Wordle #263


I enter the blessed count,
there is nothing left
but to commemorate.
You mustn’t welcome
my apologies they are poison.

I carry a wooden cross
in the place of a heart.
My smile is a brush
sweeping and scouring
your fine woolly sneer.

I am only a girl
spinning plates.
I am missing parts
but of my misfortune
I have made an art.

If I were free
I would not betray myself so often.
I would turn my hands
up to the sky and take hold
of all that is boundless and unseen.


Wordle #139


I snatch your angels

From the waves

Of a treacherous silence,

A box apart from

The residual graves.

As simple as a moon

Fashioned of clay

My self recriminations

Spring up helter-skelter

In moments overcast.

How could I have lost you

When I held on with all my might?

What can fix perfection

And if not you

Then what can I alter

Without covering up

These essential lies,

These transparencies

Which distinguish

One void from the next.

We were quite the pair

Miscreants starved for reason,

Two perfects eggs

In a cycling bath.

My courage no longer raw

I cling to a barren science.

Your kisses thieving worms,

Your eyes retracted halos

How can I die in the cradle

Of such a gorgeous silhouette?


Unrelated to the poem I am having technical issues with WordPress. My notification feature does not seem to be working, so I no longer receive emails when someone likes a post. This feature is very helpful for me because I have memory issues and so I really hope that it’s not been phased out =(

Forgive Me

Have I ever composed an apology

That did not gesture for sympathy?

I have always sought to avoid blame

And those violations which can not be

Rectified will likely destroy me.

What is an apology without amends?

And can one ever be sufficiently

Reformed to qualify for forgiveness?

I am selfish and generous

But the former, though essential

To survival, is impermissible.

How do I become a god?

That I should not want,

That I should be limitless,

Without exception and always ready.

How can I commit to promises

That do not permit my imperfections?

I understand the need

To confess plainly

But when I am the mistake

How do I avoid repetition?

I am, at least in my own mind,

More criminal than crime.

An accusation comes seemingly

At the expense of my life.

I am a coward.

I can think of no explanation for love

Only that I will never admire the portrait.

How can I see beyond my own self-loathing?

How much guilt can I ingest before

Living becomes itself taboo?

I want others to think well of me,

I am scared to acknowledge

My faults without clarification,

Clarifications inevitably beget justifications,

If I do not justify does it imply

That I do not care?

Do my justifications seek

Eradication of self?

I do not know.

I feel compelled to recommend myself

Because I cannot shake the notion

That I must earn love anymore

Than I can shake the notion

That I am undeserving of its reception.

I cannot bring myself to give you

A reason to leave.

I do not want you to leave

But experience has proven

That I am intolerable.

How can I apologize for your feelings

When they bear no semblance to my intentions

And come from insecurities furnished before

I was even born? I was not born a devil

Even if I fell directly into enemy hands.

You did not love me from the first

And perhaps not for a long time after.

There is no law against hate

Only what follows so often in its course.

I have wanted for love ever since

But those initial absences cannot be filled.

Though I have forgiven you,

I still find you prickly and take offense

Where none may have been intended.

How often you cite my short-comings

And some days I find it hard to initiate

Knowing that my failings have already arrived.

Writing Prompt #104 Rorschach Test Take 2

Rorschach Test


I dust the feathers

From the wilderness

Of your ceaseless ablations.

The scent of hyacinths

Overlapping the scent of frost.

Wax wings coagulating

Inside the brittle pretense

Of a binomial darkness.

I watch your holiness subside

The Blood of Christ

Was never strong enough

To subdue your animal urges.


My pelvis somersaults

Whenever you mention my name.

Ribs, a corset unlaced

For the sake of aviation.

If I fill my lungs with helium

Can I follow you East?


The controversy of doves

Leaking prohibitions

Into my guilt matrix


I could spend all day

Here with you debating ethics

But there’s more truth in terror,

In the abdication of thought

For the sake of gratification.




Fate has a way of preserving

One’s idiosyncrasies.

I am, having previously wrought.

Events do not always

Proceed their immediate beginnings.

Sometimes the consequence

Comes in the night

Like a bottle-necked stranger

To slake all effulgent protrusions.


My mornings itch,

Poultices damp from sleeps’ gyrations.

I unwind myself,

Carving features into the scabrous mass

That has become my life.

A caricature digs into my shoulders,

The great weighty head,

My mother earth perched

High above a lagging Atlas.

Wordle #38 Spare Me

Wordle 38 Dec. 8

If my heart was
A spare key
The locks that defend
Your penitence
Would not revolve.
To remember you
Is to forget the mien
Of my ambivalence.
I cannot alter
A single thread
Even though the attempt
Extends deep into
My sacred complex.

A souvenir,
Your smile is only
Beautiful on display
Wedged between my teeth
It looks oddly cynical.
There’s not enough beauty
In you to compensate
For the beauty
Blocked in the crux
Of your ongoing trial
I wish guilt were a virtue
That heaven might not be
So quick to judge.

Traffic begs in the fever
Of a belated dawn
A casual seance
A kiss with hydrogen breath
As passive as stones
We suck on chapped lips
In the frigid mantel
Of a clinically negligible aurora
We have ruined everything.
I have been thinking a lot about the inability to forgive oneself and the consequences. About how we “create” our own hells.




From the shadows I appear an imp

Red as an apple, red as the lips

That occupy its scabrous flesh.

My eyes wallow

Tucked into the furrows

Of their considerations

Veils woven of regard

And denser with time

Like the patches of a quilt.


A world of aqueous distortions

Awaits me, a world

Of seas pulled drop by drop

Through a channel smaller

Than a needle’s flirtatious eye.


My memories are cold

My bridges razed

Bat-winged passages

That shriek and nip.

I must be a masochist

To come here so often.


Your fingerprints

Sheath my bones

A film like the smut

Of cream on plastic

Water does not absolve

Your breach and soap

Does not penetrate scars.


My thoughts are with you

Against you, powerless

In their recounting

And what is the epoxy

That holds families together?

Is it blood?

Is it the thresholds of salt

Like the tracks of cocaine poured

Cautiously over a cosmetic mirror?

Is it the transmission of secrets?

The indictment of a soul

Too young to comprehend cruelty?

Is it guilt which boasts the deepest roots?



Nature’s Geisha@Deviant Art

I don’t know

The precise moment

When my wings

Were canceled

In the aura

Of a molten stalk

Like the elevated eye

Of a motionless crustacean

I remember only

The meticulous fragmentation

Of my scaffolding,

In other words

The heartless severance

Of my burgeoning faith.

My legs are useless

When unbuoyed by the salt

Of my transgressions

If only I were newly born

But the fetid womb still grips

Like a parcel of anthracite

Around my naked lenses



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