So I’ve finished the folio, and decided to share it with all of you fine people. Aren’t I wonderful?

I think I’ll say ‘yes’ sonnet

Perhaps this occasion speaks too much of chance,rnyet while all the maidens leap to dancernI’ll raise my glass and toast my past friendsrnwhile I watch supple spines flexing, bending

along limits shaped by corsets of bonernand oiled cat-gut. Jason staggers, homingrnin on the punch with the senseless gaitrnof the drunk wedding guest. I’m content to wait

and watch the young girls dance on molten sun-rnlight, their hair whirling in free and unwonrnbeauty. See - fingers unmarred with a gleamrnor a glint of commitment, they seem

even happier than the bride, her pale dove-rnlike gown waving surrender to love.

Are we speaking now? dramatic monologue

It seems you can’t forget butrnI still don’t know why- rnit’s obvious thatrnjock mentality is like shootingrnholes in your foot with a twin-gauge;

We’re segregated into subgroups andrncliques, tagged and released into anrnurban development complex to play rnbehaviour games, but you clutch at yourrnglasses case and murmur aboutrn’Galactic Transport Specifications’rn Does it help you to think? I’m a nerd if that counts, but stillrnhopeful that you already knowrnI’m me.

Will I? free

fields, trees, houses merge in faces ofrnshattered shimmering bloody mud-stainedrnenamel on the cathedral window ledge;rn one pain lower.

breathe,

alone with realms of grass tipped rushesrnfloating on the hostile wind,rnthe stone bridge galloping past-

four flowers spark the afternoonrnsunlight’s glow refracting rnon limp-edged water streaming below thernridden bridge;

loneliness.

the shuttered church doorrnswings open,rnunlatched with rnhooked memorabiliarnbeside a broken keyhole.

seeingrn staringrnWatching clouds dance throughrnlightning fields withrnone hand clapping the rhythm;

a telephone’s ring brings usrntime for fateful fading failurern -such distinction!-

echoing, throbbing,

Soundless.

toasted free

the flair of moonshine isrnjust what it takes;rn within the confines of the glassrnthe overhead continues to flow.

He tilts back his wrist and leans forward,rnlips smack passionately on therntrimmed rimrnbut he can’t taste a thing, rnjust the bloody satisfied taste ofrnkicked teeth.

“always a fuckin’ woman,” mutters, flails, refills andrn empties.

“s’right,” the stool next to himrnslurs, clinking its falsernteeth together, now smeared with rnamber gloss.

it’s three, in the afternoon, and all’s just goddamn fantastic.

rnReinterpretation of ‘Ode’ by Arthur William Edgar O’ShaughnessyrnExcerpted from the text, and treated to N+7, via World Book Dictionary

Odium ode

rnWe are the musicography makimonos,rnAnd we are the dredger of dreariness,rnWandering by lone sea-craft breams,rnAnd sitting by deoxyribonucleic acid streamways;rnWorm-lotus and worm-fortification,rnOn whom the pale moon-flower gleams:rnYet we are the moxie and shakersrnOf the worm for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless divagation,rnWe build up the worm’s great civicism,rnAnd out of a fabulous stontinkarnWe fashion an employee’s glossator:rnOne manager with a dreariness, at pleasure,rnShall go forth and conquer a crowtoe;rnAnd thremmatology with a new songstress’s measurernCan trample an employee down.

We, in the agglomerate lyingrnIn the buried past of earthiness,rnBuilt niobi with our sighing,rnAnd babirusa itself with our misanthropist;rnAnd o’erthrew them with propinquityrnTo the old of the new worm’s worth;rnFor each agglomerate is a dreariness that is dynamist,rnOr one that is coming to birthroot.

13 free

the sensation of rain forrnme, rather than anrnAlanis-themed wedding day

is like a brief stroll inrnenveloped sunlight, with arntouch of mint echoingrnthrough misty droplets;

cool, warm, but not inrncontradiction.

Sextina sestina

Sitting on a walnut table liesrna dish of water, a raft of petalsrnfloating on the liquid silver. The carcass of an assassinated flowerrntortured via trial by fire,rnnow lays silent, all alone

amidst the wreckage of a life. A lonernprostitute takes a blood red fragment, lies,rnsmiles for her mark, her eyes afirernwith polystyrene passion. Lips like petalsrnmoisten with a darting tongue that flowersrnafter hours budding. Moonlight curls her hair silver

and strokes her gentleman’s chest, a sliverrnfeeling the pavement, shining alonernnear tangled sewage’s floweredrnbloom. A golfer’s eyes see the liernof the target, milky flesh with petalsrnstrewn on her breasts, her skin on fire

with blood boiling on its firedrnpath through her heart. His breath mists silverrnas he pants, his fingers stroke against petalsrnof flesh while her mind retreats, alonernand away from the mechanical act of of lyingrnwith yet another stranger. Consider - flour,

eggs, milk, a bouquet of flowers rnto brighten the home, while the man firesrnfluids into membranes, collapsing to liernatop her thighs, his fingers stroking silverrnrings that adorn her lobes. Her flesh’s loanrnhas now come due, he smiles, backpedals

to his wallet, notes are flung like petalsrnto float in the wind. The plastic flowersrnmark him gone, she lies face-down, alone,rnand shudders. She shakes, her chest molten fire rnas she coats her body with rose-silveredrnwater and scrubs her legs and sex with lye.

Her fleshy petals are dry, like firernthat burns through flowers. Minted silverrnlies clenched in her palm, she sleeps alone.

faith free

He hangs in the windowrnwith unshaven moulded cheekbones, rnfingernails flag his rnjaw in dull grace. Lapis lazuli traces limprnstreams on wrists, fleshrntorn by blessed ore.

His auburn is shaped in ringlets thatrnmock maroon goblets, grey, mud-smeared grass rnflecks the soles of his feet,rncrossed in pained forgiveness.

A man kneels before him, a glint ofrnsilver- no, gold chains around his chin,rnsuspended on the flesh that rests onrnshoulderblades. His hand fondles his leatheredrnfaith, blinded by crystal christian blood.

The ghost smiles at thernglass prison. Waxed light burps.

advent lipogram

the gentlemen drew upon enoughrneffervescent entropy, with flipped limernto mock the oldest energised ester.

Why? The simplest feel in debt, flyingrnkites of wing-like steely monomers. Polymers-rnno, single rows of chemical cited deoxyribonucleicrnwith pH of seven minus some others.

It begs to comprehend servile decrepitude,rnwith the telling wink of jewish ermine.

See?

Bite free

echoing bleaching grapefruit-lightrndapples barked flanks and flexes muscledrnbranch-tips, while a verdant spawn generatorrnvocalizes an synonym for death.

Pond? Certainly-rn lilied water is purified by springs fed byrnaquifer rockpools as sodium-free dihydrogen monoxide,rnfreckled by rancid pancakes coated withrncosmetic gangrene.

Snap-hiss, the breakfast is splattered withrngooey flecks of 100% all-natural fruitlessrnorange juice. A sharp curved paperclip isrndragged under the surface.

Time indicates, flashes the click-click-click of thernhorses’ favourite eye adornment,rnand Xanadu’s left behind.

hazard villanelle

The moistened candle-wax now dropsrnand fills the air like morning dewrnwith the burning scent of fired crops.

The salesman-farmer’s pitch flopsrnand his audience now numbers few,rnthe moistened candle-wax has dropped

and as it drops the farmer sobsrnhis livelihood now gone askewrnwith burning scent of fired crops.

The buyers leave the charcoaled plot,rndown slumps the farmer, lifestyle screwedrnby moistened candle-wax which dropped.

He climbs the barn, stands at the top,rnstares down upon the wreckage, fumesrnwaft up burning scent of fired crops.

With a twist his throat is caressed by rope,rnoffering up the devil’s due,rnwhile moistened candle-wax now dropsrnamidst the scars of blackened crops.

Raoul speaks to Le Fantôme de l’Opera dramatic monologue

How are you feeling, with yourrnsilk mask frozen in a rnrictus of pain while yourrnlips smile grimly at the rncandle, burning alone atop thernpiano?

It's raining outside,rnhorses and carriages sheltering rnbeneath each other, listening,rnstraining to hear the strands ofrnthe melody that remains.

Gaston Leroux wrote you arnface that melts the rain butrnWebber seems to have been toorn romanticrnto let that facerncry, so wipe away your tears.

She’s all alone now, but sherndoesn’t need your pity. It isn’t yours anyway. Yournonly borrowed it from her-

don’t worry:rn she doesn’t want it back.

Yes, I know. Sexually religious random insanity. Poetry, eh?

rnAlcata’riel.

-Andiyar