denim in the milk-lorn dipper

[Written on 28/4/2017]

he isn’t sure sometimes.

whether stars are shaven peppers of Orpheus’ lips,
or whether moments are dreams, or if the nylon formula of reverie thrives in reverse-calibration after all—

Because, “you wouldn’t believe it though—the counter-skeptic’s ink spews a mystic tail: even he does not.

“you wouldn’t believe the glimpses
that courted the breakfast I had
a couple of fog-whisked o’clocks ago.

the militant bunnies stooped in maple- –
shed grenades for a pretty waste, lithic pastille-greens;
the toilet’s in the lavender, if you couldn’t
past the Teapot factory, in the cockeyed morn’.

{ but, really– –directions matter one-to-naught in
the paradigm of nimbus Fancy. }

there was more, “and I swear….well maybe- –
buttermilk-drones, and
too-long, naked prongs- -pax robotic;
calcium keys and phosphorific.
egg-shells housing dapper owl-wraiths
that fume and figure less than mythic—

and you wouldn’t believe it though, 

there was even denim in the dipper
textures gurgling at paper temperature
frays bleeding over- -foam-proxies
where I’d padded them –

I remember now I’d
I’d planted them
Alice engrams where the mildewing lonely’s
festered in silence. zero

for company. 

{ ? ……  }

and Morning trundles on
for the boyish specter
with another spread of denim
from the milk-lorn dipper. }


the mecha-lark definition ;

[Written on 25/4/2017]

impudent. } 
so scathes thy concrete will – –
out a mercury-spout, regulations hum
salacious song to sparrow’s meagre dance.
– – ah and,
you’d like the tune—wagers he, teeth brewing a shot of glee in the knife-night—
the way it wraps itself
around those neural tombs
where you buried all and epsilons and me.

– where is your
{ hiss and tangent ; haemo-vengeance—
where is your sparrow now

{ wretched warlock
I bid to you, hello; I have- –
gin a-cacklin’ in the boiler-room
a quarter-bone away. you’d
want some.” – –claim a heckle, a high and the inverted-fang sculptor.

i’d reversed the spines while you were away
sapped minuses to imitation void.
see? see—!

see the lacunae we groomed along that fallow equator- –
see the machinated looms, the figure-funnels
see the mecha-lark; its harrowed beginnings—

see the fledgeling corridor, the spite-lines- –
that haunt, a slave-movement to
{ bohemian nocturne , psi-concoction:
of Leviathan composer.
see the mecha-lark; its macabre medium—

see my gift for you, prancing memento
see the { needle } in the winery,
the heart in the beat- –
ready the adieu, ready
for the mortal turbine in the blue.
for the ribcage roundabouts that spin, livid
for you. my defamation darling
and see the mecha-lark, its avant-end—

—and blood, soon; shall it reap off you.

nullibicity (no more lanterns)

[Written on 12/4/2017]

and the cat’s out of the biblical bag,

out of the flexible tome Abyss charted in

its gallant descent to earth nouveau.


and It tells you, in whispers esoteric (technical waifs, I’d befriended them – –
friends ; I’d always wanted, you know

that there are creeping codes to living , – –
a city of vermin posing as civilian cryptogram
to marshal revelry in robotic blanche, and safeguard
{ the Colon command }
– – immobilize the cardiac panel – –
immobilize now , aeons proscribed
poised for dark deletion.


logistics whirr, tandem in medicine
in the sugar-flecked malaise of rococo bleach ;
{ why were the pavers late? just. damn WH ..Y—[
“…you botched the pact, and I know
see that sacrilegious meta-claw, how it spumes
toxic, vilest-fresh from Wonderland.
and you plead not, lifeless hallowed appeal! but
– -by the scheme-of-flesh, I vow
to raze the lights. decimation
’till I am free.


i bid thee farewell, {chimes the newly-devil
– – o, noble creed of lantern.

[ 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.