“THIS BRITAIN” by edenbray.

dragons head . I woke one day in that awful season pulling wallpaper from the drabbest wall I heard the cuckoo in my head, that sound I had come to dread and larks ascending Descending, on an unmade bed where art lives for arts sake neath a poem of bard Blake . I woke in [...]

bliss or suffering.

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 [...]

Ghost of gardens.

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.

shadow god.

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.

Killing me.

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 [...]

new moon

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 [...]

The street.

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

the dying game.

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 Beloved.

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 [...]


suffering from topaz and featureless silhouettes in dancing tragedies; a hand from every ten in the street roots mine I pick the miracle of solitude pushing myself away from others; the garden feels my shame stones, please do not stare at me eyes they wore bliss like rain. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

undo all the ties.

from the air swallowed I fertilizegarden bones as if I would my childrenpreparing first lifeand then the subtletythe pagala death;I’m on my kneesfragmented; so, a graveI stir in my bedsheets, knowing nonethe woman in my skin or the woman I am.© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.