Wounded Centipede

 

Nine knees scurry up Devil’s hillside whilst
bed heads haloed in heaven’s brilliance fling
roaring hearts towards Denka’s den.

Walls of cold stone silently sally forth by the
mottled bend to challenge our leprous band,
setting the stage for a war of discretion which
shall expose the contents of hesitant homes.

Winds that rattle callow keys embrace
this melting face.

Dahut

As she gasps for air on King Gradlon’s banks,
the red waters of her petulant petticoats part
to reveal the slick ultramarine fin that shall
propel her through this sea of bloody roses
by Providence’s judgment.

Our ocean which had once been her savior now
swallows her, dragging rotting rogues and spirit
spotted tongues down into her open arms
for eternity.

The bells still thunder – can you hear them?

An Elegant Year

I blinked and a year had passed.

The dialogue that we spun at dawn with
slippery tongues forged the shining stone
road that we now amble along.

Languorous masks with smiling eyes that
we knew so well have vanished and have
been replaced with new ghosts to contend
with and so tonight we clink glasses again
and drink to the nights that spit fire
into our hearts.

When the grim olive bottles on the table
murmur that our passions have not yet been
tempered we choose to believe their false
flattery and then you offer up the bonny
conceits that I shall pillage come morning.

I hope you do not mind that I have stolen the
luxurious threads with which you would have
woven your own tapestry.

I am not ashamed.