vanish.trade.rocks. 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, the moon, she turns an ewe red in the light,child-like, vanishing in the deliriumdeath of glass … Continue reading she loves you.
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 dam of the flower/ latticework /and cosmic oceansin baby’s breath, … Continue reading dance (with me).
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 baby’s fingers / digits pass between my hands, a discoid … Continue reading midnight.
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 rises to meet me. I tire to the maniac violets, … Continue reading à minuit
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 limbby limband the shadow of their men.The root of rocktree … Continue reading In mind.
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 bedded lips to firstborn tree, knucklebones, wrists, red-dusted each tress, a harvest of glass … Continue reading bloom.
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 us your skywriting by penning a poem of exactly 44 words, including … Continue reading blackest feather.
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 eavesdropsunbeams acrossthe pixels in the sea-death with us, in tulle … Continue reading perfume.
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 snap of bone is first heard like Pharroh’s whip to … Continue reading mad to the moon.
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 classy.” Continue reading leaves are falling.
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 the womb; nature’s breast and bone; clavicle, ankle bones, alone … Continue reading last flower.
Alabaster the dissociatedMoon; a blood-hunt of my dreams,death the psychosis, torment the arbitrarymind, I dreamed of the topples ofthunderbirds, medusa-ing mouths of darkness, and finalhairs of serpents to planetaryshivers; and celestial deathof the stars, they translatethe whiteness of hills,goat-herding anesthesiain the sand-cratered moonswithin the dusty womb of Marsleft me my child-selfand I was her. Written for the dVerse prompt: “So find a few creative nouns … Continue reading her.
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 daughter of mine; I gleam, this candle, this mouth and … Continue reading 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: Just write a poem of precisely 44 words, including some … Continue reading undo.
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 the apple, and the last of the black lily; broken … Continue reading 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 the seas of blood; the exoskeletons into death, to the … Continue reading footsteps in the sienna.
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 / the white breast of / ribbon bare-bones / a … Continue reading 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 Jacked Up by Weezer. Written for the dVerse prompt: “Let’s … Continue reading my flowers do die.
my own deathvineyards of moons,a shallow depthof the sea, Venus sinks,I drowned and criedin my sleep, died like the ocean,born in splitminds,like the magentaof mother’s womb; a vortex of nothingfair and bonyfor the ghostof mine does not grieve these amputations of mind;absence of the moon’s bare-bones, I see the lizard limbsof the moonrise as I weeplike the island. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written … Continue reading Five A.M.
death / split bone / a fish vomits / dream; heir or heiress, the yellow trees are fatherless; I remember the troubadour trees and their infant skeletons his blood to each leaf no seduction of the moon when there was no moon to run the drumming of tree molars and the caw of moon-eyed birds, mind / both neither living or dead / kisses the … Continue reading street art