My mother’s addiction is a shapeshifter—
It takes on so many forms it’s rumoured
that nobody knows its true face
It’s a master of disguise
it hides itself behind thin lipped smiles
and tired eyes—
It changes so often it’s hard to tell
if it ever recycles old forms
I frequently ask myself if I would
recognize her if I did not have her eyes
If we didn’t share a body for 7 months
would I know the sound of her heartbeat
even when she’s disguised as a dragon
—sober is the shape she fails to hold the longest
the edges between make believe and reality
blur almost as quickly as they form
It’s easier to be a flame than still water
so she burns down everything in her path

At home we don’t dare say the word addiction
we walk on eggshells like her cover will crumble
at the slightest vibration from the floorboards
—we glide through the hallways like spirits
there’s no need for a haunting here
ghosts already roam in the walls
you hear wailing more often than silence—
I’m beginning to think Halloween is my favourite holiday
because it’s the one day of the year
people can look into this haunted home
and they don’t judge me for what they see
behind closed doors
—I’ve never been one for haunted houses
but maybe it’s because I’ve been living in one
for 22 years without a break
I wish to escape from my own house of horrors
so why would I pay to enter somebody else’s
Instead I put on devil horns
and watch movies where there’s always a final girl
wondering if it would be worth my soul
to make a deal with the devil
so my mom can stop shapeshifting
so my brother can sleep at night
so I can finally breathe, even just for a moment

—my mother’s addiction is a shapeshifter
I hope someday soon I can see what she truly looks like
I have been living with a stranger for so long
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to recognize
the people you love

The liquid
the suffering
the deep red so deep and red
that only the sea could be more blue
The glass, the green
The intoxicating colors
of a lonely evening
or a dinner date
The stains of anger or
happiness or
fear
Wine, wine
the liquid,
the joy.
The slowed reflexes and
the numbed pain and
the misfiring nerve endings -
the cerebral palsy of alcohol.
The divorced mother of alcohols,
the best friends reuniting,
the new house celebrating,
the variety of steak cutlery,
the funeral of alcohols.
Wine, wine,
the deepest end of a sea
everyone dares to drown in,
and words that can’t be taken back
and deeds that cannot be undone
and promises that are foolishly made,
and birthdays to be celebrated,
and weddings to be held,
and dances to be danced,
all under the soft, dark cloak of
wine, wine.

Le Cordon Bleu sommelier in the know
Discussed wine pairing with patrons aglow
"What does your order include?"
"Roast turducken frankenfood"
"Then I recommend a dry Portmanteau!"


© 2020 Mark Toney.  All rights reserved.

Looking at you, ten minutes or more
As you did look, let out vacant stares.
I tried not much, just stood my ground
In such intricacies, love; I disappeared
How elegant you seem, without trying
Too much; the red in lips, awestruck !
The hair in a bun, in an all perfect black
Apparition of your being, it is flawless.
Dear, I am smitten in such hues you don
The reds and blacks and whites and on,
The due in dots, and cells eloping out.
Imagery adding _ layers to your form
Who then, be, creator to your frame ?
A bold tryst in stolid magnificence !
Who then, birthed such countenance,
In contemplation, I just wither away.
For a moment now, for a moment till
Let me just bask, let my soul fill
And in beauty, won't it, I consume.
Refuel my heart, for the dry dunes.
Let me just stare, as you do stare
In art that brings you, alive today.
Let me just stand, deep in thought
And offer you a thoughtful bouquet.

Old Pantaloons, a Chiasmus
by Michael R. Burch

Old pantaloons are soft and white,
prudent days, imprudent nights
when fingers slip through drawers to feel
that which they long most to steal.

Old ***** loons are soft and white,
prudent days, imprudent nights
when fingers slip through drawers to steal
that which they long most to feel.

Keywords/Tags: chiasmus, pantaloons, *****, loons, *******, pun, wordplay, underwear, fetish, lingerie, pervert, perverts, *******

My little game of  Chess
That I played, with you
Making subtle moves
Hinting all too softly
Allowing impasses
Offering a pawn
Renouncing knights
Denouncing  a  bishop
Even giving up my Queen
That trying game of  Chess
It appears, has come to a stale
Without one word spoken, without
An idea or intellect having being shared
My dear, I have not tried hard enough, and
I shall never be the wiser for not having made a move

my lines are so plain
that next time
you wanna fly someplace
instead of contacting an airline
you may write my way