swirls around my
finds my
bottom right incisor.
jagged
pulls away
[bite down]
finds my
bottom right incisor.
bloodied
bottom right incisor.
[swirl, swirl, swirl, swirl, swirl, sw
Morning Ritual
Brewed aroma
Morning ritual
Coffee dreary
Eyes in a haze
A new unpredictable day
The weather lady
Not too sunny
Wake up
Put on some make up
Body still numb
Maybe a second cup
Get ready for work
Kids sent off to school
A long day ahead
Can’t focus
It’s not the weekend
Mind racing
Work delay
Too many bills
Traffic sucks
A drink at 5pm
I look forward to it
Expensive society
We can never retire really
Just work yourself to death
Too many burdens
I fell in love with a dangerous man,
a man whose shadow walked ahead of him,
whose eyes carried the silence
of graves unmarked.
He spoke in the language of fire,
his whispers smelt of blood and incense,
and when he touched me,
I felt the trembling of spirits
too ancient to name.
His love was not tender
it was sacrifice,
it was ritual,
it was the smoke curling from midnight altars
where I stood trembling,
offering my heart
like the lamb that bleeds without protest.
I should have run
but desire bound me tighter than rope,
drawn to his darkness
as if my soul was already promised.
Now, when the moon rises,
I hear his chants in my veins,
and the night itself bends
to the memory of his hands.
To love him was to be devoured,
to drown in a river
where no prayers reach the surface.
And yet...
even in the ruin of myself,
I ache for him still,
for the man of rituals
who taught me that love
can taste like death
and still be sweeter than life.??
Routine is like a ritual.
To break routine is like nails on a chalkboard.
Feeling as if the floor is falling out from under you.
Anxiety at its peak.
Making it hard to concentrate.
Routine is that itch to light that cigarette that’s calling your name.
let's meet tonight in cemetery
to perform our sacred ritual where
i hold you close and we dance in the dark
there is a sword in my back
and a glass of wine in your hand
to fill it with my blood
let's meet tonight in cemetery
to perform our sacred ritual where
you betray me for one last time
as you're kissing me and pushing the knife
deeper and deeper into my heart
and sky echoes with my cries
Outside the trees are called
by the Autumn’s breeze.
The door isn’t perfectly shut
as the leaves seep through
the uneven cracks.
The whistling tune from
Nature’s broken karaoke
machine finds its way under
the door. Slowly the shadows
become dimmer as the morning
sun sets in and the birds begin
to chirp as the crickets causes
a ruckus enough to wake
the subconscious mind from
sleeping internally.
The couch as always hard
as a stone bruising my arms
and legs as I flail finding rest,
but consistently remains
courteous as my only true
companion who knows
me and my heart, becoming
a good friend. The bells
chime, the cars honk,
the sounds of the people
marching to and from
their next destination.
As I step outside with
my messy hair, bad breath,
blurry vision, I take a glance
and the air greets me,
another daybreak awaits.
"Eclipse Ritual"
Beneath the lunar scowl, they gather—
figures draped in shadow’s breath.
A serpentine chant curls through the pines,
a hymn to summon sleep and death.
The flames burn cold, phosphorous white,
in bowls of bone and rusted gold.
Their whispers slither through the void,
retelling truths too dark to hold.
A cascade of ash rains from the trees,
as something stirs beneath the soil.
The ground forgets the taste of peace,
the roots begin their ancient toil.
Above them yawns the nebula,
a wound torn in the fabric high—
its bleeding lights, a myriad scream,
a signal writ across the sky.
The wind picks up a broken lilt,
the stars blink once, then disappear.
Whatever once was watching waits—
and now it knows you're here.
written by Tionna Robinson
The trash bag at my door—gone, someone took it.
In the shared hall, I see a ghost from years ago.
A glance, three short lines, one long breath—
We look at each other like catching, releasing ghosts.
Do we both think the other’s faking it?
The line between man and phantom is only light.
A few ghost-words, truth-words—thank you—
Thanks to her, crossing over to hand me a napkin.
And antibiotics? A hospital chief stopped them all.
The ICU patients with lung disease began to heal.
The rest of the doctors fell silent,
Stopped asking why. That’s ghost talk.
A gust of wind becomes cloud.
A small illness, a ghost beneath the skin.
Spring Ritual
Stark
naked
feminists
join hands and dance
exuberantly
on a verdant hilltop
leaping round about in step
beneath an enlightened blue sky
to commemorate Spring’s arrival
and the emancipation of women.
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
After the fourth day of a full moonlit night
In the month of Kartick arrives the festival of Karva Chauth
A ritual to the testament of love and devotion
Amongst married Hindu couples.
The wife has kept fast since sunrise
For the longevity and health of her husband
All decked up in her finery and bejeweled
Matching the stars in the ornate sky
Together they walk up to the terrace
Then catching a glimpse of the moon
Through a flour sieve
She looks back at him with love and admiration
Breaking her fast by sipping water from her husband's hand.
Many a legend surrounds this festival of love, faith and devotion.
While the waning moon cast romantic beams of light
Flooding the lands below.
What twisted minds we have!
Fascinated by dark ritual,
sacrifice of human blood
to call black magic to our aid.
Alluring secret knowledge,
perilous complexities;
attempting to control
the supernatural.
How can this make sense anymore?
Two thousand years ago,
the Divine bled itself for us,
granted us power
despite our unworthiness and ignorance.
Freely given, and open to the light.
A ritual beyond our wildest dreams.
So condescendant, the Lord of the Light,
for all that we must do
is to believe,
and to eat,
And all is ours...
The terms of the pact really make no sense,
but God makes all things new.
3 June 2024
April 6—Beverage, libation, liquid…
Daily Ritual Drinks Drink
in the morning
I drink a cup
of snarling hot coffee
while watching the news.
in the afternoon
I shift to tea
either earl gray
or herbal tea.
a day without Earl Gray
is not a good day.
at sunset
I drink red wine
with my wife.
as the evening
shifts into night
I drink rum
or whiskey.
to eat the day
right.
(Cue the morning sun gleaming through the pale white blinds, your eyes open)
Wake up, silly.
-Hey.
It’s nice to see you mister.
-What?
don’t you mean morning sweet heart?
-GOOD MORNING,
*pause*
*stares in spanish*
-sweetheart.
Right.
(They smile)
-you’re silly you know that?
Yeah, but did you know I have two hands, and you have two armpits?
(And there the ritual commenced, as the morning sun shines on the sacred heart, they laugh igniting the end of ritual . For it was fed the laughter of innocence.)
DAILY RITUAL
A dripping body
Stepping out of the shower
Still good for its age
Firm skin with no spots
Yet showing some signs of wear
Inevitably
It’s been sixty years
And time now weighs heavily
But there’s something left
As I take the towel and dry
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