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Joanna Oz May 2015
projection of disemboweled guts oozing blood
dripping entrails onto starched white linens
hung in pristine precision, poisoned into submission
my demonic parole officer has come out to play
from the dungeon of hell's seventh circle
i swallowed a hive of maggots with my lunch today
forked serpent tongue slurping slime and slugs
unholy satisfaction from magicking fantasy into
ghoulish, gory realities and ******* tears from deserted lungs
the lion's dinner watches his stomach being eaten
dull but forceful rock formations cracking and crunching
disembodied hallucinations, presupposing predilection
i am the grim reaper's prom date, predisposition
gussied up in cobweb tulle and glittering larvae
with a chloroform corsage, what generous perfume
the skeletal dance floor creaks under my spinning,
groaning of lives sped through on tranquilizers
dancing a tango with Death, i smirk in dizzy abandon
the band is beating their bones to chalky pulp
music made from desperate self-destruction
projectile ***** onto my pedestaled ideas
chunks of last week's insights stink the room
the bile which processed them to rejection
is sticking dripping off the untethered chandelier
i watch them both fall towards me
first, in slow-motion glimmering
and then,
all at once,
i am below them
and we are below the skeleton floor
in the cellar of the scorpion's dungeon
that i escaped from this eery morn
Garth lay still in the gilded cage
Unable to move a thing,
The bars were merely spiders’ webs
Of a faery’s magicking.
He’d wandered into the Faery Ring
Where he’d seen the mushrooms spread,
And now was caught in a faery spell
With the rest of the living dead.

With Tom, the Candlestick Maker’s son
And a barrel of candlewax,
He’d dawdled home from the marketplace
And lay in the beckoning grass.
He woke to find he was tightly bound
With a faery up on his chest,
She said, ‘Lock him in the cage as well,
Along with all of the rest.’

And Madge, the maid with a milking pail
Who was sent to milk the cow,
She’d wandered off on her way; she thought,
She needed to feed the sow.
She woke to mushrooms, ten feet tall
All towering over her head,
The stalks were bars, set under the stars
And her limbs, they felt like lead.

While Tim the Tinker was there as well
With his knives and sharpening tools,
His grindstone lay in a pile of hay
And the bonds on him were cruel.
The beggar lay in his filthy rags
While the rich man muttered, ‘Shame!’
He’d soiled his boots and his Regency suit,
Was bound with his watch and chain.

They lie not far from the caravans
Of a gypsy camping ground,
So Faeries say: ‘Let’s take them away
Before they’re seen and found!’
But dancing into the faery ring
Is the Gypsy, Mavourneen,
Who stumbles over the gilded cage
And steps on the Faery Queen.

The top flies off from the gilded cage,
The webs of the bars are torn,
And Garth crawls over the mushroom heads
To swear, ‘I feel reborn!’
The faeries weep as they carry their Queen
In death, to their Faery Dell,
There’s mushrooms still in that Faery Ring,
But now, Toadstools as well!

David Lewis Paget
Georgia Kereopa Jul 2019
conjuring of words
magicking incantation
let fly in the world
Shivpriya Aug 2019
I found love while being an
ambler. It is a magicking stroll!
It has vividly exhibited the suavely
poised feelings for my wandering
soul.

There is no scope for
labyrinthically admixt of feelings.
I know that as I have seen all the agreeable appearances
smiling in the sunlight.


This everlasting hope meets
the land of your lovesome heart
and I feel that in a lot of ways
blessings can never be ignored.

-Shivpriya
#shivpoetesspriya
Shivpriya Jan 2021
The perspicacity seems to end all of the melancholiness!


I don’t wish to integrate without
any discretionary hope but the magicking fir of an answered
prayer is dazzlingly developed
and it is guiding me to overcome
my worries!

I yearn to have a sacrarial meeting
with you so that I cannot be a mis-layer
anymore!
Would you give me any
chance to feel grateful about it!

- Yours forsaken melody
©️shivpoetesspriya
Ephraim Feb 2021
Your wheel has spun round
and reached the apex,
the end
 of one season

ushers in the next.

I remember each time
you put on new shoes
to walk roads untrammeled
when the old you outgrew.

The luthier had strung you
a special guitar
hewn from a tree
grown 'neath the Pole Star.

Working your mojo
swift wit and sweet smile
raised dust with your feet
and Cain with your guile.

At night I still hear
your voice in my sleep
magicking then making
unblemished clouds weep.

Monarch butterflies
burned off their wings
drawn to the flames
when they heard you sing.

To the door of your chapel
virgins came round
hymens and foreskins
clustered the ground.

Will you pass by again?
Near the cohiba field
where we lit up the night
and drank till we reeled?

Then crashed on a bench
near the big house of stars
I cried while you slept
you woke feeling starved

The bench is long gone
The house is torn down
I still walk there often
though you're not around.

Don't know where you are
but I'm sure that you'll be
pursuing and loving
a woman or three.

You're destined to find
what it is that you seek;
keep following rainbows
near the loneliest creeks.

They'll lead you to places
you know you belong,
where your life will be written
and told in a song.

— The End —