Standing on the edge to a sea of pure lunacy this lily blooms,
Her scars, she wishes them not to fade but to shed more blood,
Corrupted by the world around her, which took what she held dear, The only wish to seek revenge she blooms while sympathising with fury and hatred thicker than the spreading of the darkness of night,
A murderous intent, likely energetic enough to break through the ground to get what her desires tell her she needs so dearly,
Getting rid of everything, the love within her hurting chest, so she'd eventually awaken as this distorted image of what was once pure,
Her enemies shall try to escape while observing their dying moments,
Laughing at them whilst watching how they are ruined in seconds,
Throbbing in the dark, the figure of hatred wriggles in moonlight,
Lonely the soul resented by life, keeps up her riot for once more,
In bloodlust and vengence for her own reflection cast on the water,
Deep within her, a crying, broken, yet flickering light calls for help,
If forgiveness could be served, her wounds would heal and she would be able to be herself again, free without any grief or sorrow,
Maybe then, she will even be able to feel love again.


~ Umi

My lavender is burnt and loveless;
Painful, devoured and helpless,
Weak by the side of its dying corpse;
Solitary yet at an age so young.

My lavender cries in its daydreams;
Giggles in sorrowful screams,
And faints and dies beneath fun daylight;
As though tortured and wounded by the sun.

My lavender wriggles in isolation;
Like those ragged clothes in damnation
And there's no more death between heaven and hell--
For none is alive, nor breathes to live.

My lavender longs not to drink nor die;
But it sleeps by the hushed setting moon,
Trapped behind the tail of his lethal winds;
Blinded by too many mysteries, unseen.

My lavender peels its own skinny bones;
Its quaint lust cut and fiercely torn,
Teased by the cold trees of summertime;
Faded by the sweet whispers of time.

My lavender eats its own bloodless veins;
And its hateful friendless world,
Having laughed at anonymous walls
Marveled at unspoken poems.

My lavender drinks of its own soul;
And to love now is but to have none,
With her autumn love stolen by fate;
All her gripping sonnets are far too late.

Crawling through my brain till it has made channels connecting to tunnels like little circuits replacing my nerves, the little worm I call Loneliness wriggles onward.

A constant motion of forward goes that worm, bringing with it a never ending feeling of monachopsis.
Day after day it dwells in my mind as the worm carries on.

It adapts and evolves finding a solution to every mastermind plot I find from removing this creature, this beast, this worm from my mind.

“Friendship is betrayal, they all leave and deceive in the end,” it whispers through my head as if another conscience inside my being.

I fear the worms words and obey every command. Dare I disobey what dismay would come my way?

“Happiness is a lie along with perfection, never trace your hands along such deadly lines, the lines of which a mortal mind should never tread,” he says using my beliefs against me. “Happiness is for those who belong, not for you, never for you!”

The worm screams those words through my mind anytime I laugh or smile reminding me not to be so daft.

Oh beautiful, wonderful,brilliant demon of mine.
Keeping me from trying to find ways to end the suffering in my life

Morbid torment in the back of my mind,
Keeping me from trying to find ways to silence the loneliness screaming within, bringing me further into the dark.

What would I do without you, dear Loneliness?
You cloud my mind and free me from my foolish desires.

Why should I not be alone?
If I was meant to feel together,
Then together surely I would feel.

Why should I feel happiness when happiness isn’t mine?
How selfish I would be without you holy creature,
Beautiful blessed worm of wonder.

I am in need of litmus paper;
A wriggling creature indeterminately featured follows,
It does not sit nor stand no feet nor hands just wriggling waving scribbling in goopy slop, no stops
The smell of burning band-aids trailing in its wake.

Savage monstrous floatation above a tile sea,
Its motions are elegantly sick, delightful ****,  
And I think I am thinking I'd like to know what it thinks,
But then, I know I should never truly know.

I am in need of litmus paper.
Is it an acid, base, or an accidental space
Filled, yet out of place, a dogma to my face?
Recurrent in its situation, killed once, but a reactivation?

I am in need of litmus paper.
Somewhere, I find, I am in the trail it leaves behind.
In this sign, I am afraid.

As it situates, conscious or unconsious,
Wriggling along, regurgitating from behind itself over and over again,
Halving itself, then fusing whole again,
It stares ahead, using an invisible force, inward eyes inside a blank face, to its next traversed inch in the slimy tiles.

And I think,
I need litmus paper.

THE SIX month child
Fresh from the tub
Wriggles in our hands.
This is our fish child.
Give her a nickname: Slippery.

there is this drug in me, swimming inside my bloodstream, kissing insanity away and forming sunflowers on potted vases, in to vast gardens. I can't stop it. sometimes, when I don't consume it, it rips through flesh and wriggles itself in, tickling me until I dissolve in to fits of laughter; and then it would usually pick one of the sunflowers and ask me to take it for a dance and I would, oh I would. I think about it every time I wake up or read a book or breathe; some days when it's quiet I would still sense it's touch but very faintly, very softly; I can't live without it though, not ever; even if it couldn't come in some days and plant it's sunflowers I'd still need it; I wouldn't want those sunflowers withering away without it, and that drug I need swimming in my bloodstream and kissing insanity away and gifting me with sunflowers is, yes, you.

**You.

the farewell of the magical-masque
           the dance of the whirlwind
           the twist in valediction
a pantomime of comedy dripping in life’s heat, its tragedy blooms forlorn
silently the mountain-ranges stare
the sky-face won’t relent and contemplates the open-disease in homes*


1.
disguised as simple relief – rescue lies cooing in the palm
     crumbling in blue-ash beside your grinding-palate
     you reach for pen and paper to appease an entity unknown
shrouded in grey, no scavenger can touch the head of one
who carries blessings in the scabbard – the present worthy of now

stairs are slippery, fish are mouthing, anger grows
     symbols hop along outrageous, so stylised and signs come in decisive
     all at once, almost
there is some purchase in the widening-valley
when climbing-feet need to rest on your narrow angular-will
and wait.. (before them chips rain down)
until the merry-turnstile comes in view


2.
the worm-wheel goes blank a while
and out tunes a dastard-and-devilish prank, courtesy of blunted-fate
sacred-fillies get hacked at by small silver things and they lie slaughtered on stark-plains
and the orb dips in reverse this time
a sooty-traveller from the western-flank
               glances out at massive-figures at supine-rest
               gets startled by the rude ***-fire
eyes slit and pates distort in hostile-fever
at the starling-ingénue in mock-fatigues and fake-epaulettes
but cheering up with wry-humour makes your feet
           a touch too slow to react in time
           and the halberd comes crashing down
well, the last thought you hold before your next one
is how utterly beautiful she looked at the station
long, black hair – silky-shining in your eyes and gay-dancing in the wind
when she passed you all her sweet-love from eyes so wet and smile so quiet
and selected dried-fruit in redolent-parcel
                                   a sealed pelt-skin of unmixed-whiskey
along with fresh-baked raisin-bread in cotton-cloth
                    coarse-sliced and buttered so generous
and
a semi-rusted dry-tin rattling its bounty of macaroons through that smudgy, ***** window
what sweet-victuals to keep alive . . .



man, that journey is a long one!


                             (I’M STANDING HERE        oh, you just know I am here

AND YES -- I’M WATCHING YOU                        
                                                                ­               and no use looking round now..
      YOU CANNOT SEE NOR HEAR ME  
                                                                ­               or begging a purty-release
                                                                 ­                                             
                                  oh easy, boy.. EASY!!)                                                          ­                            
                                                                ­                                             
                   ­                                          


3.
once more, the worm wriggles in microbial-distaste
and the season’s wheel comes dangerously close to being undone
IT DOES
and seconds later, cogs fly hard in every fool’s direction
and luckily.. you catch some in your face.. mouth agape
        crushing your tongue
        splintering all your dental-treasure
        smashing half your reason
no time for moaning.. or eroded-regret.. or even to feel your lips in ribbons
for, when they turn their backs, you will know
what to do..


because you’ve picked some pearls the hard-way..
that atonement could well appear in spells
of any shape
or size



not so?





S T, 30 dec 2013

You tucked your sugar candy wrapping
with surreptitious dainty dips
and lots of little body wriggles
in between my couch cushions
I found them when I did a clean

amongst a weight of quiet
tight squeezed tears
pushed by love out of sight
shaped in dainty pears
appealing with question shaped
twists and marks from subtle turns

I wish your apple secrets
kept so **** sweet
unwrapped and served
peeled with berries on a plate
in neat dressed shiny mint
response coated lozenges
so I could press that sadness out
and dissolve that reposed tinge
of unsolved hidden hurt
between your sensitive tongue
and my own open heart

I'd throw your cares
that empty wrapper stash
into red liquorice skies
to chew through a dash
of  lamp lit tinctures
and catch its splash
in tutti frutti sprays
wet with an array
of well licked flavours
but please keep away
those sticky fingers

look at your paper trail of pink and white
let's follow and pick up each far flung bow
there's a picture on one we can see smoothed out
a part of a boulevard not torn but bright
and it's a bonbon for eyes that dry I'd treat
tucked in a chat upon a couchette
to Paris with you tomorrow night

As the sun briskly rises on a chilly autumn morn,
   my Dormouse pokes her nose through the side of her nest,
her gorgeous loveable eyes are still half closed,
   but she still crawls out of her soft home to start the day.

   She has a long day ahead of her,
scurrying around finding blackberries to nibble,
   on the odd occasion she might stop for a nap,
but she wriggles on to look after her partner,

Me!

Mr. Wormy!

With its life in the palms of person(s) unprecedented,
And its soul orbiting other oppressor,
And its eyes glaring at glistening gloaters,
It slithers and slides and twists and turns,
Ruthlessly reaching for a rapid revival.

Its heart lays limp on the long, lonely lawn
And its spirit sinks silently
And its mouth cries carelessly
It pulses and pushes and wriggles and writhes
Hopelessly harking for a hint of help.

A merry forest pig was he
he woke up very early and hunted until three
snorting, sniffing, the air he's whiffing
never is he ruffled, only focused on his truffles
He goes **** rumping
grunt, grunting for truffle - O's!

Wild he runs and trots the greeny forest
with a jolly jig he wriggles and digs
his cloven hooves moving dirt like lightening
hunt, hunting for truffle - O's!

When at last he finds his gourmet morsels
a squeal is heard and fly the birds
clear from the forest, a happy hog
a squealing song of treasures found, his beloved
Truffle - O's!

You got her from the tailors
All neatly wrapped in pink tissue
Plenty of pretty dresses
But he did not attend.

The phone calls appeared promising
In the beginning, even excited
But then it was always six o'clock
And inconvenient.

Loving can't be part-time
Need is a regularity
Not a hundred pouches of food
When you promised to be around.

Bluebell smiles in the silver bracelet
A trophy baby for a quiz night
And you can't move on
Because your lighter is broke.

And you can't see in the dark
Because your scared to death
Because no one knows
Bluebell wriggles her toes.

Love Grandma ***

A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs.—
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
When the bandsmen march and play).

A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.

The woman walks on the pavement verge,
Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:
Now and then she joins in his dirge,
But as if her thoughts were on distant things,
The rain clams her apron till it clings.—
So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys.

Drinking Guinness from a wine glass
I watch the beetle on his back
rocking to and fro, frantically jerking his legs.

I imagine his voice, squeaky,
a balloon poodle stretched at the end
and spiked with a shot of helium
“help me, help me!  Please I have grubs I should feed”.
I throw out a laugh like a Hammer House villain,
staggering from the sofa I am Nosferatu,
teeth bared in ominous intention,
spilling sticky black froth as I ****-eye my glass.

Wouldn’t it be good to stick a pin through his middle?
Keep him in a glass box?  Whip him out at dinner parties
as a curio example of helplessness,
“yes!  Look how he wriggles.  Do try the stilton”.

Suddenly I’m aware that I wasn’t laughing.

ethno-centricity is an ethic identity within an already biased ethnicity of a nation-state, the bias comes from a collective aggregate... to me the following examples are ethno-centric, all the others succumb to the collective aggregate of a nation-state, as such an ethno-state... but ethnicity is like an eel... you try catching it, it wriggles out into a decentralised form... origin? probably the church-state of the vatican... so tiny, it fits into a city... a state within a city, the antonym of a greek city-state... more like a ******* bedroom-state; i just can't see ethno-"centric" attitudes as pale shadows of "ethno"-centric compulsion for rebellion... against the collective aggregate... it was either the kashubians or the silesians that crafted a petition to invoke distinct diacritical marks to the latin alphabet, deviating from the orthodox collective of a nation... once more... i stopped believing in individual will a long time ago... whether in a palace, or dying on the street... we move as one... i'm really looking for some muslim to invite himself into speaking polish, without arousing any suspicion to craft a terrorist attack... first of all he'll have to drink... mind you, a pinch of salt in a beer, takes away the agitation of your throat, you might receive when drinking it cold, in winter.

we used to have such beautiful ethno-"centric"
terms,
  such etymological diamonds to orientate
ourselves around with -
called the irish *celts -
   called the scots picts -
called them prussians (quasi-germans) -
called them silesians, called them galicians,
called them swabians, called them saxons,
call them merovingians,
                  called them angevins -
we had names for these people -
    decentralißed - locals -
           we had the muscovites -
cockneys born within the earshot of
bow's bells...
                  the tartars (+ the raw steak) -
we had the burgundians -
                    the normans -
   the pomeranians...
   in spain: the basque, the catalonians...
                  the masovians, for ****'s sake!
                    all this: a vocabulary peacocking...
reduced to blanks...
     inert tongues of "category" -
  reduced to a mecca of congregating around
                    crude, barbaric nouns -
either black, or white...
        no mention of cinnamon...
   either european, asian,
  east europe, west europe... virtues!
       the **** do virtues have to do with anything?!
it's a vocab. drought...
                     ah... **** on me:
why bother with local distinctions...
     let's put them in a blender and see what
colour we get...
       however many red berries you throw
into a blender, your throw in just a few
blackberries / blueberries...
                   you're still going to get pale lilac;
i have no idea what ethno-"centrism"
actually represents...
          it hasn't exactly reached the upper-tier
of differentiation...
             tell you what...
you really want to speak to some who actually
is ethno-centric?
     ask the kashubians, or the silesians,
or better still: ask the cornish (people of cornwall)...
i would perhaps ask you the welsh
or the scots... but... well ask the scots and
why they suggest an ideology of
ethno-"centrism", when there is no
ethno-linguistic worked from the beginning...
namely gaelic!
at least the welsh still retain their
primary ethnic identity of speaking
their ****** mothertongue!
                   no tongue: no ideology, the end.
yes, yes, nice nice, great that you distinguished
yourself with a *******: glaswegian accent!
not good enough... this glaswegian masquerade
would sound three times as better
  when you could be bilingual:
speaking english and gaelic...
      i only met one person who spoke it...
a schoolfriend's mum...
              i bet she also read w. b. yeats -
yeets? or is that yates? or should it be yæts?
               never mind, as the kosovans;
kosovo and the last echo chamber of former
yugoslavia, gave an answer:
pretty **** clear, late 1990s ilford:
you could see crowds of kosovans on the streets,
the proud boys soon disappeared
                  while the dust settled back home.

Life has peaks, moments,
that begin just beneath the denim.
Neurotransmitters in a frenzy,
every nerve ending buzzes,
wriggles, screams, every nerve says,
"This is all there is. Inhale the smell of sweat and
****** fluids."
Serotonin, Dopamine, "This is your function," they say,
"This is what your body is for."
Testosterone, Oxytocin, "This copulation, this second, stay here."
Hands cannot be still,
Mouth cannot close,
Tongue cannot retract,
And it builds with every inch you feel.
It seeks your spots, your sensitivities, your favorite weakness,
It seeks them and presses on them,
In that slow-at-first-harder-now way,
Until,
You wake up ******* your bed.

She wishes to know if I am oh-kay,
if I am doing well, smiling over the rim of a tea-cup like jackals with secrets.
Persephone gets caught in my teeth
every time I think of some answer.
Trapped in rows of off-white winter bone,
she wriggles around in my old lady gums,
cursing, shouting, kicking--
our mouths are epic ballads of lies in the name of not-worrying-anyone.
Then they worry us to death.

The Hades made out of all of our lies:
Everything's great! We're all great! Everyone is fine!
keeps pulling her back down into the earth of my heart.
Where no one knows I have eaten a seed of myself.

Demeter, howling for her lost child dies,
like doves crushed in cruel children's hands.

The chrysalis unfurls.
A bundle of rolled up rags that wriggles at times,
The photographs speak volumes and photos never lie.
He is a miniature parcel of ****** expressions, breaking free.
Not walking, but moving.
My amazing grandson,
soon to find his wings and fly.
Six months old today.
(c)Livvi

It's April the 2nd, the day you were born
when my eyes met your perfect little form
my heart was overwhelmed with happiness and Joy
and giggled when your mother said oh no
because she was sure you'd be a boy

You're entry into this world gave us quite a start
as you flopped out still, I nearly swallowed my heart
was this an appointment with death you were keeping?
No! all things to be believed! you were sleeping!

The midwife woke you by picking you up
you kicked and cried like a hungry seal pup
another then pulled out soft paper towel's
laying them gently on the cold weighing scales
popped you down to see what you weighed in
I wanted to hold you my sweet little thing.

After some wriggles and screams
they got what they wanted, it seemed
then they left us alone and we gave you fuss
a new family was born that day ..... Us


By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

In a dream a spider swallows a snake and
smiles
like  a
giant yellow sunflower being  kissed   by
                                                                ­ bees
                                                            ­     who
dance  wildly  with the  wind  as  it  turns
white
with
anticipation.   The  snake  charmer   plays
                                                           ­         his
                                                    ­              tune.
The  spider  dances,  rising up,  stretching,
elongating.
Her  legs
disappear, drawing   into  her  body where
                                                           ­         they
                                                   ­                 turn
into a flickering tongue that protrudes from
her
lips.
She wriggles in her dance; her tongue waves
                                                           ­         in the
                                                             ­       air to
the melody, begins  to sing a  sultry,  hissing
song.
Then
the charmer's flute begins to move, undulating
                                                      ­                  to her
                                                             ­           song's
cadence.   And the charmer is himself charmed.
He
sits
in a trance as his snake-flute wraps itself around
                                                          ­                    him
                                         ­                                     and
the  spider  looking  li­ke a  snake swallows them
both.

when the sun is sulking
she swells like the moon,
a sylph bright
              and naked
crescent ribs blossoming in the doorway

a bruise like a kiss
on the hollow of her
hip

footprints spot the lawn, there is
earth on her feet when she wriggles
across the quilt to where I lay
she traces the line

of my jawbone to the place
my ear nestles into my hair and she strokes
the crook of my ear lobe

there is brine between her
collar bones and I drink it in-
the salty-tang

when we lay afterward, repose,
we are splendorous in our sweaty, cavernous bodies.

she rises to rinse off. her legs, like a just born fawn’s,
tremble with a new found glory and her hips are
tender, her thighs bruised raw.

my residue shines on the expanse
between her ribs and hips
and I feel strangely attached to her
in that moment, but then she returns to bed

and it has passed.
I mourn for it,

that nameless moment.

Every nightmare that seeks to find
Purchase in your very mind
Creeps and crawls and wriggles there
And then your brain beings to tare.

Doubts that seep, and leech within
Are your excuses growing thin?

Can you hear the wolves that bay
At the door, what do they say?
Is it them or only you
That feels the chill creeping through?

Are those eyes upon your neck,
Do you dare turn to check?

Now the feeling's taken hold
And your secrets all are sold.
Who then is left on your side,
Where on this earth do they reside?

Your broken thoughts do contend
They all betray you in the end.

No hope will your mind allow
Paranoia has you now.

Hold thy tongue*
it wriggles
between my fingers
it stutters
across my palm

my lips
long for its
most loyal companion
my tongue
basks in its
liberation

In the park
sits the Man
with his box
in his hand

The Woman
draped gracefully
next to him

Frail they may be
his fingers
sing three

Of the songs
from within
his heart.

The Woman wriggles
and dances
and calls out with glee

To the passers
she says
"Have you heard such a thing?"

The Man hears
her sighs
with a gleam
in his eyes

He plays
his three songs
for She.

The wistful wind tugs at me,
Willing me to come out and play.
I can see it tickling the barren November branches,
See its aftermath in the chaos of crunchy leaves.
Cotton-tail clouds yield before it,
And it wriggles into the core of flustered students,
Who flee from it and clasp their jackets more tightly about them.
I embrace the breeze, its chill enveloping and ensnaring me.
It brings moisture to my eyes and chafes my chapping lips,
Yet it is within this maelstrom that I am reminded of my own vitality.
I am hyper-aware of my own temperature,
98.6 in stark contrast to its harsh ice.
I can feel my blood pumping sluggishly,
Steadily, beneath my fragile skin.
I am reminded of my own mortality.
The pulse could cease,
And the universe would not stop its song.
The fish would stay in rhythm and harmony,
And there would still be new life and beauty.

A sobering thought, but freeing as well.

I am not the center, not even close.

As you lie, in a peaceful slumber,
blissfully unaware of my settled gaze
snaking over your eyes, your face
I slip in close to touch your lip
as you let out a soft sigh, I smile
and gather you close to rest your head
in the cradle of my arms

I wonder oft if love turns a man
able to feel what a woman does
when she holds her baby in her hands
as it wriggles its fingers and toes

what makes all pain, and turmoil in love
worth it at all
is the simple beauty of moments like this
that can make even Goliath fall

Venom, sharp as a razor;
The *** in your hand swings
Separating body from head.

The thing wriggles a figure eight;
A caress of self with no comfort.
Life dries rust-red in the sun.

The kingdom of my life is no more,
My hopes are cobwebbed with silence,
My life frozen between worlds,
Solace long ago abandoned me.

The birds of desolation now flock to me,
They peck my mind with beaks wet with lies,
And they scratch into my heart
And build nests of needles and despair.

My eyes see the orbs of dead dreams
And shards of paranoia wrinkle my face,
Madness twists and wriggles into my mouth,
It ripples with emotions etched by infernal ink.

I rage with the hunger without reason,
My sons nourish the fire in my stomach,
My daughters I have bargained to fill my drink,
My soul... I know not where it has escaped.

Sweet- sweet summer
What a lovely beautiful day
To dance and play on a bay,

See –see sunrise
While you wriggles your head
As you watch the swirling sky,

Swivel – swivel simply
While you stretch your hand
And bend your knees,

Sprint – sprint Scurry
As you move your body
While swell up your top

I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end

​
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
​

I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
​

ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
​

fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
​

I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
​

than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

Scratching, creeping outwardly from the land beneath the bed.
She lays and sleeps and she tosses and turns.
Her feet curl up and she wriggles her toes.

Who is it that's there laying with her?
Nobody knows him,
For he is the invisible man.
He reaches up.
He's touching her hand.

Again and again.
He will not commit.
He knows that he loves her.
He will never admit.
She could make him happy.
If he gave her a chance.
But today is Thursday,
he's out on the town again.
Sporting a smile.
The invisible clown.
He doesn't want a lover, who can never see his face.
He's ashamed that she will never see his expressions.
Nor will they be felt.
She will never stroke his face, or kiss his cheek.
She can't find him.
A game of hide and seek.
No matter how hard she looks.
Aha, a bright idea.
A bag of flour at her side.
She flung it all around the space.
Wanted to see his funny face.

Atishoo, he sneezed.
Flour caused an allergy.
Respiratory arrest.
Mouth to mouth dutifully given.
At least she got a proper kiss.
He choked to death upon her floor.
At least she got to see his face.
A little too late!
(C) LIVVI

Last return to an old church

The old church beckoned.
Like a small boy who had found a dead lamb
It urged him to draw near-
Its pull greater than the push of fear.

The tower loomed ahead,
Like a giant sarcophagus ****** up one night for the ******;
Ageing, headstone grey,
Endlessly in wait for its prey.

The birdsong ceased,
Like doorstep chatter at the passing of a hearse.
All was stony still,
Subject to a potent will.

A shadow quenched the sun,
Like an oil slick slipping over a dying gull’s eyes.
It penetrated his skin
And he drew its darkness in.

At the porch he paused,
Like a fly frozen between wriggles on a spider’s web.
Journey’s end, he could not pretend.
His soul ready to descend.

Reality retreated,
Like the last boat home from an island in plague.
He succumbed to the bite
Of the avenging Black Knight.

Regression is the precedent I've since set for myself
Upended on the shelf was an unfortold, frenetic, belt-pelted being.
So after the cavity in my dominant eye has collapsed
after the day of shooting and rapture has wrapped up
Enough of it has shoved itself up into the upended titled bent being
whose naive native notions can only see the chemical show
of wriggles and lines that've dissolved in the dealing of
chemical knots wrought for that rapture
It's a shot taken in, in little apeture notions
It's showmanship commotion,
Locomotion in sinful, fruit-built, salt-ridden,
and laughter-built ration packs.