I wonder after his black spectacles,
if I could recognize his phantom's scare
by his bandy left foot, something he'd wear:
constrictor turtlenecks, cowboy buckles
his trials decided by flayed knuckles
his tombstone eyes, the depth of night they bear.
I wonder at the factors of his fear
as I adorn him with cherry jewels.
Your bass breathes, haply, the contents of love;
it whispers to me my shadows' secrets,
but dark articles ingesting your name,
face-eating barnacles that smutch our flame.
I'll be glad —a pigeon may be a dove—
to sprinkle Shakespeare over your Poe's grunts.
I, looking in the mirror yesterday,
witnessed distorted eyes replacing mine;
and, too, the lips and nose, as if a sign,
seemed bent crooked, misaligned in some way.
And, as I, squinting, gazed on that display,
an unheeding hand groped at the outline
of the coldly reflective glass confine.
I watched it slowly mangle the red-clay
body which, lifeless, answered my dead stare.
Tearing tripe from stomach, and from breast
the heart, those fingers worked maliciously,
dismembering each inch of skin less fair.—
I know not who it was who flayed my chest:
I? or that demon called Society?
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
Tinge, thy colors terrific.
Weather wave, point where?
Heaven and Hell, this may stick!
Brick upon the bare.
Red the rampant real? Rind? Rhyme.
Tornados in time.
Wind above the city, chime.
Tequila, thy lime.
Yak upon the mountain;
Which way doth trouble lurk?
Rubbish, fill the garbage bin!
If you work, you shirk!
Psyche, soul tormented;
This place sure stinks of doom!
Lyre of love lamented!
O curse on pharaoh's tomb...
Bloom upon the tamarind?
Reality grinned.
Sin, thy light the whole world pinned!
Challengers a-chinned...
Roll that boulder, vagrant king!
Silver is thy sting!
Drenched upon but undying!
Rail about the ring!
Levels sinking in the pool?
Silent lies the spool.
O young people, keep it cool?
Flayed dismayed, fair fool...
Ghoul, thy magic terrible;
Golem, shall we ride?
Room within the brazen bull?
Bailiff, how you tried...
Rabbit was issued an invitation from the cucumber king
He could attend a spa, if he wore his red ruby ring
While rabbit was soaking in the sauna the ring got taken
I bet it’s the king, he thought; he was not mistaken
He was in a dilemma, for if he accused the king
Of not just taking, but stealing his red ruby ring
He might be flayed, beheaded or killed that day.
He decided to relax and enjoy the sauna; what the hay?
Mountains made of waves
tore the flesh from Mother Earth —
flayed and flooding.
The mud grieves beneath her,
clogged with stagnant saline.
She used to breathe — rivers ran wild and free,
forests stood tall and proud.
For she was once lush —
verdant skin stretched over a trembling core,
veins of sapphire seas pulsing with breath.
But we carved into her with teeth of steel,
peeled back her emerald skin,
pierced through her bones.
We didn’t ask.
We took.
Her lungs lit like lanterns.
Birds dropped from the blackened sky.
The ocean soured, bloated with grief.
Coral bleached like the bones of the forgotten —
silent, skeletal, sunken.
And still, we kept chlorine at her flesh.
Now she festers —
her winds thin, her skin splitting.
Cities crust her like scabs.
She does not scream.
She simply waits.
A casualty of your cruelty,
she lies open, emptied —
not for mercy,
not for rage —
but for the stillness that comes
when there’s nothing left to save.
And still,
you look away,
call the silence healing —
but it’s too late
to unknown what you’ve done.
we took it for granted
life as we knew it
our freedom our future
the concept of fairness
karma and justice
and then it was stripped
in one quick painful motion
flayed off like a bandaid
before our very eyes
revealing the ugly truth
of the worst of mankind
now all we can do is
pray for a mighty Hail Mary ~
AP: Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Forcing myself
to live in green-
belt of forest with
no civil comforts or concerns
I don’t flinch. I won’t.
Living in
extremes of
two seasons
cinder-hot Sun
drowning rain
I don’t complain, I can’t
one summer was different
A passionate couple
Fire-Air, waltzed through
acres of my nearby forest,
grey-burning lives small & big –
I didn’t cry.
After HER party, I
went to see the charred
landscape, my heart thumped
wild, I could feel my soul in throat –
I didn’t cry
I stilled my thoughts - I
knelt to feel, I knelt
to beat coal-black ground, I
thumped chest, I flayed my
hands to sky, I howled,
Roared, wailed, cried
I clenched my fist,
boxed at guiltless air, I
called his partner names –
I sobbed back to silence
With impotent-raging silence
my hands cradled a tiny
dying burnt bird gasp for last
gulp of air, I knelt
in silence. That day
I cried, I missed God that day
I sobbed back to silence
The salt of their skin has its flayed
geometry, sharp crevices beneath
the classroom where my dark teeth
tried the savoury chalk and failed.
I have been a teacher for the sum
of my disjointed life; never knew
otherwise, never learnt, as I grew,
how to study the breadcrumb
where the heights have gathered.
My students, ants in my breath,
state they are builders of words
in silence and thrive, feathered
like fangless tigers, within death,
my blandest subterranean birds.
Who defended Jews from Nazis in WW2
A few brave souls here and there
Foul-smelling smoke from crematoria arose
The masses turned aside, held their nose
Only dirty Jews being gassed, burnt, chopped up and flayed
Only unclean Jewish women being gang-raped by the SS night and day
Only Jewish genitals being irradiated in sexual experiments
Only 'Jew-dogs' ~ their essence, filth and excrement
Today, Islamists shout 'Allah Akhbar,' then slaughter
Jewish grandmas, wives, babies, sons and daughters
The West cowers, labels them 'militants,' not terrorists
Israel, retaliate: Shoot every Hamasnik dead
~ Not a single one can you afford to miss
The boy, he lied, would not say why,
nor did he shed a tear or cry,
when flayed; across his father’s knee.
He’s not what they want him to be.
He’ll work the mine; that was unsaid.
Every day, he was instead
caught spending time with poetry.
He’s not what they want him to be.
“He needs to mix with real men.”
And so it came to be; he, when
fifteen, became an enlistee.
He’s not what they want him to be.
His day had come, and so He went and prayed.
The woes of all mankind upon him weighed.
His brethren slept; He knew what would befall.
His enemies conspired and did not stall.
A midnight kiss, and He would stand betrayed.
First seized, reviled, then stripped and flayed;
A scarlet robe on broken flesh then laid,
He bore the brutal cross and drank the gall.
His day had come.
A final breath. . . . the sacrifice was made.
The land then quaked. God’s sorrow was displayed.
The Son in linen. . . . on the earth a pall.
But in the sepulcher, His final call –
To conquer death! Man need not be afraid.
His day had come!
Submitted 3/12/23
for the Easter Poetry Contest of Regina McIntosh
Distant breathing freezes winter in my bones and dredges my soul for the sowing of rotten seeds,
Foul flowers on trees infested by festering fruit emerge tangled from the ichor churning mud that bare their infected roots,
Wounded and flayed, my morals splash about in their pus and dismay
Pray, I do, for my sense of self and my distant…
I cannot complete that line of thought…
I am lost among the flowers.
Whence the first rays of sunlight fall,
And nary a bird awake,
The purple shades of sky,
Signal for the war-drums to be played.
Sleep blown away,
The gruelling struggle stirs,
And the blueing sky calls,
For the armies to lay waste.
A thousand graves are dug,
Lifted aside are fallen men,
Letters put into being,
To be perused by brood and and bruv.
War stems from hope and anger,
In an inebriated state of righteousness,
Unfounded assumptions seeded by desire,
To be brought to rest in a book or melancholy tune of lyre.
So beware, raconteur,
the golden crusade, a facade of wreath of laurel,
For triumph is founded on the back of coercion.
Alas, nations will fight with power,
But men will be flayed away,
Not unlike the fabled golden crusade.
Just because they're blood.
Doesn't mean you must forever leave the front door open.
When their latest scheme lies parched and broken.
Just because they're blood, they still view you as prey.
Something soft - a thin boned toy.
To be tossed about chewed upon...
Ultimately flayed- unholy destroyed.
Secure your heart's window.
Hang a no vacancy sign.
A clove of garlic.
Because blood or not, some people never change.
They're born with wings but develop fangs.
Forever restless and selfishly opaque.
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