Strident brio

He bared his heart with timidity, and with brio was cast aside He feared for marked insanity, with the many times he’d tried The booming beat within his breast, hushed lunacy’s strident calls Until he stilled his throbbing heart, when then those voices died art: Anomalie 7 by Eric Lacombe

Symphony

Still I feel a symphony of agony, though the blind see it not; consumed by self-serving inter- pretations and cheshire duality, a moment not taken to vivisect nascent dubeity for the benefit; ensconsed in backstabbing morality, mercurial quicksand, planting seeds in a wasteland, only to witness the struggle; honesty would bear fruit consentiently, yet the

Lavender

Lavender tales in an Elysian meadow, a collection of amaranthine processions; A yawning field of violaceous yarn, regaling grand stories redolent of mythical horizons and sweet tranquility art: by Werner Van Steen

The box

Dust in a box, uninteresting save its progenitor; in truth, a mere pacifier for those grieved souls Redwood blonde, lined by age, once a titan of might, now molded into an honorable death, at Its behest Lifeless plaques, shiny tchotchkes of distraction, adornments scarred by dates past and words empty; Human constructs, ill-befitting records and

Spaces

He paces throughout this prison, barred by the abandoned spaces, only remnants of remembrances, naught remaining in periphery breathing subject to parsimony, being always reticent to continue, heaviness of heart to aching joints, he can’t embrace the empty spaces rather he zealously oppugns reality, avoids the missing yet not unseen, at the mercy of the

Cacophony

His sub rosa screams are cacophonous Reverberating echoes, his remaining amity Confined within his dermal sarcophagus Alive and buried, his demons lurk relentlessly art: finis coronat opus by Peterio

I wouldn’t

I could try to unsee the seen I could try to unhear the heard I could try to unfeel the felt I could try to untaste the salt I could try to unlove the loved And I would disrespect the time art: A Troubled Soul by Ferdinand Hodler

Needlestack

Overwhelmed in a subsumption of rapier steel, a slender stalk of hay in the needlestack, every eye encircling him in judgement; each piercing their displeasure in a mental bloodlet, no hand would brave the chromium cage that traps his bridled rage, lest they too be lashed; no way to thread an escape, he sets to

Homage

Paying homage through pain and suffering, any distraction an afront to his memory, any relief a disgrace to his tenderness; my love will abide until the falling pall of darkness flutters to rest upon my eyes, and the final tear to streak my cheek has dried; an hourglass of ashes, counting down the sentence; a

Turmoil

Bloody knuckles and broken heart, barbaric breathing in tender breaths, uneasy lies the head that wears the frown, weighted memories, life bereft; wall of innocence, dotted hue, departed love, the vacuum filled; fester, blister, boiling blood, dawns the night in unexpected bruises; now with eyes, the wall stands judgement, mock the man in swelling weakness;

Serenely sleep

sweet smother, serenely sleep the shadows sense wherein to creep a raptor whispers secrets keep slip away in silence masked madness, molly please free of freedom, binding frieze foolish hope on mindless seize alacritous alliance when upon an umbrous sleuth awakened awe uncovered truth overwhelmed with unctuous ruth rebarbative reliance tripped and taut, cataract gleam

Candor

With brilliant candor, Sol bade him wake, for he brought to bear another day art: Sunrise Through Mist by Chris Hankey

Doll

Layered psychoses swelter her brow, helter-skelter sans clemency of a breath; nested neuroses bombastically loud, she’s a madness of matryoshka dolls; infinity mirrors of dwindling sanity, bearing distant truths of her diminishing self; the taunting homunculi with unreal expectations, synchronize chides for Platonic perfection; this ephemeral Form of unattainable need, is found unapologetic in the

Haiku: kite

She yet flew a kite Rather than placate the wind And found happiness art: Evening Cool by Shinsui Itō

The foundation

His light slinks away through the dormer down, cowardice cleaving an ever present foundation of atrament; the vagabond splays its seductive lumen, as shadowed steps abet its getaway; the down- ward darkened stairs impair a festinated chase to the reproachful hardwood below; he watches the trail of unrequited repulsion, lamenting his apathy to follow; swaddled

To continue

He couldn’t write to save his life, evidenced ad nauseam; nor would he want to burden words with such an execrable chore It wasn’t writer’s block, no – not that he thinks he deserves the moniker – it’s rather akin to a nietzsche niche There isn’t much that occupies him, though he’d come to welcome

Jigsaw

They told him, with pride, to pick up the broken pieces, instructing him first which ones to let lie Striven by a delusion to justify failures; evidenced by illusory jigsaws, their incomplete pictures Putting together those remaining pieces of his h-e-a-r-t and s-o-u-l, has left him only another h-o-u-l Where the sewage of draining happiness

Oblivion

Swallowing laments, coughing up stained glass, her voice is lost in the shattering barks rending the silence in twain Vitric dust settles in layers of carmine remorse over bare feet and choices wanting; painted into a corner, and into oblivion Ocular leadlights with cames of tear, a cranberry gloss no longer rose, reflecting life, her

Potential

It lies not in the belief that you’re a butterfly Therein lies the dusted iridescence of insanity Nor in the misguided extolments of strangers Therein lies the birth of a disfigured maggot Potential lies only in one’s ability to exceed it Most will never soar amidst the kaleidoscope art: butterfly by Peterio

Amble

Closing gaping open wounds with tiny searing nooses Stitching burning questions in lamentous deadman sutures Itching ambling fingernails in obeisance of their masters Tearing at the sentient seals withholding all the answers Flaying scarring keratin with mindless zeal abide Knowing flowing remedies are hiding just inside art: by Paolo Troilo

Integrated

She deploys her apparitions in forward ambulation, and watches with desperation as they carry out their vocation With her imagination, in each direction and interaction, she’s intently searching for an end, to her crippling life retraction Spiritual substitutions feed her relentless observation, investigation into the world, a long sought integration Each ghost has her own

Petulant

A doting son, a distant father A gulf of petulance between Taken for granted, disenchanted A landfill of shoes to fill A landfill of time to kill A lonely son, a father deceased A gulf of emptiness between Grown to contemplate, appreciate A curio of shoes to display A curio of time to dismay art:

Solace

My mind, ripped from fantasy like a child from its mother’s arms, searches frantically for an escape from reality back into dream and solace; wherein the darkness anonymous am I, while the banquet of my soul takes place with loathing, sorrow, and guilt gorging upon misery and me art: by Eric Lacombe

Abundant

Sunlight sparkles whispered through windblown autumn leaves Hidden buried treasures found forgotten in the trees An abundant wealth embraced within nature’s loving limbs Amidst the gentle rustle of windblown autumn hymns art: by Olivia Mae Pendergast

Deviate

Too young to fear the coming jeer from a host of bitter grey Left unprepared when venom flared for living her own way She would deviate and elevate to rise above the horde Then was ostracized and lobotomized for striking her own chord So she hid the fire and bid the pyre to keep her

Wasted words

He writhes and tries beneath the watchful oaken knots bleeding down the panderous wooden doors They silently listen to his silence, but react only to the tumult of enamourous heartbeats behind their truer sides Imperfections in the window panes warp his warped view of the painful imperfections he’s been shown Dissecting his reflection, and others

Lissome

The lissome scapegrace weaved through the unsuspecting crowd, availing himself – with nimble, starving fingers – of their precious look-the-other-ways and more-valuable-than-hims art: Journal of Social History

Exposure

Overdeveloped and underexposed, she’s an unclear picture photo: by Sandra

Serendipity

On a train bound for serendipity, sitting alone in a compartment for two art: Rain, Steam and Speed by Joseph Mallord William Turner

Emphatically

With thinly veiled testosteronic verse, you think it’s poetic prose, but you’re just a poetic poser Thrusting your priapic pentameter rather erratically, flexing your lazy wrist and tumescence emphatically You think the louder you write, the more they will listen, show them your manliness, force your muscle to glisten well word slinger, words linger well

Obtusion

Obreptitious obtusion, a brume blurring periphery, turbid blinders marshaling the focus of roaming attentions; phosphenes dancing for distraction, a seductive temptation to engage mental vacuity; his defense mechanism hiding horrors and masking merriment – horrors in their own right; zoomorphologically thrusting his head into the sands of time, waiting for the remains of his body

Obtuse

he thinks he thinks outside the tesseract, since a box has too few of the right angles; he must be obtuse, he never knows how to act and it’s never acute when his tongue tangles *I sincerely apologize to anyone who has read this art: hypercube by Gian Luigi Delpin

Careless rant

To care, about anything; anything in everything, looking for a reason; a propensity for nihilism, but without really caring if there is a purpose; thinking in circles, corralling the dragonflies through rings of fire, writing one down before one of you expires; anhedonic submission, blank stares, habitual nods, and smiles seconds late; forgetting to be

Plethora

A plethora of paths before him, dubitation stayed his stride; in remorseful torpidity he could only watch, as fear always tread in his stead art: Last Self Portrait as a Dying Man by Théodore Géricault

Notorious

Hers was a notorious disease, crippling. The lamb’s slaughter for most, the lion’s share for those whose madness was brought to bear; until they too were brought to slaughter. An existential blemish, she found nary equipoise nor heartsease in her quotidian quiescence. An only child sans a brother’s stillbirth, whom she always supposed was the

Mystical

Love, a spellbinding; when then the incantations abruptly end; what remains is the shockwave of a mystical ensorcellment nettling an atavistic hunger to consume that which is beyond the comprehension of the charmed; an addiction to the enchantment who answers no worship, obeys no ritual, and rewards no sacrifice; it grants only the illusion that

Vehemently

The ghosts insist, in the vilest vehemence, that he lay down his arms in obeisant fealty; the spirits spin the marionette, until he’s bound by his own sinew, in the edge of their favorite room; the spectres spread the pall in a sinister flourish, over the tremor in his deadened eyes; the past whispers heart-halting

Thin

It’s thin. The paper lying before him, and the paperweight’s skin resting upon it; the depth of the graphite pressed into the albus page with the apathetic exigency of have-tos and owe-it-to-thems; the kerning and strokes of the languid letters barely scoring its surface; the flimsy wording and porous reasoning behind a veil of half-hearted

Final fling

She bore the syringe of melancholy to a flirtatious vein, anticipating the sanguine swirl, and desperate for her final fling

Dahlia

Dahlia layers, a flowering fractality Repeating redolence of sensual scents A silken shroud of multitudinousness Fragility in exquisite equilibrium Petals cascading from a pivotal universe Floral fireworks on a spherical sojourn Lustrous lava flows consuming its core Centric waves of satin, ad infinitum Perpetually pulchritudinous perfection art: by Jackie Jacobson

Autumnal eternity

Taught she was beautiful before humility could root Indoctrinated by her birth on a pedestal too high She was an innocent sapling set on a dying course Abscission befell her heart to protect the whole As people shed from her life, more then pruned away Sacrificing her sanity in autothysic carnage All that endures is

Xerox

all around they’re ever prevalent with appetites insatiable it happened without warning taking something irreplaceable the elaborate soulless gadgets our essential evil phones just fabricate xerox copies of toxic mindless drones they devour time so priceless between fingers tightly folding dragooning devilish devices while there’re human hands worth holding we’re slaves of our own making

Crestfallen

crestfallen, he surrenders unto his pen, evermore

Negotiate

He’ll negotiate the curves tires squealing in the heat Until her engine roars and she takes the driver’s seat art: nuit d’été by Christophe Kro

Integrity

His mind lacks an integral incorporation to be a contribution to sprawling society, its integrity weakened by saints and sinners, lay splintered in vague dormition An autodidactically caliginous brume festers this dibilitating, deleterious haze; a cataract of anamnesis and presence, an opalescent lens opaquely eshewing rose Fostering his subversively caducous reality of acquaintances and acquiescences,

Gallivant

From street to street he’d gallivant Surreptitious recalcitrant He’d hunt the ladies of the night From shadows dark and mind of blight His lust for lives need not the sun Jack of his trade, master of one They who dwelt Whitechapel way Read the news and in fear they’d lay Whores and strippers their chances

Satin

her satin tongue ere ever sprung wefts and warps lies to be strung ‘hind silken maw and tightened jaw her needle guards pierce red and raw it’s her defense and recompense a loving heart the pain immense so shifting eye and shifting lie will weave the tales but then deny she’ll not devolve instead absolve

Lipstick kiss

of a lipstick kiss and requisite reflections on waves of discontent; not a lover’s quarrel, merely coercion by happenstance blown through the trees; bearing water red-handed at the shore’s summoning – a souvenir of the dalliance – only to drown beneath the weight of a lipstick kiss floating on bubbles by marianna_a

Is another man’s treasure

Slip through the night he must, challenging the darkness in corner and alleyway, twixt apothecary and bakery, ‘tween hovel and cesspit. I must embrace the space where shadows lurk, if I’m to quest successfully this night. …he whispers to himself, knowing his treasure is nigh. He pauses to hearken for a rumble of the dragon

Maiden

The maiden skipped on butterflies To keep her high above the lies When she unleashed the gossamer Deceiving souls belonged to her Her justice reigns from fingertips From firebrand and whisper‘n lips O’er web like blood inside her vein Now scorched they‘ll never lie again

Cur

A contemptible, sloven cur, is he Always quickest to pick a fight Quicker still to hide or flee A rabid dog without the bite Time one day will put him down Though his father began years before While the bitch went off to lift her gown A beaten pup, a father’s rage for the whore

Company

The inkwell tumbles over welkin and wit; her seething susurrations invite slumberous disregard The puissant voluptuary, the sadist, the con, swallows me with magmatic lips, melting resolve and self-control Fervid angst transudes through saucers into lacustrine stains and chilling horripilation; restrained by fists of silk and ichor ropes She chases me through my tenebrous id,

Deplete

He couldn’t help but watch them They weren’t trying to hide He could even hear them In pieces, anyway, on the corner The twenty-somethings The woman was beautiful Although, not in the raw, carefree, subtle, palm tree way Hers was a manufactured beauty A skyscraper, an architectural wonder reflecting a brilliant sun But not the

Songbird

A solemn, sullen songbird The sylvan summit his stage Stands singing somber soliloquies From his sepulchral cage He sobs straight to the sunset Sempiternally sorrowful songs His soulfully, sonorous sibilance Laments regrets and wrongs

Granite

Her vision softened in the weakness of oneiric distractions, but an unexpected tear bore reality and she was once again anchored by granite eyes

Psithurism

For whom is the wind cheering, while the cackling leaves race playfully between the bare trees, across the frozen, forest floor

Beast

This spiral staircase – his sensorium, ever silent and deep – whose steps fade and whose shadows wilt before the blossom of endogenous darkness, is devoured stair by stair as the beast pursues him downward with unalloyed rancor and tenacity There is no egress; the absence of memories marked by the stench of failure and