Based on what I’ve read in “Letters to Jupiter”, I can guarantee you this upcoming collection will be an emotional ride with raw and heartfelt examinations of the self, love, and life.
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;
Surrender.
Darkness in the world.
The voice in sweet cities,
Sleeping in dim snow.
“Potpourri” by Ivor Steven.
I have a visiting bluebird
Standing in my potpourri bowl
Bathing in aromatic leaves
Singing a reverie
in their dying, in their shadows.
As the blood-flow
of living things,
dear white shells and white bone
fall into the ground,
mama’s bony fingers
whiten the earth
“Interest Paid on Trouble” by Don Matthews.
Worry’s the advance
Interest that you pay
“Humour Don’t Sell Papers” by Don Matthews.
I’ve just read today’s paper
It’s full of doom and gloom
Murders, killing, destruction, death
“Light Less Life” by Ruptes.
For the masquerade is a ball,
and life it’s dance floor.
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.
“Redemption in the Water” by Hannah Faulkner.
drown in egoism.
how we forget – don’t.
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
Look at all the eyes.
Look at all the eyes
of humanity and light
cry into blood-welling
forgotten in unbridled free verse;
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
Traces by the horizon.
alone; the serpent’s blood
betrays the sea of lovers
that fall upon
the memory
one by one.
You or I.
a shadow of a touch
leafing as bones;
empty windows and shops,
isolation of sense
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
