Wordle# 177


I reign in my edges,

Those wild horses,

Those meandering battalions

Dismal in their projections

Intent upon war.

I plant roses by the seashore,

The salt of my withdrawal

Fashioning bullets of thorns.

The preliminary thrust

Rips locks into forbidden flesh.

Oh how I want to trespass you

To rearrange the signals

That perpetuate your repulsion.

Held under the ball of your foot

My prehensile limbs stray

From the carapace, a stain,

Spotted only as a byproduct of death

And if I gather up all my reliquaries

I would still be empty save

For my bitter black blood.


Wordle #178


I’ve made a meal of your center,

Your words my sustenance

Your blood, my refreshment.

I know that you are more

Fluff than marrow

And this is why I pester,

Why I rearrange

Your teeth and bowels

Until your joints

Soften from the pain

Like spoon-tilled jello.

A test by any other application

Wouldn’t be so cruel but than you

Wouldn’t try so hard to surpass

Your stone-crushing anxiety.

In the end we all find our way

To the hospital, sutures adorning

An essential ouch, might as well

Dream while our eyes still open.

Wordle #179


I follow your cross expression

To its transmutable keep.

The gold flecks in your eyes

Fizzling like forgotten constellations.

We our old and contemptuous

Living cock over fist

In search of a more amorous feint.

Does your heart burn blue or orange?

I follow the miner, song sinking

Beneath the earth’s fleshless folds.

I waver and whoop in the covenant

Of this truncated garden, a mind

That will neither give nor spare

Its sole tenet the benefit of sentience.

My doubts forming an ocean

Into which I am dutifully extinguished.


Test over, brain dead.

Wordle# 180


The wolf drinks of fear and ash,

Sucking joy through the spindly flames

Of collapsed sticks and bones.

The less discerning sheep

Feeds on the selfless,

On living vacancies and unkempt lots.

What manner of animal am I?

Between my cloven hoof,

A posey abandons her wiles,

Fangs hooked into a plump ovary,

I question the validity of my love

The identity under which it was first framed,

The polarizing instincts that play on refrain.

What manner of animal I am?

If we are what we eat than I am,

Without a doubt, myself.

(Only man could harbor such sacrilege)

So I ask again what manner of animal am I?

The cruelest of all beasts,

Man cannot hear the tempo of his heart

Over the tantrum of his archaic brain.

Photo Challenge #62, Birds & Cages and Wordle #182



I pour the expletives censured in speech

Into the vital goblet housed within my breast

And though it spilleth over my parched throat

Croaks out only names and broken poems

Stripping the connections between

My meddlesome synapses

And my more wholesome bones.

Apocalyptic signs shore up my senses,

There is not conceived but despair.

How does one escape the sheets

When the morning has already fled?

I would ride the sun till its zenith

If I could fathom such a fascist heat.

There are cages that both open and close,

Cages that we enter at night

Under the guile of certain shadows.

There are cages in which birds still sing

And cages that in time give way to flight.

I thought I might live my whole life

Small and conspicuous like a fingerprint

Away a destination accessible only in hindsight

The walls around peristaltic and irascible

But forever does not apply to the human condition.

A threshold can be summoned from thin air

And then all it takes is a step or a stumble

To find oneself careening wildly into an alternate frame.







Wordle #62

Week 62

A truculent savior, knuckles browsing

The stria of my cloistered heart.

I peel my ribs away, slackened bandages

In the custody of your cloying reversions

Jeans erased at the knees,

Machinations spewing from a pewter mug

Bedraggled and thrust upon

I raise the nozzle, rainbows cowering

Behind the blemish of chronology.




Oral Section of the test complete. Thursday is hours of testing. Forgive me if I am slow this week.


Bloody Mary Wordle#182 and Writing Prompt#108


Brenda Warren

Lotion does not ease

The passage of a heart

Once the pulp has set,

Anymore than liquor

Exonerates the suffering soul.

We all have ghosts

In our mirrors and chickens

Dozing in the hinges

Of our open diaries.

My brain sloths in the presence

Of your pitiful machine.

I lust the reel behind

Your gimmick-ridden eyes,

It must be torture to live

Sewn into the uniform

Of your hypnotizing flesh

Never free the train that rapes you.

Nothing spoils like ink on revision

The sultry muse who teases

Without origination, without obligation.

The plump, unfertilized womb

That bleeds her loneliness monthly.

I await my divisions, my miracles

My tears burst on the pads of your thumbs

A diaphanous spore cannibalizing

What it cannot readily possess.




There exists in both squalor and dejection

A gift, a prize no scale can compensate

Though its weight is heavy for those

Who venture to lift it up.

My beginnings were but the scraps

Of another man’s ruinous end.

I have survived this and much more besides

My heart is damp and pungent

A fertile vat into which all invasions

Are tempered with growth.

Tis a fine thing indeed to be shit,

For every molecule contains life.

Wordle #183


Brenda Warren

A kiss fully enunciated

Will empty the lungs

But it is the heart

For which there is never hope

Enough to spare.

The doom of a great love

Can never be spared.

Pain is not intolerable,

We suffer in the name

Of all our causes and none

Quite so much as the right to live.

Pleasure takes courage,

To open oneself up to laughter,

To bare both secret and martyr

To a stranger, a fellow prisoner

In the membrane of a shadowed childhood.

Love takes the seer, however, apt or amiss

To a state not unlike insanity.

I shine, therefore, I am crazy.

One can neither underestimate

The tendency of diamonds towards blood

Nor the frailty of steel beneath magma.

One can never underestimate anything

As there is always a time and a place

For the unsuspecting victim to fall.


Moon Balcony

The moon spars under a black tarp,

An abrasion of silver glinting

Like the chords of a severed chrysalis.

Who unzips you, fictitious sister?

Who exsanguinates your ripe heart

That each month you retreat

Behind a famished smile?

Is it either the favored sun

Or the red-faced warlord

Opposed by your sovereign?


I wrote several little poems yesterday on the bus. I will be pretty distracted the next two weeks. My national exam is coming up and well I have a lot going on at the moment.