Tag Archives: prose

checkmate II for the forfax league

[Written on 31/8/2017]

there is a void in

all of us.

graphite mines lodged anemically in

between- –spider-fog and hexical spumes off lim – inal 

chimneys ; all jeweled across–

–our spinal rungs.

death to constellations that have wished
all the more ; all the fairer

fairyland’s a myth, you know it’s
just a rabbit’s worth of shimmer-dung —
faux-prettily cloaked in the blood of
morpheus : third doppelganger down the Moirean avenue – – all stilted like…the radio-bellied, carbon-eyed lamppost we saw once–

there is a ____ in

all of us ?   )

in all of

quick

smuggle valor out a pawn shop.
all the knights you can swallow
all the rooks you can cram like a midnight Messianic catch
into the cranial sepulcher – – yours and mine,

and we’ll

erase the lowly lead with the Queen
the black-hole graves with the beheaded King
we have to
we have to

or It’ll come for us – – the _______

run from 

ch    ec kmat     e …

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she calls me

what she sees – what I am – what I’m not –

[Written on 10/10/2017]

“Kaede—”

He is greeted with a laugh much like a papillon lily, all brittle and fond and riding on a seafoam spool.

And he feels a finger rest on a collarbone-train – his (and that metrical pulse of his turns to wildfire again, ferriferous cord in a muffling, democratic dark—)

it’s mortifying, mortifying (for he whose eyes are spurned theatres, houses for a mortem daze in-the-futile-making—)  

It is mortifying and yet

“K-Kaede, I—”

“Shuichi.” She breathes back at last, shedding an aphrodisiac ghost onto the dainty knob of his Adam’s apple and it—unfurls like a lacewinged drug, bleeds selenic spiders by the sweet, sweet dozen along his moon-kissed, dour circuits-of-being (—they’re all but memorial grounds now, archaic home to crescent kisses and waning whispers and all lacrimal shards of testament to her, and her and her—)

Shuichi.”

“A-Ah—”

The irregulars between them warp like innocuous mana, threatening a rupture in him of the gentlest ilk—already he is dangling like a calcifier’s puppet over her ethereal maw, promethean doll-legs crudely poised and aching for a white-rabbit spillage—

“—I   l   v  e y   

She murmurs, almost croaks—and in the morgue-full of his murky fathomings crawls a limping, threadbare sob and

—why of all people….would you

care to call me—

Anchor, croons the lonely, travelling finger, down a wan stretch of thigh to stir more frissons light as the fae. Truth.

Lies, the wormhole-vault in his ribcage mourns back, though he falls (typical) regardless – tangled softly by the heels into her angel’s mantra. Impostor.

he’s never deserved he’ll never deserve

— l  v   ”

The static bleats past his ears in a fraught finale and she- -he realizes that she

th—at angel’s mantra is g—

and the hangman tiptoes out a starry farewell, its organs retc
hing out a storm o
f plasmic kingdoms—
… qu     i  et   Q  u i-  –

Magenta snakes over the skin- -thorny splatter by splatter and

it is me. my supine codes
have failed you. i
; an algorithmic  b a star d   chi ld—

—gnaws away at the lunulae entombed in his irises, a harlequin foreboding armed with a
knife down the gullet

And in the hollows of his lungs, the programmed reapers yield their squalls, sickle-limbs flailing in the muffling, democratic dark as she topples—contents cascading down his calves and his industrial blue throat, and into those damaged keyholes-in-his-eyes that beat once, like mundane quartzes—(in the presence of her, but)

—now the puppet plummets endlessly
into a cradle spiked with tendoned vanes, bathed in

streaks of horror and horror and

gauze, and the parasitic memory of no more no m

.

she calls me—

.

—ton m—I t—ahw

saving lazarus

[Written on 5/7/2017]

i have no words
breathes the arcanum in fool’s flesh-for-garb.
his goldberg bracelet now dismembered- –
like kismet’s dung { like treasure }

i shall offer unto you
hopes the beast that is not.
his verveful house is spinning on nostrums dipped- –
in the blood of plums { merry-go-oceans }

i shall offer unto you – –

calls he,
to the cherished far-gone, the coveted obsolete—

the heart that 

fuels me. 

mirrors and theurgy }

[Written on 3/6/2017]

some eyes made for a poor adventure.

his did. perhaps. certainty? maybe—

no scrap of an argentine promise, none but the screw-and-bolt carcass of

a cimmerian centipede—
laid in the worst shade of death.

.

x }
who said eyes were divine in the heat of love
again?

.

they played a game of mirror, mirror

each time proximity proved

beyond an opiate eidolon (guzzling fire in the water—

heroisms, metagraphic hooks- –
storebought sleights to make up for nihil.
.
( how’d they. how’d they
turn to blooming tether in the noir-factor

anyway

.

I took your naught for a nectar
( by some sorcerous error; a chant in murky sugars-deep- –
why’d the lull of your wasteland
key itself in?

and now
now   can’t you see that
all I want is mirrors—

for my falsehood sun.

at dopamine harbor

[Written on 23/5/2017]

they’d branded me a seussian grave-head- –
those fractal tellers did, at the whalemouthed, fumeless exit }
chromium debris”, they’d christened my toes
sized me up and synchro-ruled me:
a necroholic puppet to pave the nihil-march- –
down the Armageddon aisle.

they’ll warble at your doorbell soon, I’m sure- –
reckon you a circus-pile of reject axons
{ tightropes a morbid-measure too loose
for panoramic liking.
“and, if you could, young anomaly- –
bid the psycho-lions out
of their quixomatic dens }
we do honestly want to eviscerate them—”

but don’t be afraid
I’ll meet you—

x – 1 ;

take your dime-sized chimeras and 
jack-in-the-dendrons, I’ll
teach you where to go, where those
manxome eyes’ll fit in those entrails, neat—finally, right- –

;; x – x

I’ll meet you down down down down
at dopamine harbor- -where the hypodermic felons are.
your tongues can play a festooned game and I’ll
watch with feline graphtoid slits- –

maybe therapy’ll blossom then
for the both of us
a nicer kind (- –void of shitty prism-prophecy
 for us = (the spirograph and the mortem fang)

just us. and no one else—

via Daily Prompt: Descend

fondant hexes for the moon-spurned ;

[Written on 15/5/2017]

sun-bled compass } . are you- –

i’d sooner have you bleed the blue

off your gulliver eyes.
v
{ – where the fabled little flutter-flux gambols free—doesn’t it
just scream ‘decapitate me. . c
ut me into itty-bitty halves-   -and null-slivers h..a…hah

i’d like yo
ur hadean blade in me 
pleas e– –

x x x

….. x –  – you’re a madeleine, i can
see. just two carousels and a humming-grave off from
the oven.
{ there are twenty-three more cobalt-birds
laid there to caramel oblivion- –}

maybe dawn will poison you there-   -before i do

the darklings in my hallways told me so but i can’t

wait to do it myself because you asked me to you did

to carve a nice shark-toothed accent into those little vanilla-arcs of yours

with nails from the Harlot so you can scream your cherry-chords dry of ideals if you want

just so you would-

and here you go again – – f* #$ . . hoarder, hoarder with a halo-smile, die 

; : –

(i wanted a sweet death too.)

biotic compendium of warts

[Written on 8/5/2017]

gestation in the vitreous moor- –
self-charted. i confess
to have helmed the orchestration in ninth-degree
– -and is it so wrong to bare a blister
in the geo-cryptic light of terra-gloria?

ave bioticum. “

mundane power to the fireflies- –
that tower on crucifixion stilts.
one haggard piercing, to two—
maroon foibles in the spilling-forth’s- – and
– -and is there more to us than mercantile fame
than troves of trade-away rhythms and screws, to
mount on { the Idol that looms tartarean: –
– eater of warts in the numinous dark. }

mundane power to me as- –
I plunder, capture
confiscated blemishes at quaking-large.
pilfered from the dire womb that threatens
ceramic expulsion- –set to mannequin heights and doctored values that
blaspheme us. blaspheme us

and I shall, if I shall- –

– -return the warts;
to naked codex
to library of fleshhood.
where the code of Us contrives a havoc to remember.

{ ave bioticum.

via Daily Prompt: Exposed

nether-;nautical

[Written on 6/5/2017]

and I say,
{ cue the records, green-stroked reams
deadman sheen to frame it all – –
fire the accountamorphous fusillade of gallows
to the adolescent-hologram that molders
in omnipresent hiding – –
contrivance of secular tellers – -de|serves;  to r-ot
insideoutside in upov er…

: signal re-engaging, re-enchanting
:// i spend shallow-days on fruitless end – –

…i spend shallow-days on fruitless end

incubating cheap orbits
in the empty, saturnesque spine of my pen.

i plant planetarium saplings where the caverns don’t flaunt
platitudes in bashful violet / / malign crimson
all razor-trimmed and dolly-edged
will the stars at long last

be my name

…I can’t say for certain
no foolproof dictum in the now or the ever swarms
to come.

just null me.
surgically—

nether-;nautics
where the crowns don’t shine.
and the manacles align.
– – another faulty-again to join them all.

cremation royale

[Written on 5/5/2017]

these are the shiftings and the hissings,
putrid conquest upon the pulpit.
these are the fires and the creakings- –
pandemic furnaces, where the reasoning
once called chemical domain- –but no more ?.   

didn’t foresee. didn’t foresee

bye bye neurotica, so bid the headless children
as the incursion falls—

bye bye- – bye—

via Daily Prompt: Panicked

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, 
but 

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. }