Mag 296

1 Joachim Bueckelaer 1560

Joachim Buecklaer, 1560

I went to the market today,

Gathering a feast for the week’s apologies.

I am not wrong, I have always been civil,

Poised even when tempered under your misogynistic boot.

I held my breath waiting for you to come home.

I held my breath until the brume of my misplaced tears

Summoned the four walls around me like a bodice.

You were drunk and curd-faced on arrival.

I forgave you the lack of conversation.

I forgave your piss-soaked trousers and slovenly dress.

I forgave your irascible humor and ingratitude.

I even forgave myself the arsenic employed

to rid me of your pestilence.

Glass House


I dance this path

Of fire with you


By the failings

Of an incurable youth


Though the heart

Is pliant

My bones do not

Forgive trespass

An unmade bed

Would betray

My animal instincts

So we lie

Captive in the rage

Of a muzzled spine


From your sharpened tongue

I gather defect

These excuses

Like bread crumbs

Drive me back

To this house

Of dangerous angles

This one is 5 years old and from the catacombs of my blog. I am preparing poems for submission to The Newyorker at the moment =)


Wordle #37 “Plain Sight”

Wordle 37 Dec. 1

Convulsive laughter maimed

The pallor of his cheeks

Left me dizzy and incredulous.

His humor was poisonous in high doses

And I had heard enough

Lacteal larks foaming with unease

Barbwire teeth arresting


I gripped the banister ferociously

Rustling the joints in my knuckles

If only I had some excuse

Some means to controvert my detainment

But there was nothing.

My eyes fell on the stairs with haste

Winding their way up

Mind splintering the crannies

Of a more tolerable captivity

If only I could hide in plain sight

A ghost in the attic

Sought only in avoidance



Wordle #37@MLMM


On a completely unrelated note

We got the keys to the house yesterday! We went to visit, it is just so beautiful! Sam has to work this week but next week he is off and we can start in earnest. I have some X-mas shopping to do as well even though we are dead broke at the moment. Did I mention the car has a serious problem? I am in every conceivable mood. I want to win the lottery.

Rib (Audio)


Leif Podhajsky

Some nights we hunt measuring

The weight of our paired bones

You are far heavier than I

But not nearly as hungry


The air does not find my pleura,

Does not find my thirsty lips willing

The blood swarms under the pressure

Of your beleaguered embrace

The poor pitiless queen

Clutching at stone fingers

Trying to pry herself free

The self-proclaimed king

Prepared to use whatever means

Necessary to illicit conquest


Your blurry face with its slit grin

A penitentiary of sharp teeth

Lined up side by side idle

Within their cloistered cells

Eyes as tar sticking, sticking

To the lining of my windpipe

I should be flattered

What other requirement

Could be more pressing

Than your mighty phallus?


Is your animus so great

That I can place my dreams upon it

My child-bearing hips

My white yielding breasts?

What of my carnivorous spirit?

And intractable intellect?

Will you tend them?

Feed them? Worship them

As I must worship yours


It always comes back to the rib

The one that tears now at my side

Longing to extract itself and return

To its former commission

That rib that compels me to love

And service and maddening attraction

Yes the very one that you lord over me




taraminshull3Art By: Tara Minshull

My lips tighten

In graceful arcs

Like a scythe

I brandish your tongue

In self-defense


Too often I’ve forgiven

Too often you’ve forgotten

The conditions of apology

Another girl

Another drink

Another dream

Heel pressed


I couldn’t alter

The dimensions

Of your heart

So I made myself smaller

Seen and unseen

I altercate

Adjacent to actuality


A discursive expression

Of circuitous guilt

To what do I owe

This karma?

To what madness

Do I ascribe you?


She holds you between

Her thighs only

Soon enough

She’ll exhaust all possibility

And you’ll come

Knees to the pavement

Promises full of teeth


I was out of town today, really pressed for time and energy.

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

2 poems (Conciliation Prize and Needless)

Love trap

Conciliation Prize

In your eyes I lay fallow

An opportunity reserved

A conciliation prize

When all other flirtations

Have met an ungainly end

I could have been

The subject of a better man

But I chose to be the object

Of a Narcissist’s ploy instead



I am the servant

Of man’s presumptuous rib

Needless but for sex


This is fictional and I absolutely do not agree with the point of view expressed in the haiku. I do think sadly that some girls are unable to see their own worth and choose relationships and men that are destructive. The reverse is true too of course some men don’t see their value and get involved with destructive women

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

Codependency Snippets



Underneath your

Venous, satin-lined

Tongue my unused

Voice indurates, like

A dragonfly fused

In amber



My Judas will aligns

To your misogynistic

Constructs as if

Through adhesion

I could alter your




My spinal column,

As an aqueduct,

Carries water from

The amnesiac waters

Of the river Styx.

In my eyes you are

Continuously reborn

In my eyes, I have

Always been the

Guilty one



You are anhedonic

Like a scarecrow

Imposing shadows

On a xanthic field

It’s not your words

So much as the

Orientation of your

Threats, left-sided


Every morning I wake

Up hysterical knowing

That your straw hands

Have molded around

My heart, knowing

That your 6 foot

Shadow is my grave



There are moments when I

Can’t recognize my hands

Bilious doves tucked into

The pockets of a winter

Jacket worn year round


Rarely inspired to labor

These fists full of dirty

Feathers and windless

Dreams have through

Negligence crumbled


(Last night I had a nightmare that my husband and I were driving a long stretch of highway flanked by fallow fields. In the fields there were all these brightly colored doors, a few of them were partially opened but with no visible light between the cracks just darkness. My husband couldn’t see them and though I was in the car, in my mind they seemed to get closer and closer. I don’t know if they represented unreality or death. Lately before a seizure I am seeing birds sometimes like black crows and last night some bizarre golden bird, everything is so surreal at the moment and I am really exhausted.)