Ed1976 - Hello Poetry

I the house was full of butterflies (the kind that make love) II and the night — an undeciphered song (our neutral flesh was a gentle bond) III the transient voice of solitude (I dream of death — and the cold fades)

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Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC

Ed1976

Untitled

I the house was full of butterflies (the kind that make love) II and the night — an undeciphered song (our neutral flesh was a gentle bond) III the transient voice of solitude (I dream of death — and the cold fades)

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my name is blood. I am a bird — I ride the wind to cease being the bird that flies. I am the king, the poet of an infinite heart.

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Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 11:04 AM UTC

Ed1976

to the earth

my name is blood. I am a bird — I ride the wind to cease being the bird that flies. I am the king, the poet of an infinite heart.

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flower blood flows from your mouth to your feet flower your ****** opens and devours the sun flower icy death, the tomb and garden

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Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC

Ed1976

Flower

flower blood flows from your mouth to your feet flower your ****** opens and devours the sun flower icy death, the tomb and garden

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equine stone our wings tearing through the air oh! air in the burning lungs of angels angels, decades upon decades leave home and go to work...

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Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 10:44 AM UTC

Ed1976

equine stone

equine stone our wings tearing through the air oh! air in the burning lungs of angels angels, decades upon decades leave home and go to work...

6

the dream had layers of wolves upon layers of she-wolves, eyes in every direction, ears that scrutinized everything to the limit of the unfathomable, each heartbeat a syllable of cold death, each small animal devoured or ****** on wooden floors with sand spilled to cover the nocturnal blood. the blood of poisoned wine running down the snouts into the throats, trembling. I do not believe in the overwhelming noise of the dead.

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Sep 22, 2025

Sep 22, 2025 at 11:33 AM UTC

Ed1976

The dream

the dream had layers of wolves upon layers of she-wolves, eyes in every direction, ears that scrutinized everything to the limit of the unfathomable, each heartbeat a syllable of cold death, each small animal devoured or ****** on wooden floors with sand spilled to cover the nocturnal blood. the blood of poisoned wine running down the snouts into the throats, trembling. I do not believe in the overwhelming noise of the dead.

1

When I was the age of a landscape I used to write letters And that changed all the noise of solitude A breeze coming from the sea was still a piece of childhood Later, there were so many winters followed by so many silences I had thousands of days with fever and heat an impenetrable black light — full of varicose veins — fell upon my solid shoulders like a raw and symbolic pain, a call to the sacred, to the memory of a more carnal time, full of guilt, more imperfect, where breathing was an authentic act, a formula of instinct, of abandonment or return, perhaps. I dreamed — a change of scene — I took off my best suit, folded it over my knees, and entered the forest like an animal inventing itself.

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Jun 5, 2025

Jun 5, 2025 at 6:59 AM UTC

Ed1976

FRAGMENTS

When I was the age of a landscape I used to write letters And that changed all the noise of solitude A breeze coming from the sea was still a piece of childhood Later, there were so many winters followed by so many silences I had thousands of days with fever and heat an impenetrable black light — full of varicose veins — fell upon my solid shoulders like a raw and symbolic pain, a call to the sacred, to the memory of a more carnal time, full of guilt, more imperfect, where breathing was an authentic act, a formula of instinct, of abandonment or return, perhaps. I dreamed — a change of scene — I took off my best suit, folded it over my knees, and entered the forest like an animal inventing itself.

14

My mouth is the shell of a fish — a slow flower of a bird. Gray flower. Ashen flower, like a breast sprung from the word of a fish. Vine crystallized in the spasm of a vague and splendid wing, a blow of mouth in the reflowering of the flower in the fields strained white — a blow born of nothing, into the drowsiness of the shell. Words watering in the mouth toward the ether of the bird — the quiver of the flower in the fish.

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May 29, 2025

May 29, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC

Ed1976

My mouth is the shell of a fish

My mouth is the shell of a fish — a slow flower of a bird. Gray flower. Ashen flower, like a breast sprung from the word of a fish. Vine crystallized in the spasm of a vague and splendid wing, a blow of mouth in the reflowering of the flower in the fields strained white — a blow born of nothing, into the drowsiness of the shell. Words watering in the mouth toward the ether of the bird — the quiver of the flower in the fish.

12

Kafka, Prague is poorly lit. A guest at a cheap boarding house smokes on the balcony of his room – he contemplates the movement of the Vltava – the river’s dark reverie chills the soul. A newspaper lies across his lap, the front page reads: How to Be a Good Cockroach. The man goes back inside; that night, he dreamed.

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May 27, 2025

May 27, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC

Ed1976

Vltava

Kafka, Prague is poorly lit. A guest at a cheap boarding house smokes on the balcony of his room – he contemplates the movement of the Vltava – the river’s dark reverie chills the soul. A newspaper lies across his lap, the front page reads: How to Be a Good Cockroach. The man goes back inside; that night, he dreamed.

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