When Winnie met Jack

It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time. – Winston Churchill

I vow to thee, so is this day my fingers touch, dark clouds arrayed. The child’s red nose down near the Thames, I can hear it sniffle within my brain. The crowds all about in mourning love, they sway and they move, with the cantor’s thrust. Hymn oh hymn, delay, delay, I cannot leave this earth this way. The dark dress of the throngs I view. So many, so many, they pass my view. The spirit it moves in light so faire, beyond all England, without my care. So close these steeples, that I can touch, their steel damp smoothness, so cold it cuts. A kingdom comes, it falls so fast, now what is value, when breath is past. Intern it all, embalmed old crust, a shell for the living, in G_D they trust. But what of sweet Clementine standing there, in dark black linen, her eyes without care. Nothing matters, to be so plain, in death no vanity, no new worlds to claim. Without no battles, or worlds to claim, what is this death, what’s left to obtain.

The bells toll for something they cannot reach. Big Ben rings hallows from out of the streets, for just beyond that forthright, shadowed stack. Something in this shaded place is staring back, swaying in the tones that strike this day, comes a tall hat, swinging arms displayed. Oh, soul be ready stand firm, intact, be hard and willing to fight this back. This cold gray dawn beyond the grave sends errant adventure, that carries unto me his blade. The background roars with cannon fire, count ninety, nigh each year so far, but that is earth now pale below, up here in rapture comes such a ghoul. Be still my soul, oh G_D be still my soul.

Hark now the day mere men can’t touch, the knight of England, has hailed his last, while Hurrsars carry metals below, do bend the heavens for battle to show.

Does stride the man of Mahdist fame, who faced the Dervish, and wrote their fame, but something darker in death now be lames, calls for his rod now, his favorite cane. Give death its purpose beyond the grave, to face the ripper in heavens game. The shadow cometh, so loosed and bare, his white teeth flashing, his scalpel bare.

I vow to thee, I hear it play, my casket sails upon the Thames, below a funeral, above a war. Hear hark oh angels, my fate restored, to hand the evil, that blocks my way onward to heaven, his final fame. Let now his death be lost in flames.

I vow to thee, so is this day my fingers touch, dark clouds arrayed.

I wanted to write an October piece in the vein of “Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter”. It seems to me the purpose after death should not be to have no purpose, rather, a continuation of our destiny, do to what we do best. I am sure Winston Churchill, went on to destiny with further battles to overcome than those that were in his mind. It was surely his destiny to hold more ground. – 10.13.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Where Pictures Go

Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of forever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

The picture is still wet from its birth, hanging by a paperclip on a string by my shirt. I know I shouldn’t be staring, for what glares back at me, are the eyes of an empty child that’s lost in time and infamy. There’s voices all around my room, an icy cold, wet touch. An unbearable force of desperateness that ask me now, “how much”? Now it screams, “HOW MUCH”?

Beyond the settlement of time and space, so far beyond these years. Further than my experience in a world that knows no tears. A calling is entered in, to come forth now this day. To bring the phantom of a child to the second window on the right, to show in vague display. It was not by choice I walked too far, or selection to go that way. It was by not, my guiding hand, that brought this camera to take.  The doorway to a million Daemons, that travel around our place. That shriek in silence inside my mind, “let us out to play”. “LET US OUT TO PLAY”!

So, it was in this determination, of other earthly spheres, that I became called upon to see the shadow by no use of smoke or mirrors. The barren holds the farmhouse, of tales of by gone days, of the daughter of the household, that came not home from play. The search of all ridge lines, nothing held her way.  Pray tell, pray tell of simple pennies on the road, that faded away.  Voices calling, saying, “Lilith’s chosen, look away”. With much more capacity now, the dark band crying “LOOK AWAY”!

The picture sits in story, it might soon drift away, out beyond my recognition to simply turn to gray. I stare into the distant forms, that reach from in their day, to complete the puzzle now, I think I know a way. To find out why those pennies led to the road, beyond the day. Why do voices call in vacuum, to take me back to that strange place. Where pictures go, the voices say, “to know, to know”, they say “TO KNOW”!

I stray from my good sense of fortune, to a darker place. In moonlight given there I stand and look at a black iron gate. From all around me summons come, the lights and something wicked runs. The picture comes from rooms above, and shadows fall beyond the child’s face. Oh, death you are not justice sworn, you come to some in uneven sums, and now I think that balance demands a pay. If it will bring the end to come, I will assist this child, this one, I bring my hand a pennies sum, a cry goes up, sings, “redemption won”. From stars above comes a deeper sound, that reigns! “Go out and play”, my child, “GO OUT AND PLAY”!

I sit alone, with the picture there, the moon shines bright right through her white blonde hair, the empty eyes turn copper in their stare, as free she fades away. She fades away.

Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of ever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

Dream from 10/09/77 before all went black. – 10.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Los Angeles

“The entrance to the underworld is in Los Angeles” – Rick Riordan

In the dream, I watched Belial watch her. His gaze followed her in steps, and moves, counts and rhythms. He definitely was watching, and I think she felt him. Yes, sir, I know she did!

She dry’s inside, her shell replete, with modern crimes, of living, she is sleepy in deceit, the sun so high beyond those Hollywood hills, bares down its breath in a drug fogged spill. And all about her, it’s the end of days, the angels cry, while “The Miracles” play, “Going to a Go-Go” in the dark tinted windows of a hearse going by. Colors holding knifes it’s another day, in LA. Star’s line up, while the moon stands still, an operatic drama for the damned and ill, the same man who decries war and hate, makes his art on screen, with violence displayed. Dehumanizing life in another state of mind. The craven of the culture, look to the vultures that fly around LA. Could be the final of her days, yes sir, could be the final of her days.

A song of many tenor’s flies across her wound, a second chance of playing while there’s still some room. She walks through the Getty Center to see the photographs displayed. On a Sunday Afternoon, the “Cotton Mill Worker” helps to keep her thoughts displaced. She thinks it would be nice if the clouds split from the sky, drove her deep underground. Still she thinks, her smile drawn back until it becomes a certain frown, I’d still be in LA. I’d still be in LA!

The darkness is heir apparent as the sun stands still, the smog that prisms colors, makes the coming night have will. She turns her mind divining, she’s got to drive away, open up, leave LA, to the desert, she will leave LA. It is her final day. Yes, sir, it’s her final day!

Life holds no demeanor, out on the filled freeway, sirens mix with chanted sounds of rap debased, she looks in her rearview mirror and see’s the demon wave, she opens up, but she wants to return to LA. Yes, sir she’s moving on but she wants to go back and stay.

In the dream, I watched Belial turn. His gaze followed the white broken lines dividing the far-right lane until it meets the western horizon, somewhere near the Santa Monica Pier. His eyes weren’t empty, no sir, they were not, and I think he saw me dreaming up there. His eyes just started to unwrap from there in steps, and moves, counts and rhythms. “I’m open to the desert”, I heard him say, far away. Yes, sir I’m open to the desert! – 10.03.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל

Post Script

And so, it begins, the month of spirits and spells, and Daemons that fell. These are Daniel Swearingen’s haunted, neurotic dreams. I invite you to a celebration of fear so strong, that what you see, is what you don’t read, you will harbor it in your heart, and it will never go away. Yes, sir you will laugh, for it’s not real, it’s just in that crazy writer’s imaginings. You will breathe and recognize your alive, and how you will smile your mouth disjointed in that crazy smile….and then your smile will disappear for your dreams will start too, and you will know Belial is alive, yes, sir he is! – 10.03.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל

Our Image

All rights to art Dawid Planeta

“Let us make man in our image” – Genesis 1:26

Who are you?

I stand inside the seal, defiance rising from the ground, and I ask the question, I inquire my wrist bare, and yes unbound. Who are you, that brings me here, your barren womb, no answer clear. Who is our, and is she nice, does she protect me with her soft touch, is her whisper in my prayers all night? Where is this, you’ve brought me too, oh man, this man, I feel a fool. And is this love oh G_D of prey, that pecks and pulls my faith away. Who are you, I stand inside, this seal, of salt, mixed so quiet. The dark, so dark, a new mooned night, my Judas goat sent to find that angel of light. I stand inside the seal, to your, or our, I ask what’s right.

Who is this our, where is this us? The theologians have disappeared into a worm filled dust, baiting each other with bitter scorn, of crosses and cycles, and vegetarian scorn. I stand inside the seal still tough. With bluster bellowed, in defiant trust. Is wisdom patient, is love kind, the balance to the question is hidden in the find. Cold so cold. Inside the seal, this father, this beggar stands shimmering steel. I will not deal, no Adonai I will not deal!

A simple lesser question as I stand inside the seal, do I dare let “our” holiness, try and make a deal. It could be just this mystery, that makes me have to kneel, but how many is one of you, and which one of you is real? As I edge a little closer, as a fool is known to do, I see plurality in your likeness is it in my likeness too. Then the universe in spinning and the lights are growing dim, and with a sudden movement, there’s a mirror, and a face that looks to be my twin.

“You’re the man of all our images, the creature of our heart, whisper’s muses to my consciousness, flowing sparks upon my heart. You’re the prey that pecks at heaven, and pulls, thunder from its perch, you are the spirit of our likeness, made manifest on earth. Who are you?

She dances in my lineage, when he laughs he crafts my heart, wonder children of the womb and flame, born love unto our hearts, when I look into their glowing eyes, I see no answer clear, just the images of paradigm, of what’s been always here!

Who are you? – 09.25.2017

For Susan who gave me the idea! – 09.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

2:10 A.M.

He reveals the deep and secret things; He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with Him. – Daniel 2:22

It wasn’t 1983 anymore and Zebra wasn’t playing on MTV, still little difference for life was still a storm, and a dream. The same dream. And behind the door was a mystery, and I wish I knew, now that I know, what to do, how to do it!

The small voice whispers, like rain drops on paper, just a little bit, nothing like an angel’s roar. Something surrounds it like a soft worn habit, that tells me nothing of what it’s here for. Still so quickly, I must follow, take my spirit and beg my leave. Go from my warm sleep and slumber, follow this secret to where it leads.

What we have here, is an old, old story that hardly belongs to just only me. Flights and patterns, the second star right of way. Going off to dreamland eternally. And who should I meet this night, will it be a pleasure or a fright? I’ve heard it said we die and go to judgment when we dream. Please let it be at 2:10 A.M. a pleasing aroma unto my G_D’s hands that reach. Coming down through all this world of weaves, dropping into my own heart just to talk to me.

Leaps and shadows, crawling up my psyche, nothing of interest, guilt or fame. Nothing wanting, no chords of passion, a little dirty secret, to leave a stain. It’s a question, it’s a mystery, sound after sound you leave without any pain. Leaving nothing answered, no destination, the map of all my life still holds no place. Still maybe it’s written by your name.

At 2:10 A.M., I leave as I’m returning, crossing longitudinally, I can’t complain. All the world is in my dominion, as long, as you ask me to obtain. The reflection of your face, someday, I’ll retain, the reflection of your face. – 09.19.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. – Arthur Conan Doyle

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. He’s speaking before her feet can move, the frosty air seeping from his twisted and thin lips. “You’ve dreamed again, haven’t yu “Eve”, bout that place, I heard yu singing about it, while yu did service to the lad’s. The service makes her shiver, the large bodies close to hers, eyes blurred, the smell of death and Opium on their breath, the reaper coming forth. The reaper coming forth.

From the Private papers of A.C. Doyle (a synopsis) – Saturday, June 7, 1890

She sings like crystal, with her eyes stark bare, looking towards something above us all that’s maybe in darkness there. The chandelier turns above her swaying but will not fall, my Louisa claims there’s soft skin writhing in each glass tear shaped swollen areola bare. I’m amiss at my judgment to think this maiden is earth, something turns with her vocal’s that makes my loins burn with thirst. My friend Stoker should be here to witness of what we see, the east enders crying before the angel of super naturality. All around the Haymarket, the air is so thick, her majesty, Victoria, asleep in her mist, of wonder that weaving, while this phantom sings. Evangeline oh poet, in me the hounds of Baskerville scream.

An act in two parts, she says between stanzas and times, she works magic in cunning, between high notes that climb. This lady from Whitby that knows all my mind, her wanton eyes searching, above north, for ladders I shall never climb. The fates have done risen, in graveyards sublime, her soft cockney voice inviting the audience, those around me so refined. It seems I can’t think straight, the melody is like a web, I look over at my Louisa she’s not breathing as if dead. The song of a night bird, falls around my company. Evangeline in her movements, what is she, I wonder what is she?

Her gown is luminous liquid, that runs high from her thighs, the gasp in the theatre, when her arms sway from side to side. Her enchanting voice, with lilt and so fine, and then she lowers her tones, all the world is entwined. Oh, magic sweet magic, from where does she arrive, I wonder of her outcome, this night so divine.

The chandelier lowers, calling deep unto deep, she mounts it, with her voice rising and touching. Her tenderness, comes in rushes, and I a doctor who have seen the arctic cold, cannot explain her frozen touches. Her frozen tender touches. And she rest me, and all torment becomes beauty, while she sings.

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. A different time perhaps, as all times are different. Sail me home to Whitby, Evangeline whispers. Her frozen breath crosses things unseen.

They pass the Roman tunnels; that place from long ago. The crypts sail by in the damp air. She looks at Uriah, “that was a long time ago she whispers, a long time ago”. “Aye, he says, all is different now, still, he says, still…. – 09.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Within our grasp it’s not to ask questions, make judgments or wonder why. It’s not for us to strike the earth, and curse at stone blue skies, and though, the heavens move from us, and leave us standing by. There’s nothing still, but stillness still that ask we store inside. It is that deep calls to us, from somewhere hidden nigh, and ask us to equate it’s worth with passions of the sky. To use us as a conduit, a traveling death filled storm, to birth with in our womb of cold dark steel, and open, why yes, we open to who knows why. And if Rachel is crying, a balm of deadly sighs, in the valley of strange tears asking us to fly, then we will feel our furnace burn, a billion they will die.

A whisper came within my walls, a quaking that was so dry, I had not heard such secret words since 1959. The syllables they were broken into codes and counter signs, a song by Bob Dylan it reached my cellar deep, “Cold dark cloud is coming down”, the angels seemed to weep. Oh, little town that stands so near, here by U.S. 85, you will never hear them, the silence, when missiles fly. The tremors of some shaking, the split across the sky, the cobwebs beneath this roof shaking, a changing, and a time.

“Getting too dark, too dark too see”! Apocalyptic vision, a daring rhyme, a blasphemy. A twit says Jesus is a selfie of the “Ancient Light”. I don’t know about that, if anything ends all time it will be that lack of sight. The fields of corn close on all sides, the silo seems so red against a dark cobalt sky. And I look over to the side of the road see a beggar of our culture holding a sign, that says we are on overload. So, it is, and so it was, the silo is a guardian of a trust. This covenant is different from a time before, says rise from your valleys before no one cares no more.

Within our grasp it’s not to ask questions, make judgments or wonder why. – 09.04.2017 – דָּנִאֵל