Daily Archives: August 24, 2014

MARY MADE MODERN PROMETHEUS

There you were, locked
in a wintry summer
that long cold
volcanic winter
by Mount Tambora
eruption

You spewed German
ghost stories
by German-French tongue
Your th ou ghts
fragmented

by the silky touch
of cold
a kiss from abyss
to heart

And you, Mary!
Born the Modern Prometheus!

And what say you, maker!
Mot of the clay of monster
but the soul within!?!

A brilliant mind of prose
Imagination beyond the horror
you created that day

A literary monster itself!
No thing that dispose!

:: 08-21-2014 ::


ANCIENT ORIGINS OF VAMPYRE

Countess
Elzabeth
Bathory —
Psychosis
or remedy
for tuberculosis?
You — eccentric
woman of red
drank the souls
of all the dead
And Mary Shelly
licked the dreams
a color of Carmine
— raw pigment
of creativity!

:: 08-21-2014 ::


MY FIRST POETRY CLUB

I HAD a poetry club
but they all got fired.
The strip club said
I was taking away
all their business.

:: 08-21-2014 ::


MICROSCOPICSILICOVOLCANOCONIOSIS

Microscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
I ate you in all my youth…
buried my face deep inside
     The depths of your soul
inside mother earth’s
vaginal soul!
     I smoked two packs a day
but lived and worked
deep inside between
her thighs — mother
     Silicone of death
and I hear…
a murmur of love
she loves me
     And I love you!
could you let me
If I said I cared for you!
microscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
     Words, so lovely trip us
long love and life
I keep talking to you
and I want to know…!
     I dug inside your soul
and fed you my heart!
So I want to know
what’s the name of the game
     So small and large
I ate you and died
but dear lover…
tell me you love me
     I dug inside
you ate me
I loved you
and now
     We’re one

:: 08-21-2014 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – C WHITE SPACE DETOURS

I ride the path by mouth
and nothing more
The pen is dried  and tears
have taken a road by south.

Who should feed my vagrant words
they starve at day and flee by night!
And detours, forked by white Spaces

And pregnant pauses give birth
to tiny doubts upon my ink!
I watch the children drown there.

A fountain in the square of town
is where I dip my quill,
and the Crier shouts,

“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!”  

Remember all the good souls!

:: 08-23-2014 ::