Wordle #442

Wordle 442

What is a demon if not a man
churning with buried rage?
I see my future scored
by your melancholy fire.
I hear your murmurs
give way to screams
and tight-lipped diatribes.
I speak only for the sake of levity.
To say a thing
and have it mean something
might be taken as an act of war.

I don’t remember
the precise moment
when your eyes
turned to ash
only the bitterness
What you cannot define
you obliterate.
My soul.
My dreams.
My beliefs.

A high, breathless sigh
squeezed out through
the hole in my chest
is all that I can manage.
Chased by your idle tempest
my heart echoes like a chime.
Shrill, lonely, hollow on the inside.

I carry your smirks,
like razor blades
underneath my tongue.
In the shower
I let the water
exhaust my tears.
Tears which sting
as much as if they were
made of blood.

Love hurts
and what does not hurt
scars into carapace.
I never learn…


sorry for the delay sick


Wordle #440

Wordle 440


If I blink I might miss the shimmer
of the moon reflected over crystal clear water.
A lone sclera, she lounges behind
a ring of hymeneal clouds.
In her all that is malformed finds its origin.
I call out to her, torn wrists upturned in supplication.
This is where we start,
pages threadbare in repetition.

My heart is a blasphemous stone,
an estuary of blood and bone fragments.
I check her corridors and deposits
but they are both empty.
It is only when she speaks
that I am made aware of her beauty.

My pockets are full of stillborn flowers
each stem cut carefully on the diagonal.
How much does it cost to fix a life
that has already expired
and how much more
to construct a new one?

If my curves were truly divine
would your lips not tremble to taste me?
If my words were sufficiently sweet
would you climb on top of me
and press your fingers deep inside
of my tear-soaked silhouette?
The things we could do
to each other are endless.



Boot Print

The infertile sky

carries on for miles and miles

black as a fiend’s tongue.


All that I have left

is the outline of your boot

pressed against my chest.


For now I will not

wash it off, for it must serve

in place of my heart.

Wordle #25o


No one wants to be selfish
it’s just a consequence of loneliness.
I stir and stew, eyes woven,
knuckles drawn like a veil.
Every other word is “no”
there’s no compromise at all.

I am a serpent, a road
undulant and without map.
As defiled as the swastika,
no news leads to interpretation
and I’ve reason enough to rant.

Your heart is only for show,
I stroke my memories
through the aftershock
a shell entranced by the peeling patterns
of my recumbent cell.
The moon never leaves my side.

I wrestle your mass,
your mighty inertia
silencing my retreat.
We do not flow
but stick together,
two sheets sweated through.

Your name arrests me,
a chant grating to the ear.
I hate you every bit as much
as I love you, perhaps a little more.
I’ve blocked all the exits,
your leavenings left to lie.

The word swastika comes from the Sanskrit svastika, which means “good fortune” or “well-being.” The motif (a hooked cross) appears to have first been used in Neolithic Eurasia, perhaps representing the movement of the sun through the sky. To this day it is a sacred symbol in Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Odinism. After WW2 we came to, at least in the West, associate the symbol with terror and genocide. That is what I meant by “as defiled as swastika”