Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable


Spun the top model
clay on runways.
Her hims ex posing
turns; deserves one good,
another fierce —
femorus pierced.


A lot of my free brain cycles this week were spent trying to figure out how to use “punish” as a mis-directed word/pun.

I really need to download a task manager.


To stop existence:
it’s unbecoming.
The zephyr unwinds at
your last grasping breath.
Between the Fate’s strings
hard hearts are strumming
diminished refrains to
this endless death.

Plain Clothes

Disipating at attention,
I only aspired…
betrayed by
my common cast.
Wish I was crazy,
wishing I knew
the notes in
a siren to express
my loss.