I am a book
written on pages
made from the skins
and flesh
of sacred sinners,

bound by the bile
and discharge
of their entrails,
knotted together
by their vacuous veins;

covers glossed
by their fat and tears,
adorned with
their evergrinning teeth,

by their boiling grimace,
with the bliss
of their anguish death;

their bones
used as quill,
its brush
their hairs,
their blood
its ink;

the tales
of their agonies—

04 June 2017

Free Verse

© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.

She’s lost, though here – already gone
When you embrace her, you embrace the air
Who she is, who she was – what does it matter?
Her laugh is a memory, her presence helps not
She was never here, it’s just an illusion
We tell ourselves: she’s really here!
Be that as it may, she wills to not.
She was born the slave of another
Loosen the reigns? He will not.
Though you try, though you cry,
Your prayers fall on deaf ears – so it seems, anyway
Your God is listening, but forces none
She must see, she must believe
She can’t see: she’s fading away
Though here, she’s really not.
‘Tis a memory, she sees it not.
She races to and fro, she loves and shares
Yet living, she’s certainly a ghost
For what is her existence but a memory?
Though she’s now, soon she’s past
Forever gone, forever lost
A creature made in the likeness of her creator,
Made to be, rather than be not
She chose to not, she chose to live
But wouldn’t see in living, she was really not
Now you have eternity to forget:
She was there, though she was not

From my book, "Aimless Wanderer"
Afiqah Apr 20

the bitter truth is,
my insecurities have always been
a little too loud
cracking through every
little crevasse
that left me on swings
so I won’t be easily trapped by
my own insanity

but seems to me,
one can never fairly break out
without annihilating such damnation
that has stormily detonates
one’s becoming

so don’t say a word
or even let out a sigh
but watch me
as I swan into alleys, trusting
only the devil’s hands now
to bring a silent cheer
to this almost heart


ConnectHook Apr 16

Cartoon bunnies up our kiesters;

yellow chicks lay chocolate eggs.

Antichrist confection: Easter's

pastel poison. Drain the dregs.

Sweet untruths with trinkets given

lying in the plastic grass.

Dull consumers, market-driven.

Christ is risen... kiss my ass.

Our English word Passover, happily, in sound and sense, almost corresponds to the Hebrew [pesach], of which is a translation. Exod. Xii. 27. The Greek pascha, formed from the Hebrew, is the name of the Jewish festival, applied invariably in the primitive church to designate the festival of the Lord’s resurrection, which took place at the time of the passover. Our word Easter is of Saxon origin, and of precisely the same import with its German cognate Ostern. The latter is derived from the old Teutonic form of auferstehn, Auferstehung, i. e. resurrection. The name Easter is undoubtedly preferable to pascha or passover, but the latter was the primitive name.

[SOURCE: Ecclesiastical History to the Twentieth Year of the Reign of Constantine, 4th ed., trans. Christian F. Cruse (London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1847), 221.]
Ghostlizard Apr 3

A darkest hour, a darkest time
For him and for many, the day was sublime
For his knife was ready, curved to a point
The cultist was screaming, brother anoint
The oil was dripping, mixed with his gore
his form was sprawled, all over the floor
The circle was drawn, the time is now
Our god will be waiting, they’ll hear us somehow
We slice his throat, and we say the watchwords
We chant for an hour, then kill all the birds
The light is telling, our god has awoken
He is coming down, to the words we have spoken
And when he arrives, death to the foundation
If his presence is felt, enter damnation

Alyce Black Mar 20

This is how I like
my bruised skin
And how I like my sin

Pretty lights
across heavy flesh
ripe and warm
and wet
with the waters of

Sometimes I wonder if hell
is just a
fever dreamt
from the disorderly mind
of someone with issues
like mine

CK Marrow Dec 2016

Muted color
On darkest day                                          
There was a light
to show the way

In dreary towns
My eyes were bound
To the misty lights
Up on the cloud

What is that phenomenon?
Where did it go?
The place we are seeking
We shall never know.

As our eyes droop down
And our smiles go flat,
It is easy to see
That we shall never go back

To that muted color
On that darkest day
Where that light to guide us
Showed the way

Immortality is over
We are now doomed
To succumb to our future
As our destinies loomed.

As we were shot down
To the pits of Tartarus
My fate was no longer

We were forgone
Forever to roam
The pitch black world
Always to moan

That muted color
On darkest day
Was unfortunately one
To never stay

Liam C Calhoun Oct 2016

Sometime an umbrella’s just a rabbit
and sometimes horses are never to be rode upon.

Sometimes a mother’s tears are foolish
and sometimes sons don’t want to come home.

Sometimes pearly whites and smiles surround
and sometimes teeth detach and dagger backs.

But a dream is just that, “a dream is just that” –
but a wandering, but a dread, if only damnation;

and a “ta, tada, aha!” The wizard’s returned before
we realize we’re all magic, fooled and the foolish –

Incarnations, infestations, imaginations,
and messes come ends, damnations, the victims.

Heaping distress and all of our own accord,
your accord, our accord, notarized the

Nooses ‘round our necks.

Kerstin Martinez Oct 2016

I can feel the numbness
It pulses in my lips
I pinch my hips
To see if I still exist
I can't breath
Maybe I'm just suffocating
The air won't pull in  
My chest rises and falls
But nothing gets pulled in
Im suffocating in the darkness
That I created
From my own stupidity
The world is not ending
But my world is pulling away
Taking the air I breath with him
I'm left out in space
But there are no stars
It's the emptiness
I carved out around me
With bleeding hands
I can't breath
I can feel the numbness
It pulses in my lips
I feel the grace of fingertips
I try to latch on
I weigh a ton
Will my world hold on
After all my stupidity
Will he give me air to breath

sweetheart, sweetheart
here we come
from the hill nearby the river
we will take your first-born son
we will take and will deliver

sweetheart, sweetheart
close your eyes
he'll be taken to a palace
where nothing ends or dies
shines aurora borealis

sweetheart, sweetheart
here we are
singing songs of constellations
he will be our shining star
our blessing or damnation

Next page