Tuesday, April 03, 2007

DARKSIDER TALES




DARKSIDER TALES
By Peter Joseph Swanson

book one

There should be more tales for the darksiders. Capes get lonely when left on wooden crosses. A gate is creaking to open for a witch with prosthetic eyeballs. She is bringing Little Red Riding Hood sticker-books for all the good children. Lightning flashes and lights up the stained glass lilies - and lights up the blood on the floor that has clotted to red rubber, until a cape passes by and smears it into shapes that tell bad fortunes. In a year’s time, the castle will be left entirely under lake water. That is the tale until the next poetic chapter. That is the tale until the spreading of man’s new bat wings. They were grown in a dungeon cauldron, but I’m digressing. There should be more tales for the darksiders. A ruby ring from your treasure chest, or a beer, might buy one for you.

book two

There should be more tales for the darksiders. The garlic on the town gate will stop the drinking. So the nervous lovers go to the crossroads for beer and kissing. The hearse is pulled through them by two white horses. They are nervous vapor and don’t feel such large cart wheels. And there is a tale from all the mortal mad passion. Leather boots and fat cod pieces close with laces done forcefully. Black lace bodices blow from the branches in tatters. The moon shines like the skin of the wicked. The mist covers the orchard’s naked apples. That is the tale until the next erotic chapter. That is the tale of the lovers six feet under. A love ballad still leaks from their blue lips. The tale ends with no hope for reconciling.

book three

There should be more tales for the darksiders. The dragon keeps the man from his silk sheathed scepter. The fountain gushes up milk and honey in the Land Of Milk And Honey. Tattoos cover up more than the rubberized fashion. Patrons line up but there is no leaving the city Sodom. Art openings run out of boxed wine at midnight, both red and white. The tale goes from one warehouse to an older one. Beer cans are crushed. A China doll wig was left in the rain on a doorstep. The tale says her lopped off head was still snug within it. The rest of her is for critical appreciation. Her fit torso shows a tattoo of a man and his long dragon. That is the tale until the next symbolic chapter. That is the tale of art imitating slam dancing. The tale is also about a new place for cheap drinking.

book four

There should be more tales for the darksiders. But the plague came and ruined chances for blooming. An official war replaced angst with false glory. The battles were all about who had the sharpest elbows. The tales are about who got the most attention. The pretty man in black lipstick sang to no one. But the throng who sang back was an urban sprawl choir. Tales for the darksiders were lost in the layers. The tale is encrypted until much excavation. The accurate digging won’t happen for a hundred years. For now the press is content looking eastward. The seven knives to end war will be uncovered. But they are donated to the white marble museum. Other tales are told in audio tour headphones. Creative people still hide under the floorboards. Cheap beer is remembered with odd fondness.

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