Constanzo Allione – fried shoes, cooked diamonds

charleston farmhouse door

henry’s nose pressed it open

that solid door

light spread on frescoes

and stencils a plaster canvas

to an artists heart,

inside heavy paws

trod carefully

hazel eyes saw much,

virginia talking to E.M

flashbulb pop

of camera indulgence,

smoke swirled in wisps,

that kissed many brows

and lips,

laying still on the cool


henry knew

this place was special

as where those who walked

and would as ghosts

in time to come.


Samuel Beckett- Waiting For Godot (dir Samuel Beckett) Part One and Two

Becketts own version of his play and here is part 2

mother of the great flesh invention

the project

as songs and tales will have you know,

came from that technology,

mechanical milk pumped breast

delicious cream

to an unstilled conscious ,

stellar glow watches from above

as we evolve in growth

cell textures merge

and we appear

units that almost conform

yet defined by our features

unique to our body own,

then comes the urge

to put our own smudge

on this planet of

blue white and green,

the inquisitive sing

something called love

and by way of this

activate that thing called passion,

contortions and twists of

celebrated ecstasy

clamoring sweat

and processing our breed

by way of natural birth

swollen stomach

to be held and kissed,

as the mantra is found

and we have arrived


Kelly and Collom Lune poetry form @dVersePoets

Kelly Lune



waitress waits nearby

watches close

as coffee turns cold



bitter winter sea

crawls on sand

watched by my old eyes



my penis a coiled shrew

unsure now

of nights intention



deeper goes the night

arc of moon

as one last whisper



lobbyist fed fat

corpulent senate stride

all devil may care



tv is not watched

unseen love

as i have crumbled


Collum Lune



once its said

breath caught by pale indifference

my moment gone



saturns many rings

given in wedlock to you

abstract stars collide



war no solution

as to hungers angry stride

crops not guns



you are secret

concealed by my winter poem

i only know



cast long shadow

burnished by low copper sun

cooling my ardor



blue painted walls

advertisement paled and nearly gone

i was here