Tag: melancholia

  • entanglements

    no more fingers
    outstretched because
    we can see our 
    only use is to please
    some illusion of touch
    arthritic entanglements
    become slender thorns
    pressed under tender
    skin

  • long trellis

    seeking betweens in blind
    i keep going back to the fog
    clouding anne’s crown
    crossroads slick long ago

    feeding ravens without words
    i was given a promise song —
    naught but fever dreams,
    it seems and now i slender
    to empty and ached aging

    long the trellis climbs

  • undertow

    what's the point?

    scrape bone with flint 
    phantasmagoric
    and toss finger broke 
    i can hear her calling
    over the wave;
    so slip me undertow
    before i wake

  • marionette

    my scrimshaw heart
    ink etched and pale
    bound in rust wire
    wound around old nails

    tired for explanations
    eyes shutter-slip click - - -
    stop.

    then comes that
    marionette walk
    back to gods’ little
    alcove behind
    her priesthole
    waiting for another
    tick of the tock

  • new moon skies

    it's easy to believe
    all the pretty little lies
    we whisper to our heart
    under cover of dark
    under the new moon skies

  • brokework

    he mad dog barked at
    walls drawing down
    he jaw chomped hard
    at cage and at leash

    with hatpin hands
    and neck rust screech
    a brokework heart
    and tinsel teeth

    dragging behind loathing
    in razor wire, unsure
    which self to throw
    to mists from peak

  • hollows

    I am gnawing at black ice, waiting to become real while taking in all obsidian and injecting it in my veins. I would offer you a taste, but I can already see your shard eyes speak and say, “Oh, I had planned to offer you mine.” I would not want your generosity to go to waste. So I gnaw.

    Sure sure, I’ll be paid in token for my taking — coin coming in kisses melting on the wind. Scant warmth, that. But enough heat for a haint, when we black ice gnaw the typic nights, I expect.

    My twin blind eyes haze over when I look to the east. Hollows, I say to none… There is no Avalon.

  • horror story

    the horror is not being in
    the thrall of a leannán sídhe

    the horror is being not in
    the thrall of a leannán sídhe

    wraith wanderings,
    stoney moors on the
    crisp & hollow

  • briar tangled between

    Photo by Justin Wilkens on Unsplash
    all that is owned is empty or
    flaking rust from dull razors
    drawing ley from
    rope raw wrist to
    hangman's etching,
    all briar tangled between

  • one breath &

    ache on more mantic &
    less onto dreaming
    hand pat knee thigh
    tears eye entwine
    a dollar thin love
    cut from small bones 
    touch a tear to tongue
    & linger nectar sweet...

    something stolen in
    that silence between
    one breath & the next