Written: November 02, 2025, for contest by: Robert James Liguor
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The frozen core of human activeness
where the temperament recklessly smiles,
sludge cascades from the blade's edge
A joyous opsimath emerges,
reminiscent of rebellion and aged books,
sturdy and infused with a grin.
His unique calling sign is the "lard of law."
He wears robes adorned with nimbus designs
and stands before a wall of questions.
He gathers information from insightful individuals
Every conundrum is a breach in the law,
And every victim wants to be obvious,
He repeats sharp retorts to the sentient
To the obstreperous, the zymotic throbbing of history.
He says that justice is not banausic.
She is a lissome Nereid,
dancing with eurythmic elegance through garbage.
Though weariness grasps the morning,
and moribund minds look for troughs, not summits.
He persists on—
a sherpa of the spirit,
bestow the noisome into view
where enlightenment flowers akin to vernal fire.
Justice is not a flaw,
It's beginning
It is Nemesis
the tiny thread that links,
the strained heart to the flimsy earth.
Written: August 09, 2025, for contest SEASONS NOW AND AFTER Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
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Aurora sheds her velvet, gleaming flame,
Dusk with iridescent shades fills the air.
Molten winds trick hearts in taking a game,
Grooved meadows grant obedient despair.
The alabaster clouds sparkle with grace,
Empyrean dreams appease the reek ache.
Fertile roots stir zymotic in their place,
Anodyne stars at triptych kindly break.
The swarm is a hive of busy tough bees,
Pavonine clouds, incarnadine with thrill.
Multivocal leaves—ethereal, breeze—,
Rapture in desiccation, soft and still.
We half-hearts cling as scaffold
Mouths of cellophane statements
Morphia inducing as our eyes talc-storm over
Seeing nothing in everything
Like a tank we collide, by the
Edges of a summer vortex pushing as bulimia
It is only the intoxication of drink talking
However, I am yet to take even one mute glass
Empty bottles clutter regardless like rats swan-necked
And corner-slipped like zymotic casings
Speaking slow theremin thunders
Water-washed into neck-delicate walls meeting
Vapour hitting equal to bullets or butterflies
Equations of minus mixed with minus
A downward spiral of blitz-neon roars
Sekt and saxophones hitting like opium
To a rotten core; and I'm sure you remember
If you do then I hate you, and if not you disgust me
How I gave your apple back and
How my Bohemia is your gate
And how my gait is quite unassuming
But again, my sweet heart, it is only a larynx painting the air
With a true-to-type blue-blooded red-devilled roar.
The heavy lead blocks
Feeling completely spavined
Ineluctable
Zymotic gulf like nihilism
Hollow skull starved
Explodes wherein of itself
The wells enlarge
And vomit happy
Under sunken stars
As Baryshnikov they
Perform deep under laps
Enveloped lightly and kingdom come
Pallid as an interwar prostitute
The ball in the stomach floating like a foetus
Intense maladies and ulcer-bile-black night skies
Cross-hair river bed
You could chase me if you
I know where the gunshots fire
I know all the exits
Brechtian how easy into slumbers
A real face to death is an occasional depression
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