Layered psychoses
swelter her brow,
helter-skelter sans
clemency of a breath;

nested neuroses
bombastically loud,
she’s a madness of
matryoshka dolls;

infinity mirrors of
dwindling sanity,
bearing distant truths
of her diminishing self;

the taunting homunculi
with unreal expectations,
synchronize chides for
Platonic perfection;

this ephemeral Form
of unattainable need,
is found unapologetic in
the auspicious greed of

the commercial zeitgeist

art: The Cloud Seed by Margarita Georgiadis

The foundation

His light slinks away through the
dormer down, cowardice cleaving
an ever present foundation of
atrament; the vagabond splays

its seductive lumen, as shadowed
steps abet its getaway; the down-
ward darkened stairs impair a
festinated chase to the reproachful

hardwood below; he watches the
trail of unrequited repulsion,
lamenting his apathy to follow;
swaddled in irascible blindness,

he saturates the suffocating silence
with a verbigeration of long for-
gotten importances; a vegetative
brume consumes his perversion of

life, each heartbeat a cheville within
the foundation of miasmic emptiness,
each exhale germinates festering
fissures with dying undergrowth;

sightless, mightless, and lightless,
rooted to wishlessness beyond
hopelessness, he waits until next
his cornerstone crumbles to dust

art: by Eric Lacombe


Risen out of favor, the
demon lost its wings; a
momentary lapse of evil,
granted to a more pathetic

soul; its transient spark of
compassion, an elemental
blink of its eye, heaved it
into the mortal realm, a

punishment for corruption;
it awakened within the
wretched soul’s mind, as a
dark passenger, perhaps,

for he who felled its villainy;
a retributive satellite wherein
malefic skill could be honed,
and a return to the deep

could be forged; it was soon
accosted by madness and pain,
the likes of which it had
never inflicted nor imagined;

it fought for control, to no
avail; rent into submission,
insanity flayed by something
beyond; crushing blackness in

a frozen cell, it soon realized
the sin of its failure hadn’t a
second chance, but an eternity
in Hell’s unspeakable Hell

art: autoportrait by Peterio

To continue

He couldn’t write to save his life, evidenced ad nauseam; nor would he want to burden words with such an execrable chore

It wasn’t writer’s block, no – not that he thinks he deserves the moniker – it’s rather akin to a nietzsche niche

There isn’t much that occupies him, though he’d come to welcome that particular distraction from his quotidian routine

Often, however, as with most of his endevours, the struggle is finding a reason to continue, other than “for something to do”

It’s clear that his style – if, in fact, he can be said to have one – is never going to win him favor or a place at the writer’s table

His writing is now little more than a masterclass in insipid repetition, a neverending exercise in ever rending prose…

art: Listen by Jeanne Bessette