There is a method

To every plausible form

Of madness,

A gestation, whereby the heart

Is wrung free

Of all anesthetic

An eruption

Where the darkness escapes

Unculled by the liturgical filter

A renunciation of all known variables.

Emptiness becomes a priority

A means of sobriety.

The exodus, once initiated

May continue for years.


I am drenched in the floods

Of an ejaculating dam.

The words have lept

From my flesh

Like viral impediments

There is only the pain

The tightening of scars

Into a visceral skein

There is no use

In the laying of hands

I have survived,

That is my miracle

To wake each morning

Intact despite infestation.


If I were braver

The demons would blur

Beneath my insistence

But those demons

Are my perceptions

They will go on living

Alongside me

So long as I believe


Photo Challenge #25 “The Other Woman”

Sisters 25

Tom Bagshaw

A different woman and still I am no closer to orthodox fruition. Never do I escape the sense of otherness, the sense that the world as I have conceived it might be barring my admission from a more relevant passage. Each woman is different and yet they bare the same trappings. One would juxtapose innocence with perversion, the other austerity. Yet for all their diversions they wish for the same outcome. A scoundrel or a saint? They offer different denominations but in the end I would be a husband same as any other.

I will not marry either of them for beauty is a poor substitute for sentiment and I have never loved (excluding piety). Perhaps the existence of love is but a compensatory farce, an illusion to stay the bestial instincts? If perchance it does exist and if I should have the fortune to find it then I will not be aggrieved by the delay. Let society condemn me a bachelor but a liar I am not.


I have always wanted to write a novel something along the lines of Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground but that is just wishful thinking haha. Also I think I took a rather odd approach to the prompt.



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


Cage By Parablev
Parablev@Deviant Art

I am the only one

Who never departs


Each morning I enter

Precisely as I passed

And each night I fall

Negligent into the same

Faithful vestibule

Like a catatonic monk


If it were another’s madness

I would be more obliging

A sympathizing prophet

Willing to claim or dismiss

(Weather permitting)

But so long as the reflection

Is mine cowardice persists


And so long as a cage exists

There is always a tenet

Brimming with fatal intent

And all the money in

The world could not make

The exterior any greener

Than the interior permits


The earth is a cage of sorts

And we stand here reckless

Certain of only one thing

That to clear a passage

For growth is to habituate

To another level of pain



Dariusz Zawadzki

Better that I be featureless

For there is nothing in my eyes

To recommend awareness

And nothing in my smile

To suggest the advent of laughter

What star perished in my formation?

That I should remain so unevolved?


What an untenable tongue

That speaks every word

Regardless of meaning

As if it were offensive

That delivers love and blame

With identical intonation

As if a harpy or a mannequin.

Unless to break entirely

There is none who could

Amend my position


Perhaps I will never be understood

Only unjustly translated and perhaps

The burdens accrued shall be as theater

Not necessarily illustrating my intentions

Better a wooden leg than a false heart


I am off now!