Wordle #79

Week 79

The cold caress of pelagic eyes

Over my still dripping wounds,

Once enunciated rejection is futile.

What chance offered could be seized?

An organic cynosure,

A fearsome mermaid

Glazed in salt and sand with skin

The color of unshucked oysters.

My heart is a harbor

Into which ships stowaway

Silent as spoons.

Hands raw with distress

I mount the embankment,

A barb-wire smile

Bubbling up from the blue.

I am prepared to die,

To have my sinews

Picked clean and ingested.


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.

Proof of Fire

20296_thomas_bak_photographer_gothic_surrealism_hermetica_atavismsThomas Bak

A serpent’s son scalding a rose-fractured heart

You endow the night with nefarious lust

I trespass. a virgin and emerge wholly female


If my tears do not dissuade you

Then of what use is salt?

My prayers hold no favor for still you come

Drinking modesty from clenched thighs


We rise inside the same false sun

None shall believe in us, none shall stylize

The repercussion for no scripture above or below

Would ever betray what we together have done

Victim 19


Every scar

I’ve ever worn

And in secrecy

Been made to endure,

Is yours darling to profess


It is your heart

Covetous and calescent

That has branded me

That has fashioned

Of my fine roots

A marionette


The strings

By which I hang

Are both

Noose and anchor

I remember not

The former tenant

Only this waning

Parasitical soul

That is not me

But who dresses

In my flesh



I know

That beneath

The surface lie

The bodies

Of countless girls

Nameless I trace

The cracked symmetry

Of each neglected numeral

Their pine box smiles

Betraying a history

Not confirmed

But soon borne


This is fictional I have to stop watching such depressing programs


warRevised poem


I fell from the heights of ill-repute

To the obscurity of dusk

Where poverty found

Even my infamy lacking

For she stripped me cleanly of everything

My money, my inspiration, my pride

All found themselves upon her alter

Sacrificed unwittingly

For a few scraps of comfort

I found myself inconsolable

In my crimes

Drinking away the hours

In idleness


I spoke

Of the days of my greatness

As all men do

With an air of narcissism

That savors the memory

Of only key aspirations

Though I felt plainly my faults

I bore them poorly

Because nothing hurts worse

Than being called a god

And finding yourself to be no more

Than a pitiful excuse for a man

Who cannot inspire love

Or create anything of novelty


Once I had a voice

That stung with cynicism

A voice that threw open the doors

Of all that was dark and…

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Two Poems (Apostate and Casanova’s Revenge)



Your words are unpalatable

Formidable, they reduce me

My watery blood still tastes of

Sin, of metal bars withdrawing

Decadence. I am neither free of nor

Impervious to the sting of your

Liturgical guilt. The mere acquisition

Of this human shell makes me a thief,

An apostate composed of calcified

Rinds and entropic sweetness, I am

Inscrutable, I am wicked, I am man


Casanova’s Revenge

My harem lies beyond this fence.

The hexagonal walls of a basal

Captivity separate me from those

Hens which are mine alone to

Misuse. I know the grass to be

Sweeter on the other side, for

There lies the culmination of my

Libidinous expectations of my

Impending conquests. Do you

Not see their eyes upon me?

Their insatiable desire as they

Thrash their heads upon the

Ground in gluttonous frenzy


I do not envy the farmer, that

Ice-handed murderess whom

He calls wife or lord, the way

He demures to her wishes, to

Her puritanical affectations I

Pity him that shrill triumphant

Voice of hers as she goes about

The farm snipping, emasculating

Imagine what he endures behind

Closed doors, I shudder to think


She would deny me of my precious

Juliettes of my blue-laced beauties

Of the very execution of those

Biological imperatives to which males

Are by their very nature subservient

I will make her suffer, her blood will

Curdle at the articulation of my wrath

I will cock-a-doodle-do through the

Kindling of stars with teeth-shattering

Amplitude, so long as my bed remains

Empty hers shall remain sleepless!


(The second one I was being silly, I have an inner ear problem which is making me extremely dizzy, disoriented and causing me to lean and walk constantly to the right so if I seem off, I am off, to the right haha)

Portrait of Evil (warning disturbing)


I like the sound of your joints unlocking

Like a deadbolt in emergency set, the irony

Of your immoveable limbs pressed into

Uninhabitable geometries in a futile

Endeavor to rage against confinement

I like the silence of your dry mouth

Tumbling at the realization of a

Ensuing winter, of a winter that

Suffers affection only through the

Administration of wicked black frost


I like the smell of copper falling into

A wishless well as your hands grip a

Godless leather book in pathetic

Submission to your Godless prayers

I like the smell of a freshly laid victim

Whose unwillingness to conform to

A superior sex has rendered her fear

Contrived pallor a magnificent red


I like the feel of my palms against your

Throat the bruised palate of flesh blossoming

Beneath my artistic fingers, the cadaverous

Mantle of malignant shadows which cleverly

Define the inferiority of your volatile half-life

I like the silky texture of torn flesh pink and

Vicious, like the razor-blade confessions of a

Mute vulnerability, the paper-wrapped carcass

That defines me as much aesthete as butcher


I like the way your eyes look when

The stitches between pupil and

Iris split apart and a black, porous

Panic overtakes your vapid composure

I like the fullness of your pouting mouth

Bloodied and askew with an incoherent

Agony, the inhuman whimpers drawn

From the bowels of a primitive despair


I like the taste of you cold and metallic

In the semi-consciousness of a false goodbye

The taste of your stagnate breath resisting life

Of your tongue fermented with the dark wine

Of an unresolvable addiction. I like the taste

Of power the dexterous knot of a manipulated

Cherry stem, of a malleable martyr silenced

By the threat of mastication, if not for survival

Instincts I would have destroyed you long ago


One day when my senses are no longer aroused

By the application of your suffering I will kill

You and myself through confession but not until

I have disposed of the contents within us both

And fashioned of you a workable body bag


This is fictional in a manner of speaking. I have said as much in previous posts but my father is a psychopath. He used to talk at great length and with great pride about his victims, particularly the women he abused so I have had a much too close for comfort look inside the sick mind of evil and that is where this stems from. I am not a psychopath myself and so I can’t presume that I have given an accurate portrait this is just based on those horrible horrible conversations I heard growing up

Tainted Orange


There is something morbid

About the bright orange jumpers

Worn by inmates

Like fluorescent blood

Smeared over the remains

Of a crime scene

Sins annulled

By concealment

If only color could


The darkness within


When I was a child

I went to the first

Of many funerals

My uncle came wearing

His shocking veneer

Like a Chinese paper lantern

He came with armed guards

And shades of violence

Reflected in heavy chains


If only he’d had a mask

So I wouldn’t have seen

His bladed grin

Or his face laid out

In merciless lines

He’d raped a 16 year old girl


By the act of defilement

He stood proud


My father pushed me

In his direction

I tripped forward

In compulsory greeting

The officers’ hands

On the hilts

Of concealed weapons

As he wrapped

The chains around

My reticent frame


I became cadaverous in his arms

Ponderous and mute

Not even a whispered breath

I don’t remember his words

For the pulse

Of my rampant heart

Only the choked sobs of relief

When, under threat,

He released


true story