for our dead poet minds
and the dead-child flowers
that were weeds
Gothic
thief.
Don’t look for me
I won’t look for you.
To Accede Into My Own Desires.
Of this night’s eye or insanity that was dissevered,
A divine satire loomed of an Iliad one day, that was deemed as
dithyrambic.
“METAMORPHOSIS .. .” by edenbray.
Olivia deHaviland, the gates of death
sucking the skeleton’s thumb
wet feet adorn the dead screen
Deep in my Heart.
betrayal, stirred by leaf
on mid-summer
on the garret, perched windows
that drifts and drifts,
rolled on a dead poet,
and flown and sowed
by the stitch, my squill.
“Skeleton Key” by Nick Pipitone.
obscene phantoms hiss in my ears, softly, while I lay comatose under bed-sheets, dejected again, psychic pain of ancestors at my blackened brain-stem
“THE WRETCH” by Jay Mora-Shihadeh.
The needling
of the wind howls
in this
Barren
Cavern
Brain
Of a man, forlorned.
I die shambolic.
born again, the rampike is covered
in frost
chilled by father’s eye,
I’m handed enigmatical roses; I die
Polaris.
Lie down beside her
crux
sambac dreams were never
for me
“Dead Garden” by Nick Pipitone.
dried leaves rustle like fading nightmares, an urge to suck in colors before me
Late Moon (Ft. Devika).
It was an honor collaborating with Devika of My Valiant Soul on this piece.
pseudopsychosis.
is it pseudopsychosis?
ask me when the moon is stripped
to her feet
Killing me.
I came back again
the full God, an opus
of your eye; I am her mad
spring—she wants to see
how far we flay in
our garden beds
glasspetals.
glasspetals
are fingers in the moonrise
and sun-veins
hang a tree.
a seed wasted
as a poet hangs a tree
was it me I don’t know
the poet
Originally posted on George Ellington:
The words, the power, the very syntaxof your verse delights me,says the linguist in me. The imagery flows like molten cloudsover my aging soul,cries the artist in me. Your rhythm reaches into my heartand entices…
Death is no sailor.
in the hills I found a voice
broken through my body
castles of sands.
I knelt down of dreams, of seas
for reaping digits against the tree-bark
in absence of the moon’s tongue
of Janus—sprawled out to the
wails of shyness; father of bones,
do not come back for me.
“Fantasie Nocturne” by Dionysius.
In my vision
Spins a color wheel
With fauns and gnomes
Whispering to me
“Faust” by Phil Slattery.
Quiet.
All is damnably quiet.
I can hear the spiders spinning in the darkness,
the breath of a rat against the stone walls,
a cockroach crawling through the sulphur-laden air.
The roaring silence fills the air like the grumble of the sea.
