Wordle #165


There’s a pit where my spine

Used to be, a concavity absent

All the usual impositions.

The stiffest drink is a meager

Approximation for vim and valor

And nothing repulses more

Than the uncanny valley

Of total inebriation, the emptiness,

The almost endearments,

The flailing excuses for an utter lack

Of quantifiable fortune.

My chest is full of half-eaten sixes

And the rubble of unlit chimneys.

Face first in a porcelain muzzle

I revisit my life, my habits, the cliffs

Both surmounted and impassible

Straining to hear a whistle

That will summon me

From the rip in both heart and gut.

I have drilled into this ache

Split the doors and windows

As if they were constellations

Woven of papery refuse.

I have dreamed of finding love

Despite flaccid instigation.

I have wished for many things

But I have managed only

To pass the time.


Wordle #166


A penny prays in the gutter

But not even the tarot will answer

Without an exchange of commodities

Or salacious fluids and a penny is nothing

If not followed by a more persuasive sum.

The copper of your overturned kiss

Dances through my blood, a plague,

A gyration in the dreadful stillness

Of my once gun-wielding heart.

I could love you, levitating, lubricating

A single touch to ease an intrinsic slaughter.

Seduction through the application

Of feverish hands lacks finesse but in a pinch

Anyone will do and I’ve a creature inside of me

That demands the darkness inside of you.

Photo Challenge #65 and Wordle #167 “Runaway”

Zwobel Sad Girl


Her unseamed flesh suggests neither

Fall nor insurgence but a sorrow

More prolific and pandemic than grain.

The dirty halo of her ancestors afflicts

Not through acquisition but through attachment.

A slavering of words unfit for a child’s ear,

A slavering of fists unfit for a child’s possession.

They’ve pierced her heart, worms

In the apple of eyes too blind to glint.

A key scratching door after door

In hopes of reconciling the fit.

There are no players in this game

No levels and no present moments

Worth the labor of acquisition.

Her mind approaches the air

Drinking in each passage, each tornado

As if it were a fever, a phase

In the consistency of consciousness.

Her red shoes splinter the ground

On which they rest, the unseen dervish

The mangled bike in search of vagrancy.

Her dress woven of snow-white cotton

Does not chance upon the sun

But on the slow and singular articulations

Of a moon half-risen and slightly strained.




Wordle #65 “Night Terror”

Week 65

I delve into the hollows ablating your eyes

Into the magniloquent breasts and the smile

Marinating luridly on your incomprehensible face.

The picture frame on my bed does not help

To recover your beauty, the reservoir

Where you sleep and sour, the sacred stricture,

The murky ablutions that eat your flesh

As the adhesions on a strip of filthy tape.

What dreg did you succumb to? What nightmare?

Tonight I remember only the horror,

The terrible grief, the breath-stealing punch.

What brutal tide has commissioned you?

How is it that you exist in this unfit world?

In these dark recesses? In this dream

Which is not a dream at all but a panic?




Wordle #169


I stitch the eclipse stirring

In the cheeky blue of your irises

That the blackness

Will not engulf me.

A shot of stars assemble

Piecemeal in your throat

In the manufactured room

Between your elegant thighs.

There are a million honors

I could bestow but compared

To your name they are lackluster.

I grip your sides,

Salubrious fluids merging

After a triumphant hike

Through your wilderness.

Wordle #168


I set fire to your image,

A simpering candle

Dissolving into sebaceous rain.

I slip into a ragged cape

Woven with the ghosts

Of our conjoined blood.

Arms palpitant in a blind wind,

I head off for your grave,

The rupture in our mission,

The rapacious hills of the dead.

Will I subsist in your absence,

In the cradle of my ineptitude?

Will the smoke darken

On reaching your immobile grin

A reaper to upend you in

The forgetful tides of the river Styx.

Life is not so simple

It happens with or without


In the blink of an eye,

In the midst of bone-stripping fire.

It stops for no man whatever his value.

I pray and preach to an empty choir.

How your death sickens me,

Whittles away every vestige

Of my salvation and humanity.


Well I managed mysteriously to get a poem in!

Wayfaring and Tale Weaver #17 – Making Sense Of Nonsense – Gontorlic Trubutions

I spill from a keratin hull

The color of sunshine

And preseminal fluid

A colloidal halo,

A palatable sluice

I travel from ovary

To effusive epiphany

Swallowing entire

Continents between.

A wayfarer, a reprobate

I shuffle my tarot pack

Dividing and divining.

What will come

Of my next rebirth

Of the gontorlic tribulations

Edging out the surfaces

Of my indulgent spleen?


Words: 62

Time: 10 minutes

Tony invited me to do this challenge and here’s how it goes

By the way his amazing entry can be found here

1) open an ms word document (or any other editor)
2) set a stop watch or your mobile of 5-10 mins.
3) your topic is at the foot of this post. DO NOT SCROLL DOWN TO SEE IT UNTIL YOU ARE READY WITH A TIMER.
4) fill the word document with as much wordage as you want. once you start writing, don’t stop.
5) do not cheat by going back and correcting spellings and grammar with spell check. (this is only meant for you to reflect on your control over sensible thought flow.)
6) you may or may not pay attention to punctuation and capitals.
7) at the end of your post write down the number of words.
8) do not forget to copy and paste the entire passage to your

blog post with a new topic.

i pass on this word challenge to my fellow bloggers:


Rebelle Angel




your word: conspiracy

I also included TaleWeavers as it was stuck in my mind after reading! As I explained to Tony the inside of my head is a strange place and without much time to write well I had no idea what was going to fall out of my subconscious.

Also tomorrow I am busy all day so I am not sure I can get out a poem for Saturday.

Where is Yves?

I have had an unusually hectic and busy week and there is more to come yet. I simply did not have time to write and I am too exhausted! I can say one thing though. I passed my National Swedish Exam and my course! So I get to move on to the next level. Theoretically of course if I switch schools to go to the closer school, it would be in a new district and I would have to retest. A retest could put me back where I started if the requirements in the new district are higher or if I choke during the interview. I really like the people in my class but the commute is long. On the other hand hubbie works in the city I commute too which means I can sometimes meet with him, but if I go to the closer school that won’t be possible. If I go to the closer school I can save a few hours possibly. I have no way of guaranteeing next term that my classmates would be the same either and I know some are moving on to various other things. I am still uncertain but I must make a decision soon.

Wordle #170 and Photo Challenge #64, Pathway

pathwayOer Wout

The leaves laid low,

Swarm underfoot.

Thriving under my invertebrate

And inconstant passions.

The forest catches in the spinnerets

Of my pregnant eyelashes.

I jump within and without,

A hanging locust, a codex of storms

Lacking both wherewithal

And directional fidelity.

A false foyer, a brittle origami canopy

The creature in me fearful

Of the incoming light,

Of that magical door

White as an unconscious eye.

How can I live without my electrons?

My empty purse unzipped and stained black

With an excess of whiles and words

That heart, stricken, hums

Fog spilling through her glasgow grin.




Wordle #171


Shadows stain my hallow core,

Bats dabbling in the hunt

Unfolding one moldy thrill at a time.

The ooze of my childhood

Primordial and faintly heretical.

Art can never be shallow.

My heart whacks with revelation.

I catch the shards

Of her indiscriminate blasts

Like cloves of unpressed garlic.

I strip their papery carapaces,

The detritus of unskilled wings

From the sticky center.

Ink is my choice of nectar

The toxicity of a sweetness

That cannot be directly imbibed.

I spit the pages from my belly

An aggregate of offal and pollen

The best and the worst in me.