From Below I Call

featured in the poetry forum August 12, 2013  :: 0 comments

To write a few lines not to be forgotten,
oblivion comes first with fruit and bread.
The corridors of the sanatorium has blue
tiles reminding me of the fluff of an auk.
Mosaist Mozart mortadelle Morte d’Arthur
These walls of uncertainties, doubtful
moments. Sometimes they crash onto
my bed, my head full of visions, these
dreams taking me far away from here.
Epicurean Aesop eiderdown Evelyn
No I won’t bite my finger nails and I
certainly won’t gnaw the stale bread I
baked earlier that year. That’s when I
left your shores and our lives set apart.
Receptionist Rilke rosemary Ruy Blas
They said let’s swim in these troubled
waters where sharks dwell and swirl,
let’s have anxiety cured by its most
paramount implications, let’s go free.
Cartographer Cervantes clay Cinderella
Freedom stinks sometimes. They have
already seen that form of power in their
lives and they cannot take it from me as
all they want to do is grow fat in the end.
Yogi Yuri G. yarn Yseult

editors note:

Randomly reformed sonnet set spinning w/ interspersions; Unforgettable Uruguay uvula Urquhart. (Absolute delight!) – mh

Hills Filled with Fright

featured in the poetry forum December 22, 2012  :: 0 comments

What are you afraid of?
The shadow cabinet,
the gloomy cupboard,
the essential framework decided by the loons.
Between two levels of this game
you play each time it rains.

Your throat is sore:
the devil dwells in,
your head aches so
you wish you could unscrew it.
You feel lonely, lost and torn out.
The shores you used to love and watch roaring when you were young
are far
from these hills, and crests, and mounts, and vineyards at certain heights.

Let me repeat this once again. What are are you afraid of? Are you afraid of height?
Are you afraid of what your passions could lead you to perform?
Debilitating acts and profoundly shameful thoughts
dark images, pink images, blurred and tainted,
flesh on flesh, pricks and balls
mingled and intertwined
at dusk, at twilight
in toilets you
toy them
once
more.

editors note:

Oh, sweet warm bed, the morning-after shaky sunlight thin upon the wall. What a fright last night, indeed; the onset of insanity? The end of the world? No, wait… it was the office Christmas party. Much worse – stay in bed ’til the new year! – mh

Brothers’ Brothel

featured in the poetry forum July 21, 2012  :: 0 comments

It is strange to awake from a so long nightmare and realise another one has taken its place. Not so much a nightmare than a bead-stream of souvenirs of an ancient time when anything seemed possible but wishes and dreams were held back by the crows and ravens flying above the lives of so many innocent lambs.

There were so many catholic priests and so little room for them all. In the dormitory, nights were too short to digest the rubs and scrubs the dark castrated men inflicted on prepubescent boys. They even had this mad concept, dull idea to sacrifice some of their peers to gain more space in the corridors of infinite pleasure where their prey hid.

One made a bungee jump from the top of the basilica, wasn’t he pushed by the invisible hands of some unfathomable god. Another one lustful, joyful and bright, drowned in cheap wine.

Flowers of evil take many shapes and meander under snake skin with the snout of a swine.

Many sisters on the opposite side of town, played Cinderella and Snow White – busy little ladies sweeping the dust off the backyard.

Sister Schtöltz probably dreamt she was the hound of hell or the verdigris ward of a concentration camp. Sister Myriam – drawn to earth and frivolous – shared her views on what bra a bride should wear. Sister Bernie – imaginative and contemplative nun – sang in the choir of lost souls.

The chapel sheltered their uninteresting wishes, cheerless shepherdesses, sharing Genesis and the Gospels and the Apocalypse with the brains of formatting teens.

editors note:

History or biography, maybe fantasy (there were fairy-tale characters involved); this is a story of formative years which only the strong can de-form. Let those three sisters cast their dust. Bippity, boppity, boo! – mh

Night Observatories #19

featured in the poetry forum April 27, 2012  :: 0 comments

In the luminous narthex, the proboscis perforates our worn lepidopteran abdomen

in the gaping aisles, the cells swarm the pagan desires.

editors note:

In the Church of Insect Adoration, a butterfly sacrifice appeases impenitent bees. – mh

Ten years Later #5

featured in the poetry forum January 9, 2012  :: 0 comments

The road is long
and cold:
this scandalous sex
living hugeness,
vivacious,
unscrupulously spread itself
before my amazed eyes.

The road is long
and dry:
the uterus is rotten
blood drips
slowly
the world
implodes.

The road is long
but I feel good
and on your body
I explode
through all the pores
of my skin.

editors note:

It’s not the road, so much. It’s the mileage… and knowing the good road-side rest-stops. – mh

Night Observatories #17

featured in the poetry forum October 10, 2011  :: 0 comments

Ostensible emotion not to show ever and in the smoky nights not to suffer the moist caress of the wolves any more

the heavy leathers of the sick lean in the armchairs of treason and they use their feelings charcoaled by horror as matches

when the shepherds whisper their terrible secrets to the sheep’s ears, our hearts spray the greenish lights in the womb of the blasphemies growling the blissful spoken words.

editors note:

This wolf-whispered womb of words would breach and bellow blasphemies. Strike your match and lose them. – mh

Under The Black Roof #3

featured in the poetry forum July 18, 2011  :: 0 comments

On the path to your body
I walked.

All along the way
blueberries were singing
this old psalm known from all :
moritari te salutant…

editors note:

Yes, we who are about to die – with anticipation over your sweet succulent surprise; with terror over the thought that one time, down the line, will be the last – salute you. – mh

Night Observatories #2

featured in the poetry forum June 3, 2011  :: 0 comments

The cornflowers of these fogs go past hope and in their divine fate, they offer mauve nights between the second and the third fingers, the cigarette – solitary, ephemeral pleasure – burns away grandiloquently, the speakers of this funeral parlour and the encyclopedias turn their saffron pages producing the blue wish but the wind feels trapped and the poisoned cells drift into black vaults.

editors note:

Got lost in here for a bit; kinda scary and magical. Tripped on a blue wish, banged my shins on a black vault. I was just lookin’ for a smoke… – mh