Dead in a Minute: COVID-19 MasterClass (Review).

Dead in a 1:00 is an emerging show hosted on Instagram that features horror shorts. These horror shorts revolve around the final few moments, or quite literally, the last minute of someone’s life. Don’t let this make you think that it is pure horror—you would be quite mistaken. Trigger warning: This episode contains dark humor [...]

dance (with me).

all winter, their bodies of yokethe apple blossoms, like a child,waking into the sun; I see the siennarise in the kangkung flowersof your hair, the immobile, the henna; and archaic sandsin blue fibers of fields,as the moon-eyed dreamers,you and I—we’re in anamnesis of the womb,our cerise, skins to the lemon moonand velvet landscapes in the [...]

“Potpourri” by Ivor Steven.

I have a visiting bluebirdStanding in my potpourri bowlBathing in aromatic leavesSinging a reverieAbout her dying treeAnd I join in, with her plea“Trees are the air we breathFeeding us food and seedNourishing land and seaPlease let us grow and breed.” In the morning mistBeside the potpourri dishThere, the bluebird is lyingI see her sad eyes [...]

I am the thorn of flowers in your mouth*… — A Prolific Potpourri…

I am the thorn of flowers in your mouth I am the rusty nail thrust through your heart I am the wicked laugh that tames your hide I am EVIL PERSONIFIED *thank you LUCY for such a strong line of inspirationI am the thorn of flowers in your mouth*… — A Prolific Potpourri... Check out Matt's [...]

midnight.

The moon is bitten / like the apple under the bleats of the corvid / the enceinte tree my pentrailium / shuts the black heart of lilies  do not find me, I want to be alone before I leave. the moon / satsuma hills and mouthfuls of the noose lay bare and wrest like a [...]

blanket me.

Disturbs alone / a knot of darknessin the bridle and umbrageblanketing the red koi leaves of grass / the ambrosiac deathnaked in a dance / under the moon; heart whittled / a sea sings the backbone and root of griefremembering once the mantric lights. Written for the dVerse prompt: Use blanket as a noun, adjective, [...]

à minuit

the boney moon, dragged by hibiscus over the red hills.Your moth wings baby-rattling the drowning of the stars, the symmetry of our skeletons for asylum; the moon, she finds my darkness by the Katsura leaves. The atramental vagary of her lays in my hands. psithurism, algedonic to the death strokes when she flutters, how she [...]

In mind.

catalpa, heart-shaped and boneyyour daddy died years ago,in redress of his mind, where I leavemy fingers on the stone,and I’ll never see him, he is just a rockhe is just a worm;you’ve been in my mindbut never knew me,I tire; deathis half the stradivarius of the birdsand their strings of gutthan it is mystifying orinboundto [...]

You handsome devil.

The first chip in the axeis in the ebony winterfingers craving on the freshvein of apples,madness, an old wine, the tender briarof the moon and drunkmorpheus to a shorethat never bleeds;seduction to the redstrawberries / naked insanitiesto veiled black feathers,we’ll not waitfor the moon to commit suicide.Have our tombs,six months in winter,six months in spring; [...]

Oscillation.

the oscillation from Apollo’s lipsbury me, this womb of glass seas,relief—a meronym of death’s facesthe last dream my mother gaveto me. Embalm the clavicleof the tree, widowedto the eyes, mesmerizedin celestial dying things;broken sunlight(s),and milk from the bosomancient of womanin dark places. Bury mewith my fingerslazuli to the Erebusthrenody, first a dreamwithin the red-hillsthe moon’s [...]

in their dying, in their shadows.

In their dying in their shadows I will see your eyes. As the blood-flow             of living things, dear white shells and white bone fall into the ground, mama’s bony fingers             whiten the earth,                                     where all else fades and leaves; daddy glissades in the ice             picking flowers for us all, and soon [...]

dream (returning hand in hand).

Black feathers as I dreamed,do not look at me; ebony moonthe lust of the body of the shore,as nightmares, in what I’ve neverknown at all, reflect the Artemis moon;the fat, yellow moon; it’s a blood-huntto the red-hills,and a sea,cocktails of sweatdeath at the ground. There is beauty in the death of thingsin imminent dreaming,for it’s [...]

“Inspire me Coffee, Please?” by Don Matthews.

I’m sitting in my cafeWanting some inspireStaring at me coffeeWaiting brain to fire Hello? I feel ignition?Neurons taking offTelling me to write aboutMy cappuccino froth What a load of twaddle… Sorry readers… I am an Australian writer. In 'Flippant, Comic, and Serious', I focus on humour, offbeat poetry, and exploring things different.

Let it die.

Turn away from the resuscitations there the dream warrants the saplings, she in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if swallowed [...]

our ghosts.

our ghosts accompany loneliness... mirrors of distant memory      find to the dusk like at sea      a memento in a dream      that eludes me and floats...      Orange blossoms into Ophelia’s violets and the granitic rocks      rush to the red dust for how quietly time has passed  through the statuary of rock [...]

Modernities.

isolate the modernities  carnations touch the wind, mocking them, like a cigarette in the abandoned sunlight, the entropy, monstering god-like shores fragmenting ends of the mind, traversing the watery rock for the sea, the mouth left behind from the cave, teeming with blood; the mountain defines the reflection in your eyes, where have you been? [...]

bloom.

Art by Catrin Welz-Stein. Desert, her eyes are morsels to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists, between the flowers in each white finger, whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter,     deserved for posturing an abyss  this dance, like an atramentous sea; woman to the ebb and flow  of flower [...]

blackest feather.

the blackest feather in the sky chokes delirium to the stars; our bodies glaze white under the willows, and water sat her mistress of spindrift wombs, the sun fed the death tree; give our bones the wispy velvet vein of our blood, becoming mother. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: "Show [...]

always.

paraphernaliaflowers; the frozen nailsof Mars, lest I leavein lunula wombsto no death of our wormsand our licking wings;I’ve dreamt no morethan the coquette black rose,and her absinthe skin,wormwood, dead at our feet,to the insomniacocktails of phantasm,setting down the metaphysical poetrythrough my blood-flow, and the paraphernaliaof rocks, incubated with the skull-shapedhills; is it thenso ancient?the last [...]