Six for Wednesday ~ 3 “Schrödinger’s Cat”


Your heart keeps shattering
my grave expectations.
Strips of canvas drenched
in carnivorous red.
Signs, oracles, prophets
What is to come? What is to come?

Drums forged in human morass.
Tight panicked rows of teeth,
you grind me to a pulp.
Hull smashed and spit
to the far corners.
No one knows if we’re alive or dead.

I’ve taken the cat out for a walk,
I sense her humiliation
the staccato steps, a tinnitus of defiant shrieks.
Where are we going?
From which box are we to be exhumed?
Does it even matter which planet we live on?


Wordle #77

Week 77

The potency of your apothegms

Drapes my darkness in regalia.

I grope your hazel eyes

In a mutually appreciative gaze.

I am tatterdemalion,

A leopardess in a nun’s habit.

I am alone in a room

Full of sidling,

Skull-faced strangers.

Elixirs of light, prisms of sound

You are my luminary

The swell of azure

Under a cavalcade of stars.


This Wordle was tough



Bloody Knees

Your eyes slither in moonlight

Swell up to the heavens

And dissipate under the gravity

Of your intransigent mutations.

Almost is more often the case.

Almost is necessary for what follows.


The only questions worth pursuit

Or those with uncertain answers.

I adorn each day a new striation

Is this the way I am to age

Emboldened with strange motifs

And voices that echo before they speak?

Do nightmares penetrate the outer hull

The same as conscious wounds?

Why else would I carry them so long

If the blood was not comparably red?


Who can claim perfection?

Another failure precipitated by inaction

A mannequin would be a more convincing host.

If time permits I might even survive.

It holds that those who hunger

For absolutes are always the first to starve.

I sit here on a filthy curb picking scabs

Butterflies relaying songs of the dead

Through my mutilated knees.

Tale Weaver Prompt #3 Making Sense of the Nonsense (and a note for photographers)

He called himself a Grezzle

Though no one knew

What the appellation implied.

Was it an endearment from youth?

Did it indicate his rank or station?

Was it a gang sentiment or warning?

Was it nonsense or the abbreviation

Of an equally improbable brand?


I could discern nothing in the vacuum

That had absolved him entirely from sight

And I suspect the nothingness

Ran deep for his smile too was empty

A basin, a scoop, queerly toothless.

Whatever may be gleaned from his omissions

He suffered no infirmary.

His thoughts were voluminous

Beyond our petty human musings.

I found myself fumbling

Within his scarred orifices

Infinite and minute

He became an object of great fascination

Like a local quarry or a derelict house.


I suspect he was not a man

An alien, a demon, a quasi god perhaps

But no man ever lived such as this.

A Grezzle may well have been a sentient

As of yet unrecorded.

He lived amongst us

Curiously, in his corner house

Arranged with doll-like fragility.

He never sat in those timid chairs

Or laid in his well-dressed bed

He didn’t even bother to disguise

The plastic fruit

The neat rows of unused china cups

The gape-mouthed closets

That held not a stitch.


I believe the only object

For which he had any use

Were the books

But he did not read them

He opened his great round mouth

And swallowed them whole.

Then to our amusement

He’d recite the entirety of them

Male or female, young or old

He could become anyone

And had he access to our diaries

He might well have taken our souls.


I think I may have loved him

To look into that mouth, like a universe

I felt things more immense

Than the heart set to contain them

I knew things that words cease to mention

Though not for want of trying.

His jaw and nose were perfect

The thick hair that never wholly settled

The great height and the athletic form

The patient eyelids forever pressed

And those lips behind which nothing

And everything was simultaneously glimpsed

There is no doubt that he saw me,

Every molecule

Even my nonsense must have meant

A good deal more to him than it did to me

For he always took the time unravel it.


We made a monument for him,

A great black obelisk

Which stood outside

The now gutted library

On the day he disappeared

(and he really did right in the middle of tea

his unfilled cup the very last implication

Of his occupancy)

Instead of flowers, sheaths of paper

Of poems and cockeyed manuscripts

From the grandest to the most feeble

Of our literary attempts

And though we never saw him again

I suspect he saw us quite clearly

For every page was seized by morning.


This character is influenced somewhat by a character called O in Planescape Torment but I put my own spin on it. I love creating characters and couldn’t resist using Grezzle as a name XD




If you are willing to share your photos for inspiration and use at my writing group Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie please  contact me either by email or in the comments below. We will give credit and link up to your site(s). If you have any additional stipulations or requests please explain in your message.




Our hearts are bent

Like pennies on a track

An effigy to pain,

Irrelevant as candlesticks

Behind yellow tape,

We who are in

A constant state of extremity

Cannot breathe when idle


My hands are the Devil’s soldiers

They run on enigma and ash

Between the two of us

I’d rather change

The distance of necessity

Being itself a form of resurgence

I am the Judas to your martyrdom

The spreader of chaos and suspense


My loathsome angels

Hasten toward oblivion

You in powder blue turn aside

Your sententious facades

Embrace the scythe-eyed construct

The copper fruit of the conversant


No one speaks

With their eyes anymore

It’s all wilted daises

And chemical interventions

What’s the use of flesh

In this synthetic domain?


The platform is scarred

And if you knew me

You’d recognize the beast

Within these variegated lines

Pretty doesn’t persist

In the eyes of a stranger

Give your heart only

To those willing

To reveal their defects


Full of anxiety, my mind is all over the place hence this strange little poem. The candlestick bit refers to Clue because it was a common murder weapon. I was totally obsessed with Clue when I was a child/teen.



Art By: Thomas Bak

Alice stands twelve feet tall in a village

Colonized by fetishes and paper flowers

Her powder blue dress is an emancipated sky

That mitigates disbelief by secularizing fear

Stones dance impishly around her chaste knees

Unwelcome and altogether too uncommon

She folds her limbs around a nomadic tree

Betwixt her ribs, a blood-fueled lantern

Instigates the most curious appetites

“Where” she wonders “Shall I venture next?”


Where this came from I’ve no idea perhaps I’ve gone a bit daft.  I have been trying desperately to rid my computer of viruses. I’ve had some major performance issues and I think I may have done something positive and productive now fingers-crossed lol

The Death Of Me


Doves fall

From the firmament

Hematic eyes


Angelic vestments

Can I be saved

Once trodden?


I rescind

This masquerade

When the threads

Of pretension

Are too frayed

To conceal the heart

On which they feast


I disown the self

Rising petulant from

A dystopian mindscape

With whose delusions

Do I consort?


My bones

Are too heavy

My lying flesh

Too loose to gather

An angular womb

Suffocates truth


Chalk-drawn smile

Do I lament?

The death of Caricature

Or Singularity?

This is about the fear of self and paradoxically disguise, the struggle with identity and finding the balance between truth and drama. My writing is still suffering from the lack of thought cohesion. I can’t even say I am uninspired because I feel like there are ideas knocking around I just can’t catch on to any of them!



I watch you

Slide away

Stark as the bones

Of a Paleolithic ghost


To half existence

I fear that you will


If not insensate

Than carnivorous


Did I leave you


With pieces

That break apart

On conception

Am I the origin

Of that impious

Numeral six

Penned above

Your skulking lids?


I can only say that I am listening to incredibly strange music at the moment

Hello Friend, Well Met


My brain slides metaphorically to the right

I brush stardust from knee high boots

The residue of prophesied macrocosms

I am the Sandman’s illegitimate daughter

I dream defiantly even upon waking

The sun cannot outshine my imagination

I navigate exclusively by latitude

North or South. High or Low

I am only horizontal when lying down


I want to make doors to other dimensions

I want to be completely improbable

Like a magician without the spectacle

Drama is better when tectonic

In regards to life I find gratitude

More accordant with enlightenment

I conspire with madness to heighten potential.

I want to scribble without ingratiating margins

In protest of a fascist rhetoric

I want to “do” and not “dither”

To look smiling into the mirror and say

Hello friend, well met