i am not of dreaming
her eyes mind not me
laugh crow at skies
laugh stone at feet
i am hoar of unnight
shattered & unseen
laugh flint scrape skin
laugh bone under me
oculus obscura
No comments on oculus obscuraTo like, click comments or:
oculus obscura
no such thing
those lips still cut
with every touch
with every view, so
tie me to the screen
to bring them closer,
still closer, to me
there is no such
thing, love
there is only bruise
a thumb pressed to
heart-boxes caged
within rows of ribs
and vanities
so give over blind
a seer for sweet pain
rending through
to see so clear
it hurtsTo like, click comments or:
no such thing
VMH Ep 6.2: Stilmere is live
start readingVengeance, My Heart The Argument:
Things are on the Turn or on the Twist.
A landscape in cards.
Everything æsces on the wræclast.Episode 6.1 of Vengeance, My Heart (episode link), my serialized Sepulchral-Gothic Western novel, is now live at ravensweald.art.
Subscribe to the serial via email
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VMH Ep 6.2: Stilmere is live
Tree inspection
I went to check on my new little trees — mere saplings — in the backyard this weekend. Will they thrive? Will they die? I don’t know. But they sit on the back hilltop and on the front-yard flats in accordance with their sun needs and drought resistance. Perhaps there will be berries and flowers soon (next year or a few more down the line). I can only hope.
I am probably the only person planting trees who would laugh at what I found at the top of the hill when I checked on one that was more afterthought than intentional, seeing as I really had no good place to plant all ten saplings I received as a “gift” from the Arbor Day Foundation and a new young plum tree.
Up there, lonely and away from the powerlines running up the right-of-way between my yard and the back row, the sapling stood tall, with an unexpected gift at the base.
Some critter, probably one of the three foxes that like to hunt the neighborhood, left a solitary turd at the base of the tree.
Was it commentary? Was it fertilizer? Was it even one of the foxes?
I’m no expert in fox turds, but it looked too big to be the possum’s. Too small for even a small dog fed on commercial food. Not the right shape for the deer or the rabbits. Raccoons? Maybe feral cats (not fed on commercial food, I know that shape and size well)?
But I laughed and the crows laughed with me there at the hilltop.
Poor little tree.
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Tree inspection
atelier
We held feather to flame and come out charred, there, in the underwood, the oaks rising sentinel high. The many mutter and shuffle, not wanting to be left behind. But the barrier is the bending of knee supplication, to both the underwood and also the trees.
And stiff knees bend not.
Though fevered and enflamed, I wish I could remain here kissing, improbable memories, unlikely times. We might talk to the old skull stone and antler, carving names with flint beyond the skin’s deep. We might slumber afterglow warm, sweat dripping chill on your side.
This bone atelier, sanctuary and rain. Inkstained. I close blind eyes tight to stay.
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atelier
casting runes — 10may26
uruz a discarded broken thing
you wouldn't look twice
at what can be seen—
an old thing overlooked
raindrops splinter
on corrugated steelA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is uruz. The rune is named after the now-extinct aurochs, a wild ox and has become associated with standing up to challenges, having both confidence and courage, stubborn tenacity, and boundless strength and health. Uruz is alternately associated with the more raw elements which include rain, primordial potential, and the slag/dross cast away during the making of iron.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
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casting runes — 10may26
surrender
there was a used-to-matter
and now a not-certain-it-does
laid across existence-as-wraith
as the haint at the bottom
of the stairs and down the hall
it could beautiful, one supposes
if such a dream were real and
i am dreaming of us dreaming
of one of us drowning and
one of us is just me just dreaming
of slipping under the wave
surrender comes easy with
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surrender
Stolen away
There are days that I feel like everything was stolen away. Like today. A flash of stagelighting splashed on chrome, showering us in cobalt bright and cherry gone to burgundy under the finger tap tap tap. There was sweat, laughter and I fell in love that night, but there was not enough summer to keep.
Those moments were before the things broke and I fell to the stolen, poisoned under a trail of stars.
We danced. How we danced. Different voice, a skew of face. Keeping the faith and spinning, yearning there on the eve of May. Michael, you said, a vampire drawing, drinking me away from the night. Be one of us of us of us…
And I turned before the fading, blinded again with white. I should have not gone into the light because that it where it started to break. The theft in your obsidian eyes, a box containing all the light and the smell of the waterfront. Distracted by the glitter, I forgot to forget and give over.
Maybe, I should have let the dead die.
Tired of the absence, I slender eyes to shadow. I ache for the heart in your voice. But now only echoes sing in the empty place where everything was stolen away.
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Stolen away
VMH Ep 6.1: Stilmere is live
start readingVengeance, My Heart The Argument:
A Stranger in a strange landing.
Dovetailing memory and reality.
Now not so fast, y’hear?Episode 6.1 of Vengeance, My Heart (episode link), my serialized Sepulchral-Gothic Western novel, is now live at ravensweald.art.
Subscribe to the serial via email
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(more…)tagged:
ash & thorn, episodic fiction, gothic western, ravensweald.art, sepulchral western, serialized fiction, vengeance my heart, web novel, weird westfiled under:
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VMH Ep 6.1: Stilmere is live
