Pseudopsychosis.

Sanguine.

Baby’s breath into the elm tree, a strange lady in rose heels, she is the crypt for there are no dreams; arresting, like death, to the apple–the serpent’s rictus;

with the body of the shore in vogue black moth wings / the moon tires to itself in half-living, half-death, the atrophy in dissolution undressed. Yes, undress me and see me;

twisted fingers darken the sanguine moon
blue in mindlessness,
shriveled and dying.

The arums fall, what do we do? In antediluvian blood, absence waits, arrayed—the frost whitens the bear’s cave. Her fallen hands catch the moon, smiting osprey eggs and digging up the rigors of star-death.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a haibun that alludes to Halloween.

I listened to Still Ill by The Smiths while writing. It wouldn’t be a proper response to the prompt without sharing some of my muses.

Lucy

“Poetess of darkness”–dVerse community; cat hoarder, guitarist, keyboardist, psych major.

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44 responses to “Sanguine.”

  5. I love the ambiguity of the word ‘sanguine’ – is it optimism or the colour of blood that runs through your haibun, Lucy? I fear it is blood, considering the ‘strange lady in rose heels’ and the repeated mention of death. But your sanguine moon is blue.

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    • Thank you, Beverly. And yes, I know, but it’s always hard for me to align the imagery of a blue moon with the Halloween spirit. I did happen to mix both colors in this poem. 🙂

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  12. twisted fingers darken the sanguine moon
    blue in mindlessness,
    shriveled and dying.

    This gave me shivers up and down my spine, especially ‘blue in mindlessness’

    Creepily, skin-crawling excellence!

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  15. A perfect dark poetic celebrating All Hallows and Samhain. Your prose is poetry for sure. I liked “the body of the shore in vogue black moth wings”. and “in antediluvian blood, absence waits, arrayed–the frost whitens the bear’s cave.”

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    Reply

  16. […] Baby’s breath into the elm tree, a strange lady in rose heels, she is the crypt for there are no dreams; arresting, like death, to the apple–the serpent’s rictus; with the body of the shore in vogue black moth wings / the moon tires to itself in half-living, half-death, the atrophy in dissolution undressed. Yes,… Read More Sanguine. […]

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