la mausoleum

Perfume loring, turning and hedged to the skulled moon. It was a death-sentence oneiric to the autumn. It was symbolic as the little boy put his dirty shoes on my guitar case (and I said nothing), I felt atrophy of either the red koi flowers or the moon


and I drowned to the moon herself
like a mannequin in the troughs
of asylum


I hated this place. I felt so empty, I only could remember the unbridled lust of leaving. It was a sway and a dance like corvid feathers that would fall, stretched to the bursting breast of the sea. We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time, and when oft I remembered madness, the sorrows went from my eyes. I withdrew to the fingernails under the crawling light of the moon’s disarray,

her womb shames me.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.


Written for the prosery dVerse prompt: Write a story that includes the following line from that poem:  ‘We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time’.


I somewhat reworked a prose piece I wrote last year called Perfume Loring. It tells the same story of my experience that I no longer enjoyed participating in a group band (thankfully, I never performed, I just rehearsed with them). I cherish some of the memories I had and it was an experience that I’m glad to reflect on, but it taxed me emotionally.


footsteps in the sienna.

footsteps in the sienna, the lemon glow; Paris cassocks into the green sea, I dreamed in the meronymy of faces I could not have known; I radiated from the appareled sun in black winters, tired of the tumuli, the red epistles with inkstones, the flowers of a death sentence, and a sun that settles over the seas of blood; the exoskeletons into death, to the dithyramb of these seas, and bare graves of white bones under a yellow rose; skin like a linen soon to the knucklebones of the moon. At my feet, effacement. Threadbares of trees, limb in limb, we leave rocks by the tomb, and we leave like apples snatched

from the lithology of a serpent at its breast; we’ve been alone now, knowing when it is over, said and done, it was a time and there was never enough of it.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.


Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line:

“when it is over said and done, it was a time and there was never enough of it.”––Allison Adelle Hedge Coke, “A Time”