Pitiful Fear of Being Undead

when you see things at night

from that pointed edge of eye,

lack of concentration makes you


with split dusty lip

blood in a trickle,

there are things that need

to bite to eat,

so hold your breath

and let a simple fear grow,

lurking in the doorway

bareheaded prowler of the night,

heart a ticking clock

raising a clamor

no mortal creature approaches,

mopping blood on paper tissue

red stain dropped scented a plenty,

he has strayed from his paradise

and i am to be his chalice,

teeth and lips taste my flesh,

memories blend and blur,

heart slows to a dull stutter,

revelations pause and pass,

i will go to earth

a blacken chrysalis

and raise my fear another day


Last Look Back

wish a word she held

stuck to lips like annoying bit

of damaged skin

those feelings,

bound her to the ground

leaden weights of perfect love,

we he would say

his way to think a solution

including her in all but answer,

a thread of words

a string of verbal saliva,

without meaning or power

it was always his way,

why does it turn out like this,

within four walls and shingle roof,

men again provocative and arrogant,

she had known another before

but could not stop herself

women are suckers for this

this routine of men needing as he did,

wish been granted she moved again,

located keys to the sedan he said she

could not drive,

and headed out,

a single emotion clutched her heart




thanks to the Sunday Whirl and words for the prompt http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2012/10/28/wordle-80/

deep and intense blog with photographs that just eat into you

Taylor Jorjorian

“Tongue Overture “

Photograph by Taylor J.

Photographic Surreal Impressionism

Photo created using the “Liberum” method, which is based on the philosophy that one can make photographs with the same artistic freedom that a painter or sculptor has by focusing more on creating what is in front of the camera.

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Extract of Me

i have long fingers

yet cannot gouge my eyes

remove them from my face

place them blinking on sticks,

to see myself,

would i seem more different than by reflection

could i gaze past that aura of mine,

with crooked nose and empty sockets,

eyebrows that move often with emotion,

cheeks still broad enough with flesh

to make a face round,

hair never fashioned in any style,

attraction is a composite

would i say i was handsome or defined,

i had drunk from the social nectar

but did not conform to tradition,

i would not be photogenic

or adorn glossy magazines,

lips that kiss and hold the most warmth,

are the best feature,

once cracked and pale with cigarettes and ale

now are more fulfilled,

age has grey iodized me

salt tainted beard and hair,

my face would not be Che on t-shirts,

yet i am loved by one

her opinion will be different,

her eyes another perspective,

as she holds my face and kisses

i know something must be right,

not adonis  in any way,

frame too large for that,

my flesh more distorted than a Bacon nude,

i have found a home in myself

that was difficult to find,

but do not expect too many images of me

as i wish to stay away



A great piece from Kate Gale

Kate Gale: A Mind Never Dormant

October 24, 2012

Nourishment. That’s what writers want. Let’s face it, that’s what we all want. We grow up with whatever attention we get from our parents. Then we become adolescents and at that stage, we yearn for attention. We yearn for people to listen to us. To understand us. To realize how completely unique we are. To realize how important our ideas are, the stuff we’re doing. And have sex with us.

If we grow up to become doctors, lawyers, or to work in finance, here’s what we get.

Paychecks, yes, money. That’s something most poets will never see and can’t even imagine.

Respect! That’s something poets don’t even dream of.

Nice houses. Yes, successful people get to live indoors and it doesn’t rain on them.

Kids going to private schools and then to nice colleges.

Friends with money and nice houses, so you can visit them.

Retirement. You…

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Miners Wife

your own dust smothers

the rarest and surest gleams,

eyelids in dusk and darkness,

shadows wake and sing,

bright trails from space

died from the sky

falling coarse upon the ground,

seek relief in mysterious flesh

passion an avid substance,

subtle things come on wings,

as she listened to a telephone ring,

no other fabric torn

i won’t see granite over your head,

answer,voices, emotions decorate brow,

with poets wit summoned

a smile on face and companion soul,

he would return on that tree lined

road spiral towards the hill,

often misted by winter chimneys,

prayers had know their place

he lived and would love again

survivors all,

the mine in ruins


Solitude Music With Flowers

nudity dark and profound

thighs run with dregs of wine,

face and lips lift to light,

pour handful of tablets

into palm and fern fingers

from the cabinet,

her happening not vague or bland

she was on a road of melancholy thoughts

no guide or shelter,

emptied glass of bristle bent toothbrushes,

rinsed and drank,

clasped in different thoughts,

skin of breasts still dreaming

it was a blue shine happening,

she could not remember

if she locked handle on the door,

anger had stirred the piercing arrow

no horror in or upon her,

she now smiled,

he would be left with her frantic perfume

as returning to his job,

salesman dialing pointless nine to four,

ache and throbs descend,

she was not impulsive or feeble

the cafe had been a good place

where they had kissed in a moments flutter,

ease lifted torment

clarity cast it’s leaf litter,

in the sun she shall be now

assured of what went before,

be able to tell her friends

that shadow had gone,

her beauty could bite and gnaw

at the most innocent man

and score his heart with deepest feeling,

despite water and medicinal taste,

in her mouth salted peanuts,

close her eyes,

nourished by how jealousy mocks,

dresses and goes out,

covering those sky burnt eyes

Pink Eiga and Koji Wakamatsu

Koji Wakamatsu died last week hit by a taxi a tragic end to a man who directed and produced many films, his career began in the early sixties his first film Hageshii Onnatachi (1963) would star Tamaki Katori daughter of a Pharmaceutical tycoon and she would become a big star of the pink films that introduced sex and nudity to mainstream Japapanese cinema, Flesh Market was the first in 1962 and the Police intervened and the film was censored but the wave started and Flesh Market became a box office smash made for 8 million yen took over 150 million at the box office.

Koji Wakamatsu made over 20 films at Nikkatsu studio low budget erotica that also dealt with current affairs, social attitudes, disasters and celebrity, but the studio went into decline and Koji struck out alone, not as sleazy or dark as Giichi Nishihara, also Tamaki would appear in other films of his including Sex Jack (1970) that went to Cannes the story was seen as anti social as it dealt with students who wanted to assassinate the prime minister and hijack a plane.

Through pink film many independent production companies found a voice and box office.

Koji rode this wave and as producer found more international success with Ai No Corrida (1976) or In The Realm of the senses this was the first film of his i saw and the film despite being graphic and quite realist, based on the true story of a woman who had a husband that betrayed her sexually in every way that she cut off his penis and was arrested with it in her pocket.

Koji as director made 105 films that would each leave an impression be it good or bad but he was an artist his final film Millenial Rapture (2012) based on Kenji Nakagami ‘s novel which has received tepid reviews.

His work will stand and influence who knows now with his passing what will come next.


Oh Lucky Red Stripes

TV exploded one night

electric flame caught nylon curtains

in arterial surge across

ceiling and wall,

smoke chemical thick

made molasses about the room

crawling under doors,

dad shouted

in lucky red stripes

snatching me from my bed,

mom already on porch roof,

jumping into uneven sprawl,

windows shattered

glitter fragments on the lawn,

sirens loud and quick

sister also free,

just dad and me,

smoke kissed me

crawling into my throat

dad held me close,

he too coughed,

we felt hot

as searing walls made about us,

other voices,

firemen slicks and axes

breaking and smashing

either them or fire,

landing window,

face in illuminated mask looking up

and i was dropped

suspended mid air,

heat reached for me,

strong arms caught

face pressed to chest

we ran,

explosion reverberated through


gas erupted,

i thought of dad and cried

on fender of LaFrance 79

was being assured

warm voices a hand in my hair,

another explosion

as gallons sprayed and poured

it was over now,

and i raise my head

emerging from the smoke

lucky red stripes now smeared

pajamas mom bought he hated,

she said they would be lucky

one day.


I Am An Original Man

misshapen methods

of a deeper part,

a thought from word


leaves the silence of the mind,

in childhood you vowed to stand


become a separate species by behaviour,

absorbing light upon the tongue,

bringing radiance to your words,

as you became older

and voice shifts .

tonal extractions became thunder,

leading not following,

joined to your own convictions

no excuses,

you perpetrate

what convinces you as right,

becoming oblivious

to calls and rejections,

these methods are in play,

under the umbrella of a party,

you have made your stand,

and all before become dust