Unpublished Works
Hello, again! Welcome to the amalgamated delusions of creative works that is my mind. Here, you will find written works (mainly poetry) that are currently unpublished.
Prey for the Lammergeier of Montmartre; the Monotypic Subconscious of the Conscious Poet
Who knew the spectral silence
of the Lammergeier bodach—
the cerise-slathered latency
of independently dependent
potency of the subconscious,
would have stalked in a shadow
of can-can solicitude?
Gypaetus. I am monotypic.
A genus of monotypical
empathy—the apperception
of my evenings spent on
the velvety chipped steps of
that old café near the vineyard,
yes?
I never fancied Montmartre’s
coltish drags of virtuosic cigarettes.
When my membrane took on
the form of that vulture—redolent
of garishly fantastical beasts
from tales long past, I knew
I wouldn’t deliver myself
to the steps of the Moulin Rouge.
A Tibetan once told me Heaven
existed to cradle the bewitching
transparency of my youth—
but I knew it was just the ossifrage preaching.
This cluster of clipped feathers and
that meddlesome beak fractures my inner
worries; these doubts, those dreadful
mornings of berating and self-pity. Or
was it falsified? The pity.
Was the suffering falsified? The sorrow,
and all that regret?
Perhaps.
But the
Lammergeier wouldn’t hesitate to kill
its prey. A tactful freefall. The delving
o f t h e m i n d.
Yet, being the prey to the predatory lariat
of the subconscious, is a nest in which my
tongue will not tangle in its neurotic twine—
for the Accipitridae has hooked its roots
into talons, and clawed its diurnal belligerence
deep beneath the subliminal mound of my deathly
humanistic id. As the preyed-upon bones splinter
into ghostly tinsel, the plummeting of my superego
sputters into congealed confetti of sanguine serenity.
Unable to burrow into lesser thoughts
of repentance or conceal my guilt
from the flitting swabs of the Lammergeier,
the rodent in place of my heart has exiled itself—
and I know Paris, never threatened,
wouldn’t welcome my dense elegy and sarcastic
ode to the vibrant scoliosis of Avenue Junot;
subsequent to the tumultuous
and marvellously grafted mess of my mind—
wind-up! Porcelain dolls and battered croissants,
and the preconscious suddenly
weasels its way out from
beneath the bird of prey’s
span—thus denoting
the eighteenth misty
eidolon from the
cauterised recesses
of my mythologically
ideologic
pretences
of the conscious
state
of
mind.
Antipathy to the Plague Doctor
Caws of Saints—
the ones in proper-prose,
no doubt—smother an ode
to the sea, in wavelengths
of burlesque command
and more caws; shrieks
of the feathered caregiver,
He is. A desire that pecks,
prods, and punishes
the plagued dead.
Branded and binded
amidst earthen twine,
we may lay—for our
souls hum elegies,
whisper eulogies,
and whistle epiphanies
to the Contagion of Souls,
now surely lost to languor and decay.
Nocturnal feathers caressed
us—kissed our sickly lips
with lavender blight and
peppermint aches, as we
were promised our own
bloom. Our petals
wouldn’t wilt, and
deprave naught of
vibrance, as these Birdy Saints
prodded so tenderly at our buds.
Falsity—deceit, mendacity,
clamours of feathered
sovereignty whittle down
our rotting resolve; for black-
ened beaks penetrate the very
air we breathe, no longer.
We are left to
thirst after the stale
condensation that lingers,
bitterly, amidst our parched
fauces. The delusory, cunning
fraudulence of birdsong
only chortles through
taintless beaks—too aghast
to compose even an epitaph.
The Amaryllis Blade
The last girl to grasp the hilt of the Amaryllis Blade is sentenced
to seven days’ worth of sanguine snow globes in the plight of her
palms, and the numbing perforation of her hyena’s laceration.
But not all is so terrible.
No, in fact, the endocrine dipping of her favourite
condiments alleviates the swell of her belly’s
melodic cry. Together, now, it is a savoury
crepuscule beneath the flock—and the amaryllis
depresses in accommodation to the hurricane.
Now, if the girl steadies the hilt, her curious vines
may yet traverse the spindle of the Amaryllis Blade’s
sequoia wood. There, halved petals waltz down along
the glazed bark—one, stop.
Two, stop.
Three, stop.
The matte tease of the corolla finally amalgamate
at the hilt, once more. But her hyena hungers
still, and the blade is not yet finished wilting.
As it is only natural that a feliform cackle
in a grandiose display of overstimulation—
prancing around the two, full tablespoons
of withered petals—her spotted beast
presses a persistent piercing into her tummy.
And she loathes this—gripping the blade.
But the bloom that only rages downward
sheathes all bruises and stains that have
recently dappled across splintering
knuckles, and she can finally pay her mind
to the parting of her foe’s congealed fur.
Now, the scarred concavities of her fingers
regurgitate the beginnings of the amaryllis,
glowering in its gracious glory. Taut, every
which way, verdant threads of appraisal
are now interwoven in her touch.
The Amaryllis Blade and the girl
have reached the spring blossom, and it
is then that the hyena finally scuttles
away from the abdomen—leaving
the belly to part its soil for the flurried
downpour of fresh seeds to be planted anew.
Come next spring, the amaryllis will have called forth
the beast to once more tend to its bloom, until the cycle
can bring upon a new clot of nerve-nestled petals to line
the edge of dagger-crested penetration and rhythmic withering.
I promise, the hyena wilt not nippeth
any less than before last, but the amaryllis
can only groweth forth in her beauty—
as does the girl and her stinging corolla.
again, said the Amaryllis Blade.
Again.
and again
and again
and again
and again
again