She deploys her apparitions in forward ambulation, and watches with desperation as they carry out their vocation

With her imagination, in each direction and interaction, she’s intently searching for an end, to her crippling life retraction

Spiritual substitutions feed her relentless observation, investigation into the world, a long sought integration

Each ghost has her own mission, to report their information, of every disasterous distraction and failed exhilaration

Knee-buckling osculation, or simple interdigitation, she’s just looking for extraction from her lifelong isolation

art: by Ivana Besevic


Too young to fear the coming jeer
from a host of bitter grey

Left unprepared when venom flared
for living her own way

She would deviate and elevate
to rise above the horde

Then was ostracized and lobotomized
for striking her own chord

So she hid the fire and bid the pyre
to keep her warm at night

‘Til come the day when come what may
she unleashes all her light

art: by Guillermo Lorca Garcia-Huidobro


The ghosts insist, in the vilest
vehemence, that he lay down
his arms in obeisant fealty;

the spirits spin the marionette,
until he’s bound by his own sinew,
in the edge of their favorite room;

the spectres spread the pall
in a sinister flourish, over the
tremor in his deadened eyes;

the past whispers heart-halting
fairy tales of twisted truths
and manic manipulations;

the phantom pains remind him,
with a tick upon his psyche, that
he yet lives in this nightmare;

pandemonium unbeknownst, mutes
his tongue, lest others discover it
hiding in a corner within his head

art: serenity by pekthong


secreting a saline soliloquy
while the tambour calls to war
immersed in inferno insurgency
riding shotgun ‘bove rapid ichor

vaguely expressing the pressure
behind a stiff kamikaze gale
deters not the coming agressor
or the inexorable coffin nail

mannequin’d from mental vacuity
as the terror takes its toll
resigned to wishful torpidity
panic’s stealing another soul

the battlefield suddenly empty
waiting in a room now mine
until the counter calls to me
now serving number sixty-nine


The inkwell tumbles over welkin and wit; her seething susurrations invite slumberous disregard

The puissant voluptuary, the sadist, the con, swallows me with magmatic lips, melting resolve and self-control

Fervid angst transudes through saucers into lacustrine stains and chilling horripilation; restrained by fists of silk and ichor ropes

She chases me through my tenebrous id, past the inescapable eyes of lecherous flies, the cunning guise of treacherous lies, and the emotional cries of sanguinolent dyes

Her torment reigns until sunlight laves the room, and she discards the ossified remains of this tremorous calyx

I watch in awe, rent and raw, through verdant diaphaneity, as others wake from restful repose, and I wonder how…

Yet, ever alone, I anticipate nightfall, lachrymal, and her unwelcome company

art: veil by Peterio