A kaleidoscope in death take me where the poet lays for I should never see again the final act; halcyon; like the esplanades I once walked upon at the thunderous chaos of my ghost; have we met in the aches and laughs woefully of all that is strange; orgasmic ambrosia dissociation chuckles into the bloodlust [...]
is it pseudopsychosis? ask me when the moon is stripped to her feet
So, first off, 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 also acknowledge that people may feel differently about Poetry Magazine’s actions, so I'm disabling comments on this post. Whether you agree or disagree with [...]
death by all the flowers into my hands; moon-struck in the deconstruction of the womb in night of envying cults of orgasm, her prime ashes moon taunts and she rises the black lily until such thorns are wounds upon the sculptural song and dance, as our silhouettes weep, to die. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights [...]
Phantasmagoric red gold, last breath to bind them or myself–I’m not sure; a shadow is a shadow then so am I until I vanish into the winter of the bears, I ask that you do not find me; I want to be played by tragic lutes, the first scene like the half of bread the [...]
Shadows on the grass Mistook for an old friend. All things pass, However much we pretend Otherwise. You closed your eyes, And left your mark Upon my heart.
infinite in papery moons why must I lay under your foot in the voluptuous sea? madcaps and glassed eyes her next death in a million moons I’ve yet to meet; god’s leavetaking, nothing left for you but a ghost of gardens. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Reposted for the dVerse Open Link Night.
The garden diaphanous it’s circling to my bleeding feet bones climbing to the moon you left me my Achilles heel; I stalk the moon from stone to stone entranced through midnight; I’ve left behind my shadow gods taunting me asleep. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
"For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is." – Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man.
I came back again the full God, an opus of your eye; I am her mad spring—she wants to see how far we flay in our garden beds and I am your tragedy in diaphanous arms of the moon growing silhouette rising to the thunderbird; she’s killing me more than I ever could © 2021 [...]
I had just finished reading How Bad are Bananas? The Carbon Footprint of Everything and I was on the verge of despair. We are in the midst of a climate emergency, and our carbon emissions keep increasing. 777 more wordsThe Anthropocene Hymnal: Call for Submissions! — Experiments in Fiction Please check out Ingrid's anthology project above [...]
Dedicated to camp counselor Mushki.
leaving death of all silhouettes when the new moon born of lured tragedies outstretched to kill itself; the roots my shame winter of the flowers, if I loved, then they should fall to my feet in wastrel-fragility guiding memorial bones to the knees of the garden © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Reposted for the [...]
I, memory, I, a membrane and ghost meronym to memory and free— I am the thorn of flowers in your mouth, and the foot of the leaf between the limbs of a small tree halved like quarters, and still dying, I, memory, I, a membrane and ghost meronym to memory and free— Ancestress of loss [...]
an opus eyea moon in the hood of a rose, my hibernation once every few weeks;if I wake,an eye cracks; many stonesand cold-blooded treeswhat a thrillI know it’s in the windif I shame the childless snakesin my bed. Opus rubies split alongThe street.© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Drinking from another mismatched moon-eye in another, should I have loved, then only with my garden should I climb to my roots vowels sparse like bones miraculous stone and hair holding ultima, eating man to the fuchsia, death of all things, skin, a dollhouse of nicks. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved
with summons, I sit alone; I was tired of my penetralium and id frozen in aureoled chokes, harassing me to the shadows; each eye abstract, to the phantom of stone; I snipped my garden bones of the rose-beds, felt the hidden moon into the thorns, a baby’s opus, the dying game. © 2021 lucysworks.com All [...]
My love, as the still light shines on your lice Ah, I smell the onions matted on your breath. What else? Your nose hairs are threads to soon slice, And when I leave I thank god I didn’t retch. My beloved, a shore of love passes through me When I do catch whiff of your [...]
Disturbs in grave repentance cracking upon the ocean’s rattle, buckling swords like a python’s tongue, madness I billow in the dusk, drysalter’s poison that pierces me in battle a fool’s dance sparred, soon falling as a leaf of willow; the razor edge of fate, wearing bone and caitiff dust in father’s displease, death tantrums veins [...]
https://twitter.com/RealisticPoetry/status/1359391674653417472 a dehisce to the moonrise an abandon in amnesia rooted between honesty and a lie; eerie strange dreams in the mouth betraying, vomiting words w/o consequence shimmering as a child in the growing year of winter; whispers in art death, knowing it could be better. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.