, fun, class, beauty, and soul-connections.

How do I get these?

Satisfy my obligations. Build what intellectual property I can, meanwhile. Finish getting out of short-term debt. Get to where my intellectual property can support me, and begin moving away from RealJob(TM) so that I can realize *more* intellectual property with more time and less restrictions.

Rise up and up and up, on the spiral path. Become more of what I should be.

Travel, where it will increase my wealth — mentally and emotionally and financially. Meet the amazing new people that will not be intimidated by my accomplishments.

Meet you, perhaps; maybe take you to Le Cinq in Paris for a gluten-free dinner.

I think of seeing the candlelight reflected in your eyes across the table… the eyes like mine.

Kindred spirits? I can hope.

The evening’s late and I’ve much to do this year, so I sign myself again for you

The happy phantom,

Vox Mortuum


Sherlock Holmes: When we first met, you told me that a disguise is a self-portrait. How true of you. The combination to your safe: your measurements. But this, this is far more intimate; this is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head. You could’ve chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for, but you just couldn’t resist it, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.

Irene Adler: Everything I said — it’s not real. I was just playing the game.

Sherlock Holmes: I know. And this is just losing.

It may not be true now; it does not mean it was false forever.

I’m past consideration now of things
I “should” or “ought”; I find no longed-for peace
Within the tension that your absence brings
Why can’t your power with your presence cease?

My mind’s a traitor. Even now I feel
Your frank and steady gaze caress my skin
And stroke my lips. I know it isn’t real,
Mere fantasy… so would you think it sin

For me to summon phantom of your voice
To beg my aching ears: “love, blush for me”?
Your scent around me — now I have no choice.
My blood is up; if you were here you’d see.

My hands — the ghost of yours, but not the same.
Alone and overwhelmed, I cry your name.

Copyright (C) Vox Mortuum 2013

Tags: ,

With trespass charmed, what creature seeks to dare
The stony confines of the leopard’s cage
And with courageous lungs to steal the air
Made bitter-sweet incense, steeped with her rage?

‘Tis but a mouse, she sighs – though clever be
His paws, and quick his tail, and sleek his ears,
And bright his little eyes – no more than he,
Who’d brave her vicious claws in all these years.

A tiny thing, that turns great beast undone;
Far smaller than the heart that finds to range
Beyond its bars a love surpassed by none.
Surprising tenderness, though source be strange –

A man in body, mind; in soul, a waif.
Poor cat, who’d catch a mouse to keep it safe.

Copyright (C) Vox Mortuum 2013

Tags: ,

October 13th, 2013 at around 4:30PM; 297 pages, 131K words — whip me, beat me, take away my charge-cards — I HAVE FINISHED MY SECOND NOVEL. *thud*


So free you swim, though I would see you caught
In nets of softest linen or of silk –
Entwined in sheets, my will decreased to naught.
The gods laughed when I swore off all your ilk!

To love a Pisces, I would hold my breath –
Can fire and water mate? It’s worth a try,
Although this pleasure lead me to my death;
I’d rather lost at sea, than home and dry.

No few have said: the Ides of March, beware!
Though I would heed their warning, on the brink
Of its damnation begs my heart to dare
The chalice of your lips, from which I’d drink

A nectar of the gods — no sweeter wine;
It seems that Caesar’s doom is also mine.

Copyright (C) Vox Mortuum 2013

Tags: ,

For me, it always starts in dreams. My unconscious mind — my mate, my man, my Muse — bridges the gap between waking and sleeping thought to show me a grain of story.

I could say we build it together in the friction between us, the way that an oyster’s secretions build a pearl — but that is not so. It’s more that the very tip tail-bone of some fantastic fossilized creature has been exposed to the air by the vagaries of a storm in the soul and he discloses it to me.

Here, he says. Let’s dig here and see what we shall find.

His word and his will are my law; I deny him at peril of my sanity. So I dig.

The object of this exercise — of writing — is to unearth every single particle that may contain the story. This is an ecstasy of excess; every thought and word and deed is to be captured, in case it is relevant.

I dig like a woman possessed, every spare and waking moment. At the worst times it is grim and nearly joyless, through compacted soil and gravel almost rock-hard, producing what seems at the time little of merit.

Oh, but in the best times… I dig out loose loam with my bare hands almost without effort, disclosing the outlines of the tremendous idea buried in my head.

Dig and dig and dig, until it is all out — every drip and dram. Every particle that might be story. At the end I stand for a moment on this broken hillside with the Muse and celebrate the new life of the unearthed fossil.

Then box it all up and ship it away, to the white room across oceans of time, days and weeks — where an even harder job awaits me.


If writing could be as joyous and sensual as the act of procreation — which I’ve found to be — the editing is as tedious and frustrating as trying to raise the resulting child. In writing the goal is to capture all the things that *may* be story; in editing one is to carefully remove, with ever smaller chisels and brushes, all the things that are *not* the story.

Dear Mark: I just finished the first round edits on my first novel, and cleaned it up enough to pass out to about twelve beta readers. They are crawling over the bones of the fossil now, piping up questions, removing debris, commenting on form. Their suggestions and a final round of style editing will be the little painters brushes that I use to sweep away the remaining matrix and free the story to be itself.

Here, I sigh. It’s been a long time since I wrote to you, Mark; I was too busy making love to the Muse… and I’m about to start again.

After the editing of this novel is over comes the publishing, which I’m sure will be as nerve-wracking and irritating as preparing progeny for and shipping them off to college.

I do still think of you, although time remains dividing us. I build to bridge the gap, however. I am more myself now than ever before.

I sign myself once more:

Love’s Laborer,

Vox Mortuum