it has been a theatrical performance
a greek tragedy, one might say.
everynight i celebrate
praying to dionysus
and resting in his temple
drinking the fruit of pleasure.
i’ve been drowning myself with anger,
aphrodite is not on my side
didn’t get her blessing at all
it has been so awful
my life could be as compliated as the iliad
i harvest from hegemone’s plants
the leaf that makes me at ease,
a form of running away slowly.
the story of my tragedy
will be engraved in all of your memories
soon enough i will be in hades’ realm
perhaps grow some flowers,
with persephone blooming them easily.
but in this life,
the life that imitates an art form
in the form of a tragedy, a theatrical one
will be remembered
as a great performance, by me,
and myself only.

My creature– My creature can only be from the Wood, from the lake in the heart of it. He must be the ember in the cabin dying by fire, he must emerge from it; and his eye must be red with passion, burning in wrath.
Indeed, my babe can only have the eye of the Wrathful Lamb.
He can only be blade. Tongue wet with Passion.
Heavy with divinity. God-defying. Nothing less. Nothing less.

He tilts his head
To the girl walking past.
She diverts her eyes, she is smooth and fast.

His lips turn down
He takes a glance at the floor
And when he looks up, he is human no more.

In a second, he transforms
Hurt man to seething beast.
His minds are raging storms
And his hate is ready for release.

It takes only a suspicious look
Or a slight misstep
And his wrath is unhooked.

You ought to watch out, girl
For he'll get you, too.

There was once a little fox who was born lame. Its brothers liked to play and bite and grow, and none of these things did the little fox care to know.
In the light of a setting sun, they ran and skipped, playing with each other’s tails. The lame little fox, healthy of body, albeit smaller than its brothers, stood by and watched. Its mother approaches it.

She sits next to it, watching the others play.
“Your brothers are almost ready for the hunt.” She begins, and the little fox looks at her.
“You will not survive.” She tells it, sparing them both the discomfort of looking a son in the eye while bearing such news.
The little fox does not cry.
“Will I die at the jaw of an animal?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The mother does not answer.
The fox looks back at its brothers. He’s never liked playing with them much.
“If you hunt at my pace, will I slow you all down?”
“Yes. It will be your brothers who will die at the jaw of an animal then.”
The little fox looks on, and with a blink of its knowing little eye, understands.
“You are going to **** me.” it says.
“I must.”
“Then do not be kind to me in my taking. Lest I survive, run away, and come back a creature you will not recognize.“
The mother is calm, her response a knowing silence. The breeze is a sigh of fall. Winter soon approaching.
“**** me sooner rather than later.”

The little fox walks away (for they both know today is not his day) no doubt to take a nap in the family’s den.
If the little fox were to leave, thought the *****, it would leave tonight or tomorrow morning. She would strike then.

The foxes were all done with their play, and the mother sees them to their den.
“I will strike tonight” she thinks, decided. But when she arrives at the mouth of the den, among the chatter of the young babes was the fox’s absence, which could only be noticed by a loving mother’s gaze.

“Come, children.” Says the mother to her settling kits.
“Sleep now. We’ve God’s own wrath to prepare for.”

I am a monster
I have to be obeyed-
beware of my wrath

See you in the forest;
We’ll meet there at one.
We can walk along the path
To escape the whole world’s wrath.

See you in the forest;
If you dare to come.
The world can be a pretty place
But can vanish you without a trace.

The monster wanted love from the maiden
And gold that the townspeople paid him
When it came time to collect
Him the maiden did reject
To contain his wrath none could persuade him

Wrinkled. Dry faced. Charging down old stairs.
Not what I expected, but I lunged my frantic knife.
Wild eyes turn to wells as aged bright stars stare back.
Heart shattered visage glides, bumbling. Mirage.


Please go do some gardening. Your flowers are
Sick without you. I miss you. Dream spoilt. Crooked,
Half-hearted, direful springs sprout poison youth.
Seedlings blight your wrathful name as petals grow…


The flowers you grew colourless now bloom bright.
They miss grey! True blue is cold- burdened purple.
Feel the life drink backward, clutching an endless
Night you downed tools without final reconcile
Or friend blinded from drugs.
Now staring beyond a time-stained bitter fire,
Burnt images caught and ****** through empty dark
Tortured fear-stricken blood wincing agony- ****.


Fate lamenting, sharply-flashing, tortured picture,
Lying motionless. Bleeding internally.