Wordle #229 and Magpie Tales #298

playground getty

My voice has the power to disembowel

and I have used her, at times, as a weapon

though she has never served to avenge me.

The mass of your web impinges

upon my meager thread and we grow together,

spinning until our seams match.

The vertigo of my youth fills me with weeping

and I can think of nothing that would

account for this shrill blue sky and my terrible feelings.

Being blind for the people, by the people

I agree to adhere to the madness we have collectively chosen

though I do not know why I have chosen it

when I fought so long and hard against it.

My heart insists that there has been a betrayal,

that I am not fit to govern her though she is forever

in my keeping. She collides with me like a drum,

membranes drooling, I have denied her everything.

She wants space but I cannot give it to her.

Sometimes I remember myself as a child

and I wonder if perhaps we liked each other more

but in reality we liked each other less.

Until I am safe I imagine it is better not to feel.

We are never safe and I continue to feel

with fanatical precision all that is on offer.




Photo Challenge #90 and Wordle #228

Curly Hair

I cried all night unraveling your invisible terrain.

By morning I was sober and ready to exist,

not in fractions but in pieces too large to swallow.

People rarely believe in things that they cannot

manipulate with their senses and even with belief

it is difficult living on the fringe with nothing

but one’s own friction for warmth. There is no justice

in this world, only misguided attempts at revenge.

I am sick, therefore I am culpable, and incapable of truth.

Some people beg because they live in a state of necessity

because they are desperate to recover whether or not

their flight patterns match the current patterns of migration.

There are files with my name on it that I have never read

and never will read. I imagine they are filled with words like

“dramatic” “ liar” “hypochondriac” “woman” and perhaps

those words pertain to me, perhaps they even oppose me.

I rake my fingers through your brutal black coattails

always following never entreating, an afterthought,

flickering in and out of conception. Against you,

the lover, I cannot win but against you, the enemy, I already have.

I lace my guitar with your entrails and my boots with your soul.

There is a weakness  in normalcy that we never speak of.

A fanaticism constructed and construed by ingratiating fear.


I am so distracted today. I have an important meeting on Wednesday and a case of crazy head. I don’t feel this is finished or coherent yet but I ran out of time.



I lick concrete, the rut

Of your inconceivable footprint.

We are ancient as the stars themselves,

We are weary of spinning gold into fire.

Winter is for shedding sentimentality.

I thread my cold fingers around his heart

He endures, he adores, he is a superstition

Imposed and dispossessed.

I write my poems in the dark,

Whomever the muse, it’s always my blood

Supplying the ink.

Predestine is the default

Of the uninspired.

I stroke my erections with

The knife’s scheming edge.

Life means courting the reaper

With an open-fist.

I twirl my hair into dirty alphabets.

Apprehension is the only faith I preach.

Greys blossom into purple and vermillion.

I am alive, in a manner of speaking,

But beyond the technical there is

Very little that I or anyone else can say.

My only chair faces the window.

I shuck paper dolls, shavings of soul

Mixed with December’s unending treads.

Is it true that we are born clean?

When I post I never know what publishing interface is going to appear. Why are there 3 different ones? This has nothing to do with my poem, it was simply curiosity. You may have noticed before but gender/sex means nothing in my poetry I could be a boy, a girl, or both.


I spill my blood across the hands

Of your ever-present, effervescent sentry.

We have a love that reinvents itself

A love like death without comparable end.

You are a fountain, a well of incendiary ink

Wherever our fractions meet, there is fire.

Each night I brace for sleep,

For the cold armless shadows drinking

Secretly of my quiet breath.

For the moment I am alone.

My eyes skim warped surfaces,

My lips gesture incoherently at a satellite

That has sweetly forgotten itself.

How could you forget her

When she has been afforded

No such luxury?

Would you forget the stars if shrouded?

How these veils embezzle and confound!

Beauty must be wept to be understood.

For each revelation another claws

From the breech of what was thought

To be a grave, a grave never lies

A grave never seeks for what

It does not know it is content to ponder.

A Drop in the Ocean

I am the universe playing tricks on itself.

I am the microcosm and the macrocosm.

When faced with my former enormity

I am but a snag in the fabric and yet

Within I still contain the entire tapestry.

On days like these when all I can do

Is contemplate my smallness

I forget my value and in forgetting, dim

Inadvertently my vision of the whole.

For energy there can only be life.

What is murder to the rain likewise

Necessitates it. We are but seeds,

Potentialities sheathed in a porous husk.

What lurks underneath no one knows.

The need to be born is apparent in all of us.

We want to know, to return to our nature

But it is in our nature to explore. In the end

The game, the pieces, and the strategy

Are none other than the player himself.


I may come back to the other challenge 2 lies and a truth but I only just revealed a tremendous amount about myself and so it wouldn’t be so easy to lie to you now lol

Music Prompt #9 “The Beigeness” performed by Kate Tempest

Apathy defeats

The purpose of sentience.

I cannot relieve a man the

Ruse that has become his faith

If I don’t myself consider.

I occupy the same conditions

And conditionals

If others prosper it’s not because

They have escaped defeat.

Uncertainty is a sign of maturity,

Admitting that we don’t know

Is the first step in seeking truth.

It’s not emotions that are extreme

It’s the procedures employed to deflect them.

There’s no placebo person place or otherwise

That’s going to make me feel better

If my only purpose is to exert identity.

Denial doesn’t hinder evolution

We’re stumbling forward blind or otherwise.

There’s no fighting the rhythms,

There’s no forcing out the Tao.

Every breath is another shot in the face.

Tears make adequate shivs

Your Glasgow grin isn’t convincing anyone

It’s okay come as you are.

The only monster inside is fear,

The mask that we mistake for a better face

Is just another conduit for the stars.


I am having trouble with my vision again which is making it hard to keep up on my reading and honestly it is making it hard to write. I find the shadows and headaches very distracting.


Stream of Conscious

Sometimes love goads,

It forces reticent wings

Into a blinding wind.

When in your company

I prefer disturbance

To the quantifications

Of a habitual silence.

My days are sheets

Of crumpled paper

And these poems

Which are awakenings

In theory are only

Fodder in practice.

Whose thighs and whose hands

Cradle my organs mutely?

Whose lips tear prophetic riffs

From my capricious knees?

Who needs to repeat the mistakes

Of their predecessors to recognize

Their own penchant to madness?

We want all our angels diseased

That we may count our blessings.

For each life there is a luxury

That will euthanize it

If substituted for passion.

It feels to me that I have several poems in here but I didn’t give myself enough time to write today so I guess this is more stream of conscious than poetry.

Wordle #119


My vegetation flourishes in scarcity,

It’s not what I lack that defines me

It’s how much and under what

Circumstances I am willing to give.

Rain lingers in my cells,

Sympathy is encountered through pain.

I have endured your failings and mine.

I revisit my roots whenever

My strength erodes

For within truth can always be found.

A sky woven of crows and last resorts

Huddles in my long-standing eaves

Our fates may not be interchangeable

But they are fundamentally inseparable.


Busy day not too pleased with this

Wordle #147


On any given day a ring

Is plucked from the forge

And wedded to the finger

Of either bride or groom.

On any given day one self

Is abandoned and another grasped.

Bodies dissolve into

The invisible stream

Of repurposed stars

Gutsy routines thirsting

For the flow of flesh and bone.

I gather lists, though improvisation

Is a more seductive type of being.

Fear is an essential poison

It invades and conceals

Preserves and provokes.

Contradiction defines reality

Where there is hate

There is love to spare

Where there are shadows

There are dreams enough to illumine.


I have a sinus infection so I haven’t much energy and my face hurts.