Music Prompt #2 “Italian Leather Sofa” by Cake

When meaning fails

She gathers the hem

Of her skirt, a flash

Of indiscretion

Like a smile, only sharper.

She is a tease, a spitfire,

A rift in his accounts.

He craves her because

She never spares him.

He likes the sound

Of silk being ripped

From expensive flesh.

She likes the shiv

Of his smile unbuttoning

Her overflowing blouse.

A passion that keeps them

Recoiling and rejoicing.

He craves her because

She never spares him.

Her laughter is

Like a truncheon

Exchanged beneath

His unfrequented ribs.

She has a love of numbers

And he so much to give,

Whether a dollar or an inch

He is always considerate.

She craves him because

He never spares her.

The press of her pelvis

Stamps out all memory

Of his failings

She likes the sound

His pockets make

When shaken.

He loves her violence

And she his.

A passion that keeps

Them clear of walls.

He craves her because

She never spares him.

I went with a more humorous approach to this one



Wordle #140


No one exits this love intact,

A means that pulverizes

All that would follow.

I am undone in the skeins

Of your bellicose poems

Still I attend, flying

With the force of eternity.

The shuttle came late

Another level of hell

Sought and overtaken,

Another star shaved down

To a less consequential flesh.

I roll your heart under my palm

Just enough heat to instigate.

A spider’s eyes, cinnamon spun

Spill from every echo

What could be more clear

Than a fool’s devotion?

I have only time for you,

To listen, to melt, to stutter

With the force of your attritional lips.

I paint my wrists with your initials,

My eyelids with your silhouette

The pith of your mischievous smile,

The mercy of my teeth as they trip

Over these catgut margins

Possession makes no difference

When together we are blessed.


Lately I have been struggling with writing, not for lack of desire but just old-fashioned stress. When I get too stressed and  have a lot to do I often experience some emotional blockages. This has nothing to do with the poem I am just saying how I am feeling at the moment.

Wordle #141


I love the way

You synchronize

With my eventualities.

My unholy integrals beckon

Your sick-sweet tincture,

Let others think what they will

I’ve enough pills to swallow.

So seldom do we

Live our lessons.

If it were enough

To struggle, my ideals

Might yet embark.

I’d rather draw an X

Than contemplate

Another map.

The tip of my tongue

Will suffice in conversation.

If I speak softly enough

Perchance you will hear

An answer not blasted by ego.

The tint of your smile

Stains my cheek

And what more can

Any man ask.

Photo Challenge #71 “Habitat” and Wordle #209

Habitat Neeraj


Fire and marshmallow

The rivers’ of hell blanket

A mutinous sky.

Beauty takes work

Artificial or authentic

Common as death,

We all have dreams.

A deserted habitat

Grasps for warmth,

For sunshine,

Even damnation

Would suffice

If to shift

These dreadful apathies.

I am tired of fun,

Of kayaks and camps

Of being acceptable.

Genius never sprang

From a stalk of celery

Sweat-flavored, anemic

We starve quietly,


Nothing fills us.




Wordle #71 “Man-Eater″

Week 71

A cheap geometric thrill,

The moon draws near

Mimicked in the carnage

Of an ill-begotten laugh.

No heart at all

Just a charnel pit used

For stowing future casualties.

My smile has been wrung many times,

Dirty rag, chicken neck, cathedral bell.

Goddess extends a hand, swan-like,

Nails chipped and smothered

In delinquent sunsets.

She speaks in echos, like a memory

Bracketed behind the eyelids.

Streetwise, my mind rejects

That which my body

Would gladly covet.

Ganglions stutter-

Refuse to disembark

As I stand basking

In my own creepiness

Ready to die for a cause

That jettisons all belief.


Writing Prompt #117 NoEnd House Part 2″ and Wordle #142


A cornflower sky folds

Behind a pair of captive mirrors.

The first to arrive

Often goes home alone.

(if at all)

Struck by the indifference

Of my own meager expectations

I wait, a bit of flesh

A filigree of scars,

Graven by the same hand

Meant to erase them.

I chew my index finger

Off at the root,

A spare key furnished

Of might and desperation.

Locked out, noncommittal

My lone heart sits ajar.

I chase doors as they form

In the caress of your eyes,

In the scarlet of worried lips.

A room swarms with echoes.

I thought I could pack you

Into my open wounds

But, however deep, the blood

Always seeps through.

I carry your heartache

In my unwashed skin

In the organs

Soft and unapproachable

Like metaphorical fruit.

My perfect dreams

Unraveling in the wake

Of a patient nightmare.



Music Prompt #1 “Saint Lawrence River” and Wordle #143

The storm in my heart

Dissolves in yours.

How precious these words

Haunting our borders

Lifeless after impact.

The price was too high

My need too intermittent

To justify the litter

Of your exclusion.

Nothing illuminates

Like your smile.

Remote beneath my own

Impossibility succumbs

To conscious delusion

We can still belong

If only…

Behind the scenes

Our masks freeze

Into place and I wonder

What it would feel like

To become you

In the absence of self

We might succeed

One unholy entity

Purified by the pools

Swelling beneath

Your impassive eyes.



The subject matter is different but this is what came to me when listening to the song

Wordle #144


What strange births are these

That yield my deficiencies

Into corporal form?

Not a mask but a cage

Of anatomy and spirit.

The ether bends

In regurgitation

Too many spoiled dreams,

Capped roots, nesting tongues

Blackened by the ink

Wept to persuade them.

She undresses her variables,

The twine woven between

Her sternum and back,

The snarling malignancies

Of a heart curled in on itself.

Their deaths conjure starlings,

Trinkets of flight and yearning

A song carried with the sigh,

A surreptitious, nullifying neglect.

There are too many mouths to feed

And too many preferences.

Heaven itself could not satisfy

However, sweet the diversion.

Artificial Thunder

There is nothing in the stars

That does not pass

From your exhalation into

My penitent lungs.

Unrecognized but for ink

I grow into the sheath

Of my incautious fears.

A weapon immobilized,

In a fount of slaughter.

Pain comes at the expense

Of life and in the exaltation.

These residuals, these eidolons

Cast into the borders

I haunt among them,

Manacles writhing like

Artificial thunder.

I roll myself out

My delirium, my flesh

Assuming your willing indenture.

If only I could forgive myself

As you have done.

Whatever the conditionals

My heart still gallops

Through the fire

Of our suspended rage.

Reconciliations that

May not hold but into which

We invest everything.