what to be done.

ancestress, she is deathin Saturnidd cocoons; what to be donein imitation, magnetized of blood lotuscosseted in her veins;dead fathers are hard to talk to.Oceans writhe fox-skins of fossil, slumbers starved,and weave nigh stone to kill the daughter first. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Original draft: choking magnetism,dead fathers can be hard to talk to, [...]

The ocean rises.

Fossil bone, a maiden’s cliffthrowing ghosts in the stalactitesthere, my ocean is there, and I will die with the thorn in my side;abyssal shadows are empty, sandstone splits at my cheek,look at the full-bodied ocean, their fish bones belowthe memorial, from so close, I can stand upon the ocean’s bosom,her white waves upon my fingersO’ [...]

Sanguine.

Baby’s breath into the elm tree, a strange lady in rose heels, she is the crypt for there are no dreams; arresting, like death, to the apple--the serpent's rictus; with the body of the shore in vogue black moth wings / the moon tires to itself in half-living, half-death, the atrophy in dissolution undressed. Yes, [...]

I

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 [...]

metaphysical.

Me reading "Metaphysical" 10.22.2020. Metaphysical places; mirrored minds; mooring across the broken bird, maybe the Madarasz’s tiger in its mournful lone,keep the arbored madnessin her untethered womb—swaddle the nest of the tree with aneurysmed red bodies of the moon salved with fingernail lines on the egg, her baby. The agitation of her veinsmakes me ask [...]

mirrors.

the corvid rises from the yellow moon,wept to a body of death, dismissal of its heartbeat to the atramental starsof unbidden dance; I know how this goes,I’ve been here before,slipping out of one’s own skin; it was memoirs hung by wings,by the man’s madness; dither nowor die in memory. The moon shall forever watchas reprieved [...]

I am a ghost to you.

death is a red coquetteon your father’s fossil armits abyss forgotten and ungrievedinto cosseted veins of poetry,but words mean nothing to you; yellow dreams wept in her darkness,and caitiff of mirrored dust, and bone consumedmoon-wept death in the waves andfingertips of black lilliesnulling marrows in epicediumof the bear’s wintered hibernationthe seasons that sail the sea-skullsof [...]

nothing left.

will I drown? the wind twists, and we kiss the flowers; seize the backbone of the root, where our blood is ours. the tree trunk can’t see death; unparalleled, my father disintegrates. the sunsets are claret as they burst. the glass region, eyed by the ants, flourishes in the light by remembering; eyes, pressing to [...]

This night.

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 [...]

she loves you.

vanish.trade.rocks. Albert Memorial, London SW7 2ET, UK. in sanguinolent dances we tradeour flowers for knots of the moon,cracking until the leftover asylum of poetryturns and explodes in our veins, Let it be the tongue of rocks, whereserenity will kiss you in due timeand frozen fingers wed in the plow of the womb,floating, innocent of madness, [...]

dance (with me).

all winter, their bodies of yokethe apple blossoms, like a child,waking into the sun; I see the siennarise in the kangkung flowersof your hair, the immobile, the henna; and archaic sandsin blue fibers of fields,as the moon-eyed dreamers,you and I—we’re in anamnesis of the womb,our cerise, skins to the lemon moonand velvet landscapes in the [...]

midnight.

The moon is bitten / like the apple under the bleats of the corvid / the enceinte tree my pentrailium / shuts the black heart of lilies  do not find me, I want to be alone before I leave. the moon / satsuma hills and mouthfuls of the noose lay bare and wrest like a [...]

à minuit

the boney moon, dragged by hibiscus over the red hills.Your moth wings baby-rattling the drowning of the stars, the symmetry of our skeletons for asylum; the moon, she finds my darkness by the Katsura leaves. The atramental vagary of her lays in my hands. psithurism, algedonic to the death strokes when she flutters, how she [...]

In mind.

catalpa, heart-shaped and boneyyour daddy died years ago,in redress of his mind, where I leavemy fingers on the stone,and I’ll never see him, he is just a rockhe is just a worm;you’ve been in my mindbut never knew me,I tire; deathis half the stradivarius of the birdsand their strings of gutthan it is mystifying orinboundto [...]

bloom.

Art by Catrin Welz-Stein. Desert, her eyes are morsels to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists, between the flowers in each white finger, whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter,     deserved for posturing an abyss  this dance, like an atramentous sea; woman to the ebb and flow  of flower [...]

blackest feather.

the blackest feather in the sky chokes delirium to the stars; our bodies glaze white under the willows, and water sat her mistress of spindrift wombs, the sun fed the death tree; give our bones the wispy velvet vein of our blood, becoming mother. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: "Show [...]

perfume.

First Draft. Paris, lady’s lipsdeath with us, the perfumeplumbs the sun tothe tulle limbs of flowers, outstretchedbeneath the bloated darkthat bleeds. Recall the icein black roses, the sweetnessof your lipsto fallen last breaths. Final Draft.  Perfume from the bloodlustand silent tributary of fallen tears—oscillation; amputationfrom the wombintrudes to the shorea coquette,my petal of death.Winter alone, I [...]

mad to the moon.

Frost labors my neck, the snake of womb in there Eastern Europe then the admonitory shores to the oneiric seize of our fruits dismembered with white at the tentacles of spring Gimcrack, exiled in arabian perfumes; shun me, music, like a stranger in the romance pollinating in sedated blood of the Sahara, in which the [...]

leaves are falling.

the moon is phallus-shaped to split leaves— are falling to my hands; throats of autumnal death, I kiss your hands. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: “What is your idea of an erotic poem? What makes it stimulating? In your own words describe the fine line between ribald and just plain [...]

last flower.

with the last flower, traveled and scrawled from our mind—across the sun. the moon cracks and reddens as death comes to stardust. ebony époque hikes to the yellow tourniquets; and in-utero shells, plasma glass, her eyes are mine; maniac moon devours the limb to the stars clotted in bones/rocks. I dream between the blood from [...]