Life

Mes mots dans ce rêve.

The likeness of snow-covered heaps on desert-searing nights
Of a scathing wind that cursed a name and brought it
By the crook of a deserted nest sunbathed by bare hands,
Seducing a whistle to the primeval waters that shoehorn rocks
Reflected with an awakening flutter within a cold room
With lip of ice and loitering hill sides by a pale tide,
blistering with mercy;

Kevin Morris Guest Post.

I have, for as long as I can remember, been a lover of woods, and I’ve many happy memories of crunching through the fallen leaves with my grandfather, and collecting acorns and conkers with him.

For that is only what we seek.

The roads, the valleys, the ripened dreams in solidarity,
To a handful weaved of a ghost aubade in speech
Evoking contingent flames unmourned, and embraced
As the shaken birth from the morning, I starve the feathered dreams,
As I no longer follow through with the nightlong autumn near the glass,
I hope we don’t forget each other, and that we will remember
The wind that passes through the roots, and the river rocks that sought for better dirt

Eyes.

Solitude
arrayed in language
unnoticed in its death,
as the leaves survive
the siege of winter

Tyranny.

your laugh
like a poison
to surge, the chill
when you look at me;
the dust of the horizon
shapes cruelty.

City.

a fucked up dream
stares left in its presence
in the old city lights,
warmer than the protestation
that rebels against animal bones
for different gods, this sacrifice,
in the brutality that begs our need

mauvaises terres.

We drink red tea in the winter and summer
by the pale, ocean shore with rain
feeding on the sunlight with coffee beans,
and spoke in broken languages to each other
originating from your father in different countries of Europe,
he speaks almost a dozen languages.

Ocean.

stretches the wings, forgetting the language
upon the sanctuary; midnight timbers, and the wind
murmurs a Hebrew song—
assails the salty waves in a coup, the air free of scars

Exist.

nude into the enraptured
forbidden sea, behalf the whisper,
its madness in autumn at its wake,
unknown into the burial of yellow roses,
in the tears of ghostly sands,
tossing from forgotten sea light
silhouetted against torn anamnesis