The poetic endeavours of amateur Exsanguine sounded something like “Cat ate rat and ran from bat.”
Having finally descended (or ascended. It’s all relative) past that, she presents you with a slew of horror and speculation contrived in the trenches of some mind.
The poetic endeavours of amateur Exsanguine sounded something like “Cat ate rat and ran from bat.”
Having finally descended (or ascended. It’s all relative) past that, she presents you with a slew of horror and speculation contrived in the trenches of some mind.
Tiptoe, whisper and forget
in rushing water mind and blowing leaves
through your deception.
Stealth score twelve, an-
other chance to get behind the axe.
Twist your vision into mildew,
smell so sweet to your illusion.
Follow your descent to plum trees,
plum tree pomegranite hybrids
and a recipe for misdemeanor pudding.
Grabbed around by unexpected roots,
reach out to fall into a well of murkiness
and missing shores.
Awaken, call
for death by chocolate
Halloween starts in August
and lasts all the year round –
like the chirpless cicada shells
you can’t tell me otherwise,
empty of things that could speak, like
the blank eyed, cracked porcelain
dolls that hang by the hook
in the closet. They’re dreading the day
I’ll remember
to wear one of their
depleted mangled doll forms
as a costume.
I feel the power in choosing
the unlucky.
As always, at random.
Darning socks on a winter night,
each needle stab leaves the ink
of fresh laid battle.
Turn back the times to
October leaves and
a stale morning.
Eleven o’clock, closer to midnight
a shadow has stopped at the door.
It looks in, and the bone lamp flicks on.
Glass nose,
it is evil.
Nose pressed against glass,
it sees the resident evil.
Reach for the window latch.
Darning socks for
feet without souls attached.
Twelve
the bone lamp flicks off.
The sound of a closing lid is
what encompasses
the in-betweens, the
gaps within the maze.
The fogs loom closer, like the gaps over the
restless train tracks.
They wait for me, just as they
waited for the others,
trailing lost pockets and lost eras.
The collection,
curated by small hands and
dead toys
is as likely to clear my senses as it is
to function in dull ringing
as a new fangled invention,
An off switch for the laughter that
skitters at my heels,
faint brass glowing in the lowlights
