A Tincture of Anise
some poems to whisper in the dark
What if I told you I’m not a poet? That I lied to get you under the sheets? ‘Then I’ll teach you how to rhyme with meaning, So you can bleed alongside me, said she. — The Last Unicorn
Some Haiku Inspired by the Community
I. spring blossoms ~tremble~ like paper (boats) on my tongue nude, unaware II. flowing flush through jade streams the stern of your skin yawns— blind among the sturgeon III. your thin gold chain bound up in wish memories reaches for the links IV. the skin box glows dim within glass, the taste of deceit [flicker] here again? V. berserking cliffsides w..a….f……t……..e……….d by tradewinds anoint me in your desert VI. that old ache the weight of having a body …still warm I. Spring’s Promise Land — Stephen II. I, The Sturgeon — Bence Ádók III. Wünsche — Huck V. poem in baroque — Simon Johnson VI. The first night I talked to God — Cal
The Prophetic Ones
I.
when prometheus gave us silicon,
it was not an overt executioner like fire,
its hex was more patient,
its song was a siren of desire.II.
a corporation
an artificial body
a corpse—
when the necromancer launches
his bone-carriage into the heavens
the spell will ~ unweave ~
like a waterfall under the moonlight
a hailstorm of skulls will fall over the nations
the bodies of the earth, fuel for babel
for when mammon rises to dance
the dead celebrate
and a trillion voices lurch
III.
roasting eyeless under sara's glass,
within the coral dream / my purple corpse
sponges onto shore,
the wind of a sailor no more.
IV.
when thera erupted
it was beautiful—
we sought shelter in mother’s
burial-croft, but
the poppy goddess demanded
the blood letting of children
to quiet the shaking—
in ecstatic fervor
the waves swallowed our homes
as the great bull bowed his head over livani
V.
profane hall monitors
skin suit savoring
blood tasting
Hosanna faking
deadwood possessed
silicon husks
rioting lust
martyrs of crust
tipping the scales
peeling their asses
gum stuck to lashes
snorting the ashes
yoke on your neck
silence of clay
cut—fall—decayVI.
thus do I descend, not vanquished, but relieved of war
dancing in the wind, instead of beating my chest bare
savoring the last fluttering moments dipped in ink
before the mountain of my words buries me in their consequence
on the day the Shepherd meets me in the meadow...
If you like this, check out:
This call by Marjorie to never forget the people and ways of life most affected by this war:
