Gothic

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.

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

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…

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.

“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.