The ring

The ring, everlasting; sometimes, unbidden, he can feel its annulus metallic chill, the phantom sensation and horripilation of an infinitely symbolic, twisted lemniscate; an unraveling thereof, which is no less forever

When möbius memories turn aback, he’ll depress the hoop seeking an idyllic, rockwellian innocence, one that he was never comfortable wearing; a pressing reminder of what has always escaped his grasp

Finitely symbiotic, the ring preys at the temple amidst the hoar, the seventh circle’s center, and he hears the clamor approaching nigh; gorging upon one another, the ring and he, teasing the hitherto elusive climax

Once removed, the cyclic debossment scars him for moments thereafter, before fading into numbed cowardice; an instant would change everything, a simpleton’s squeeze would repair the wayward id’s indiscriminate carnage

It is flattery of the sincerest form; for with every rosy impression it leaves, each blandishment it seethes from its cold, steel mouth, it draws heavy lids and heavier focus, though hasn’t yet the strength to draw a single finger

Scoring a merry-go-round imprint, a revolving rapture he ever bears, it extols echoes of peace through temerity and quells maudlin madness through casuistrous clarity; portentously, a searing ring for the ages, once thereupon the hammer falls

art: Q34 by Eric Lacombe

Serenely sleep

sweet smother, serenely sleep
the shadows sense wherein to creep
a raptor whispers secrets keep
slip away in silence

masked madness, molly please
free of freedom, binding frieze
foolish hope on mindless seize
alacritous alliance

when upon an umbrous sleuth
awakened awe uncovered truth
overwhelmed with unctuous ruth
rebarbative reliance

tripped and taut, cataract gleam
eyes torn tight, tantalized dream
twist the secrets, tautologies teem
visions of the violence

raptor breathing poisoned plume
plight and pallor, palling brume
the answer lies, impending doom
death within defiance

art: untitled 35 by Peterio

Doll

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

Hell

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

His rose

The boy would stop to smell the rose

When he grew tall enough to reach

Abrading his nose upon a petal frayed

While he suffocated on the redolence

Rooted from his rafter for the dearest of life

Suspended by its thorny vine, the hanger hung

It was ever there, of his being a part, apart

No other flowerbed was so enticing

No other garden welcomed him so

art: gallow.. by Peterio

Amble

Closing gaping open wounds
with tiny searing nooses

Stitching burning questions
in lamentous deadman sutures

Itching ambling fingernails
in obeisance of their masters

Tearing at the sentient seals
withholding all the answers

Flaying scarring keratin
with mindless zeal abide

Knowing flowing remedies
are hiding just inside

art: by Paolo Troilo