Festering Vengeance

I break each piece in half

And press those shivs,

With which my heart

Was once composed,

Into an envelop.

That gruesome parcel will arrive

Without fanfare or caveat

And you on opening

Will without thought, consume.

May those brutal lozenges

Lodge in your throat

Trapping your voice

And its deceptions forever

In a breathless barricade.

My love is a terrible thing.

I have trained my memories

So that I no longer favor you.

I have trained my flesh,

To accommodate the cold

Of your unsolicited absence.

I have plugged the holes

In my chest with strips

Of forgotten shirts and sewn tight

The aorta that my heart,

May, in its deadness, simmer.

There will be no sudden

Fits of mercy or amnesia.

Hate must be tended like a fire.

I will not ebb into forgiveness

Nor drain the venom

That you have injected.

I’ll let it kill me as surely

As I kill you and only then

Will I be satisfied.


Some time ago we did a series of prompts for which I gave only two words and asked the participants to embody the emotion or to create an experience based on the words. I had quite a bit of fun with that prompt series and so I gave myself these two words to work with. This is completely fictional.

Wordle #81

Week 81

I keep sugar cookies in a tin

By loaves of gasping letters.

Animal print scabs clutch

At my heart, scurrilous stamps

Ripped from the corners

And taped impersonally

To sheets of college-ruled paper.

A warehouse claws

At the horizon with its filthy eyes

And I think of you blinking

In distress at concessions

That no longer suit our needs.

I hate you, particularly myself

But what is the difference?

The rivets carrying my smile

Have rusted and my lips

Ground into a fermented pulp

No longer conceal the teeth behind them.

Your mouth objects like boards over

An unthinkable and terrible space.

There is nothing to be said or done,

Nothing to be arranged or emptied,

Photo Challenge #73, Crowned, August 11, 2015

Crown Nataliadrepina

– Natalia Drepina

She was in love with dying,

With dark men and hearts

Paper fine and sharp with

Designations of murder.

She courted assassins

With hinged, irreverent smiles

And tragic histories

Impassibly deep.

Her filthy hands prickled

With malignancies self-induced.

A bramble of twigs

Sewn into an unassuming chignon.

She played the widow,

She played the cello,

She rode the devil

Strait to hell.

No one was surprised

When her tombstone

Sprang up suddenly

In a bed of hyphenated roses

But they all grieved

Sensing within themselves

Similar vacancies.

One day their names would

Also be mounted in stone

Bits of snakeskin stuck

Between their meatless teeth.



Wordle #69

Week 69

Your sluggish sockets tiptoe

Across the flagstones.

Face-down, tongue wadded

At the cusp of speech.

Your chitin flakes,

Messages ill-intended seep

Into your heart’s binary call.

Cruelty breaches and sickens.

Your jaundiced ego

Shrivels on the stalk.

Emanations carmine and ash

Drip from the bubbling curdle

Of your untenanted smile.

The hours reveal days

And even the day are long

When all that proceeds

Them is humiliation.



Wordle #206


My bones crawl

The spurious extraction

Of clay from collapsing flesh

Leaves me dirty, empty.

My escaping heart cracks

Under the murder of will.

Your crow feasts

Blood as dense as grain

Blood splintered in

The calcification of pain.

A quilt stitched of veins,

Blue-walled and intrinsic

I seep with sophistry

And criminal illusions.

I chase the malice

Of your open interest

And we are nothing

If not inexcusable

Nothing if not deserving

Of the ache that follows.



Your fingers usurp

Each cicatrix

As soon as it is laid.

They must have hated

Themselves bitterly

To behave as they did.

It is hard to see the target

In the wreckage of war

And in the end we all have

A bulls-eye within our breast

So magnetic and insidious

That it would draw in

Even those arrows

Not specifically intended for us.


There is always

An audience for humiliation

They line up like teeth

Hoping to witness

A predicament more formidable 

Than their own.


The crowd thickens

A piece of cloth,

A tuft of hair,

A cheap locket

Whose significance

Is unscathable, pocketed.

Death is not a souvenir.


I can only drink

The superficial blood

The pain at your core

Is not for me to swallow.

I can claim to understand

But no one,

No matter how sympathetic,

Will ever live the reality

That you alone have defined.


Went for simple today


Wherever his feet fall

The recessing earth bleeds.

Such a tyrant as this

Cannot condone

The loss of a single fatality.

He feeds even on his children

Though they are still small,

Still fasting in the absence

Of their dear mother

Who banished herself

When the windows

Of the mansion

Grew so thin and wane

That the sun itself

Served only to blemish.

A man of war,

He speaks often of peace

Promises each hand

Within his clasp

Benefits and immunities

Knowing all the while

That he shall reap

The most fertile soil

In their demise.


Wherever her feet fall

There is a mantel

To disguise the filth.

Such a siren as this

Cannot but forsake love

Having known too early

The corpses that bloom

When intimacy is forced.

She does not hate men

Only the memory

That occupies their faces

And their terrible phalli

That brand in penetration.

She never wanted children

Not because she could not love them

But because she could not spare them

The cruelty intrinsic in this world.

Photo Challenge #32 “Contained”

Contained DiphyllaDeviantArt 32

Diphylla @Deviant Art

I am paraffin, you are glass

A holocaust to my freedom

A portrait within and without

You cater only to presentation

I do not interest you

Only the pristine

The possibility

The irrevocable


A diamond would suit you

Better than a woman.

My heart might well

Furnish coal given time.

The pressure of perfection

Murders creativity

Your obelisk penetrates

My symphysis, my throat,

My aorta nothing less

Than dominion will satisfy

Your ego, your fascist wand,

Your grisly hands


I do not exist without

Possessive pronouns

My dog-eared flesh

Is still resilient

But in a few years

The war will spill

From my soul

Into my face

Into my breasts

Into my empty ovaries

Homicide or desertion

I know not which

But I welcome the change


For Photo Challenge #32

Prompt #67 and Wordle #21


The leaves alone stir,
Delicate memoirs of hearts
Torn asunder and laid
Vicariously to rest.
That I were shrapnel
The perfect embodiment
Of a perfectly unjust hate
I might not stand here
On this precipice
Wondering if
My very practical life
Merits another day

To wield such a legacy
Would not satisfy
These grievances
I find solace only within
The hours of wan
There is no one in whom
I may confide
But in times such as these
The pen is itself a syringe

Perhaps I am the better
For this suffering
I have forged a heart
Of pulp and nectar
A heart of sympathetic leanings
Even in the midst of Gehenna
I am certain to remain sincere

The mistress exceeds me,
Her beauty is such that
Even the stars appear dirty
In the the halo of her smile
But she is only so
In the company of men
I know well her temperament
Her hedonistic excursions
Her cruelty as the riding crop
Is driven through every
Disintegrating layer
Of my intermittent pride

I have never treated her unfairly
For there is nothing in this
Mortal realm that I fear
Quite so much as finding
Myself unrecognizable
She may own every
Rotten inch of flesh
But of this soul she will
Never understand
And I may be beneath her
In every wordly respect
But in the eyes of God
We are both children
I was out all day again while there is still warmth to be had we’ll continue visiting the countryside. I forgot to bring my Wordle list and then I lost what I had written so I am surprised that I have managed anything today.




Do I exist only

To absorb your poison?

The sibilant tongue

That tugs down my lips

Your words, a queer tourniquet,

That seeks to empty

The blood from my palate.

I can not taste anything

But almonds

The sweetness of trees

Stoically entrenched


I shall never expire

A wraith to spite

How I love you

As if delirium

As if a vapor

Infusing every cilium

A phlegmatic hue.

We are as sick as tar

Wherever you land

I, ever the glutton,

Shall doubtless consume