catalpa, heart-shaped and boney
your daddy died years ago,
in redress of his mind, where I leave
my fingers on the stone…… Read More “In Mind” Poem Published in Ephemeral Elegies.
catalpa, heart-shaped and boney
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… Read More always.
A five year-old was diagnosedwith terminal cancer The adults wept and wailed The child could not understandWhy are you weeping and wailing? The adults could not understandWhy are you not afraid? Because I am going to a placeI’ve never been before I’m excited. This is based on a true story I heard on the radio… Read More “A Five Year-Old” by Don Matthews.
Wept in the death of Gods, darker still in the gathering ocean, with only tears that fall to them, in the red hyssop of the frost inclined to the penetralium of desire, as the ocean slips no fate by its sea song to kill empty, the abscission of leaf falls like glass we could not… Read More Planetary motion.
summer, pilgrimage of the ewe; the blood sun breaks upon death— is the symmetry of the flower where an ocean throws the moon’s noose, leaving to the knot of a darker azure? dream, and you might too leave in the white rose of lips; sewn a monolith exchanging, in perfidy, a child at the river… Read More This night.
i see you by the red shores
the fossorial dreams,
and stardust gathered
at my bones. ochreous… Read More “Do not grieve for me” Poem Published in Free Verse Revolution.
squander red rockalone the ladyand darknessto the tidesdislocate Apollo,to pares of boneswed to grief;I shatter likethe blue mooninto fall’s handsin the fingertipsof flowers that were not mine& ghost planetsand shiversreserved to thedeath of the apple,and baby’s dream. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for this week’s Go Dog Go Prompt: into fall’s hands.
bare-bones / wed to abandoning in-uterofingers; the apple burstslike an appendix / and the seabreast to breast / is a mistressto the Kalahari sun/ mouthing /to my moon“death goes to the worms” / alien touch / my love has gone /threnody and dream, as if the Earth is glass /stranded / to the ghosts /of… Read More to grief.
I’ve just read today’s paper It’s full of doom and gloom Murders, killing, destruction, death Children being groomed Headlines blare out constantly SEX FIEND IS EXPOSED There’s so much negativity (The paper I have closed) Why can’t I read, enjoy myself With lots of humour, rife? Instead of being subjected to This gutter side of… Read More “Humour Don’t Sell Papers” by Don Matthews.
i feel the tophet against my hands like wheat; wash this blood between the ilk of the stars for i’ve done alone, I echo to the dream for god I’ve craved I am not, alone; and the stars hang to death’s crib, the moon has not left; paralyze, the womb I’ve had no son or… Read More milk of kindness.
in starry death, dido falls like the star, an explosion to the peremptory mouths of sea; the sun bums a cigarette, we are morsels to her; i, alone, do not grieve, but dreams black and ténébreux fall to dissection of God, troglodyte & beast. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt:… Read More undo.
Ophelia flowers leaving to the excessive blindness by the fingernails of psithurism, and trees that inherit the blood red; ankles sink into the ocean stars come to the end of light—the angry light that feasts beyond the last bone from the tree, and dark waves beyond the terminus of the skies familiar in… Read More Ocean to Ocean.
i am alone; the skull of rocks grimace at the clown winter. In the starry epitaph, I wash this blood from my hands; the moon is my child and the shore is a memory exiled; entering alone, it bares the imitation epithet, known as our death- sentence. Dreams atrophied like the first bite of… Read More blood on hands.
footsteps in the sienna, the lemon glow; Paris cassocks into the green sea, I dreamed in the meronymy of faces I could not have known; I radiated from the appareled sun in black winters, tired of the tumuli, the red epistles with inkstones, the flowers of a death sentence, and a sun that settles over… Read More footsteps in the sienna.
dust / to the dream /flowers fall to the glass moonand her fingertips/ in the/ ephialtes /light and / cosmic touch; you tried to /ruin me / but I’m notAtë or Ares. Spume of the oceanI will not drown /you / in my threnody / war feet / burst like the applein the trench /… Read More dust to dream.
the moon is red / shutting / the tympani of the Apollo sun and the white flux of pumice stones / and scriptures in memory of the rabbi’s palaver; i, mind of woman, made from man and woman stardust, God if believed, slug and bone; embryos of fallen fingers; 5’3 no, 5’3 and a half… Read More lady of the marsh.
umbilicus / of this shore / and shattered fingers like clamshells reddened to the body of death / to veteran-ed paralysis / / of beauty / the few fingers of mist / and seas are in pot-lids of darkness; my hands / laboring / are ants to the / father sea / and the stone… Read More epicedium to the sea
my fingers trace / against the stone my flowers do die; ephialtes / in the shadows of / a deathbed / baby’s breath / a dream / threnody / & breast my flowers die in my garden, / mouthing / pseudo-ashes of the moonrise. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. This piece was inspired by… Read More my flowers do die.
i. black coat / I see death / in the moon / and hawks nest / one worm / New York drinks the flowers, I could imagine, if I ever had a dream it was not like this / bone split open and blooms / ii. it’s the snow, it’s the / cold / two… Read More ii.
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… Read More I