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 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.
catalpa, heart-shaped and boneyyour daddy died years ago,in redress of his mind, where I leavemy fingers on the stone,and I’ll never see him, he is just a rockhe is just a worm;you’ve been in my mindbut never knew me,I tire; deathis half the stradivarius of the birdsand their strings of gutthan it is mystifying orinboundto… Read More In mind.
Black feathers as I dreamed,do not look at me; ebony moonthe lust of the body of the shore,as nightmares, in what I’ve neverknown at all, reflect the Artemis moon;the fat, yellow moon; it’s a blood-huntto the red-hills,and a sea,cocktails of sweatdeath at the ground. There is beauty in the death of thingsin imminent dreaming,for it’s… Read More dream (returning hand in hand).
the blackest feather in the sky chokes delirium to the stars; our bodies glaze white under the willows, and water sat her mistress of spindrift wombs, the sun fed the death tree; give our bones the wispy velvet vein of our blood, becoming mother. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: “Show… Read More blackest feather.
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.
A five year-old was diagnosedwith terminal cancer The adults wept and wailed The child could not understandWhy are you weeping and wailing? The adults could not understandWhy are you not afraid? Because I am going to a placeI’ve never been before I’m excited. This is based on a true story I heard on the radio… Read More “A Five Year-Old” by Don Matthews.
Wept in the death of Gods, darker still in the gathering ocean, with only tears that fall to them, in the red hyssop of the frost inclined to the penetralium of desire, as the ocean slips no fate by its sea song to kill empty, the abscission of leaf falls like glass we could not… Read More Planetary motion.
the oscillation from Apollo’s lips
bury me, this womb of glass seas,
relief—a meronym of death’s faces
the last dream…… Read More “Oscillation” Poem Published in Visual Verse.
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.
catalpa, heart-shaped and boney
your daddy died years ago,
in redress of his mind, where I leave
my fingers on the stone…… Read More “In Mind” Poem Published in Ephemeral Elegies.
will I drown? the wind twists, and we kiss the flowers; seize the backbone of the root, where our blood is ours. the tree trunk can’t see death; unparalleled, my father disintegrates. the sunsets are claret as they burst. the glass region, eyed by the ants, flourishes in the light by remembering; eyes, pressing to… Read More nothing left.
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.
Overlooking the shoreline, a deep sigh forms releasing the exhaust of the day. Blowing out in the direction of the cool breeze, I scan the shore expecting something or someone, but it never comes. Looking up, the pink moon rises over the North Sea and it hits me- this spot, this arresting moment is what… Read More “Pink Moon Rising” by Kimberly Ray.
Worry’s the advance Interest that you pay On trouble that does seldom Seldom come your way. To check out more of Don Matthews’s work, go here.
Frost labors my neck, the snake of womb in there Eastern Europe then the admonitory shores to the oneiric seize of our fruits dismembered with white at the tentacles of spring Gimcrack, exiled in arabian perfumes; shun me, music, like a stranger in the romance pollinating in sedated blood of the Sahara, in which the… Read More mad to the moon.
She grappled his face. “You don’t get to say shit like that. Not after this fucked off day. You can go fuck off too if you keep saying that.”
“I’ve never seen you so sentimental.”
“It’s not like you’d remember,” Lauren sighed, only now feeling how sweated up her tank-top had become.
“Ouch. Low blow.”… Read More Novel Collaboration (“Identify”): Chapter 6 Part II.
Darkness wailed, as they shuffled silently ensuring Anastasia had indeed left the basement. Tom balanced himself up with one of the boxes sequestered in the room. “I don’t want to see her,” his eyes twisted shut.… Read More Novel Collaboration (“Identify”): Chapter 6 Part I.
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.
Potential trigger warning: This poem may have references to acts of self-harm. An echo.That vibrates in a soundless roomThat nicks the wallsThat stains the tubThat crumples the sheetsBut leaves me aloneExcept for the scar on my cheekThe things I do to myselfI don’t know why. To check out more of Jo Kolar’s work, go here.