Wordle #101

Week 101

She spurs nyctophilia
in the erogenous chasms
of her glaring tattoos.
She adjusts her nylons,
repairs the run in her heart
with blood siphoned
from my left wrist.
Her eyes lurk on
the incision, my structure
spills onto the tiles,
cadaver white with hints of bruise.

Love terrorizes as often
as it restores.
I am only a novitiate
what could I possibly know?
This eristic death may well be
my only life and she may well be
my only chance for intimacy.

Not related to the above fictional poem
I apologize for my absences and my inability to keep up with my blog reading. There is a lot going on in my life and without going into details I will sum it up.

The new course has resulted in less time and increased anxiety.
Husband is severely Depressed
Child is sick.
Child is experiencing trauma as a result of bullying/stalking and because of the boy’s ADHD the school is not taking any of the usual intervention or disciplinary measures. She tells me with tears what he’s done/said and than says but he has ADHD, apparently every time he does something it is explained away with his diagnosis and nothing is done (even when he hits). The result? She doesn’t feel safe at school, she is anxious, fearful, and very moody.


Mag 300

rain Wolfgang Suschitzky - Charing Cross Road, London, 1937

Charing Cross Road, 1937 by Wolfgang Suschitzky

Once you acknowledge your captivity

there is nothing left to do but run.

A panic-driven, soul-clenching reform,

she of the bedrock, of the rain-washed streets,

of the sewage-crusted moats.

The last of the bourgeois, a phenomenon

in her own right, a patent still pending

completely ordinary, delirious

in a wash of festering cumulus.

Walls are a consequence of denial.

She is running to him, crossing streets

and archetypes to deliver her message.

His answer is only possible in chase,

because he does not really love her.

I am struggling psychologically and as a consequence my writing is suffering partly because I am not writing. The night before last I had two panic attacks. I didn’t manage to get any sleep and I am still feeling the physical effects. I know I am over-thinking, over-reacting, being completely ridiculous. Every fiber of my being seems to be rebelling and while I have kept the self-destructive, self-sabotaging impulses at bay (for the moment) I am just not feeling very stable.

Poetry Prompt 21 – Overwhelm

Her eyes are spades

Harvesting, fractures of obsidian

Bloodless, shapeless

Without mourning.

They bury deeper

What they cannot find

And taste whatever they can.

Of what use could a soul be?

Fingers like worms inundating,

A flood of untapped

And untethered insight.

A swamp of infinitesimal desires

Notices, delays, cumbersome meetings

And then without warning, loss.

A miasma, this love that cannot be.

A miasma, this rage that does not cease.

I will not surrender to the flesh

To defenseless musings, to engulfment

Of what use could a heart be?


Didn’t end up with a ballad in the end though I did read the description and I did have my rhyming dictionary ready to go. This is a work of fiction. The contradictory vocabulary in the poem “a swamp of infinitesimal desires” is to indicate the denial and resistance of the male character even though he has already been caught. To indicate how all these seemingly small, seemingly innocuous things are building and building into something ultimately inescapable.

Wordle 193


Brenda Warren

If I ingest enough wind

Will my heart chime?

Your arrival escapes me with a sigh.

I chase loose strands

With coquettish laughter

Wondering at the plains

Of your bare-skinned chest.

Even a stray may seek respite

Against a willing partner.

I harbor your silence

With restrained presentiment.

A pale hand thrust forth

Like a breakwater.

Let me dream a little more

Alone, with only nuance to govern.

There is nothing yet

To sequester my gluttony.

I wish that I were holy.

I wish that you were my first scar

And not the final molten quill

In a universal quest for light.

(3 tests this week, practicing for the National exam I am brain dead)

Wordle 204


Brenda Warren

Sleep stolen for the sake

Of wild beginnings

I arranged dreams for him,

Sculpted the clay of my flesh,

Spoke in burning tongues

About a life not even glimpsed,

For the keys are never

Far enough removed

From my fingertips

To facilitate such miracles.

My only power is instigation.

I am not even a person

Four-cornered, punched through

Like a time card or an used ticket

I float insensate between the ears

Popping from the bottle

With a celebratory smack

Whenever dying permits.

In hindsight love was impossible

Because right from the start

I felt it necessary to invent.




In bed buried underneath

Your kinetic architecture

I feel our distinctions dissolve.

Your pulse, a baptism

For which I nightly undress,

How can a virgin be pure

Having never known

A love like this?


Wherever the heart exists

There is art.

I ply my trade in your flesh,

A magician of sorts.

Your bones whine

As cumbersome pipes.

There is a universe

Within each of us

A constellation of mirrors,

Your eyes abduct

As much as they reveal.


You are the aether within

My beckoning crux.

I will swallow you whole,

I will thread my contagion

Into your libido,

I will recite the sublimations

Of your eternal limerance.

Nothing synthetic parallels

The heat of a genuine fire.

Wordle #46 Retro

Wordle 46 Feb. 2

You are the reason for my silence,

The reason my breath struggles

Despite the clarity of its course.

Such exceptions are not for me to judge

But I exalt them nevertheless.


Whatever the content

A heart will grind its gears

In the presence of temptation.

I cannot recover the warmth

That once inhabited my limbs.

What was red is now white.

What was naked is now smeared

In its own leavings.

Pitiful is the girl

Who rejects humiliation.


Blustery air does not seek refraction.

A wool mitten serves the flesh

Whatever the inconvenience imposed.

The foam in a mug of hot cocoa

May in moments of madness

Pass between my lips

But sugar is palatable in many forms.


Though nacreous,

The imprint still remains.

These wounds

Have become my only distinction,

These shivs of bone,

These ribs which pierce

That which they hold most dear.

Blood sipped at a high altitude

Is as clear as vodka,

As poignant as nutmeg

Once advanced a moment

Will not be undone.


I own a dress that simpers as it hangs

Only age can reinvent such nostalgia

But I am not as hopeful as it suggests.

I do not even want you to pass

The threshold between dreams and reality.

I am only a child, an oyster without proof.


I am late!  I actually found this Wordle a real challenge and oddly it wasn’t the inclusion  of nacreous and refraction that made it so, it was the scene suggested by the words.


Wordle #45 Stupor

Wordle 45 Jan. 26

A fixture, a force within which

I am blind and delicate.

I clutch the chords

Surrounding my heart

That you will not go there,

That your fingers will not ply

Music from the vacuum

Of my prevaricating jaw.


My body may be reckless

But what of my pride?

If I do not fight now

Then what meaning

Would conquest serve?


My tears come

When you are not with.

A drizzle that does not slate

The leeching of wounds

From this astral coquetry

And nothing goes quite the way

I have endeavored it.

This stupor would have me fall,

Broken at the first extraction.

Emboldened by a single kiss,

I can almost believe

That there is love in sex.


Submission for




I swallow the lightning

Of an alien skyline

The hiss

Of unaffiliated tongues


The confetti tears

That smite on admission

I do not want to become

A tragedy unto myself

A shy suicide detonating

Under the gaze

Of an adroit firebrand

My identity is too fragile

To decipher

Without assimilation


Today has been very stressful. Sam has been seriously ill for the last 2 days. Turns out he was allergic to the Christmas tree. Isadora is absolutely devastated about the tree now that we’ve taken it out (were going to give it away). We plan to get a plastic one tomorrow but it doesn’t comfort her much in the meantime. I haven’t had more than 5 minutes of quiet time today, I actually wrote this on a crowded tram on the way to the mall to do some Christmas shopping so forgive me if its gibberish.