"Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins"
Walking through the poetic frames of featureless ghosts
her fingers play like harps their ectoplasmic cages
strange symbols that clang the frivolity of vacuumed cleaned emptiness
dissolving in the invisible time wasted in the chronicles of their newfound empires
the meaning of their spectral presence swings
like canaries singing home all their honeys sweetly
it’s all bluebirds entertaining the wisdom of lovelorn owls watching on
like they are azure feathered blind mice adorned with halos,
while the carnal vultures smile winging it above them all in prayer circles predatory
“her tongue is an arena of silent conflicts”
her mind is a carnival of Picasso harlequins
balancing the trapeze, the affairs of a wild heart
scorched and stinging with fragments of cubist love collages
arriving like ashes within the flames of her phoenix stages;
some newly burnt Aphrodite.
elements closer to reality than the abstractions of geometry
CandideDiderot. ‘25
Categories:
ectoplasmic, muse, voice, woman, women,
Form: Free verse
So there he was
hanging loosely from the electric ceiling
of heaven or hell - hard to tell.
His body below still hooked
to hospital tubes that sucked nothing into nothing.
Apparently his mind and his wristwatch went with him.
('Went' being a verb more properly understood
as a metaphor for staying put).
It was a full four minutes since
and time was ticking on.
He thought maybe he should do something
but his feet were cold
and the window was closed to any outer reality.
Eventually he felt a tug
on his bare left leg.
"O boy" he thought "this is it
I'm gonna be dragged down to that place!'
However
(and this is not a fiction but a factual blob
of ectoplasmic truth),
it was his own child-self pulling,
leading him into a warm womb;
notwithstanding the evidence
of his most disputable position,
being that he was dead but not dead
to wit - alive
he gladly and metaphorically 'went'
to meet himself.
Categories:
ectoplasmic, poetry,
Form: Free verse
So there he was
hanging loosely from the electric ceiling
of heaven or hell - hard to tell.
His body below still hooked
to hospital tubes that sucked nothing into nothing.
Apparently his mind and his wristwatch went with him.
('Went' being a verb more properly understood
as a metaphor for staying put).
It was a full four minutes since
and time was ticking on.
He thought maybe he should do something
but his feet were cold
and the window was closed to any outer reality.
Eventually he felt a tug
on his bare left leg.
"O boy" he thought "this is it
I'm gonna be dragged down to that place!'
However
(and this is not a fiction but a factual blob
of ectoplasmic truth),
it was his own child-self pulling,
leading him into a warm womb;
notwithstanding the evidence
of his most disputable position,
being that he was dead but not dead
to wit - alive
he gladly and metaphorically 'went'
to meet himself.
Categories:
ectoplasmic, poetry,
Form: Free verse
She nodded to the fishman, 'a zombie is in here',
He headed to the door so it would be more clear.
It was the last of the zombies told to the ectoplasmic man,
He was tied to a chair so couldn't even stand.
The zombie spoke the name of Huntley,
Then his head exploded rather timely.
Off they drove to find this man in the monestary,
It was late and dark, and awfly scary.
The path to the chapel was filled with more zombies?!?
Their guns took them down with the breeze!
Robert Huntley, 'hahahahahaha', loudly laughed!
He had dug up the grave within the building's draft.
Possessed he was with a skeleton necklace,
Then tranqualized down by the B.P.R.D. wreckless.
Yegor Kurya was the one to possess,
But his day would end with his bones six-foot caressed!
Wednesday, January 12, 2022
A Ghost Story Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Angela Tune
Story poetized from 'Another Day At the Office', Mike Mignola
Categories:
ectoplasmic, anxiety, appreciation,
Form: Couplet
Considering if we were a spirit; subjugated to endure as also, view...
These the darker side in night's, atrocities committed by many their life
Upon another's here amid humankind yet not only they, rather all of creation
Perdition it would somehow seem this vicarious vexation ? Derelict shame disgraceful
Beastlialities such dymanics; forging forcefully about her universe resounding; ectoplasmic.
Categories:
ectoplasmic, art, baby, cancer, love,
Form: I do not know?