[ to: the pantheon of the morgue ]

[Written on 19/3/2017]

to the  { pantheon of the morgue } , thou best bestow
offerings of an ilk no mortal should know :


unto Crescent Death , a palmful of amber shivers
– – to go fetchingly with the glimmer-blade that nips and dances and demon-prances
in the shelter of the keyhole-eye of Styx’s virgin coffer.
— { } —
[[ the fanged un-deity should soon tell you–
–in strains wicked and mechanical, Cheshire cogs a-rattling for a knell–
that she likes them better stained with b l o o d . 


unto Half Death , a sliver of the deadest blue
– – see the phobo{scope} bare in its fractal readings:
sorrow-limbed breaths, violet-dyed {{ ….violent-. died
all over its mid-mortal anatomica
— { } —
[[ such an offering should do to appease a youthscape
of starlets razed to plasmaNaught
by rending, retch-mongering ” v i r t u e “. ]]


unto Waning Death , a feather for an ink-doused thought
– – to accord a speck of beauty where ashes have long scribed
embered penance
into the left-over bones from monochrome expunged.
— { } —
[[ and o brazen one, it is better to
pretend that you see not, covet not–
the butterfly graves that simmer a wistful, weeping froth
amidst her smoldering toes.


and last of all , unto Waxing Death
an amethyst or two, to plant in city squares
of arachnid craft by the hands of stygian-garbed architects–
–and deeper still even, past neon shallows into atria wherein
brews the Primeval Dusk of the Morgue.
— { } —
[[ if thou should dare plunge to gift–
–tread carefully.
for no hollower a domain is there in this realm
than the heart of the Waxing Death. 



[Written on 7/2/2017]

once upon a devilish, stained-glass palate,
came blooming a cardiaxillon ;

t’was a foreign bud in the midst of greying axons – –
sepia wirings and mildewed saturn’s rings—
{ “strewn like faux-cadavers they were, all figure-bones and timed-out, rotting ciphers—}

—out of miasmic hummings, it came to bloom,
and just as so duly commanded at the primal hour – –

the seers took to a ghostly watch.

a cautionary case of mortem fever

[Written on 28/11/2016]

If the only way my heart can beat for you,
is in a symphony of rage, a burst of vengeful ire,
in a bid for murder and flame and fire, more fire–

{ just k no.w  … i ….

I’d feed it all the fuel in the world it could ever hope to crave.
// —want or need or thirst or h un ger
to the brink of the Sullen hour in which my bones spell:
{ sweet – – blemished surrender. }
to the lavender-blue and lovely-pink of
the notion of  { dying with you } .

vesper wields the necrolyte.

[Written on 14/11/2016]

I AM :#

( devil – – deface the nova helix
( beacon – – encrypt the Astra reign
( orion – – to map the veins annexed
( dipper – – in mind brews scorpio hex

( angel – – command to reap due bones
( bullet – – of platinum dark device
( corona – – singes the neuron blight
( vesper – – wields the necrolyte.

creeping coalesce.

[Written on 23/10/2016]

Revenant, he’d found those eyes,
A siphoned blue, of fog’s final breath,
A tinkle of ether-magic, resigned to the courting of lesser greys that hobble and hunger
Those eyes he’d etch into constellated skin, mottled archways and satin grooves — bejewel those earthen stars that scaled his own paper spine —
Now tinseled with the flavor of him.

A sylvan conquest, he’d found that skin,
Territory of the most otherworldly design,
Home to quasi-fae that recline on homegrown heartbeats,
their darling, beating astral spells sown in the river of pulse,
and ivy pools that echo gingerly by the bank
That skin he’d bleed into (— perhaps, should his courage mount just an aching, aching notch—), ride the river of pulse that scorns Acheron’s mourning –
Like a ghost, tide-borne, in pursuit of a beckoning heart.


[Written on 5/10/2016]

in a far-off hour:  { one distant and dreaming, and a frightful measure more blessed with Being than the wilting Now–

i bade the ruby, rose-borne tenants of a labyrinth of harlequin veins, the ones that towered over those sleeping thoughts of mine that loaned them, ever-gracious- –

– – a favoured twilight, a shining dusk ;

— a dawn trimmed at its seams with pixie ashes of phantom wars, gossamer graves in splinters and riven song —

these i bade them, left prayers at the foot of a mourning patchwork door, wove shards of benediction into walls of weeping gold-lust.

these i bade in hopes of harnessed hues, of gradient saviors to reignite.

to Inhabit again.

the weather boy’s lament

[Written on 11/8/2016]

there is a storm in my mind i can’t quell,
though with chipped, tearing fingers i have tried.
and as a result, i have ravaged them down to a mess of mangled seams,
a mess that resigns itself with bumbling haste into its nether, earthy grave
ever breathing ghosts of supplication into the chasmic bay of an ever-condemning night
a night stippled with star-eyes trenchantly glaring, each pointedly huddled away from my scrabbling, mortal scopes,
each pompously cradled in overhead navy nooks of lofty assurance.

there is a storm in my mind i can’t smother,
though with ragged, lurching lungs i have tried.
nursed a kingdom of faux-cries that fall wheezingly short of clarion caliber, each one thawing unloved and in a sorrowful, wailing hurry, desperate to be rid of their shriveling scorned selves.
why ever were we made, come the lamentations, ridden with blood and silver whipped into a demented, roiling roux
and why was i

there is a storm in my mind i can’t tame,
though a whip was accorded to me, in days distantly bygone
i held it and let my blood surge loose, left to conspire with the tenebrous voice of my infant ire
let my blood unearth a wicked calling, engorge a vile commission from an audience of devils with voracious glee
but alas, the rapacious fall farthest, are bidden to kiss and couple wretchedly with the deepest abyss.
…. i withdrew my whip and stepped duly back
into the heart of the storm in my mind.


[Written on 26/7/2016]

He perches on wraith-like tiptoe upon a lilac-clothed apex, engorged in lambent washes of a prodigal effect and breeding chroma-blades that gnaw contours loose and wedge bloated gaps into tautening, hissing junctures of ink.

And from these expunging agencies, a gingerly crowning relish blooms, slathering visions of lush vines and pastel flora across blood-scented corridors, in the chinks of paper bone and the jittery notches of a heaving heart. A blooming conquest tamed, quelled and freed from a silverwood sepulchre, spilled at no tyrant’s behest over a brittle, aching chassis of bio-signs that frolic in timed, nihilistic motion.

The ceaseless pulses of this unworldly incursion send tactile messengers afoot, a cavalry of beacons that plunge sensation into skin and draw secret banshees from their hiding places, screeching ripples and spewing throbs as nerves ascend in frantic benediction.

Never has he felt more alive than this.


the paradoxology: i. σώμα

[Written on 21/12/2015]

He is the body.

And there is a jarring irony in this temporal notion of being, lacing with the subtlest of malice-strung intents through wiry courses of circulating substance — dead cells from bio-morgues that pool into liquid visibility at the most feeble of pricks and the most triumphantly titanic of brazen massacres, the excavation of entrails and the demented hacking of tendons and bone and of all of the cumbersome little minutiae that buzz frenetically in between.

— And in all these things, a niggling finiteness buds, stinging with a bitter relapse of the bygone.

He loathes this, as he does most things.

The oppressive confinement of an unwieldy brittle mould, the precedence of an illogically imperative sustenance, of feeding bulky, beating masses and hideous, dripping lumps in cardinal subservience — and for what? 

They are the antithesis of possibility, of the exalted cortex and its poised nexus of cosmic visions and acute flashes of prophecy.

And of this he has been certain for as long as he’s lived, that the noble lauding of vitamins and material supplements, that the prostrate worshipping of charts of circadian cycles and shrill, shrieking calls to eat, drink and sleep

Embody the pinnacle of folly, down to its transcendental provenance.

….. Though–

In spite of this glaring error of design — he must concede — there are assets to be wrung from the tiresome scheme of the biological being.

There is the apparatus of maneuvering, and of deploying bladed projectiles at the scum that waft vexingly across his vision–

— And, oh. there is the relish of the dissonance that follows in earnest pursuit: the timely sirens of arrant pain, and the crescendo of agony that sketches a tune of victory in his ears.

And then, there are the lips, the mechanism of articulation and, of greater utility, trial. They funnel masked riddles and muddling charades, penetrating and ruthless as they partake in the dredging of foibles and the callous appraisal of faculty’s bounds.

But best of all are his nails, he surmises. Tiny, contoured slabs of yet another elusive fibre of many, narrowed and curved into an… effectual substitute.

The recourse for an absence of honed, forged blades. The most basal of armaments for the deflection of threat.

The slashing of pride and the searing of trust, the drawing of plumes of gray and globules of red and the strangled contortion of a countenance and the rumblings of ire and tragedy and more of that, please, if you will, and you will

And there comes a chilling standstill, as time retracts its agency in equal mortification of this ghastly, odious deed. And there is, for perhaps the first time since this fallacious, fleshy mould came into being–

–a hike of agony that breaches all known frequencies.

And at this tremulously climactic spike of a frisson, he is inclined to reflect again — on how wonderful and marvelous and thrilling and soul-charging it is to carve with these disguised claws and to sow the festering seeds of ruin into a sacrosanct insignia of petty pursuits and bloated heroism he’d sooner crush beneath his heel, and one so conveniently inked onto the sheath of his… impractical physical entity.

It is also then when he realizes, amidst the fury that boils in the air and the incipient echoes of ‘traitor, traitor’ in the crooks and the nooks of his gnarled mind–

–that the presence of a body is not quite so bad after all.

vanity askew

[Written on 28/7/2015]

Before the mirror, a figure stands,

still as anything as a pondering arises, veiled like a bride in an illusion of subtlety,

its gown appended with strings upon which new riddles cling,

their weights growing like a spell gone utterly wrong. 

Utterly, utterly wrong.

[and in an effort of appeasement, you tell yourself.
this sorry excuse of an existence simply cannot be—]

The sheen is no match for a gaze,

sculpted with the minuscule workings of a divine craft,

gilded with a care that has long vanished,

from what he can hope to fathom with the unruly knots that clutter his mind,

knots drenched in whimsical splashes of chaos;

this recklessly crude contact one of a tragic finality, for it is after these collateral collisions—

—that the chaos becomes. It becomes.

Supplanting the hollows once reserved for hope’s offspring.

And this, of course, is—

[who he is,
not that damned impostor—]

He wonders if glass is capable of hurting,

of airing cracked, strangled pleas of ‘stop, please, stop—‘

should a crack just — so very unfortunately — explode across its crystalline shell.

And perhaps more, he tests the notion with a spark of boldness as he lunges—

—and the cracks spread their reign, the triumph of their conquest marked

with a spider-like insignia, jagged shards budging from the loosening of levelness,

from the overthrowing of a uniformity that has mocked him for far too long—

[and he smiles,
in spite of those jarring crimson stains,
and the translucent shreds that peel stingingly in place of skin—
he smiles.]

Victory swells in the hollows where chaos dwells,

now accustomed to the permanence his warped spaces have so generously endowed them.

And it is only in these hollows,

that his satisfaction blossoms free, spurred on by the kingly facades of pride and—


[and he smiles,
because there are no tears now, and the gospel truth is that he sheds none,
and now this scheming, vile, mirror
is finally laid to rest.]

And that is what you get.

A snarl as crimson pools, rapid as it drips. 

That is what you get.