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 sea girls.

peyote ripples uponmy father’s hands,I horde my poems in the melismaof my bare bones within the arboretum and the vagary of the moonshe nocturnes this feeling of death;it’s early winter and the sea girlswormhole into the seato drown; algorithmicthe mirror purports I writ my ghosts in the looking glass,this rite of amnesia, I’ll die in [...]

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, [...]

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 [...]

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 [...]

You handsome devil.

The first chip in the axeis in the ebony winterfingers craving on the freshvein of apples,madness, an old wine, the tender briarof the moon and drunkmorpheus to a shorethat never bleeds;seduction to the redstrawberries / naked insanitiesto veiled black feathers,we’ll not waitfor the moon to commit suicide.Have our tombs,six months in winter,six months in spring; [...]

Oscillation.

the oscillation from Apollo’s lipsbury me, this womb of glass seas,relief—a meronym of death’s facesthe last dream my mother gaveto me. Embalm the clavicleof the tree, widowedto the eyes, mesmerizedin celestial dying things;broken sunlight(s),and milk from the bosomancient of womanin dark places. Bury mewith my fingerslazuli to the Erebusthrenody, first a dreamwithin the red-hillsthe moon’s [...]

dream (returning hand in hand).

Black feathers as I dreamed,do not look at me; ebony moonthe lust of the body of the shore,as nightmares, in what I’ve neverknown at all, reflect the Artemis moon;the fat, yellow moon; it’s a blood-huntto the red-hills,and a sea,cocktails of sweatdeath at the ground. There is beauty in the death of thingsin imminent dreaming,for it’s [...]

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 [...]

always.

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 [...]

Planetary motion.

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 [...]