Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Dear Ed.
I have been submitting poetry short stories and artwork for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old, my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I have written 102 books of poetry and 18 novels over the past Four or five years. I have published 604 poems, 498 short stories and 108 pieces of art in over 184 periodicals, anthologies and books as well as in six radio broadcasts. I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print.

*Website-SwampLit (
*Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (
* Website-

Ron Koppelberger

Ron Koppelberger

Brandy Wine

Cultivated by the birth of quiet reserve and parallels in

Desire, in wont. A find in essential parapets of stone

And entrance to decline, an unencumbered

Momentum defined by the eyes of maiden fray

And flaw, by signatures in dust and selfless

Oblivion, initiated in castles and chateaus’, in cool
Crystal goblets framed by flags and brandy wine.

Ron Koppelberger

Rebel Sash

Arrival and ambition’s daisy, dressed in saffron allure,

Speckled in ash and nascent survival,

The destiny of indulgent grace, retraced breaths of

Sweetened revolution and qualities of eternal bloom,

The facets of distinct character and

Invocation to romance, the better most temper,

Fleeting in shadowy umbrae’ of gray, a rebel sash
Justified by love and passionate earth.

Ron Koppelberger

A Wild Array of Thorns

The berth of innocent blessings in accepted

Experiences of conscious proclamation and profound

Sustaining being, as unfinished blooms of solace and scented

Desire, in rare spheres of revolution, by curves and tender lips aflame,

The uncommon touch of what’s bidden by roses and dusty dreams, a wild array of thorns nascent and silhouetted by the blood,

The fertile souls in salvation and

Enchanting loves in

Ivory frill, in

Secret availing

Ron Koppelberger

In Twilights Eyes

Ground by the moted dust of whirling delirium and gasping sighs

Of elation, a wild eyed assent exciting the vigor of

Wondrous glee and smudged panes of glass, leading the vision of ancient

Passions and freedoms in gloss, by the light of an accomplice sun torn unto bleeding skies and expectant in twilight fire, by creations in

Distant reverie’ and quietly acclaimed followings of sparrow will,

By the comfort of legends beloved, by taboo and real realms

Of earth, resolved by the passage of moments

Spent in serene repose and thrust forward
By the promises of wandering hearts.

Ron Koppelberger

The wont of survival

Blossoms in desiring talents of renewal and

More than a spirit of hasty heaven in glowing sobriety,

The profuse legend of hallowed grain and garner,

Of endless sunset crushes

In velvet adornment and eager art, the tireless existence

Of constant ritual and peppered looms

Of forgiveness and twill eternal, the cry abeyant

Unto the wont of

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Dominick Montalto is a freelance copy editor/proofreader pursuing full-time work in the editorial division of the publishing industry. His educational background is in Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web. His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the evolutionary changes of the Gothic, Romanticism, Decadence and Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus on the various sects of mysticism, as well as Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism. Overall, he continues to hold a strong interest in and love for the different aspects of the arts and humanities.

Glut Myself with Blood

Where do I have left to go?
Is there anything that remains to be known?
Have I seen all things,
tasted of all flesh?

Teeth sunk,
anchored deep into bone,
my lips adrift
in the sea-bliss of blood
that spastically rises
to the surface
of your milk-washed skin
as I inter myself
in the rapture of your sex.

Teeth entombed beneath
the river-blue veins
and smooth,
cream-colored valleys
that compose your naked,
winter-stained flesh,
restless and ravished,
and entwined in waves
of black satin
and my own pale skin.

Are there dreams that have yet
to be dreamt
and nightmares
in the classic gothic tradition
still to be struck by in terror?
Are there fears
still unconquered
or sins that I have forgotten
to commit
that I passed over
like the Angel of Death
over the houses
of the pardoned Hebrew exiles?

If I have lived through all of this,
then let me go.
I will carry off
the scars that I wear
that won’t heal
and some way, somehow,
I will sift through
the golden grains
of hourglass sand
that pour
from the displaced monument
of Ozymandias,
toppled and demolished
by the eroding swamps
of Nile silt
and the seizures of war,
to find where it is
that I belong,
where I am meant to go,
to live and make my home.

I AM the prophet
of the end
that has no new beginning.
I am an eternal body
with no soul.
I am vacant and alone
without your feverish fluid
foaming furiously
within me.

I AM nothing
without your blood
and channeling through me.
I must feast upon your sex;
I must glut the tremors
of my fetish
on your pearly neck.

A Nightmare in the Gothic Tradition

I woke up in the night
and heard the shaggy,
burnt-orange leaves swiping
at the rusty, iron bars
on the windows.
The cypresses howled
at the scything wind,
its wings clipping
their prostration
in a quiver of torrid ecstasy
of the little death of Zeus
pinning Leda down
on the stagnant and silent waves.

I perceived Darkness visible
before me
and from this impenetrable
two queues of pallid faces
appeared, marching
and chanting
in a monotonous voice
like the unbroken caw
of vultures
violently murdered
in the silver-blue scales of Death.

I started to hasten through
the subdued corridors
opening into vaulted courts
where glistening armor hung
against a host of backdrops;
medieval tapestries
depicting the seduction
of the decaying flesh
and withering spirits
of saints and martyrs
by the choking smoke
from the flames
burning them at the stake,
and these halls
echoed with the panting cries
of their unheeded mantra:
“I am nothing, only the messenger!”

Stunted by these terrified voices
ravishing my body
with their sirens’ song,
I ran to nowhere
for nowhere was to be found.
by this strained symphony
from the lips
of these charred mystics
and prophetic choir-boys
flaming in the crumbling light
of these holocaust skies
I screamed
as if I was being torn to shreds
like the purple veil
of the Ark of the Covenant
in the hands of infidels.

In the midst of this hallucination
I was restrained
and raped
on my own martyr’s pyre
as the livid faces
of these nameless beings
leered at me
in this masque
of cloaked passion.

But by the miraculous turning
of the face of God
towards the tragedy
of this fragmented romance,
or by the acknowledged beads
of prayer
whispered by the Virgin
in intercession
before the golden throne
of the milk-fed Christ,
I was uprooted
from beneath the cold, red hands
and filthy, flirtatious breath
of these mundane masochists
and drawn to
the incandescent beauty
radiating from the unraveling
before my tearing eyes.
I was embraced by this vision
and given sanctuary
in the arms of a man
with luminous youth,
but as I looked up
at his chiseled features
and glowing green eyes
he disappeared,
leaving me naked and alone,
in the arms of emptiness—
Darkness visible.

Tempestuous Gothic cum Romantic
You take winged flight
back into the severed echoes
of the silent past
to which you’d love to take a torch to
but don’t
for fear you’ll be a fire-starter
and the light that flares
and breathes
inside the decaying moisture
of this blood-saturated mausoleum
against the dust and soot
that coats your flesh
thicker each moment
masquerades the dizzying stir
of these engulfing halls
of reverberating reminiscence
with a hallowed nature
in the language of myth
for which I have resuscitated
your empty organ donor of a body.
I have given you new life
and simultaneously
stamped my own to dust.

I am composed of no sound
but pierce
the stagnant air
of night
with a sharpness no voice
or vibration can dull.

I am made broken beneath
the footfalls
of the stranger
trammeling the dust.

I am the ding and the dong
of the antique clock
that chimes no more.

I am in the guilty,
haunted murderer’s mind—
the illusion
of the tell-tale, beating heart.
I am the mouthed scream
gone unheard,
by fear and terror.

I am fair Philomel.
I am the Rapist
that goes about
in the mask
of solitude and isolation.

I am the noise of Desolation.
I speak naught,
but presage ‘the end is nigh!’

I have no language,
no accent,
yet I am a foreigner
to the escape artist Man
from the poisonous pangs
of the human condition.
I never talk
but say more than
any word or speech can tell.

I am the mantle
of pale and sickly Death.
I am the coffin
in which you will be laid to rest.

I beckon
to all humanity
in breaking darkness,
to sinner
and saint alike.
I look upon the living,
sight unseen.

I am your companion
through the portal
of the forgiven
and through the savage,
gruesome circles
of the forsaken and the damned.

I am Virgil in abstract
to your prophetic pilgrim Dante,
to pass Eternity
here in hell
on Earth
and never cease to be—
I am the punishment of vain mortality.
I am silence: sshh!

Who is It?

At the door
there was a figure
in a dark-gray cloak.
He was standing out
against the saturating
white light
of the morning sun
with his hood
draped over his head.

The hood
lay on his head
fitting cleanly
against the features
of his remarkable face.
His broad, softly chiseled
were blushed
from the mercilessly
whipping winds
on the house.

Tired, pale blue eyes
stared at me
with a handsome,
vanishing smile
on his tightly-closed lips
as he lifted his thin,
sun-browned hands
out of the seamless pockets
of his shroud
and with them he reached for me,
but did not move.
The little he had to do
was done
and now it was up to me
to do the rest.
Evading the Dark Pursuer

He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their blood lust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.

Ron Koppelberger

Twilight Prissy

The yearning decree of subconscious tangles filled by shadow and the advance of new beginnings tattooed the innocence of approaching twilight upon the bosom of her reflection. She squinted in asylums of wan sunshine and aloofness in the mystery of evergreen eyes and rare love. She loved the curative moment of passage, she pampered her sedate countenance in the stain of a dusty reflection. The mirror pleasured her, near crystal egress the window stole her from the mirrored glass and outlined her in sunlight silhouette.
She delicately named her homespun spirit an emotion of mercy arranged by her throbbing mood in vapory lady ghosts waiting for dark fall and the allure of anatomies in flux, the circle of evening ascension. She exhausted the day and justified the night with a prelude to symphonies, delirious by tempest repose.

A crisscross, an amber ageless sash in

Rose blush, in seasons of flittering bondage

Set free by spells and elusive magic charm.

A gilded overlay and an ancient owl

In obsessive caution and care, twofold psalm

And the flight of a lyric allusion to the chagrined

Gypsy moth and the clever mind of wolves, black cat

Whisker worlds that swathe the cradle of night

With small purpose and vast wild abandon.”
She sang and spoke in the reflective glass of her admiration and the coquette of her darkening heaven. The better curfew of creatures in likely shapes of voyage unto the night, she gathered her image and entered the shadows with a grin.

Ron Koppelberger

The Hymn of Wilford Larouse

Rugged and in sensual ramshackles, humble in nighttime betrothal, the western ray and the backwoods tumble of survival and fascinating revolt, gave Willford Larouse a moment, a thankful moment of reason and a suggestion of sanity.
He found the substance of soul and in naive command he sang his hymn in pain and blood, to his sweet Rio Madson Larouse. He uttered and sang in subtle prelude to the miracle of loves gained in losses of cold dire agony, in desert sands and cactus bloom the yielded life, bowing in barter for the ravages of a wild decree; he cradled his love alone in folded arms by the pallor of death, desolate and abandoned near the center of scorched earth and breaths of bedlam, he sang the hymn,

“Defy the silhouette of fury

And the shallows of life hurried,

Strange, rare and in difference,

In blessed sufferance of saints and the confessors

Of current hours and sun baked covenant,

Store the soul of care and

Embrace only if you dare

The charm of notions in forever and sweet revolt,

Return the bride in bloom

Return the mystery of this hold,

Return life to the cold flow of flesh and

In balance we shall rest, oh return my love

In the name of heaven above!”
Wilford advised the pallor of his sweet Rio with a kiss and the healing witness of a single tear as the spirits of evanescent delight drew close. The immigrant wanderings of chance celebrated his wife and gave her season the will to be. She inhaled and in delicate care touched the countenance of Wilford Larouse.
He found passion and a reason to be in the concern of angels and the miracle of life and boundless love.
“Thank god!” he sang to the angels above.

Ron Koppelberger

Dear reader
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 478 poems, 301 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 144 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also He recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. His art is viewable on Facebook under, you just click on profile and look under photo albums.
Website- (Swamplit)

Sincerely Yours
When Morning Comes

As soon as you go inside of me

I’m unplugged from the rest of the world

Nothing even matters

But your breath on mine

I’m thrown into morning

As my body awakes from a dreamer’s death

Resurrected by the early dew

And the aroma of earth

My suspicions of being alive

Unveils itself at that moment

My disoriented mind is sober again

And I take in the day

Outside the window

There is life waiting for me

A force pulling at me to move

Onward from this dark lit room

Next to me he slumbers

Like the night still owned the sky

Sifting through his dreams’

Demands to be a character in its play

He looks peaceful but his body lays reckless

I look at him wondering

If he is as fond of me as he claims

Or am I just a body to sleep next to

A voice to talk to

I wish in his lifeless body

His lips would move me

With truth

With words of adoration

Or even spite

Anything to set my uncertain

Mind at ease

But he is only a man

I make a note to myself

As I look at him once more

I will not fall deeply for him

I fear one day he would

Betray my heart and leave it

For dead

I look through the window

And I’m reminded

That is where I ought to be

My shoes are beneath the bed

I hide them like a shameful parent

The soles have tired and

Their holes grow larger

The day I throw them away

Will be a sad day

But after awhile

You can’t avoid the inevitable

Sometimes you have to throw

Things away

But I slip them on happily

Knowing that day is not today

My leather jacket rests sloppily

On the floor

The only item

I’ve ever bought without regretting

I rush to walk on

To that big white front door

To start over again


God is divine

The way he brought you to me

Without so much as a warning

As he placed you before me

Before me you sat unrecognizable

Unimaginable to my mind

You were just another man

Like the ones seated next to you

Suddenly God intervened

And made you so much more to me

At that moment

You were no longer camouflaged

With the many men surrounding you

You filled my eyes with your colors

The way a rainbow paints across

A dull gray sky

You became the only reason to see

No one else mattered

They were saturated with black and white

Never to stand out and illuminate my sight

But your reds and yellows were blinding

Could you be more beautiful

God is divine

How does he decide who will connect with who

And who will feel for who

Maybe it is not for and I to know

But it is amazing

To have no control

And watch god create magic

Between you and a complete stranger

The inspiration for this prose poem is the way that pop-culture portrays men as being sex machines, while women try to wheedle out sex in the concept that heterosexual sex is still being treated as an economic contract. Women are still being held to the same standards of Victorian sexual codes at the same time that casual sex is supposed to be the norm. The poem is about sex from a female point of view.


Every Night

Get it on every night and your man might last one week, no matter how much he says he wants suck or bone. You ain't no nympho, no slut. Men just can't keep up. No bullshit of emotional neglect makes you need it. It's all chemical. It's all the oh. No need attention and feel valued through six minutes of oh baby you're so beautiful, and, yeah yeah you know what I like. If he knew what you liked it would be all night, all bone, all head. It would be chocolate afterward, and steak. It would be all of how eating steak is like eating pussy. He says you've got post-coital glow but what he means is he's glowing. When he thinks he satisfied you he means he satisfied himself, and he'd like to see you in facial porn. He means he's easy and you're hard and he can get it on with anyone, and you? You need it everyday. You need it from him.
Susan Swanton

My fascination obsession

with motifs

of the woman I want

to paint

create figures

of her

multiple poses

as in Ingres’ Turkish Bath

her repeated body


a canvas

in the lens of my eye

I see her

even when not present

a hallucination gift

trouble in paradise


when words start to break

when “well-hello”

becomes “he-y”

when stanzas become lines

when lines become words

a letter



Alicia Ristau

for adam

of the things I wish I’d said,
next to thank you, I’m sorry, and—why
one sentence sits apart
at a lonely table,
its face obscured.

it is not “I love you,”
though who can say if I did
it is not “keep faith,”
though I wish you had—
in something, anything
but what destroyed what
you loved best—
only yourself, your better dreams. but

I would not say “let me help”
those words must not be said between us.
I would not challenge again
your skill in verbal cuts;
the play has died within you, leaving
and I would not remind you.

my regrets are bittersweet and fan out like flames
but with you, I regret one thing only:
I did not tell you what treasure you held
and let you burn it all away, unsaid
if you wonder, know:
you held your dreams and
a fragment of my heart;
they are both blackened—
my heart will heal.

Alexandra Hughes

Bet on you

If I could travel time
Transcend reality today
I would return to the moment
I made my fatal mistake

If I could rewrite one song
To make the words more real
I would write dramatic melodies
To show you how I feel

If I could rewind this movie
Now a horror film
I’d erase the tapes that play
And take out all the thrills

If I could take back all my chips
And keep my poker face
Then I’d recant my bet on you
And avert this great mistake.

Forgiveness is Bliss

Everyone knows I’m stuck
On what you did to me
Old wounds have yet to heal
I still see you in my dreams.
But I want to forgive you
For all that you did
I’ve tried so many times
But I grow bitter instead.
If I could let go of this
Of all the dark shadows in my life
I would feel such bliss
In knowing I’ll be alright.
But I have to forgive you
For myself alone
Because any other reason
Would just leave a hole.
I need peace of mind
In knowing I did this
Just for myself this time
I crave that bliss.


I hate the way you ramble
But I hate than in me too
I hate the way you lie
But falsehoods tend to fly
I hate that you never call
But I haven’t at all
I hate the games you play
But that is just the way
I hate your stupid stories
But mine are also boring
I hate not knowing stuff
But I don’t say enough
I hate your parents already
And we’re not even going steady
I hate when you’re not here
But we were never really near
I hate not being the one
But I should know we’re done
And most of all I hate
Rejection to my face.

Let go

It’s been a month
It’s been a year
I’ve had my time
To shed these tears
I must let go
I must move on
I’ll make my way
In not too long
I don’t miss you
I just miss “us”
But now I’m free
Is that a plus?
I’m going now
To not look back
I need to get
My life on track
I’ll let you go
Let go of “us”
Live only for me
Feel the rush.

Testing the Water

I am a child
Running up to the water’s edge
But no farther
For I fear the ocean’s depths
As it stretches to the horizon
I panic.
What if I swim out too far?
Who will save me?
I inch my feet forward in the sand
Just enough to dampen my feet
As the next wave rolls in.
Yes, no, yes, no
Maybe a little,
For the water is cold,
And even on a hot summer’s day
It chills you to the core
I take three forced steps
Right, Left, Right…
I scamper sideways
As I feel the intruding object
Brush against my ankles
I see the seaweed and remember to breathe
I continue.
Up to my knees now,
The water is cloudy
I can no longer see my legs.
Should I continue, or dash towards shore
Towards safety
I press on,
Because Life is full of seaweed and sharks and
So many dangers,
Often inevitable.
So now, as an adult,
I take the plunge
Into life
And Love
And Loss
Knowing all the while
That potential heartache lay ahead
But knowing as well
That it is better to have tried and failed
Than to never have tried at all.
It’s time to wade into life.

Three strikes

I warned you not to break her
But you still made her cry
And even after all you’ve done
She still won’t say goodbye

I told you not to lie
But that was your first strike
I told you not to yell
But drugs became your life

I said to watch yourself
But you made careless mistakes
Your second strike was
Making her heart break

I warned you not to argue
But you control her every move
So there’s your third strike
And who became the fool?

Ready, Set, Scream

I can see it in your eyes
You can see it on my face
We can hardly even breathe
So Ready, Set, Scream

I know you want to
I can see your fists curl
I can see the tensing of your skin
So Ready, Set, Give In

I hate seeing you hurt
And I know you’re about to break
So take my hand and hold on tight
Ready, Set, Fight

I hate this room
You hate the noise
So let’s just get out of here
Ready, Set, Disappear

Leave everyone, leave everything
But first we’ll have our final words
Or maybe trust what the sun shall bring
Ready, Set, Scream

Amber Roberson

The Hydra of Female Desire within the Literary Tradition
Tanya Andrious

Throughout history women have been confined to the male perspective, not only with how men look at women but how women look at themselves. Women writers, especially in the early budding of the female literary tradition, barely touched the taboo topic of female desire and sexuality. The exploration of female sexual desire by women writers has evolved throughout the centuries, beginning first with Aphra Behn in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; Christina Rossetti in the nineteenth century, and ending with Andrienne Rich in the late twentieth century. All three authors, in their respective century, explore a female’s desire through different perspectives, revealing the different perceptions about women’s sexuality in the literary form.
The seventeenth and eighteenth century was not an easy time for women writers. They could easily be dismissed and ostracized by their peers if a literary topic was disliked. Women writers were thus indirectly controlled by men. However, as Susan Gubar and Sandra Gilbert mention, “Aphra Behn was England’s first professional woman writer” (The Norton Anthology 109) that took chances with her writing and began to put a dent into what was considered acceptable. She broke the first boundaries where some of her verses were “marked by an erotic honesty that scandalized many of her readers” (Norton 109). Unfortunately, consequences resulted from Behn’s bold foray into the exploration of female desire: The same literary circles that Behn frequented “…expected women to remain decently silent about their own desires” (110). Behn, however, saw nothing wrong with celebrating women enjoying their sexuality and her poem “The Willing Mistress” is a testament to her treatment of the topic.
Behn’s perception of female sexuality was not confined to the male perspective; her character neither suffers consequence or regret for enjoying her sexual exploitations. In fact, the Mistress describes her enjoyable, impending foray with a man by stating:
Amyntas led me to a grove,
Where All the trees did shade us;
The sun itself, though it had strove,
It could not have betrayed us
The place secured from human eyes (1-5).
There is anticipation in the Mistress’ voice as she describes the need for secrecy without regret. In fact, Behn writes each subsequent line by describing the Mistress’ increased gratification:
Down there we sat upon the moss,
And did begin to play
A thousand amorous tricks, to pass
The heat of all the day (9-12).
There is a sense of fun to be read in the lines, where the reader grasps the Mistress’ amplified arousal. A woman has needs, and as much as men in Behn’s century wanted to deny such truths, Behn tastefully expresses the needs of her female character:
A many kisses did he give
And I returned the same,
Which made me willing to receive
That which I dare not name (13-16).
Behn was unleashing Pandora’s Box by outwardly proclaiming a woman’s sexual experience and revealing that women’s desire is nothing to be ashamed of. The third stanza deals with give and take, where the Mistress is in control as much as the man:
On her that was already fired,
‘Twas easy to prevail.
He did but kiss and clasp me round,
Whilst those this thoughts expressed:
And laid me gently on the ground;
Ah who can guess the rest? (19-24).
A woman can be a sexual being, willing and wanting as lines 19 and 20 indicate. Women’s sexual desire should not be held as a disparagement but rather a positive aspect on the female experience. Although the Mistress’ explorations went without consequence, Behn however, did not. By bringing the topic of female desire out into the open Behn’s “reputation was to be obscured or defaced for centuries after her death” (110). Behn saw female desire through her own eyes, yet Christina Rossetti, in her poem “Goblin Market”, ends up viewing desire through the male lens.
Christina Rossetti brings us into the nineteenth century with her poem “Goblin Market,” where she offers readers a different slant on the perception of female desire. “Goblin Market” expresses a deeper journey of the female experience, where Rossetti “meditate[s] on the dangers of desire, especially the dangers of female desire” (Gubar 894). In contrast to Behn, Rossetti’s thoughts on female desire were influenced by the ideologies of the male literary tradition as well as male definitions of women. “Goblin Market” offers an enticing taste of a female’s attraction to her own desires and the consequences that come from following that desire.
“Goblin Market” begins simply enough: two innocent sisters overhearing the alluring call of Goblin men. The contrast and dilemma of the drama becomes apparent: “Laura bowed her head to hear, / Lizzie veiled her blushes” (34-5). Laura is at once attracted to the call, her desire evident. Yet her sister Lizzie is intent on preventing Laura from following through, stating: “We must not look at Goblin men” (42). Lizzie stresses the danger that Laura is toying with when it comes to the idea of not only contemplating but submitting to her female desire.
The form of the poem portrays Lizzie as the “conscience” and Laura the “desire,” waging battle between restraint and enjoyment of desire:
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura.
You should not peep at Goblin men,”
Lizzie covered up her eyes,
Covered close lest they should look:
Laura reared her glossy head (48-52).
The dilemma is nicely portrayed between Laura wanting to let go and Lizzie’s hard restraint. Rossetti’s indecisiveness and confusion shines through, unsure of which female image is the “right” one.
Rossetti continues to imply that female desire is wrong:
“No,” said Lizzie: “No, no, no:
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us” (64-66).
Rossetti chooses an interesting phrase in line 65 in regards to charm: it “should not” have an influence on them, meaning that there is something wrong about feeling attraction. However, Laura continues to become more ensnared in the game of desire: “Curious Laura chose to linger / Wondering at each merchant man” (69-70). Laura’s well of desire has sprung up inside her and she is without self-discipline. This side of the poem connects with Behn’s “The Willing Mistress,” where both Laura and the Mistress want only to succumb to the joy that awaits them. Yet, the entryway into the exploration of female desire depicts a difference between the two centuries, where Laura’s actions result in a penalty.
To be aware of consequence one must be warned, and Lizzie continues to educate Laura on the etiquette of behaving:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men (145-8).
Rossetti gives the impression that Laura is in need of being saved from making a big mistake. To further enhance the loving reproach, Lizzie offers Laura an indirect experience to learn from: “Do you not remember Jeanie, / How she met them in the moonlight” (147-8). A brief reference is established before Lizzie fully embarks on the ramifications of Jeanie’s explorations and dives into the story:
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away:
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low: (153-59).
Rossetti implies in lines 154-55 that to follow one’s desire can be addictive. Jeanie, for example, not only succumbed to her desire but could not cope with the thought of not ever satisfying her desire again. More importantly, Jeanie felt such an intense need for a refill that when her need could not be satisfied she ends up dying. Laura’s experience then begins to mirror that of Jeanie. As Laura’s cravings become more intense, she states:
“I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth water still:
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more” (165-8).
Rossetti also implies in line 166 that not only does a woman have wants, but that they are not a one time deal; a woman’s desires are always existent.
Yet, the insistent need for fulfillment leaves Laura in a somewhat detached emotional state as she goes from innocent virgin to a desirous young woman and then to a slightly mad, near death young woman addicted to her female desire: “Laura in an absent dream, / One content, one sick in part” (211-12). Laura is saved from death by her sister’s selfless act, who ends up getting “goblin juice” and feeding “the fiery antidote” (559) to Laura. Rossetti offers a complex look at the female experience, one that is riddled with mixed images of female sexuality and the guilt that was so often connected with it. However, as the later twentieth century blew in, the male stronghold was beginning to lessen its grip as women writers were now making their own traditions born out of the female experience. This tradition continues with Adrienne Rich, who explores female sexuality from a broader perspective.
The advent of the later part of the twentieth century brought with it a large exploration of themes, where women writers began “exploring and dramatizing their national, economic, linguistic, regional, ethnic, religious, and political divergences along with their differing sexual preferences” (Gilbert 1616). Women writers no longer had to worry what men thought. Adrienne Rich was concerned with her own identity and experience, exploring a female’s desire through the lens of lesbianism. Just as Behn and Rossetti wrote of a woman’s enjoyment of her desire so too does Rich. Rich explores lesbian desire in a more descriptive manner that would have drawn more than gasps a few centuries ago.
Adrienne Rich, in her poem “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered,” delights the reader with a more upfront portrayal of female sexual desire. Gracious in her description, Rich expresses a woman’s positive portrayal of her enjoyment without guilt, reservation or consequence:
What ever happens with us, your body
Will haunt mine – tender, delicate
Your lovemaking (1-3).
The narrator is looking back at a past experience with fondness and the stronger the memory gets the more descriptive the poem becomes. Free from male reproach Rich is able to fully express her direct observations on the extent of a woman’s desire. The perception of a woman’s sexuality is no longer to be feared, as Rich’s poem indicates:
Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come –
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue
has found there – (5-8).
Rich is explicitly exploring female desire by not only describing a “lady love” (1954) but addressing a “lady love.” Female desire has thus become more about women’s pleasure and enjoyment. The discovery about documenting women’s experiences now takes precedence and Rich is not shy in sharing this perspective with her reader. Lines 9-13 further illustrate this point:
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth –
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I had been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave – whatever happens, this is.
Rich explores in-depth the wants of a woman; that desire is nothing to be scared or ashamed of, regardless of gender. The narrator’s experience becomes a fond memory which Rich outwardly describes. Her poem is thus bold and courageous with its content, extending the female tradition into further depths.
Women’s experiences were often categorized through male definitions of what women should and should not be, and this penetrated the literary voice of female writers. Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” is a testament to this. Change, however, can often be a balm that heals such confusion. The only way for women to know themselves is to also know each other and this can only be achieved if women make their voice known. Aphra Behn was the first to take such a step. Each century revealed a different voice that expressed feelings about the issue of female desire and what women themselves thought of it. To know the importance of what has been achieved can only be appreciated through the path that was taken. Behn took the first steps and allowed Rossetti to continue the tradition and bring us to get where we are at present; where Adrienne Rich has spiced up the freedom that women can now express without reservation.

Works Cited
Gilbert, M. Sandra and Gubar, Susan, ed. The Norton Anthology: Literature By Women.
2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1996.
Behn, Aphra. “The Willing Mistress.” Gilbert 111.
Rich, Adrienne. “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered.” Gilbert 1963.
Rossetti, Christina. “Goblin Market.” Gilbert 903-915.
Posted by record at 6:50 PM 0 comments
Thursday, January 13, 2011
"Alphabettica Thealogica"

Athena opens wide grey eyes to the beat of owl's wings
Blodeuedd, her body composed of exotic blooms, perfumes the air
Chang-O turns her regal back to the world, offering the drape of her deep-black peignoir to the night's darkness
Demeter garlands the chamber with sheaves of golden, shining wheat
Europa, in the form of a magnificent white cow, leaps over Chang-O bearing Zeus, her royal cup-bearer, on her pearlescent back as blood-red wine spills from her silver cup
Freya unleashes her cats, ruffling their blue-black fur with one elegant hand. She glances over her shoulder and into one of the many mirrors to see
Guinevere weaving a crown of white daisies,
Hecate combing her flowing silver hair as she toys with the locks of Heaven's gate,
Isis unfurling her protective wings over the bed, the many colors of her feathers reflecting in candlelight bounced off white silk sheets,
Juno, on her throne, fanned by the tails of a thousand peacocks, sipping ouzo,
Kuan Yin, tuning her telepathic compassionate radar to my frequency, sensing pain, and then discovering the razor sting is all part of sweet joy,
Lakshmi, her many hands throwing golden coins from her many Dolce & Gabbana handbags, whispering blessings of prosperity,
Medusa's serpents shed their skin as elegant peels of white chocolate; their mistress stirs them into my drink,
Nymphs drop the maroon leaves and pink blossoms of springtime plum trees from the rafters,
Oshun crosses oceans of time, and cultures, to pick up Lakshmi's chant and form a duet,
Pele's volcanoes spout benevolent, incensed pink smoke and rainbows of sparks,
Queen of heaven Inanna lifts Pele's sparks to the sky and transforms them into stars to decorate her temple,
and Rhiannon opens a pine chest to reveal an exquisite selection of riding crops.
Selene, my Goddess, all the minor deities Gather at your feet to worship, and my heart quivers to realize you've chosen me from all among the host who vie for your attention.

(inspired by VictoriaSelene Skye Deme and by Kris Waldherr's The Book of Goddesses)

"Moist Howlette: For Allen Ginsberg"

Sacred! Sacred! Sacred! My poet, my prophet, my Jewish saint and guru declares that all is sacred!
The world is divine! The soul is divine! The skin is sacred! The vulva is sacred! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole sacred!
Everybody’s sacred! Everywhere’s sacred! Every thing is sacred! Every day is an eternity! Every man and woman is an angel!
The sacred whore’s as holy as the seraphim! The sex worker is holy as you my soul are holy! The clitoral orgasm’s as sacred as the vaginal orgasm!
The keyboard is sacred the poem is sacred the voice is sacred the hearers and readers are sacred the ecstasy is sacred!
Holy Erin holy Allen holy Purrrrrrrrr holy Kathryn E holy Walt Whitman holy Joan Jett holy fuckers holy every human angel!
Sacred the vibrators! Sacred, the cock and the cock ring and the clit and the clit ring!
Sacred the groaning saxophone! Sacred the orgasm apocalypse! Sacred the womb scrotum balls peace & junk & drums!
Sacred the solitudes of men’s rooms and elevators! Sacred the strip clubs filled with the millions! Sacred the mysterious rivers of cum and pussy juice and blood and sweat and tears under the sheets!
Sacred the lesbian and the gay man! Sacred the bisexual! Sacred the straight feminist and sexual shepherds of rebellion!
Sacred forgiveness! Mercy! Charity! Faith! Love! Affection! Touch! Sacred! Ours! Bodies! Pain and pleasure! Magnanimity!
Sacred the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of Allen Ginsberg’s dear departed soul!

"Ode a Pete Wentz"

"Sugar, We're Going Down"
may be the only Fall Out Boy song I like
or know,
but I like things named after Simpsons characters,
and I like Pete Wentz.
When I first saw him in glossy magazines,
with Lindsay Lohan, or Ashlee Simpson,
or some other dishwater redhead,
I thought he was a lesbian,
Not a him,
But a hym,
a potential hersband for said starlet du jour.
His long-haired androgyny
and skinny legs are why
if I ever got him alone
I would like to bend him over,
pull those too-tight emo pants down
over his pasty, girlie ass
and take him from behind.
A strap-on should do nicely,
With a nice jelly dildo--
Silicone, not latex
(I have an allergy)
And, preferably, the kind that's a vibrator, too.
This has to be fun for us both.
I'm just a notch in your bedpost,
But you're just a few lines
In a dirty poem.
Erin O'Riordan


lashaun guel
Posted by record at 5:52 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Queer in the bible belt

Mindless chatter flows.....
outta of my homosexual mind

do you hear it?
do you hear the thoughts I be thinkin'?

do you see the images,
that I be poulluting the air with?

On a single day-
my obscenity will cover the smog of LA

but the people still be gaggin'
this not be on Johnny's balls neither
they be gaggin' at my thoughts
my own freedom of expression
my own version of true love
they be gaggin'
at me and my girl
holdin' hands

I could have been born with red hair
and freckles
I could have been born destined
to a 34DD
I could have been born to be
a movie star
I could have been born
wishing for a MBA
I could have been born with
some abnormality-
the only thing worse
for me
would have been to be born-

My Number- Is like this

Liking girls isn't always as convenient
as liking boys
but sometimes it calms the heart
and seems less fragile
cause you both are so soft
you won't have to be wondering
if one of you will break
and the glue
that sticks to your insides
has already poured out

Yeah- I wish for simple things
like the love between two girls
me being one
her one too

but something came in between
the simple thing,
A boy
has screwed our equation
and now it is not equal to love
a boy has fucked
my number- on this occasion

Not A Pretty Girl

I once attempted to write a love poem
and I did write it
but why call it a love poem
I never even gave it to that girl

the girl whose phone number I got,
hung out with once,
smoked some weed with
and then I had decided,
she had made-
a bad impression

forget the fact that she likes Ani
forget the fact that night-
sitting on her couch,
she put in Not A Pretty Girl

hours earlier-
I had thought of buying a bottle of wine
so the two of us would believe-
we were intoxicated on each other

she wasn't even that pretty-
a blond
and I always state the fact loud;
that blonds aren't my type;
I am known to lie

I saw this girl once more
my hair was shorter
maybe she didn' think I was as cute-
as she once had
I did get her new number
I din't use that one either

Bethany Young
the moon hung
like a curve of a tear
in the soundless mirror
of the sky
no clouds to hide its way

this is something unsay able
this moment
this saved-up coin of happiness
i take it while I can
a blank page
our footprints write on

for Raquel

the bent figure
of a fairy girl
came to me in the box you sent
with its distant eyes
and delicate lily lines

one of the wings fell off
just laying there in the box
like the curved shell
of a tear

she is lost
and found at the same time
a secret smile
as she looks down
bent knee
she leans on open hands


sucking on cherry pits until there's no taste left
I want to tell you what you mean to me
I've been meaning too
I've been too busy
and now it's too late

my life is a coloring book
you've missed so many birds
I'm too young to grow up
cover me with thoughts of you
hold me close
and I'll hold you true
occasionally the fruit is bitter
an angel's fallen from the sky
cherry pits fall like echo's of glass
in the bowel

Country weekend

at the lake
we sit with our beer cans
talking and laughing
and I miss you
the mirrored lake
is full of secrets and motion

back at the house
unfinished among the trees and purple wildflowers
the sun is setting
thick strokes of color
blending into each other
I remember thinking
it was like looking into a crystal

now the stars are out
shinning white
swirling in the blackest country sky
the crickets are out
off-key violins
but I can't go to sleep
until the phone rings

Egyptian Dream a woman of blue feathers and musk stares with liquid, black eyes wet onyx trembles in the night she flies over the pale golden sands the moon her pale song a wail in the night she walks on the sand beside the sphinx and looks at him with dark eyes nothing will ever change together, they turn to face the sun awaiting dawn
Take me river, carry me far, lead me river, like a mother, take me over to some other unknown, put me me in the undertow

The Lullaby

I lay awake at night
listening to the lullaby of the crickets
soft underwater whispers
mixing into the night

this is the only time
I get to not think
worries blend into the shadows
I wrap myself in the trembling blankets
of forgetfulness
the space between dreams
everything seems right
in those soft dark moments
alone with crickets
the night is deafening
when the silence is listening


mine is an army of angels
night brings out troubles to the light
hanging on the smoky edge of dreams

hazy silvers hide the light
hidden clouds and trees like dark tears
starts with a glimmer
ending with a glow
It's so hard to forget pain
but it's even harder to remember sweetness

The Postcard
for Michael Calvello

take me to the fields
of golden green
where the flowers bloom heavy
against the scented sky
and trembling water

the path of bent grass
leads to a group of quiet trees
seeming alone
even when they are together
burnt green tears
in the distance
it won't ever change
if you want it to stay the same

wild rose
jagged, delicate petals
billowing out or darkening green

this is a memory from my early childhood
when i think things made a little more sense
when life gets to be too much
I remember I used to dream

fantasies of endless summertime
golden leafs
with crystal-blue jewels
floating gently downstream
a time when pain was too small too mention
and cold wasn't understood

Winter Roses

the winter roses
floated outside our window
honey colored feathers
lazily turning curving upward
to what is left of the sun

we looked at them
as we had our coffee
in our blue china cups
wrapped in blankets
waking up slowly
wiping away the tears of sleep
slow secret smiles

the winter roses
lightly hang there like bells
curving bells as if held up by nothing
comfort and loneliness
honey and green watercolor
like a sigh
like a whisper
breathing a little more warmth into the coldness
sooner or later
I need a savior

Sarah Calvello

Good day my love,

Why do you say that I flirt?

I see you keep staring at all the young ladies.

Good day my love,

Why do you say I tune out to what you have to say?

I told you what you need it to know.

Good day my love,

Why do you say that I don't do women's obligations?

I see how you never take us out.

Good day my love,

Why do you say that I’m a cruel mother?

I see how you are to the kids.

Good day my love,

Why do you say I’m ignorant?

I see how your boss told you to do the same thing over and over again.

Good day my love

Why do you say I’m not respectful?

I see all the bruises on my body.

Good day my love,

Why do you say I’m not a pleasing lover?

I see how is all about you.

Good day my love,

You asked why couldn't you come home?

I say because that's the last thing that I well let you do...
teresa chavez

Oral Dissertation

Your silky lips seem to mold into mine when we kiss.
Our lips part and our tongues begin a dance of their own.
Your tongue moves methodically within mine as if in search of the finest treasure.
Tasting you with every wavelike motion is reminiscent of a love language.
Verbal orgasms send me over the edge and a moan escapes me sending vibrations in our oral world of seduction.
Your hands on either side of my face let me know you are hungry for more.
I slowly pull back and look into your eyes and then your eyes lower to my lips.
A seductive smile creeps upon your face.
I take your face into my hands and I slowly trace your lips with my tongue and I see the need in your eyes to feel my lips once again.
This oral manipulation is causing us both to focus intently on the task at hand.
Keep giving me your oral jisms; your kisses are the truth, no lie.

Forbidden Fruit

A taste you can't get out off your taste buds.
I remain coated on your tongue as a reminder
of the loving you feen for.
The lover you scream for.
Better yet the lover you cream for.
My sexy talk makes you lose your mind
And a slow wind that makes you want to grind.
The one you're with doesn't understand your needs
Let me remind you of the difference between her and me.
She kicks her heels off and I keep mine on
She can't break you off, but I can turn you on.
Her favorite position is what they call missionary.
My favorite one is whatever is imaginary.
My loving has no boundaries and anything goes
I make you put in work and I always cur your toes.
Unfortunately this fantasy has only taken place in my mind.
I am your forbidden fruit, dangling from a vine.

Forbidden Love

Like an addict to a drug addiction, I go through withdrawals when you are not around.
I walk around aimlessly wondering if our secret love will be found out.
I have to love you from a distance because you belong to another.
The forbidden fruit I crave, my shelter and my cover.
I am the happiness you want and the lover that you need.
I give you a taste of what real love is and you always up and leave.
I stimulate the most inner part of your soul
but you can't seem to break free, forever etched inside the mold.
Like Romeo and Juliet, we can only love each other in the shadows.
Cause if our loved is found out, we are destined for the gallows.
A love so pure and sweet and yet I must hold it in.
Loving someone who is taken has become my greatest sin,
But it's also my greatest pleasure, to know I'm the reason you smile.
I'm the one who makes you laugh and makes life seem worth while.
The aching in my heart, I've got to rise above
but for now, you'll be my Forbidden Love.
Lyric Ishani

Chocolate Kisses

Sweet temptations graze across your lips.
An indulgence that sends a current through your body and ignites you.
My full chocolate lips are lightly caressing yours.
Your anticipation is quite audible to me.
I can hear your heart pounding through your chest.
I sample the sweetness of your lips with my tongue
to take in all your flavor.
I can still taste the strawberries that I just fed you moments before.
How delectable you are.
I gently kiss your eager lips and the vibration of your moan on my lips encourages me.
I slowly part your lips with my tongue and enjoy the flavors of our mouths.
Fiercely sensual, you make me feverish in my own skin.
Now steaming from the heat, my lips between my thighs begin to swelter.
We lose ourselves in each other, over and over again.
Each kiss, slays you with such precision and deliberateness.
The kiss of death, so sweetly urged.

Honey Love

You engage me with your honey hued eyes that have flecks of gold.
You entice me with the sweetness that lies behind them;
Making me wonder the flavor of the nectar you hold.
Fantasizing about the sticky sweetness that is your essence.
Immortalized on my lips only to taste you again with one graze of my tongue.
Such sweet seduction

Making Love

Kisses that could inflame the soul.
A tender touch that diffuses all my inhibitions.
The outside world wastes away and it's us.
We begin a dance of love and lust.
Both striving to please the other in hopes of a climatic release.
Our bodies move as one.
Methodically sending chills down each others spine.
Each stroke makes me submit and my body relaxes only to be tensed by an eruption that starts at the pit of my stomach and simultaneously tingles down to my toes and I erupt from both of my lips.
The set betweens my thighs tighten around you and release my love like a waterfall flooding your member like a tsunami.
The lips on face release moans and screams of sublime pleasure.
As I come down from my high I am humbled to be your lover for life.
You killed the fight in me and to feel this good again, I'll die a million times.

Thinking of You

I find myself laying in bed thinking of you.
Thinking of you watching me and I begin to touch myself.
My fingers slide into my moisten panties as my eager lips await the slightest sensation.
Mmmm...Moans escape my lips as visions of you appear in my mind.
I am not sure what turns me one more.
Your sexy smile?
The swagger you rock?
Your sexy body?
maybe it’s the thought of what I want to do.
Wanting to taste your soft lips.
Or the thought of you kissing mine.....down there.
Maybe it's the thought of you hearing your sexy moan.
My love pearl is so swollen wanting a release.
I let my fingers rub it faster in a circular motion imagining you watching me.
And then the vision comes to mind right before my release.
Your head in between my thighs licking, sucking, and nibbling on my love pear until I let my river flow all over your lips, tongue and chin.
Then you raise your head and look up at me and I see my love glistening all over your mouth.
I open my eyes and realize the mess I've made between my thighs.
I lick my fingers pretending I am tasting the thoughts of you that remain.
Lyric Ishani



10,000 decibels too short of hidden this beat is tight

Out of sight...

Green lips set caged humming birds free (flight)

10,000 miles a second green wings shimmer

So sci-fi sky high type fly fly fly away

Black Snow white with the wild beasts jamming to Badu


As Her indigo knuckles knock on my chest I bleed hot pink emotions

Drip drying all over my flustered face in faucets of blush

Masking this funk ship shifting rhythm in under ground oceans oceans

I'm stroking y'all...

We melt in a pot of sheets like steam over fat asses we drip...

Sip and hotcake on her griddle flip...tongue? lip hip grip suck dont slip

Aaaaahhh.... damn baby slow down...

Hookah bar type tities as I succulently molest medium deep mahogany mountains

Where smoke fountains tickled my tongue...pastel painted my lungs a ganja green

Serene scene of a titie fene... titie fene

This aint a dream y'all...

Baby doll so African perfectly carved wooden

Grape Jolly Rancher Draped Pantie

Fanti, see, I woman be Purrrr Purrr Pretty Puss Beauty

Oooo weee... Hmmm

Forefinger flexes fluidly for her fluid tree

Honey bee sticky icky juicy tea...

Jerk and || Vibrate and Beatin involuntarily

OOhhh I think she like me... yall...

Negroes cant swim so I drown in it

Ta-da-da-da that ass upscale fish scale mermaid

Sex slave whole sale gmail water hole big wale...

Well... you get the idea.. yall

I'm crazy

Creative anti-virginity activity

You kiss on me crucially swirling sanity and sanctity

Flammable aerosol puffs blaze brown bellies birthing heathen activity

It's called sensual fluidity teenage eccentricity

She is the zero gravity epitome

Dippn me in and out of reality...

Fantasy on earth y'all...

I raise my hands in praise

Cupping her D-cup double gaze

I graze gracefully under holy ganja nipple a-maze

In body....

Green lips Humming birds anti virginity activity singing to me

Sex is better than drugs honey...


Water overhead, underneath.
How did we get here?
How did I get here?
Rising, sinking, sinking.

So suddenly, I am alone.
Will we ever catch our breath?
Will I ever catch my breath?
Fighting, screaming, screaming.

Water fills my lungs; I cannot speak, cannot think.
Are we strong enough to start over?
Am I strong enough to start over?
Winning, drowning, drowning.

I want to retire, just for a moment.
Can we be honest with ourselves?
Can I be honest with myself?
Pushing, struggling, struggling.

Pruny hands, hearts; we have expired.
Will we ever feel again?
Will I ever feel again?
Hurting, resting, resting.

My Heart is in Your Toaster Oven

There isn’t enough room in my heart for hate,
But I can’t even keep a promise to myself.
Your songs are just poems with a pretty melody,
My poems are just unfinished songs on a shelf.

You kiss gives me flies—what? I mean butter,
You’ve got me all worn down; I’m inside out.
But we spin faster and you tighten your grip,
Sun is bright, sky is blue, and I’m still full of doubt.

You say I’m pretty cute, but I don’t like how this rhymes,
Should we start over, make up for lost time?
I’m changing the beat, keep up with the pace,
You never seemed to like the sad look on my face.

We’re like the ocean, no, more like a tree,
I’m not sure how, but it’s a damn good simile.
Pick up your guitar, sing a song, make me smile,
I just wanna be here in your arms for a while.

I’m all over the map, but you’re the ink to my quill,
Wait, no, that was stupid; you’re the sprinkles to my vanill--
--A…ice cream? What? I’m not making any sense,
I’ll agree to let you rescue me if you’ll just be my prince.

You really make me laugh and your eyes make me melt,
You’ve got a heart of gold and you’re the best that I have smelt.
What? I mean smelled; I’m enunciating lazily,
Actually, I think it’s just you’ve got me going crazily.

Dead or Alive

This blank page underneath my pen
will soon be alive like that first night
spent in the arms of heartache.
Nothing ever felt more real,
and I never wanted so badly to be dreaming.

I was as fragile as a tulip
trying to fight off a hurricane.
I was drowning and losing.
Overwhelming, the feeling was when
you get too hot but you can’t get your coat off.

And no one is around to help you.
I was trapped inside that puffy, down coat,
all alone, in the middle of a hurricane.
If I could hold on long enough,
maybe if I could breathe in the eye of the storm.

But how do you break the news to yourself
that you’re already dead?

Ghost of You

You’re the Ghost that won’t leave me alone.
When I drive past exit sign 97B, there you are,
showing me your perfect smile,
your mouth slightly parted so the laughter can escape.

When I watch that movie,
they fall in love again and again and again,
thanks to “scene selection,”
and his body becomes your’s; her hands, mine.

When I see that dress and the silky fabric
spills over my shins, I can smell your hair
and feel your ear soaking up
my hot breath and secrets.

When I hear that song with that line
that made you laugh,
I feel your fingers between mine with the windows
down and my hair a crazy mess.

When I see my breath outside in the chilly air I look over
to my left and see you beside me on the top of your car,
waiting in the dead of winter for
a meteor shower that would never come.

It’s time for you to go now, move on, please.
You can’t keep haunting me late at night like this,
or when I’m in his arms,
or drifting off to sleep.

Let me go.
I can’t help you now.
You’re just the Ghost of who you were;
There’s a different you living inside that shell now.

But what you fail to realize is
my ghost is out there somewhere
because it made me different, too.

I’m Just a Toy Doll

The room is full of people,
but all I see is you--
you standing there in that dark suit.
Now I’m nothing but a puddle on the floor.
If you came in and scooped me up and
molded me into the girl you want me to be,
I’d look so different.

My nose would be smaller, maybe with a few freckles,
I’d be shorter, definitely shorter--
easier to pick up and carry around the house.
I’d make you feel like a man then.
Yeah, you’d be so amazing with a tiny lady
who enjoys cooking your spaghetti.

If you could, you’d take a saw to my head,
lift the top of my skull off like was just a
furry bowl resting there.
You’d take out my brain and exchange it with
you own.

I’d think just like you in this bite-sized form
with my culinary hands,
and you’d be in complete heaven.
You’d wipe off my girly nail polish,
smooth out my wild hair,
throw a racy outfit on me—no, nude.
No, everyone is looking…a turtleneck and sweats--

Then you’d complain about how I look.
Tan skin (free of charge!),
and I’m ready and willing.
It’s unfortunate for you that toy dolls aren’t real.

Forever and for All of the Universe

My life is a sad song
A capella
No noise other than
One lonely voice
Singing words
About love and sorrow
About life and sadness

But we collided
And you put music
To my melody
And I can’t seem
To put the cassette down
Until I have just one more

It’s a symphony
Of gentle passion
That floods my ears
And enlightens
My system

And I’m pretty sure
This is my new
Favorite song
Of all time.


How do you do it?
My skin is translucent to your eyes.
You see straight to my broken heart;
sometimes it’s scary,
but you know me better than anyone.

The whole world knows I’m a jigsaw puzzle,
1500 pieces scattered wildly.
But you see a finished work of art
when you look at me.

I am my truest self when you’re there,
believing in me.

This poem is a mess,
but it’s like my heart that started in
a bunch of tiny fragments and you
stitched it back together.

It was initially so ugly and broken up,
but each piece was honest.
And when it beat as one again,
you saw.

You saw the miracle right through my chest.
It may not be pretty,
but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.

Ashley Doty
Dear reader

Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past year and a half. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 536 poems, 370 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 162 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine
Website- E-zine
Sincerely Yours

Ron Koppelberger

Drunken Dry

Whiskey ice and shots of silvery thirst, all in all the dream was in drunken silent caress, a thirsty request for beads of sweating frost, filled to the brim Jim. He saw more inspiring seasons and moments in revolving mirrors of rain, sweet rain, clean air and sober harvest yet all the drink cried, “Deliver me unto the dry tongue, the parched lips of deserts alone, of desolate abandon, deliver me in gulps and swallows of silk!”
He worried the thought for a few seconds and minutes unto days before he found the melody of dry ground, a foothold purchased in long drunks and tattered seams, bought by the pain in sleeping illusions of peace, borne of loud puking heaves and convulsing sweats.
He found the bone dust, the sand, the warmth, the sun, the hot winds of what one owns in the midst of chaos and cure. He owned dry drunks and days between the longing and that, in value, was the treasure he had sought for years. Through it all he had his vision, an endless horizon of dry wind and blue heaven, this is how he survived the drinks enchantment.

Divine Bedlam

Where was the image of illusory flurry, arrogant and revolving near the melody of formerly complaining patients, the flurry of cotton dander and rainbow suns, the flurry that prevented the nightmares from crowding the image of opiate bliss in hospital delirium.
The blockers wore white starched uniforms and Pity William Kind along with the other patients wore green, puke green. The exotic looking woman standing next to Pity was a blocker; send me some good vibes baby he thought. A psy dream pervaded his senses for a moment; he saw soil, mounds of dirt and garbage then the words in bold red lettering above the piles of garbage, “YOUR FILTHY PITY, YOUR COVERED IN FILTH!” The words pushed into his consciousness, she pushed at him, “FILTHY PITY!” He had made the mistake of looking toward the hospital exit. He saw the neon sign flashing his escape, “THIS WAY OUT!” The living common was filled with other patients and all were oblivious to the exit sign. She had pushed her psy and blocked, he had been thinking, thinking What he thought? There were piles of garbage and dirt. The exotic looking blocker turned from him for a moment and he saw that she was really rather plain, not very exotic in appearance, his eyes became slightly glassy and fogged.
The door, he moved toward the door, “EXIT TO FREEDOM!” it said above the door. Pity shuffled through the doorway and grinned as the sun shone in waves and a gentle rain sang on the other side of the doorway. He chanced to look back, the exotic woman who wasn’t really exotic was staring at him her brow creased as she pulled at him with her mind, “GARBAGE!” he heard faintly as he walked away from the hospital and into the light.

Distasteful Conduct

The assets were agreeable and the inner longing he was avenging claimed his conscious perceptions with lilac and vanilla flesh, sweet lips and tender throbbing neckline, in bursting ardor and the thirsty dreams of a vampire.
She spun and sang, she danced in pirouettes and gentle swirls as he applauded and cheered her performance. When she had finished he hurried to the stage and handed her a single blood red rose, a touch of drama for the masquerade he thought, sweet homage to my feasting desire.
She disappeared for a moment and the lights dimmed. Romantic he thought as he was the entire audience. She returned to the stage moments later with a small basket and a bottle of cognac. She sat down gently and opened the wicker basket. The vampire disguising his impatience smiled and said, “ Tis a loves feast, well worth the performance darling!”
She replied, “Indeed grand vampire, if I am to console your bloodlust I must be carnivorous as you are!” After saying this to the vampire she took a small sip of the cognac and pulled a large cobra from the basket. Holding the tail she lifted it above her head and milked its venom, each drop landing in her upturned mouth. The vampire blushed and made an excuse leaving her in the dim lights of the stage.
She was an once too much and he didn’t care for snake venom, his ancestry denied the ballerina her vengeance as she was toxic to anyone’s touch.

The Ritual

Iron Crosspoint acknowledged Crisp with a brash expression of trust. Crisp had firmly accepted Irons dedicated resolve. They would breach the veil, forgoing the murmur of immortal deserts and encroaching shades of evil.
Iron delivered the appropriate phrase and slashed the palm of his hand. A well of bright scarlet announced the advent of mortal conclusions. Crisp winced as Iron handed him the hilt of the duel edged blade.
“Yer next!” Iron said pointing to Crisps palm. Crisp closed his eyes and inhaled as he held his breath. With a violent slash his palm was laid open, crimson springs of coppery baptism flowed in rivulets and beaded confluence with the ritual.
Iron held his hand over the bone fragments that were scattered in the shape of a cross, Crisp did the same. The sun shone saffron gold amidst the bones; tiny puffs of dust arose from the arid ground as the blood spattered in gentle rhythm, a rhythm of passion and heartbeats, fury and anger and vengeance. The conviction of bond and infamy wore the lined faces of their determination. They paused in red ribboned whispers of release. The bones rearranged the disarray and a creature of purpose was borne. The anatomy of an enchanting allure in the embers of spirit, in tender devotion to the cause that drove them both. A shadow, a silhouette in shape, in symmetries of divinity and purpose, the legend lay bare in wrath and wonting songs of legend.
It arose from the desert sands and dust in the order of the brotherhood and the task at hand. Growling it flexed its sinew, its breath the incense of a thousand dreams and understanding purpose. The two men stepped back a few paces as the creature considered them. Crisp troubled the bleeding wound on his palm with a complaining grip, hands clasped he remembered the silence of the moment. An empty space filled with cascades of blood, dripping to the dry skeleton of the creature.
A bit of saliva fell to the desolate soil as the beast snapped its muzzle in fussy fanged hunger. Iron reclaimed the moment as he approached the creature.
“EEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” it cooed. Touching its fur covered paw he intoned a Latin phrase. It moved forward and Iron saw the flames in its eyes. Fields in ash, burning, burning. In staid sober certainty Iron imagined his enemies falling, one by one.
“Burning saffron seas!” he muttered as they began moving westward toward their fate and the vengeance they would exact in fire.

The Circle

Rationed by burdens of reflection and the omission of pure recollection the secret was a tangled cleaving taboo, a dawn of rare breed, a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled in spears of glory and hope, the sun. The embracing alliance and divinity of the fates called in perfect harmony.
He flexed his chapped hands, seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that spoke of allure, allure to the darkest realms of shadow and to the wont of seas in saffron gold. Ancient old gardens of naked passion and angels in flight.
He saw the circle of bloodied stones in a dream and the gathering of men. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, the aberration, men in delirium unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and light, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless hell and sin following. He saw the revelation of his purpose. He saw them in his dreams and nightmares, in evening twilight hunts and the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of Eden, their calling, the advent of their damnation.
The stones, guarded by endless waves of wheat, the garden, the blessing, the spell of patience. The men would open the seal and the old garden would burn, and the lycanthrope would sense the wont of mortals in trespass. The stones, the palace of blood and dust, waiting for the blood rush of sacrifice. They would spill blood there, in the circle of rock and granite and the wolf would scream, scream for the angels to champion the secret place and the garden.
The men would destroy the saffron conclave, in their gathering of destruction, hate and greed……unto the advent of the last, the conflict between good and evil, war and eternal blessings.
Falling to his hands, changing he ran toward the endless eternal wheat. Perhaps a wolf can peruse the world he thought, perhaps.

Ron Koppelberger
Dear reader
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two and a half years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 550 poems, 407 short stories and 89 pieces of art in over 166 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine
Website- E-zine
Sincerely Yours

Ron Koppelberger

A Chanting Rant

“An Ancient Parable”

He employed the souls of sainted office, hodgepodge foretelling and costumed host. A song in tune with the spirits of appeasing need and generous fortune was what he desired, “ lead to gold.” he whispered to the gray lump of metal, “Lead to gold!” He inhaled imagining appetites of greed and binding gifts of wealth, he licked his parched lips and sang,
“Shallow shelves of dancing beasts

And nervous tales of ancient feasts,

I offer the tale of sever slim agin rich

And Mary Grim, laughing he said the secret

Shame. Straightforward and in countries

Of declared agent renowned flame and dusty

Saffron lanes. He bid his love by the angels above,

To give her divine will to the lords of ill in exchange

For golden resident gain and to tame the

Leaden thrill O gold turned in

Revolutions for loves sweet evolution.

Give me yer gold fer the spirit of

Loves old, beauty and princess of silk,

In seductive thirsts and complexions of milk.

Slim sowed and reaped in yellow shine

O gold for this band of old.”

He tampered with the mound of lead and in an instant died, dust and bone in expectation of gold for the lady the spirit chosen by god, delivered by the promise of gold for the depth of imperfect inequity.
*A dollop of wont for a dash of wicked, also begat by the intentions of the devil.

The Mystic

The distance between hymns of primal myth and the vespers of his evening benediction was often the difference between draggled misery and reverent exhilaration. Cam Initio was a mystic of netherworld wonder in fabulous force. The rumor was that he could even raise the dead. It was not relevant that he was responsible for perpetrating the rumor or the subtle slight of gossip in the rumor, suffice it to say that Cam had once roused the concerns of a once drunken purveyor of the drink to an almost conscious level of existence.
To raise the dead, substance and secondhand life he thought , tantalizing revivals from the silent moments of death and the bliss a new dawn. He flipped one of the Taro cards over and the truth of a mystic revelation was unveiled; “The World” the card read, a world of life and death, fortune, fate and tales of rare precedent. To raise the dead, not some drunken oaf from the county tap, but to resurrect the flesh Cam thought. It was a bit like reading Taro, palms and tea leaves. Living with ghosts, ghouls and phantasms of taboo and admitted forbidden passage. It was a shaded talent that Cam would soon excel in, a candle to the myth and misery of past lives, loves and the adversity of universes, conduits in carefully interposed expressions of fear and love. Cam began reading the cards, resurrecting the dead so to speak with the fortune of the morrow and portents unbidden, unsoiled by past failures in chance. He would read and this time it would count for the wont of an unseen force availing the spirits of the newly alive.

Halloween Tea and Jasmine Incense

Hidden amongst the rows of ancient houses, tumble down and ramshackle, lay the tiny abode of Stewart Sparks and his thirteen cats. The perception was that Stewart was insane and in some semblance of convulsive madness. The truth was, in fact, Stewart was an amazing liver of life and all it had to offer.
The tiny kitchen smelled of jasmine incense and the table was set for tea, Halloween tea and boney skeleton cookies. Served in perfect portion, “One for you and one for me, darling spirit.” he whispered in loving calm craving. The jasmine incense burned with an orange glowing tendril of mist and smoke, the aura was perfect and the ambiance was a gentle coquet in the rapture of what would be, what had to be. Stewart sang and danced in desires of elder need and Halloween celebration. The air became a thick veil of gossamer webs and the sky above Stewarts house turned a blazing pumpkin orange, the figure of a dream came to life before his delighted eyes. “Greetings and guffaws, lights and laws, may the spirit of All Hallows Eve be with yer soul and spirit, as ye hear it, be young at heart and may you start the youth of a new day in this, the Halloween way!” He sang and shouted.
Stewart fell to the floor and when he awoke he was in the cradle of youth, vigorous and enchanted by the phantasms of Halloween ghost.
True to this day he is often seen in the guise of an old man trick of treating in gleeful harmony with the nights wonder. The legend of Stewart Sparks declares that if you see him on All Hallows Eve look deep into his eyes and perhaps you’ll find a measure of youth by the glee of a child’s whisper and the cry of tiny Halloween adventurers in costumed array with the evening sky and the dream that is the substance of old St. Sparks and candy corn sweet.

The Farce

A cross hung in reflective whispers of devotion near the front of the tiny church. A moment of hesitant chanting prayer filled the wood paneled walls. In concealed knowledge the minister arranged the communion wafers and took a sip of the sacred wine. His stomach burned and churned in protest but years of training told him that a sip, a sip for now, of wine would calm his frayed nerves.
The tranquil caste of mid-day sunshine seeped in puddles of multicolored light through the stained glass windows. The church was usually locked but he had forgotten today and an audience of one sat watching him tidy the small enclave. The minister of peace, god and holy absolution turned to face the lone parishioner. “It’s time Edward.” the demon whispered. Edward Pepper looked at the beast, the archfiend and god of the underworld. Winged scarlet with long curling horns he sat in brimstone smolders and embers from the darkest depths of hell; his eyes were the worst and Edward avoided the ebony orbs of shadow as he genuflected near the alter.
“It’s time to end this farce.” the demon said in a grating voice of screams and tortured suspiration. Edward considered the demon for a moment, mortality wasn’t the worst thing he owned. He had lived in the shadow of the demon for three hundred years and here he was expecting payment for those extra years. Edwards laughter echoed in the asylum for a moment before he spoke to the demon, “ I have a covenant with god now demon, “ he began, and this is god’s house.” The demon sighed and waved a claw dismissing Edwards statement.
“You have a covenant with me first Edward.” Edward shook nervously and in creeping symmetry with fear. “Do you believe your farce Edward?” Edward prayed silently and in earnest imploring god to help. “Come on Eddie.” The demon held his hand out. Edward clenched the gold and silver crucifix tightly as he stumbled toward the demon.
The demon took Edwards hand and screamed. A plume of smoke drifted up from the demons talon. Edward laughed and said, “Go to hell……!” The demon rubbed his blistered palm and grinned back at him with an ancient grimace of hate. “Well Eddie, I guess our pact is finished.” with a flourish he disappeared in to a cloud of mist and smoke. Edward sat in one the church pews near exhaustion. His hair was bleached white and his face lined with a myriad of wrinkles, three hundred years worth. He took a labored breath wishing for god’s angels. Soon thereafter, they took him leaving an ancient tattered shell behind.

Blood and Spoiled Hamburger

Cold in bouquet, the final swallow of brandy didn’t cure his craving for blood. The package of hamburger was old, dripping, sodden, spoiled blood. On a bad day he’d chew a piece of raw steak or hamburger for the juice. He felt sluggish, his reflexes bypassed by an angry empty wont. For the love of warm sea salt and mossy spring, eternal he thought as he dreamed of pulsing arteries and coppery malt.
His spine tightened when the doorbell rang. He pictured Avon ladies and vacuum cleaner salesman in full blooming acceptance. Drink of us they sang, drink of our essence, our passionate cherry stain and our raspberry wine, come drink.
He answered the door in a hopeful flourish only to discover the shifting shape of his girlfriend. She was, in fact, a shifting dealer of countenance, a shape shifter by birth and her features changed with each passing moment. He let her in and explained his unbidden thirst. She paused to ponder this for an instant then offered her upturned wrist to his waiting lips.
He drank in greedy gulps until she pulled her wrist back, “Enough!” she said as she pushed him back. She went into the kitchen and yelled to the living room, “Did you eat this hamburger hon, it’s spoiled?” He replied shyly and self consciously, Yes, just a little bit darling.”
Later he became sick with food poisoning and she would have to secret him to a doctor, saving his life.
After he was cured they had Champaign and steak, “delicious.” he said between bites.
“It is scrumptious.” she replied as the Champaign bubbles tickled her nose. “And to think……,” he said “I nearly missed this moment with you because of spoiled hamburger.”
“I have to keep an eye on you every second hon.” she said tapping her plate.

The Inmate

The remedy was a simple matter for Sgt. Windhook, the simplicity of it was just that easy. Safeguards in shadow, an inmate in courts of confinement and faraway, at arms length and by a thousand miles of steel. The miracle of seasoned isolation wore the sanctity of the sergeants’ safe haven, secure, looked up and undeviating. The Psy Research Facility was sponsored by Vermont Horizons Inc., also known as Telemetry Visions Corp. and in retrospect, the Bastille. Sgt. Windhook watched the vine, the wine of countless parishioners and researchers and more importantly the purveyors of a $465.00 paycheck.
He danced in the fluorescent lights of the ten by ten cell. The vine was a young man in his twenties shorn with a buzz cut and piercing dark eyes. He saw Windhook peering in at him and he hooted, “YYYYYEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAWWWWWWW!.” Windhook grimaced and watched as the vine concealed his face with cupped hands, a moment later he was looking at the reflection of his own face. The vine growled and in spontaneous ascertation manifest the face of a wolf. Sgt. Windhook staggered back from the tiny window glass and gasped, “Oh my god!” continuing down the row of cells he made a point of ignoring the howls coming from the vines cubicle. Sgt. Windhook wondered and contemplated the strength of the steel doors as he finished his round.

Ron Koppelberger
Dear Editor

I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two and a half years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 562 poems, 452 short stories, and 92 pieces of art in over 171 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in radio broadcasts. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Writing Raw and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, Thailand and India. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book,

*Website-SwampLit (
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (
* Website-
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website-

Ron Koppelberger

The Inmate

The remedy was a simple matter for Sgt. Windhook, the simplicity of it was just that easy. Safeguards in shadow, an inmate in courts of confinement and faraway, at arms length and by a thousand miles of steel. The miracle of seasoned isolation wore the sanctity of the sergeants’ safe haven, secure, looked up and undeviating. The Psy Research Facility was sponsored by Vermont Horizons Inc., also known as Telemetry Visions Corp. and in retrospect, the Bastille. Sgt. Windhook watched the vine, the wine of countless parishioners and researchers and more importantly the purveyors of a $465.00 paycheck.
He danced in the fluorescent lights of the ten by ten cell. The vine was a young man in his twenties shorn with a buzz cut and piercing dark eyes. He saw Windhook peering in at him and he hooted, “YYYYYEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAWWWWWWW!.” Windhook grimaced and watched as the vine concealed his face with cupped hands, a moment later he was looking at the reflection of his own face. The vine growled and in spontaneous ascertation manifest the face of a wolf. Sgt. Windhook staggered back from the tiny window glass and gasped, “Oh my god!” continuing down the row of cells he made a point of ignoring the howls coming from the vines cubicle. Sgt. Windhook wondered and contemplated the strength of the steel doors as he finished his round.

Divine Scream

The trooper followed the fugitive into the warehouse; a quality of resonant power jolted the calm eddies of dust in the dark void of the empty warehouse. The trooper paused breathing in the sullied odor of rotting vegetables and lilac.
The fugitive stood in silent phantom shadow between the sliver of candent daylight surrounding the trooper in silhouette and the dusty trail leading to the sanctity of his extraction point. The trooper whispered, “Don’t move.” An exhausted tongue of solstice surrounded the trooper as the spring hinged door swung shut behind him.
The fugitive tilted his head backward, opened his mouth and screamed shattering the silent commune. Legends of ancestral continuum filled the moment with the passage of a few seconds, a few moments of tinctured, piercing sound as the fugitive continued to scream.
The trooper squinted in frozen fear as a brilliant fire surrounded the fugitive. Like the roar of a dragon he thought. The aluminum walls of the warehouse shook and the fugitive levitated to a horizontal position between the ceiling and the dirt floor. His scream echoed shrill and infinite. The trooper watched as the firelight vacillated and rolled in flame. A moment later it was finished, the fugitive spun in rhythm to the pulsing fire screaming, then silence. He vanished near the corrugated metal roof and the gentle rush of a gasping breeze shook the building. The trooper sighed and shook his head in disbelief. His thoughts in secret labor as he forced himself to forget the vision of fire.

Orphan Picnics and the Bandit

The sign wasn’t altered in it’s exclamation, nevertheless it was an indicator of past terrors, the harbinger of wild rumors and bloody exaltation, it read,

“Do not feed

The bears!!!”
The sign was a chipped gray and scarlet, the lettering a bold exclamation of warning. Handy Bandit sighed and touched the roughly speckled surface of the sign. The surface was covered in spatters of crimson, blood perhaps he thought. Wrinkling his brow he surveyed the pine straw littering the ground, the piles of freshly scattered dirt, in telltale mounds, half buried in moldering leaves and torn dirty soils, a row of graves.

“Do not feed the Bears.”
He read again as his sneakers left impressions in sporting claim against the blood sodden dirt.

“Do not feed the Bears.”
The graves were haphazard constructions, built in grizzly instinct and scarlet paw. A crow sang, yelled from atop the pine bows, “caw caw.”
Handy sat the picnic basket on the dry patch of earth and opened the burnished lattice lid. The scented desires of starving campers and hiking hunger poured from the basket. Fried chicken, Potato salad, and neat containers of potato chips.

“Do not feed the Bears”
He whispered reverently, by prayer and eyes revolving in desires of chance.
Handy unfitted the restraining straps of the backpack and removed a blue and white checked blanket. The nature of his aloneness forebode reason and rational as he layed the blanket across the bloody soil. The crimson tinctured the blanket in disdain, in warning. Handy closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the blanket. He saw seas of scarlet and suns blazing amber in painful clarity. The mists of a wrath untold and blind by the need of what sapphire eyes and mulberry wont express. Eating the call of ravaging danger and tears of senseless diversion. Handy ate chicken, potato salad, and the crisp chips lined neat in stacks.
The balance of night and day divided the hours as handy ate and thought. In the end he concluded the twilight ceremony with a prayer, “By Gods grace we take the wisdom of sense and the desire to live in passions of safe futures and asylum.” He prayed in quiet breaths of new resolve. The night sang sure and the remnants of old chicken bones and plastic containers marked the sodden ancient soil, by bidden release he was reborn and given the will to survive.

The Wolves Harvest

Fortune expressed the passion and praise. He fixed the earth and the cool rain with a bidden eye. The sun shone through the drizzle in customs of satisfying will, gray clouds and remarkable columns of brilliance provided shelter and warmth amongst the moted rays of light and shadow. The invention of his choice would amaze the rabble the onlookers who found themselves in the presence of a curious demeanor.
His source was determined by the sweet nectar of daisy blossoms and honeycomb. He sipped at the mixture of sugary tea and chaste blossom ascension with the greatest of understanding, an instant of predetermined portrayal, an instant of depth, width and height. The saffron glow agreed with the gentle rain as beads of liquid slid across his skin and the tall glass of tea. He surrendered to the moment and growled in contented bliss.
The fur bristled across his body and his skeleton conformed.
The silver wolf hung loosely about his taunt neck as he padded through his meandering evolution toward wild fields of wheat and saffron. The sun shone again through the mists and again and again as he found the distant horizon, the yielded sacrifice of substance for soul, as a wolf, the man in search of secret freedoms and love borne only by the passion of wild eyes and ancient passage unto the metamorphosis between long nights and days spent expecting the reward, the wolf at moons call, the faraway lands of golden wheat where men trod with the will to find freedom.


The mountain of steaming tripe lay in slatherings of mustard and barbecue sauce. He gobbled like a grazing hog and belched like a grumbling lion. The tripe was a saucer of adventure. Steaming, salted and in acquiescent nuances of savor the tripe offered its taste. Crazy-quilt images of rainbow sunshine leapt and fluttered through the mosaic of stained glass onto the course wood and lattice walls. A picture of cows grazing through fields of wheat hung at an angle on the slated wall.
“MMMMMMM…..MMMMMMMM!” he sputtered in full quivers of tripe and sauce. A bit of tripe fell to the plate and he scooped it up groaning , “Yummy, Yummy!” it disappeared in a greasy gulp of belching hunger, he was famished, starved, tripe, tripe, tripe…………a contest of ripe warrant and famished consent. When he finished the tripe he ate the plate in saw slivered madness, then the spoon and with wild glee the heavy oak table, splinters of wood fell to the carpeted floor as he belched and grinned a bloody toothed gasp of desire, desire in hunger, the wont for sustenance and savor.
* The edge of the world anchored the girth of the man and the earth prayed on the mind of sorceries as resolute as tripe and in need of blessings concluded by the satisfaction of expectation.

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...