Of this night’s eye or insanity that was dissevered, A divine satire loomed of an Iliad one day, that was deemed as dithyrambic.
Tag: Gothic
Leave a note (first).
my heart in the oubliette
Love’s song.
I pull her free into the garden
Somewhere in your eyes.
for our dead poet minds and the dead-child flowers that were weeds
thief.
Don’t look for me I won’t look for you.
“METAMORPHOSIS .. .” by edenbray.
Olivia deHaviland, the gates of death sucking the skeleton's thumb wet feet adorn the dead screen
Deep in my Heart.
betrayal, stirred by leaf on mid-summer on the garret, perched windows that drifts and drifts, rolled on a dead poet, and flown and sowed by the stitch, my squill.
“Skeleton Key” by Nick Pipitone.
obscene phantoms hiss in my ears, softly, while I lay comatose under bed-sheets, dejected again, psychic pain of ancestors at my blackened brain-stem
“THE WRETCH” by Jay Mora-Shihadeh.
The needling of the wind howls in this Barren Cavern Brain Of a man, forlorned.
I die shambolic.
born again, the rampike is covered in frost chilled by father’s eye, I’m handed enigmatical roses; I die
Polaris.
Lie down beside her crux sambac dreams were never for me
“Dead Garden” by Nick Pipitone.
dried leaves rustle like fading nightmares, an urge to suck in colors before me
Late Moon (Ft. Devika).
It was an honor collaborating with Devika of My Valiant Soul on this piece.
pseudopsychosis.
is it pseudopsychosis? ask me when the moon is stripped to her feet
Killing me.
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
glasspetals.
glasspetals are fingers in the moonrise and sun-veins
hang a tree.
a seed wasted as a poet hangs a tree was it me I don’t know
the poet
Check out this wicked poem by George Ellington.
The words, the power, the very syntax
of your verse delights me,
says the linguist in me.
The imagery flows like molten clouds
over my aging soul,
cries the artist in me.
Your rhythm reaches into my heart
and entices me to sing,
chants the musician in me.
The sensuality of your voice caresses
my pulsating skin,
moans the lover in me.
To be a poet is to passionately embrace
so many untold selves,
says the me longing to be.
[inspired by Lucy’s “The syntax of spring“]
Death is no sailor.
in the hills I found a voice broken through my body
castles of sands.
I knelt down of dreams, of seas for reaping digits against the tree-bark in absence of the moon’s tongue of Janus—sprawled out to the wails of shyness; father of bones, do not come back for me.
Pseudopsychosis. 