They Slipped

The semi-arbitral retells
a story about sentinels
that rustled, aligned a brook,
dimly, in checkered reds,
feebly coursing along
crocus flower beds.

Jet sleek plasters of arabesques,
not far yonder, meandering
technicalities; demolitions
easily extending further
than the eye could see.

Promiscuities sent in eternities;
gaseous promises in pitchers
of micro expressive remedies,
by those stuck to the promethean —
Varied pretenses supped down, vicariously.

The minutiae of blessings,
reissued as anathemas
that must have catered
to those of tattered loves.

They slipped within
that chipped away
at fortuities.



Beetles of pivotal black iridescences discouragingly scour
bee tills of stillborn nectars: taken from hive syntaxes;
walkaways of no contests on full-petalled miniature roses.

Gardenias of strained ground almond waters, swish about
Nix’s proximity. He bathes those flowers, too weak to cleanse them,
engendering browning, evenly on brims of never met identifications.

Navigating through dismal grimoires, he hopes to find a way to inundate
yesterday’s misfortunes by mitigating unfinished cartographies. His
Legs rendered immobile from blinding machinations, controls at his feet.

Pirates and Nereids

Covens staged for eternal jealousies
host nereids and pirates sharing
abject dances in faux charcoal jewelries.

Their airs, partially objectified: disguised projects
by rabid oracles, save be their gracious screeds.

Cantankerous abuses of rugged lands
on fantastical islands reveled by criminals
charged of savageries, grabbing
booties left in ravenous coves
or safeguarded treasuries.

Wondrously drinking imported
nighttime coffees, adroitly,
in infinitesimal sips
at ocean side cafes,
as lookouts whispered
the beauteous calamity
aside the hubbub within.

Revolted screams begot startled glances
towards persons splashing,
as dives revealed scaly tails.

Tales ushered as hallucinogenic happenstances;
Events recalibrated into old wives’ tales
used to hush cumbering children into dreams.

He and I

He makes empty promises
While his words
Wile away and say differently.

He believed that he’d give up anything
For love; almost anything.

Then, as fate would have it,
The day came
When he’d have to face
His true reality.

That day, he threw away
What he swore he’d cherish
Beneath the sycamore tree.

That was the day I threw away
Those fuzzy things called love
To preserve myself.

How I can be; I know,
But he,
He didn’t.


O, if only hollow beliefs were tantamount to knowings,
thou wouldst not hath hadst to froth
in what were the gasping spasms of thine own inquiries.
If only hope were:
– with margins
– a Ritalin efficacy
but for naught doth these discordant pleas occur;
falls on life’s unhindered ears, unheard or unconvinced,
but what difference dost it make when tis but the same.

How doth these wayward flames
hath frost in it’s stead.
If ‘twere that teleportation devices
hadst cometh in our time, o
what frolicking couldst hast incurred,
as our chitter chatters would fill valleys
around the nigh of unveiled sky stars
til the eve of the eastward sun’s reprise,
unless the dullahan did decide to cease mid ride.

Is You

She, dual wielding katars,
With two swift strokes
Swung her blades,
Stopping abruptly,
Suddenly made aware
To the slivers of polished daggers,
Fores of intricate emblems
With ivy’s intertwined, I was
But a prey encumbered
By her presence, divine;
Paralytic anesthetic;
She whispered nouveau rhetoric
Didactic into mine ear, a momentary
Removal from the fungal
Banal aesthetic, instantiated at that place,
Where fear once invoked lust.


Corroborated values taken in accordance as proof for a possible fiasco
Of recounted occurrences inside the chimes of our ardour.
Sickly renouncing worth from those that could be called the judgmental
Inside the collected numerical visions of the pusillanimous; staggering.
Horcruxes of souls stuck inside a chalice, diadem, diary, ring, and locket;

Inside the erroneous odes of evidential realities and questionable posthumous yore.

Still an Illusion

They, wrapped up in distressed linen cloth, standing
By canterburies of incorporeal prints
Tried to hold onto throes of intangible realities.

The same bandages didn’t console those pungent airs,
That forebode unmitigated fairs of disbelieving fears:
Promontory offenses on useless appeals of time.

Their loves built towers up on wide hollow fields
Ridiculously validated by dunes of instability
While overtly knowing the futility.

The piece de resistance: a diluted menage a trois,
Fineries reduced to relativities as filthy insectoids raided
Their tarnished crafts of mortifying indulgences.

Thinking their hidden flesh decaying underneath
Would provoke disbelieving holds of noses,
Whilst they’d run and click their tongues, a tut-tut,

While wanting to believe they could be loved; a grimaced hilarity.

Ill Clarity

She roams through deserted streets, on the lookout for raw materials.
Stumbling upon glimmering bodies of water, she
Stopped to read tomes of artifices written by a mystic,
While she wore her shit smeared spectacles.

Reciting a paragraph, she indirectly opened a dimension beneath her.
Perhaps ‘twas fortune a girl erred dictation,
For had she breathed
The full breadth of passage,
Surely she’d have been stationed
Much deeper in the mystique.

Showy words claiming, “all that glitters is gold.” Actionable
Constructs of clamoring souls lie posed in consequential remedies,
Reliving the reciprocal standard tedium of incessant forgetteries.