born again, the rampike is covered
in frost
chilled by father’s eye,
I’m handed enigmatical roses; I die
Category: Poetry
Rain is roses (Draft).
the red dress
in death
over a body
my body
“Strange Dreams” Publication in Free Verse Revolution Lit Issue II.
I am very excited to share the news of Free Verse Revolution Lit’s debut of Issue II: Hermes (the kaleidoscope). I also thank the lovely Kristiana Reed for accepting my piece “Strange Dreams” in this publication.
Nephesh.
Old father’s obit
unwanted earth in his mouth
lent the blood from his sex like moth wings drown
A heart.
my own madness
lies ill, she murmurs.
Petition to Support Removal of Nesset’s Work From Poetry Magazine.
I want to acknowledge that the topics mentioned may be triggering. This is a content warning as the following information relates to a convicted pedophile and CSA.
I gather white flowers.
two mouths
crawling the Medusa legs
us pale girls
virulence being told
is our blood and bones.
Polaris.
Lie down beside her
crux
sambac dreams were never
for me
alter ego.
the Prometheus death fit for humankind,
take it then
take it and see how we are born,
see how we’ll die.
Name her for a death (she is mine).
a crèche of the other
menstruating roses
could not see this
“Unbreakable” by Anna Elin Kristiansen.
A thousand shattered pieces
on a sticky lino floor
sour, red liquid seeping into the worn rug’s edges
No.
That’s not me.
Death of butterfly.
To eat off legumes
because you’ll bury them
Pear.
What real death is that
if you can’t taste it twice?
Cut it harshly
just as if father yelled
on those rarer moments,
his bones arching legs.
The child inside.
inhabiting a box
the pensive death-maddening
burdens
a heart under the moon
“MY APEX WINDOW – London Bridge and the Odeon, Leicester Square” by edenbray.
I am your father lost and lonely
The world and all its feathers phoney
I picture you smiling, making happy face
When I was seventeen I had a dream
Of what my life would be like
And it was nothing like this, no not at all
A thorn in her side.
If I was the poet with a thorn in my side,
I was; I brought another drop
from the gardens on these hands
and this body of stone;
“Whisper” by Freya Pickard.
darkness embraces
the dead man
waiting in his tomb
ashes on his grave
why die for pride?
cutting off heads must be very satisfying,
almost as fingers tapping into madness
dreamt upon red-lands, the moon blinded
by the osprey; but minds wait in guilt
whilst flowers turn to wounds
new moon
leaving
death of all silhouettes
when the new moon
born of lured tragedies
outstretched to kill
itself
