bent like fortune’s favorite twigs

she drank him like her favorite bedtime drink
the party down the hall was overplaying blink 182
and he was johnny walker red down to his curling toes
and bent like fortune’s favorite twigs
they rode the wind the blast the everlasting bit
of neverlanding planes that skim the surface of
the runways that could never give them rest

… rain and strange

The day.

The day was full of rain and strange
Whereby the streets lay soaked and mad;
I paced about with winnowing mind as
That which ( I ) no longer had

Came sinking without concepts through
Which one could find a word to say;
The world was tired, so was ( I ) –
And full of rain and strange, the day.

And one remembers, one drank tea:
How very odd a memory –

The pressing ache of no goodbye,

The loss of

[ you ]

the end


( i )

somewhere, beyond

i somewhere loved where you beyond

as elbows scraped against the clouds

and seldom echoes skimmed the pond

as showed off they their final shrouds


i do not rave or scan the skies

for last you night the score was known;

as where the we storm rages, cries,

sits one some we you i


… full of words and tales

i kissed you once out
here beside these trees, and
in soft regret your eyes were
turned inward, towards that part
of your life invisible to all but,
or even and, yourself

but the memory is not the
kiss, it is the look and the
feel of your face as i touched
it, brushing the hair back
off your forehead, appraising both
the moment and the look in
your eyes

but what is frozen often
melts, if enough time passes, and
only now do i recognize something
like fear mixed with your
longing – for while you felt something
for me, i was a strange, unpredictable
creature in your eyes, full of
words and tales

and the stories you knew
best always ended up being
scary ones: perhaps this was
a false setup to a frightening
ending – you weren’t sure

but i mistook that look for
a bad grade, and

dropped the class

i only once

i only once
beside you once
inside you once
then grieved you once

and in a thrice
the tears of twice,
in days of ice
believed you once

for every once
i should have once
but lost you once
for i'm

a dunce

© Andriy Bezuglov | – Girl in red hood


the oscillation —

we practice just to strengthen
reach to stretch, and
shed to grow

to show what color’s in us
because we do not know

days and nights
the oscillation
weeks and months
we work to find

without vacation
without a grind

we labor at our calling
past the clambering
and strange

etudes of
our growing madness

Image credit : © Boris Kasyanov | – Etude

Scarbo’s Monologue

self-important, flaccid jerks telling
others how to live better lives by
investing in squalid ineptitude shaped
by financial advisers best noted for their
tendency to marry progressively younger
women who have given up on love as anything
like a viable concept in this era and society but
who also enjoy tenuous sensuality resulting in
something like floods of where did that come from
feelings turned into sound bites on
illicit videos shot as a form of self-aggrandizement
since brief meaningless pleasures must be lengthened
artificially via technology to memorialize
their pointlessness