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 [...]

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 [...]

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 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 All [...]

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 All Rights Reserved.

snake and seamstress.

damp upon the tree’s beckoning, my feet bleed and kiss the ground upon you, sprouting from silhouettes; it beguiles the hassock leaves, hidden in an accident of rain-fall. Without the fools in airstreams of halcyon when roots pinch my fingers, uncurling like a dagger; a bean fed from the poet’s words or buckling swords, I [...]

Silent to my blood.

silent to my blood along the bone garden I have known the women, living and dead, eyes seized the one moon, (a ghost sleeps) in my body dissociating a star at my spring bones my garden, my home a sparse death in my hair the wind. © 2021 All Rights Reserved.

Orgasmical tragedy.

she slips to winter’s underclothing and embrace; as if a prowl of death in the sun’s hands is unseen to the bed of bruised gardenias. taken into stone, of the poet, the wonders of silhouettes dancing in orgasmical tragedy, hypnotically then with shared suffering. © 2021 All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: [...]

Insomniacidal (Ft. GG).

red moon’s peculiar night climbing a cricket eye; Lazarus the dead, fingers of the moon colder than the dust of a poet I leave to hide my wind-wept ghosts, and plead to the shattering in star-death to star-death; I fall, dying, broken off the spore like mold. a charred moon's vining velvets winding around the [...]

Three Raven.

God’s moon, leavetakingfrom the garden, the wildling from its fruitI’ve killed; like the moon without its stalkedwinters, I cannot behold reconciliationof two silhouettes; the phone-line I cutstill lures my name. in the echoes of the orange orchard,perfumed in late air, eyes known the moon;this stone willnot vanish, I could thoughinto disconnection, knowing thenof gods writhing [...]

in one key.

flower-envyingthe day of the seafor dance of tragedy in one key bleeds, the rootand laz crawls like a dandelion. shame, shame of the gardenborn naked; wastrel-limbscrawl rain,winter of pearl sinkingfeet poisoning againa bodybreaking their wispsand bones, come leaf, god forbid if I meant it,lies the stone where i lookthrough dooms of starsand fragility of love [...]

am i a tree?

am i a treebetween the earthfledembraced a dying thronefathered in my blood,stalked and eatenby the moon’s brigade,a kiss to the sun; a finger in the rainto la moon, i see I, and if the rosesaxethe tree,would I have dreamed of this,i woudn’t know © 2021 All Rights Reserved.

under any flower.

this is not a letter to myself quickly the moon is forever i say that sometimes these ghost fingers reach             to wind the strings and twist the whitecaps upon the bridge; i sit at midnight famous blue raincoat on my lips, a thunder squirms             into my body of stone voice nothing, where I [...]

Death is no sailor.

A voice of an ancestressfrom slightest memory, I,my ghosts on branches of April,like mice, we speak; between fingers of solace-drunkin the hills I found a voicebroken through my body, the sucking of black dressesin the wind, trees swoopingfour bones holding each other,we are holding hands, emerged a moon-maidenslack against my skull—trees mix in bloodshot starsbillowing [...]

still there.

This the sea, their shadows in madcap deaths; where is the garden beyond the moon, which leaves a ghost that I once knew as myself? I sway between finger and root; small hands desert me in memory free, I am not the skinof your lip, tree,and I am not looking now to be dead and [...]