Vengeful Spirit

I could be a chrysanthemum

in the hands of a child

or a bronze bell

sitting stupefied in the shrine

of any number of saints.

But I am more like an unshakeable ferocity

that forms itself again and again

in the jutting of hips

and the gnashing of teeth.

My emotions are vengeful spirits,

torches burning blue

in the fanatical condolence

that is sleep.

A heart which is part stomach,

a pelvis gutted like a Jack-O-Lantern,

a fan of hands which sweep away

the remains of a day

that ended on a sour note.

Happiness is rage.

Sorrow is a kind of seething hatred.

Intimacy can only be found in softness.

To overcome me

is to breach the invertebrate shell.

It is the palest of deaths.

I have given birth to infinities

and to a thousand screeching indignities.

The waves are restless about me.

I travel beneath them

like a hunter whose only weapons

are that which can reasonably fit inside the body.

Blood, bones, and organs.

Vulnerability cannot be extinguished.

It is the best and worst of what a man can be

and the sharpest of blades.

I have tasted and tortured.

I have walked up the wall

and back down again

without a sense

of where I am going.

-Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash


Wordle #67

Week 67

Your silent cantillations foam

At the gorge between your lips.

Body a rocking horse

Broken across the saddle.

Fistulas rendezvous

In your purloined heart.

Grief is hideous

Underneath your skin.

I enter the bazaar,

Inching my way

Across the diameter

Grappling my way

Through your foreboding.

Wracked and loaded with pain,

The shadow beneath you

Comes off in flakes

As if it too were incinerated.

No one hurts as fiercely as you do.

I shift the junk

In my pocket book

Passing out tissues to all

Who will take them.

Your dwindling eyes spilling

Fruitlessly over the asphalt

There is nothing here, no one

To haul away your sadness

And I am a pitiful excuse.


Not back yet

Wordle 40 “Bankrupt”

Wordle 40 Dec. 22

The sun shrinks,


Like a bead of sweat

Behind a linen blouse.

The once wed mother

Swallows a desert

The vile, grainy tears

That hold fast their parapets.


She is bankrupt

While he lies deep

Sound but without ventilation

In the monochrome spectrum

Of her scorpion heart.


That he should die first

That his vices should

Diminish her now

That he should steal

From their children

With debts not their own

Steadies her sentimental yearnings.


A drumbling man

A cactus whose love

Hath no measure

For to chance upon it

Brings only pain

She grits her teeth

And this too is mourning.


A very quick write.

Walking Away

Walk Away By LietingaDiena

LietingaDiena@Deviant Art

In the sole’s of your boots

I followed, piecemeal

Down the stairs

My heart’s regressing lament

Thumping like the sound

Of a secret door

Ensuing the acquisition

Of a psychopath


Only a shell can breach

Our contract and thanks

To your tending

I’ve grown empty, lucid

Like a uterus

That no longer insulates

Now that I am not a woman

I know what it means

And why I can never

Return to you


There’s a crawl space

Inside of me,

Just big enough

For a clenched fist

Gaping like the mouth

Of a well, so dark

That I’ve never seen

The bottom.

I wear it like a badge,

It’s a point of pride

That I’ve survived you.


I hope that you

Never escape blame

That everyone

Who looks at you

Sees my blood

And recognizes

At once the crime

I’ll never speak of you

I’ve expended enough time

And there’s nothing

Left to say

Wordle #24 “Fifth Circle”

Week 24

It was as if a fracture had opened beneath the floorboards, cutting through the very fabric of space and time, of sentience and senescence. Such was the mephitic stench, a scent like dying, like the slow simmer of rotten meat at the base of a muculent stew. The smell was a static one, not even the breath of Spring could relinquish its constancy. Lamps suspended midair, as if the inimical vapor had solidified forming invisible shelves. The ivory walls bloomed red and then black as if the wounds decayed on acquisition. A single voice assaulted the air as an alarm, rising steadily in intensity. The voice was mine, albeit octaves higher than the one chosen for speech.

I had heard the rumors of infestation, everything from poltergeists to portals. This room in particular seemed to exist between dimensions. Each morning I crossed that threshold and each morning I retreated half-way not from the horror of it but from the anger that rose up within me. I clenched my fists till the blood formed, as sickles in the indentures fashioned by my nails. My mouth tasted of marrow and offal as if I’d bitten into the flesh of the walls. My breath came in visible gasps, like the bestial steam of frenzied cattle. I felt violent beyond my means.

I detested that room but my visits became more frequent. I’d wake in the night finding myself mid-stroll soaked in sweat and smelling of vomit. Eventually the smell began to permeate my clothes and skin. People kept their distance, first strangers than friends. I began to hate (those I loved especially). I sent them gifts from my hunting trips but only the leavings. I sent them letters, cruel and cryptic poems that I knew would both offend and frighten. I came to enjoy their tears and dismay, to relish them as I had once relished their smiles and greetings. I had so little reason to hate them that I invented their crimes until their fear and discomfort furnished me with the catalyst of neglect.

I moved my bed and desk into the room that I could stay there while I slept and worked. The room that I had only entered in order to discover the source of its sickness, but within which I could never remain long enough to rectify, became my sanctuary. And I in turn became the room.



Anton Semenov

A rage both impossible and irresolute

I have no credence to my favor

No leniency in which to stash my fangs

I am wronged by my own wrongness

A hypochondriac devoted to anomaly

A portrait for each asylum, a zero, a space

Essential to calculation but itself meager


My guilt is not simply for show

It is an occupation by which I rend

My heart as if it were a hymen

In the incidentals of a precocious terror

I am a paper moon cast in admonishment

A one-dimensional puppet leaping

From mirror to mirror in search of a face,

A visage less pained to occupy my vanity


Prompt 46 Bitter Loathing


This week’s prompt is bitter loathing. Know anyone who cannot let go of a grudge? Who continues to hate and behave hatefully? Who remains consumed/obsessed with a specific person and/or specific event? Have you found there is someone that even after years you still cannot forgive? A person that brings out the worst in you? A relationship that even if long extinguished leaves the taste of grapefruit in your mouth?

Venus vs. Mars

Room_II_by_the_surreal_artsArt By: the-surreal-arts

Her pitiless eyes

Hang from the ceiling

Like exposed light bulbs

Pendulous and accusatory

I plead simplicity

Scarifying palatable alibis

With my inconsonant grin


She poses in silence

Features tarnished and angular

I wrap my knuckles

Metaphorically against her chest

The wind howls contemptuously

From betwixt iron-plated ribs


Her ellipse is vulturine

Folded arms poetizing assault

If only her fists fell instead

Then I could wrap my arms

Around her tremulous form

And restore this wicked flame

To its rightful red


Some days I have trouble finding my muse and today was one of those days!

Dark Season


I tore into you this morning

I can’t remember the motive

But this dark season

Never seems to change


All our days rest critical

In the belly of a ravine

Like the dismantled girls

Of serial delusionists

Despite association

There exists a loneliness

More pervasive in knowing


No matter the volume

Of the expletives consumed

This noxious silence

Remains unbroken

Our pockmarked hearts

Retire from war

Assume a truce

That is itself injurious


Our bedroom is split

With yellow tape

Both perpetrator and victim

We bond to our respective sides





This is a reblogged post but I deleted the original and posted it normally. This particular post had no views, comments, or likes and I wanted to make sure everyone could view the post in full with no weird complications. I realize some of you are having difficulty with the reblogged posts I have had issues myself in the past.

First you need to visit my WordPress page

Then click on the title of the poem you would like to view “Bonsai” for example

Lastly click on the black link that appears above the photograph Reblogged from mindlovemisery clicking on that link will take you to the original post.  If you have followed these steps and the like button is still invisible or there is any other weirdness please let me know.

I am not sure how reblogged posts work through reader but I have a suspicion that it’s not functioning properly as I am receiving notifications for likes that do not appear on the actual posts


Wojtek Siudmak Polish Surrealism born 1942 5 stars [] finery-of-the-nightArt By: Wojtek Siudmak

I felt my rage turning

Like the mephitic stench

Of a witch’s brew

Every orientation

An extension of the same

Grotesque palate

In the hemlock green

Of my incensed gaze

You sat

In an empty chair

Abridged and maligned

Until naught

But your shadow