Let it die.

Turn away from the resuscitations there the dream warrants the saplings, she in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if swallowed… Read More Let it die.

our ghosts.

our ghosts accompany loneliness… mirrors of distant memory      find to the dusk like at sea      a memento in a dream      that eludes me and floats…      Orange blossoms into Ophelia’s violets and the granitic rocks      rush to the red dust for how quietly time has passed  through the statuary of rock… Read More our ghosts.

bloom.

Desert, her eyes are morsels to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists, between the flowers in each white finger, whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter,     deserved for posturing an abyss  this dance, like an atramentous sea; woman to the ebb and flow  of flower bedded lips to firstborn… Read More bloom.

always.

paraphernaliaflowers; the frozen nailsof Mars, lest I leavein lunula wombsto no death of our wormsand our licking wings;I’ve dreamt no morethan the coquette black rose,and her absinthe skin,wormwood, dead at our feet,to the insomniacocktails of phantasm,setting down the metaphysical poetrythrough my blood-flow, and the paraphernaliaof rocks, incubated with the skull-shapedhills; is it thenso ancient?the last… Read More always.

This night.

summer, pilgrimage of the ewe; the blood sun breaks upon death— is the symmetry of the flower where an ocean throws the moon’s noose, leaving to the knot of a darker azure? dream, and you might too leave in the white rose of lips; sewn a monolith  exchanging, in perfidy, a child at the river… Read More This night.

You handsome devil.

The first chip in the axeis in the ebony winterfingers craving on the freshvein of apples,madness, an old wine, the tender briarof the moon and drunkmorpheus to a shorethat never bleeds;seduction to the redstrawberries / naked insanitiesto veiled black feathers,we’ll not waitfor the moon to commit suicide.Have our tombs,six months in winter,six months in spring;… Read More You handsome devil.

perfume.

First Draft. Paris, lady’s lipsdeath with us, the perfumeplumbs the sun tothe tulle limbs of flowers, outstretchedbeneath the bloated darkthat bleeds. Recall the icein black roses, the sweetnessof your lipsto fallen last breaths. Final Draft.  Perfume from the bloodlustand silent tributary of fallen tears—oscillation; amputationfrom the wombintrudes to the shorea coquette,my petal of death.Winter alone, I… Read More perfume.

I leave in a deeper silence.

Death among a void,             existence into the throatof the flowers; but what is it aboutthe death of verse and proseinto the saurian rocks             and night of memorynot myself? Quiet as baby’s breath.             The fall of manis a rarity from fear and falsity             but as poetically a delusionto capture in the snow like a child;I reach to open my eyes             to… Read More I leave in a deeper silence.

autumn.

squander red rockalone the ladyand darknessto the tidesdislocate Apollo,to pares of boneswed to grief;I shatter likethe blue mooninto fall’s handsin the fingertipsof flowers that were not mine& ghost planetsand shiversreserved to thedeath of the apple,and baby’s dream. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for this week’s Go Dog Go Prompt: into fall’s hands.

to grief.

bare-bones / wed to abandoning in-uterofingers; the apple burstslike an appendix / and the seabreast to breast / is a mistressto the Kalahari sun/ mouthing /to my moon“death goes to the worms” / alien touch / my love has gone /threnody and dream, as if the Earth is glass /stranded / to the ghosts /of… Read More to grief.