Wordle #147 “March 20th, 2017″

Week 147.png

The night is a ballet of light and shadow,
staccato and interminable I echo with desire.
I burn beneath the moon’s levitation.
She is iridescent, mother of pearl,
uncharacteristically immense.
I latch onto her with reverence and foreboding.

I am inseparable from myself
though my legs strain
with the effort to deliver me astray.
I am a perfect and disquieting fracture,
I am heat without a definitive source.
Where is my heart
when I’m in need of a sacrifice?

What use have I of memories?
Memories incite me only
to stillness and paranoia.
Where is my passion,
my great unnerving hope?
Where is the harmony
begotten of my tribal roots?
I am more riddle than heliotrope.

I understand the flame,
that in weeping I consume adjacent bodies,
that even purity sheds itself and is extinguished.
It is intention alone that I cannot grasp
how right thought can bleed
so readily into misdemeanor

What purpose does my crookedness serve?
Can one manufacture experience
through the consolidation of thought alone?
I await that precise moment,
the moment of flashover when the moon
casts her grin like a sickle across
my still quivering throat.



My viscera wilts sick from withholding.

My hands fall in tatters.

My jaw is a fortress of incomplete sentences.

I smuggle in secrets, tangents, moods

each one vaguer and more explicit than the next.

What becomes of those who cannot commit to freedom?

I am concave, an empty womb,

a shy moon rocking on its side,

a sliver of shadow

in a rhetorical human casing.

I have never truly loved myself

but I have tolerated worse.

My fingers are numb with lacing.

My face is a bowl of water without the quiver.

I am ready to pounce

but I lack the gravity of expectation.

What I believe and what I deserve rarely coincide.

I am in need of a blessing

but too dumb to reproduce

the details of my bondage.

How does one approach death unannounced?

Who recovers him when he returns to dust?

I was once a figment

translucent and multi-dimensional.

Now I am a destination

full of empty houses

and rust-rotted automobiles piled

posthumously into towers too precarious to climb.

Will you love me tomorrow

when I am just as imperfect,

when I lack the easement of my finely attuned senses,

when erosion has absconded with everything

but my beloved melancholia?

I cannot compete with the then

of your tiresome nostalgia.

I am but a momentary thing

recklessly new and irrevocably ancient.

Wordle #146 “March 13th, 2017″

Week 146.png

We sit adjacent
under a canopy of stars
pondering our own irreversible margins.
Pear-shaped and diminished
I simmer in the realization
that I exist only as a concept.

Ashen clouds bleed and stray
what once passed for clarity
yields to oversight and exposure.
We hold each other until
there is nothing left to surrender
only the implacable sense of wytai.

I chew my nails flush.
More lodestone than millstone
I keep coming back
to the moment of infestation.
You are the one to harm, the elect.

The moonlight billows and growls.
We stand naked hips bracketed,
hearts unlaced and recall with affection
what it is to be wholly/holy human.

Cold, Spring Fever, and Haircuts

Curious Flowers

Head Cocked

I have a cold. I am not the only one though both Sam and Isadora have colds as well. The last few days I have been sticking to yoga-type workouts. I have also been taking naps! Usually I don’t nap because it ruins my sleep. I have been sleeping heavily both during my naps and at night and I am still feeling exhausted! The cold part of the cold hasn’t been so bad actually very minimal congestion and runnage. It is mostly extreme fatigue, fever (very persistent), and body pain. For me the body pain is in the hips down to the knees and the thoracic spine. For Sam it seems to be all over particularly in the neck. His cold started with a migraine. Isadora’s also started with a headache. She doesn’t seem to have body pain though and has more congestion/leakage (not much fever either). I have had…

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Writing Prompt #199 “Special Collage and A World Apart 6″

(This is a little all over the place and very long. There is no real conclusion to this because it just a window into a character.)

On entering Fallow Farce, he had encountered the guardians of Ocanthus. They’d been reluctant to admit him. He who’d created all the particulars necessary for their existence. He was one of them, a Void, but his altered appearance had rendered him incongruous with their assumptions. He was not a God, not exactly, even if history acknowledged him as such. He was a scientist. He was adept at magic, a little too adept for uncomplicated access to the entropic realm that was as much his identity as his home. He had not come to enforce order, merely to shatter his own pretenses. If he wanted to enter Fallow Farce than he had to castrate himself. A restraining device. What a joke. For one such as himself it was trivial to dismantle and yet he wore it now voluntarily. The device did not interfere with his immediate plans. He still had magic, it was just subdued.

He experimented heavily on himself, going so far as to irrevocably alter his constituent pieces. He was an aggregate of many races but he belonged now to a race all his own. His thick, silver hair was pulled back into a sloppy, convenient bun. His skin was a luminous, golden beige. His eyes were a disarming sapphire, framed in heavy silver lashes. He had wings, the debased, black, feathered-wings of a fallen angel. His horns were purple and gold. His beauty was astounding, no not astounding, it should have been astounding but he had not made it so. He’d left the scars on his back and the burns on his forearms. He could have erased them but he didn’t want to forget all that he had endured. Endurance was one of his more redeeming qualities.

His first specimen just happened to be the guardian who’d collared him. He paid the other male in jink. Such arrangements were unheard of in Fallow Farce but the watcher was planning a vacation to Sigil and money was necessary elsewhere. So far no other volunteers had presented themselves. There were limits to having a single test subject. He’d have to convince others, one of the Dread-Bringers perhaps.

He’d lived so long that the designation of an age no longer had any comprehensible meaning. He’d grown cold and detached. His mind was sharper than ever but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d loved someone. Most of his time was spent in isolation. His research had become the outlet for all his impulses. Sometimes he and the guard engaged in a purely esoteric form of intimacy. Their souls bled into each other. Their consciousness mingled. Only his consciousness was closed, inscrutable to his younger, less experienced companion. He on the other hand, knew every thought that flicked through the guard’s head. Brief as fireflies. The other man’s thoughts were nothing like his own thoughts. They were simple, untethered, phaseal. The sentry was, at the very core of his being, virtuous (albeit a bit uncouth in practice). As for his own moral interior how could he judge it? He was a scientist driven by curiosity, by madness, by obsessions. He did not think himself capable of frivolous emotions. Experience was the core of belief.

The watcher did not love him, not exactly. He feared him. He desired him to the point of self-destruction. He called their relationship a sickness. That was a suitable enough explanation. As for his own feelings they were not nearly so flattering. The guard was available and robust. If only he could take some of the man’s virtue and vitality and become someone entirely new. Yes he craved the man’s influence. He wanted to be awed again, to be stricken, to be punished by his emotions. He who appeared ageless, desired youth. More aptly he desired naiveté. He too wanted a mind that burned and faltered.

He gazed into his empty glass. His throat burned. His thoughts expanded, ever-so-slightly. He did not look around the room. He raised his hand absently, one more drink and he’d head back to the lab. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home. The last time he’d slept deeply. Dreams offered little reprieve, his thoughts always interjected, superseded, watered his fantasies down to variables. The notion that he could borrow someone else’s dreams occurred to him then. If not for the collar he could’ve scanned the room telepathically. He briefly looked up from his glass. He saw the watcher seated at the bar. Sometimes when he saw the sentry he felt that he was looking at a younger version of himself. They had nothing in common with each other it was just a side-effect of their “activities”. What they were doing was much worse than sex, infinitely more complicated, infinitely more dangerous. Only the guard didn’t fully comprehend the risks or perhaps he simply didn’t want to comprehend them. Either way if they continued their course, the weaker male would be consumed.

The watcher turned around and held his glass up as if in silent toast. They had a shared sense of proprioception. He felt everything the guardian felt, at least in a physical sense. A few more sessions and they would share emotions as well. The guard smiled at him crookedly but didn’t get up. They didn’t talk much in public because then it would have become obvious the off-ness of their relationship. They often mirrored each other, though it was only a compulsion not exactly mandatory, not yet. Whenever the sentry smiled he felt his own lips twitch and his muscles ached with unfamiliarity. The guard was all Void. Two meters to his 2.6 meters. Sapphire skin. Dark purple hair, arranged into long dreads. Purple richly decorated horns. Haunting lavender eyes. Strong facial structure. Broad shoulders, Defined musculature. Uncomfortably handsome.

It was a shame to ruin him. To dominate him as he knew he would if they ever fully merged. It could not be helped. His will was just too strong. The guardian would remain alive inside of him, a spark, a thrill, a fresh perspective.

He had a high tolerance for alcohol and compelling reasons to drink. He was typically entertained by a female Void named Curiosity. She was sarcastic and sullen and altogether too jaded and intelligent to work in such a place. She wasn’t interested in sex or romance. She was popular for her wit and her story-telling. She’d traveled all over the multi-verse, even into the formless realms of creation itself. They did not need to talk for theirs was an understanding beyond friendship. Sometimes they just sat together drinking and watching other people filter in and out of the club. She kept the more enthusiastic hosts from bothering him. She knew the truth of his intentions but said nothing. She would never submit herself to experimentation. She was too smart for that.

“Everyone is transparent when you get to be as old as we are…” She sighed and there was a sadness to her voice that only he could conceivably understand.

“Have you considered taking nepenthe?” He had considered it himself but it wasn’t really amnesia he sought, it was naivety.

“I have…but if you’re successful absorbing that guardian…you’ll need someone to mind you…someone who knows who you are encase you forget…” She said turning back to him, half-serious, half-mocking. She was also lying. She was afraid of taking nepenthe, afraid of trading one ego for another.

“I have read them you know…the journals you gave me…” She offered unapologetically. He’d given them to her for safe-keeping encase the experiment with the guard went sideways. The journals were all personal, his scientific journals were in a safe in the lab.

“And?” He asked nonplussed. They had no real secrets between. She knew his name. His name which carried the weight of the world with it.

“You’re brilliant and you’re terrible…I’m glad you prefer men…” She said laughing, her husky unused laugh gave him a sense of hope. She still had so much feeling left in her after all these years. He felt very little save for the persistent rumble of his libido.

“What did you prefer before…you lost your sex drive?” He asked, they never took offense to each other. They spoke with shocking openness. They gave each other unsolicited advice, advice they never imposed.

“I don’t think I ever had a preference to be honest. I have only been in love once though…if you can believe it…with a mortal…during my travels…but if you want to know more read my memoirs…” She hadn’t written them, it was on her to do list.

“How about I just read your journals…” He knew it would irritate her but he also knew that she would allow it. She could hardly refuse him.

“Pfft…it’s only fair…” She shrugged but she was clearly miffed. “You’ll read them just to get me back…so childish..” She wagged a disapproving finger at him. He would read them but not entirely for the sake of a little juvenile teasing.


Wordle #145 “March 6th, 2017″

Week 145

Where do we stand
when the ground beneath
fails to convey us?

Without filter
your exotic eyes burn
into my soul’s ellipses.
Two-cornered and primitive
I rage against the rictus
of my own mispronounced smile.

That I possessed your longanimity
I might recover, steady and triumphant
but beneath the clock’s beguiling noise
I fold myself into fetal crescents.

The jailer within me cringes
with afflatus, emeralds brace themselves
and are born into a swarm of pasty stars.

I back away slowly from the ledge
invisible and momentous
I take your hands among others
and begin the long journey home.

Photo Challenge #154 and Wordle #144


My blood caramelizes
under the swelter
of an implausible embrace.
Drenched in tears
as wide and iridescent
as dragonfly wings
I blunder without collapse.

Will you enter me thus,
flawed and apotropaic?
I have abandoned the war,
the constant need
to justify my difference.
I am good enough.

My sceleras curdle
under the intensity
of a protracted gaze.
The lucida beckons
from beneath a welling
of lovesick clouds
and among them
I count not a single sheep.

My feathers droop
mired in my own
intransigent and primordial urges.
The shadows grind and grimace
against a backdrop of emaciated trees.
Where is my annus mirabilis
my bald and unsubstantiated truth?


Can Pekdemir