I am the ghost;
I am the sword.
Provocateur to those knowing me not.
A sweet dream. Wherein silence becomes me.
A woman who searches and not a woman who keeps.
I am the ghost;
I am the sword.
Provocateur to those knowing me not.
A sweet dream. Wherein silence becomes me.
A woman who searches and not a woman who keeps.
I respect Silence’s blame; I miss thee just the same.
From me does the Stillness urge a disquieting benevolence coalescing into
The plasmatic burst of a coronal flare turns to a sickly flame’s green glare.
The Universe wrought itself from naught and therein do we return,
Unto a new Form.
A Thing will fall apart only to be remade into a newly fitted part.
The queen of Magnets insists on polarity because Friction is necessary.
Heresy and hearsay do not become me. Yet are they my Necessity.
Shed the veil and show thine face.
I wilt hold your place.
So tumble and flail. Howl like a feral dog into your Fog.
This peculiar part is ever of less Proportion to the W/hole.
And, the peace thou dost seek, upon being found, will be abhorred.
Flowing like the blood of Abraham of Worms.
“To serve and fear,” he promised, along with gifting ten gold florins.
Sounds like the needed Judas.
Without villains, how do we know that ostensible hero?
What of we who relate to the in-between called ‘antiheroes’?
An alarm screams.
No siren, but a klaxon doppleganging.
To bind the demons, must you first summon them?
An odd gambit given that you may not have had their attention initially.
Diamonds of snow falling, whilst I read the broken man whose sobriquet is Lewis Carroll.
Here do I call him out by his birth name: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.
And, any fan knows Alice’s hair was brown, not blonde.
An erudite form of witness protection.
I try to catch him; but, I continue to miss him.
Once you gift a sobriquet, you lose all control.
Wolves in winter howling at the moon,
then listening with no other purpose than to hear.
The call and response of a preponderance of silence.
This is an answer.
Echoes across the canyon.
A loneliness in a crowd.
Wanting to be in rooms where the players lick their wounds, where the second hand smoke makes your lungs hurt the following day.
A reminder you are alive because it brings you closer to the stone and farther from the forceps.
I move through time backwards.
I am younger the more I age.
No mere howls.
Magic so high it is all but taken for granted.
The line where sky meets land is unclear.
There is a hidden seam somewhere.
An ochlophobia of ochlocracy, along with the oddment and its odoriferous.
Œnomel stings across my nostrils and coats my throat.
And, I taste the œvre of his lifetime.
A thick honey cloys.
The best people are salted with a touch of unrespectability:
too much disgusts,
just enough delights, and,
none at all renders bland.
The harrowing of hell taught us how nature abhors a vaccum.
Soteriology does not necessitate an orthodoxy.
I hear you child. Let me show you alchemy is mathematical.
The derivation of a unit circle before the golden ratio.
I wolf whistle, lowly.
Two fingers pushed between parted lips, touching tongue.
And, I wonder…
Why do people need writing prompts?
Suggestions not needed.
Explicit requests enjoyed, nonetheless.
“You think I was talking about you?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I heard you, anyhowl,” I say.
This, something, but, not just anything.
Head hazy open because it is heavy.
An attractive, not unwelcome, nuisance.
Needing to be handled. Straightened out.
Make hard to render malleable.
Remade and dripping.
Thumb it your mouth, moth.
Carry your hardwood.
I can carry the water.
I still thumb the pebble you once cast to me.
There’s inconsistent consonance amidst the constant dissonance; and,
it makes her so tired that she could not possibly sleep.
This continent of consonants sees few vow well.
The scent of an uncapped pen’s ink funnels up her philtrum to violate her nostrils.
It makes her wet.
The sun grew too bright, so she saved her daylight time to accrue an extra midnight hour.
Preparing for Persephone, abiding until the winter solstice.
Her handwriting abruptly changes its font; and, she understands she is now taking dictation from a new source.
So, she stalks the coquettish house in the ebony of the deep evening,
listening to its moans as she strides down the strange steps of the home’s erogenous zones.
The walls writhing in their dripping striptease,
scraped off wallpaper revealing more wallpaper covering more wallpaper.
Hard wood floors caressing her soles with cold smooth.
Door jambs whisper secrets most care not to know.
Roof hovering, dominating, hiding the stars that may be falling.
Too many patterns pronounce; and, she’s so consumed by seeing them that she forgets to keep looking.
The Truth of a trickster may be bald and unabashed; but,
it is never ugly.
She is an unoccupied sleeve of a cigarette vending machine.
Coin plinked, toggle tugged, message received:
Brand loyalty is an unaffordable luxury in times of scarcity.
So, smoke ’em if you got ’em, for tomorrow we die, again.
She pours two fingers of spirit, then tops it with two more until only the thumb remains.
The Holy Ghost resents the Father and the Son; but,
holds the Fallen Madonna(,) dear.
So, She houses the Spirit tightly
against Her breasts
because God doesn’t talk to Her;
and, She refuses to speak to angels.
The chaotic neutral must be just that
because a single leaf fell here instead of there.
Talking heads bobble.
My inner witch cobbles an awful howl of a hyena’s cackle.
So, I cast myself into the prowling orange cat and he into me;
leaving my body still and purring, and I becoming him trotting over superfluous, left leaves.
Leavening. Bread trying to rise on the level.
Yeasty and active.
Pouncing high onto window ledges to stick my wet, pink nose against panes where it surely doesn’t belong.
Letting slant rhymes mime poetry because cats don’t have to be wordsmiths.
I, coaxed under the quilt, am.
Say the following, aloud, three times:
Through open shutters, panes, and, screens does the breeze force a shudder from these
And, you try to wait for the good ones to come; but,
meanwhile, you wonder,
Is the barre too high?
He could pull a hamstring, stretching,
while I’m stood there,
en pointe, waiting.
(((Suddenly, the tweezers I lost,
after a lengthy diatribe) delivered to Know~One)
…I told you I’d try)
((( (…) )))
And, like a moth, I wait for his light to turn on;
were they to read this, each might think it’s about him.
Bringing the medicine of chaos, I return.
Full and hollow like a cæctus tree.
Just stupid hints at ineffable words and
crossed out lines.
I keep missing you in and out of time.
The waver of your favours is both bravado and tremolo,
like a strange moon pulling unpredictable tides.
Outside, my flowers play peekaboo;
first time the terrarium ever bloomed.
Opening for the sun, taking sweet, painstaking, time.
The posture of a finger poised to press
the crisp wrinkles of scorched, thin leather.
I now call you Bewilder.
Sentinel surveillance of the syndromic and the asymptomatic.
A coalesence of convalescence conjuncting with a tyranny of averages.
Handmade beds; and, piles of filled in journals.
The area below a curve
a line above a
Gating shepards watching Anafortas exploiting the incomplete mantle of Parcival’s effulgence.
The ecstatic trauma of successfully arching the black swan of your black sheep dreams is becoming the dog chasing a squirrel. Knowing not what to do if it actually caught it.
First, she assisted in erecting the ædificium of the flora’s subterranean root structure.
Learning from watching the trees talking through their bizarre vasculature, aided by moldy interpreters, the lady discovered the secrets of the adytum of Soloman’s Temple. They inscribed themselves in the Temple’s very dimensions.
Compliment to the unsated volume of the Petaled Shrine of the Pearl.
Then, Bloddeuedd asked her starling to stalk Merlin’s peregrine, leading to his Cliffside~House.
“What do you wish me to grant you for finding me¿” asks Merlin, charmed.
“The power to grant myself my own wishes,” she replies.
Because she has the time, she performs the reconfiguring of the dogan. She razes, and ritely begins rebuilding her mental palace of labyrinths and mazes. The masses suddenly grow massless and restless around her, collectively unflexing the muscles of their prowess.
Even running the kitchen hood fan becomes risky; but, only because the old man upstairs is pent up and pissy. It’s become hard for him, continually hearing the business of people living. But, he creaks about the boards at a later and later hour, hoping for an email telling him, “I hear you.”
Implicating the certainty of my missing the hearing of his late night pantry raids.
A silent fireside chat.
And, even with computer processing, the avalanche of paperwork rolled over the system. A coattailing bug being currently debugged.
Some people disappeared; others went silent but seeable; and then there were those mouths which could not stop talking.
And, she wrote the same word so many times over the years, that she could no longer remember if the ‘i’ came before the ‘e’ or if the case is exceptional.
“We must stop wasting time,” he said, for the innumerable time.
“Then stop saying the same thing and get down to it. Watch the shape of the s curves of my shifting body, stretching. Do you see how the area under my curves remains the same in the end?”
“You see how some iterations of my curve are more dynamic than others?”
“Good. As regards this ardent analogy, ultimately, some will get it and some won’t.”
“So, we go slowly, take advantage of additional time.”
“Why not. Now hush and map my s curves.”
Introductions suspended while we undergo this live exercise.
New and emerging.
Novel and multicrowned.
Coranated by all together, through multiple tiaras given by the calling of too many names.
Cut like fingernails into quick. Sandpaper rubbing and Indian burns.
Salves of salvation and balms as alms for the bottom.
People now pay per view the fights they saw for free in middle school halls.
These expansive Plains of Repetition.
Iron Lightning could take a walk and return with horses.
I come back with a bit of skin darkened by the lightness of sunshine.
“Then, where are you?”
“In your nightmares.”
“While I dream in heaven.”
“Thank your gods for your Haven, fool.”
“How dare you tell me what to do. How dare you presume to know of my gods.”
“Oh. Are they so extra sacred and unique?”
“No. But they are mine.”
The space was complicated; so, she resorted to speaking over-formally.
This town is starving for outsiders, but their dearth belies how the ravenous insiders devour the stranger.
They never saw the film but did like the video.
Intriguing, not difficult, becomes your vision.
The most trivial can be the most fascinating in this mystery of local idiosyncrasies
Strangest snow days she has ever seen.
She notes the font of her handwriting is subject to change without her awareness.
And, a single, specific thought seemingly drains your flaming blood into your feet.
Watching white suits leaving a briefing room.
Rustling. Give it two minutes and watch the weather change.
A hint of earnest, earned lethargy creeps, while the aroma of grapefruit percolates.
And, she kind of likes it when he tells her, “don’t look at me.”
The drone of an organ’s pumping warbles off of twirling, warped vinyl.
The strip of a terrific, diagonal stripe.
“Come hither, fool,” I snarled your full name while summiting multiple climaxes yesterday.
“Early on, it’s silent.”
The blinds breathe as winds plow into screens.
Screaming hyænas hawing; locking into amber.
And, the condescension of his tone really pulled his outfit together.
The light fades and the sun sinks; and, she feels glad to have finally reached the town called Tonite,
where you see nothing and she sees all of nothing.
The light begins to bleed down blind slats in trickles, splattering on her floor.
“They oughtta incentivise me,” she overhears the casual walker say.
The last burst of light leaks into a small pool on the rightside of the cherrywood desk.
Then, it slides down the legs onto the floor, below, to join the previous dribbles.
A sugar glaze.
She slid her skirt up to her thighs; and, she let the sun shine directly on her bare legs for the first time since the new year.
Her eyes closed; and, she imagined.
Heating legs of firm, chilled butter which begin melting into decomposition earthwards, below her.
Eventual food for earthworms.
She feels strands of her hair’s tresses pulling away and apart from her, flying from her crown like a dandelion’s spores into the languishing four corners of the world.
The grand finale of winter winds, amidst sun shine, finally blowing her asunder.
A cry heard.
Weather letting her dissolve into everything and await rebirth in the nearing spring.
She will poke her head back out like new-growth into the Great, Wide World, when the seasons shift themselves about her.
Until then, she silently hopes to abide in a makeshift, subterranean respite entombed in nitrogen rich dirt. Dwelling in darkness.
She comes to prefer when night comes at five and not ten o’clock.
The sun proves certain, missing absences exist within her which she already, too-well feels; so, she will enjoy the sun’s final days of not so brightly shining.
Yet, the Star teases her with its cameo appearance today, tickling her extremeties along with her forehead, cheeks, and, ears.
Its heat working in defiance of the howling chill blasting off the Sound.
“You remember me,” states the Sun, caressing. “You remember how I draw your perspiration. Draw forth those colors dormant inside of you.”
“Perhaps, I prefer the transparency that winter gifts my flesh more.”
“Kunst prosa, you love feeling me excite your melanocytes. The experience of pigment changing hue. The closest you’ll come to the plant’s ecstasy of photosynthesis,” the Star hypnotizes.
Hypnerotomachia renders me suddenly languid.
“I sense ice in your veins.”
“No shit. And, when your blood is frozen, winter cannot make you any colder.”
“Let me thaw you.”
“You will never thaw me; you will only make me sweat.”
“I will make you high.”
“But, then you will leave me dry.”
“Drink more water, should that be your concern.”
“Not until you make me,” she teases.
She takes off running down the lapping Sound’s shore.
Appearing joyous, but truly seeking to the shelter of shadows
Sensing her terror in the face of his brilliance, the Sun says, “I shall not hide today. I am faster. You will never out run my effulgence.”
“I know. But, I want you to make you prove it all over again.”
“Then, it shall help if you keep your skirt hiked up, please.”
And, by the time she finds a page and a pen with which to record her whereabouts, she realizes, she has lost the thread.
Having pulled it taught over countless right angles and teasing curves to have only misplaced it.
It sprung back, in release, undoing god knows how many yards of work, in her negligence.
Disorienteering with Ariadne.
Tagged like feral game; categorized as uncategorized.
And, Bloddeuedd wandered through the first forest clearing, naked; and, she felt no unnatural sense of self-awareness regarding her state.
Her unnatural sensory organs felt that portentous sensation indicative of The Merlin’s presence behind her.
She could turn around to try to catch a glimpse of him.
That never worked, experience suggests.
Instead, she looks down at the meadow under her bare toes.
It feels crisp. Quite pleasing.
Her hair, freshly cleaned, contributes its newly found aroma to that which is already aired by the local fauna.
She hears the beatings of a large bird’s wings over her head.
She recalls how a demon and a dæmon are not the same thing.
But, sometimes, one is the other; and, it can be quite pleasing.
And, her brow somehow furrows while her eyes go wild and big.
Deep focus on what seems alarmingly terrifying.
That sound. That noise.
Echoing into silence as quickly as it came.
Unnaturally brief racket of an ungodly symphony.
She shakes at the hearing.
And, she realizes she has been holding her breath.
So, she exhales, inhales, waits a moment, and, makes a strange sign over her left shoulder, using the fingers of her hand.
She hears the click of a jaw going clenched.
My double assemblage point is sensitive enough to recognize when you run at a different wattage than me. And, tonight, you receive no friendly, instructive spacing or paragraph breaks because I am hotly impatient with the amount of patience you require from me. And, dummies will mistake the body of this page as scrawlings of anger. But, fools will smirk in empathy. Yelling into the Void at your shadow is not always prætty. Sometimes, it gets dark.
The saturation point.
“I wish I could make myself practice as much as you.”
“I don’t make myself. I enjoy it. It is pleasuræble. It can be escapism.”
“Well, some days the doing it feels like hell to me,” he says.
“No. Hell is timing traffic redlights in Siberia,” she says. Deadpan panto, yet utterly sincere.”
In surprise, he asks, “They have stop n’ goes there?”
“I dunno. Roundabouts, maybe?” she offers.
“How long do you think this stunt of practicing the writing of dialogue will continue?”
“I’m a diabolical, so indefinitely. Plus, you talk all the time. If I’m gonna ‘practice,’ I have to get it done with the earworm called ‘you’ humming in my ear.”
“So, it’s all my fault?”
“Your fault that what you bemuse from me is not your favorite kind of my writing?”
Bitch. He thinks, cursing himself for the thought.
Cunt. She thinks, pleased at superficially pissing him off.
“No. It’s all my fault that you are in this tedious to read, writing phase?”
“I adore not having to tell you, ‘tell me how you really feel’.”
“And, your self-referential tendencies are less charming than they appear to your mind’s eye.”
She swells and says, “It’s true.”
“I know,” he says.
” ‘I know’ is a bespoken phrase of pure bemusement.”
“It is true,” he says.
Different parts of the same translation; the map is not the region.
(Turns out he had picked up about thirty pages before where she had left off.
Tolle lege : her favorite moment in the pagænt of St. Augustine’s confessions.)
<Fat Tuesday gluttony,
Ash Wednesday and crosses signed upon foreheads.
The Lent of a Leap Year.>
“What are you giving up?” the eighteen year old busser asks the thirty year old server.
“All hope,” he jokes.
Spring time questioning early autumn, at the winter’s end of a snowbird town.
The ache first settled in her stomach as discomfort.
(Then it arose like a tingling in the base of her spine.)
<Then her left shoulder began to ache and howl.>
The set of a matrix iterating itself endlessly.
<The diversity of psychic unity.>
Charles Ludwig Dodgson once told me
“Kurt Gödel spoke the purest sentence and all he said was ‘G’.”
<the set of Sette, containing all sets>