Elle Moss

Teeth and cuticles cracked

I clutch my journal

As if a delivery notice

Free me this state of being

These imperfect nooses

That subdue without collapse


At what point does the graphite

Fade from venal sapphire to necrotic ash?

I am only audible when I write

Otherwise the heart in my mouth

Serves a distinctive gag.

Lips hugging pillars of ivory

A mute martyred tongue defaming

I don’t have enough saliva

To exonerate my shame


There is blood beneath my nails

From tasting too much of your flesh

Anger is a luxury not afforded in exile

The brass latch is soft and intractable

Face down in a pile of newspaper clippings

I applaud only my anonymity

There is freedom in “no one”

That “some one” cannot gather

An audience changes everything

Even gestation


Opportunity is not bred in isolation

A handful of pomegranate seeds

Will assure safe passage

If I seek oneness in matrimony

How long death!

Death accepts me as no other

Whether rich or poor

Whether beautiful or curious

He shall wait a lifetime

To embrace my strangeness

For I will not surrender until


Yesterday I had writer’s block and I felt today would be the same because I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday physically, mentally in every conceivable way but I was able to create something longer and more sensible and it just happened to be relevant to prompt



Dandelion Globe With SeedsDandelion puffs consolidate

On tempestuous currents

These charlatan clouds

Dispensing expectation


Dangerous are the angles

That disengage flight

One must remain round

To sustain buoyancy


My wings are tender

From too much sunshine

The intimidation of fame

Can be hard to overcome

Will I remain intact?

Are do the best dreams

Harbor the darkest days?

What can change the nature of a man?


My nature is not receptive to fame

For it impinges upon a need

Far more persuasive than praise

The need to create in solitude

Under the syncopated directives

Of a diabolically reticent heart


I have no interest in wealth

For within its ornate trappings

I would likely find ingratitude

Death would thrust his bony fingers

Between my ribs and arrest all pursuit

Being idle, the Devil would surely

Shrink my hands into obdurate fists

Better to earn than to expect


I will not deny love

For love is indeed worth sacrifice

But if by another’s insistence

I did change, resentment would

Arise and with it suspicion

Why am I not good enough?

What credentials have you

To determine my life

When we can not

The same destiny possess?


My moods are capricious

And easily spent

I have a cache of masks and scripts

That I might,

A seemingly different man make

In truth each role

Is but another incarnation

Of a self-serving orchestrator (ego)

For on the stage

I only partially exist


The soul

In heaven’s image remains

It is the ego

That through acceptance

One may change

Create not harems

Of delusion or avarice

Create not prisons

Of preference or prejudice,

Regard only what is

That you may express


The divinity within


This is my response to Sunday’s prompt which is: “What can change the nature of a man?”



Art by: Bruno Wagner

Copper coins dance

Inside her irises,

A gyroscope

Spinning infidelities,

Pieces of self soaked

In rice wine vinegar,

Pieces of self bloated

And hemorrhaging

Stacked haphazardly

Into the pixels

Of an electroluminescent

Alter ego


She is a myth

That no one seeks

To translate

A forgery

That when disclosed

Would unmask

The world


A cavernous heart

Seeking regard

Reveals only

That which appalls


Has a longer shelf life

Than virtue

She is a mirror

Of humanities

Unclaimed beliefs


Youth fears inversion

The wisdom that quiets


The burden

Of moral acquisition

And poetic cohabitation

She is a heroine

Immodestly dressed

A villain

Recycled in tabloids


She fears the concavity

Of those sinuous curves

Which sulk

And in lamentation


The seething inertia

Of a smug defeat

She fears sleep

For the public


So quickly

The muse

Under which

They dream


She is the summit

A delusion of grandeur


By a vociferous audience

The media is cannibalistic

She’ll be consumed

By her fame

By the loneliness bred

In its shadows

She is not herself


A covetous Ego

Alters the gravity

Of her soul

She is

Earth and sky