“This. Is. Unreal.” Tom was awed at the things they found inside, and the group dispersed to collect whatever they could. There'd even be a few bags in there, marked with a symbol Tom and Lauren seen before. Unwanted memories flashed before his eyes, Tom struggling to keep down what he saw. Zara’s demise, Lauren cutting through her wrists, and the writ of the symbols. He swore he could just kill himself from the things he no longer understood, and judging the way Lauren stared back, she may have caught on to a similar realization. There was a connection between all living things, while the dead were used as symbolism for further placement. The encoding and scripture only revealed a partial story of the island, and it must have been at least thousands of years old. When the siblings' eyes met, they knew they had something to discuss.
It happened again the dead sea full of dried emotions and the charm to write about withering winters happened again, from my arms to my toe nails with colors and with a paint- brush the knuckles are red due to migraine, the bosoms are sagging due to age. The concept of time throws my memory [...]
silent to my blood along the bone garden I have known the women, living and dead, eyes seized the one moon, (a ghost sleeps) in my body dissociating a star at my spring bones my garden, my home a sparse death in my hair the wind. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
I have recently composed an intro soundtrack to the Identify podcast project I've been working on. For those that do not know, Identify is an ongoing novel collaboration project that delves into a mysterious island that has different uses for people. While the extent of these uses remains unknown, it rather explores the developing relationships [...]
I am a droplet off the sun. A madman huntingTaunting roots of a clockwork rain.© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Found this in my drafts for a long prose piece I’ve since abandoned. Funny, how looking back, I didn’t see much to it until I recently changed the final line.
death by all the flowers into my hands; moon-struck in the deconstruction of the womb in night of envying cults of orgasm, her prime ashes moon taunts and she rises the black lily until such thorns are wounds upon the sculptural song and dance, as our silhouettes weep, to die. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights [...]
Lauren grit her teeth, trying to ignore Artemis. Of catastrophic darkness, she could see eyes watching her in motion. She sank into internal refuge as the shadows held the branches above them.
Back in November 2020, I had three poems that appeared in the Scarlet Leaf Review under my pseudonym Ellie Onka. Many thanks to EIC Roxana Nastase for accepting "I wondered when I first remembered...", "Hidden", and the first poem that I could be proud of, "To Accede Into My Own Desires" (that had appeared before [...]
"For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is." – Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man.
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 and I am your tragedy in diaphanous arms of the moon growing silhouette rising to the thunderbird; she’s killing me more than I ever could © 2021 [...]
Drinking from another mismatched moon-eye in another, should I have loved, then only with my garden should I climb to my roots vowels sparse like bones miraculous stone and hair holding ultima, eating man to the fuchsia, death of all things, skin, a dollhouse of nicks. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved
My love, as the still light shines on your lice Ah, I smell the onions matted on your breath. What else? Your nose hairs are threads to soon slice, And when I leave I thank god I didn’t retch. My beloved, a shore of love passes through me When I do catch whiff of your [...]
she slips to winter’s underclothing and embrace; as if a prowl of death in the sun’s hands is unseen to the bed of bruised gardenias. taken into stone, of the poet, the wonders of silhouettes dancing in orgasmical tragedy, hypnotically then with shared suffering. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: [...]
God’s moon, leavetakingfrom the garden, the wildling from its fruitI’ve killed; like the moon without its stalkedwinters, I cannot behold reconciliationof two silhouettes; the phone-line I cutstill lures my name. in the echoes of the orange orchard,perfumed in late air, eyes known the moon;this stone willnot vanish, I could thoughinto disconnection, knowing thenof gods writhing [...]
adieuwearing a deathlacein the bony gardenthe pretty women as statueswhen I’ve known none of them eyes, not mine, stare backif I have failed, let me gothrough dooms of silence in suffering of the first born,the last born, upon the orange grovesand syrup of my old home. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
flower-envyingthe day of the seafor dance of tragedy in one key bleeds, the rootand laz crawls like a dandelion. shame, shame of the gardenborn naked; wastrel-limbscrawl rain,winter of pearl sinkingfeet poisoning againa bodybreaking their wispsand bones, come leaf, god forbid if I meant it,lies the stone where i lookthrough dooms of starsand fragility of love [...]
i look towardmy blood, root of the daisyeddeluded in each vein;rain flutes midnightthrough weeps of winterlaced over the moon-hothand and foot, a gardenof bones as us where we lie like pearlslittered in our elusivebeds © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
this foolworld spunin cold-bloodedlady iknow you, but iof skin and bone,and i little sun,in moon gardens of her feetI am a child, i and if aside,grown toward rootsof her bones and kneesbillowing absent, fingersof May (i close the rain)to the syntax of your voice © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
i carry the small roselike a moon of your bodya syntax of fools,that if the sun and the sky and the rosesfall to the garden i will let your name climb upon my bodyand head until iam no more. © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Mistress, bone-lacedaround my fingersmerciless as the moon-hungwith cigarette burns and stars;what I’d giveto billow smoketwirling lips throughthe telephone, a bloodbath in star or rainwinter was farand died,lady-footed with bone © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.