Zugzwang

Turbid sludge coerced through ever
constricting jugulars, thickening
with peculiar particulates; a
dreamcatcher gallows whereby

esperance was strung until still,
whose relics there yet hang in
derision of their host; spectres of
malcontent haunting in compunctious

preoccupation, an arterial ossuary
of sacramental wolfsbane coagulated
in bloodwine; a straightjacket of
skin taut to tearing, confining the

restless bedlam of torpor through
indecision; the hurled rubble and
obfusation of unfurled divergent
journeys, zugzwang in disasterous

perpetuity; whyfor a heart circulate
such malicious discontent; what then
betides a soul upon releasing the
consanguineous slithering serpents

art: Burned III by carlosgarijo

Thin

It’s thin. The paper lying before
him, and the paperweight’s skin
resting upon it; the depth of the
graphite pressed into the albus

page with the apathetic exigency
of have-tos and owe-it-to-thems;
the kerning and strokes of the
languid letters barely scoring its

surface; the flimsy wording and
porous reasoning behind a veil
of half-hearted half-truths; the
syncopated lips in imperceptible

recitation to the mindless thrall;
the slits wherefrom lacteolus orbs
peer thru the erubescent scarring
of fatigue; the breathing of shallow

waves slowly floating to the shores
of expiry, and receding weaker on
return; the connections tethering
him to consciousness and binding

him to corporeality; the pavlovial
response to a delicate tap on the
door by a deserves-better; the guilt
deliquescing in the darkness, and

evanesce of light into absolution

art: by Christophe Hohler

Rock and a star place

Constantly pulled into one direction,
confined to a pale blue dot, rotating
madness beneath twinkling, watchful
eyes; forced into submission amongst

the beauty and the beasts, a natural
penitentiary of providence protecting
the universe from undesirable conquest,
torturing by temptation with the escape

beyond reach; caught between a rock
and a star place, ever resigned to staring
up before succumbing six feet down;
countless forgotten souls have beheld

wonder, as empyrean wardens blithely
regard the insignificance of the captives
and time; oblivious to the like-minded
fire seething upon the surface of its gaze

art: Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh

Dahlia

Dahlia layers, a flowering fractality

Repeating redolence of sensual scents

A silken shroud of multitudinousness

Fragility in exquisite equilibrium

Petals cascading from a pivotal universe

Floral fireworks on a spherical sojourn

Lustrous lava flows consuming its core

Centric waves of satin, ad infinitum

Perpetually pulchritudinous perfection

art: by Jackie Jacobson

The writing’s on the hand

Staring at textures of
skin and light, shadows
and scars, painted across
a topography of vein and

bone, he sees an age-worn,
sorrow-torn, hirsute surface
whose rivulets unerringly
circulate life that remains

teasingly beyond his grasp;
out of reach, this life, with
its promise and potential,
augurs riverbeds run dry,

fortunes forever lost, and
the certainty that one day
others will look upon him
knowing death, as he does,

like the back of his hand

art: Mano by Javier Arizabalo