Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Little Deer

It is not favor,
Flame the laves,
if sloth is brave
with brindled hide
then beg a hind.

Dear chalice cry
champagne,
and we will sigh
Samhain.

Sigh, gain
would fain
give blame.

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How Doth?

Warm iron,
teeth ground
in a sandstorm.
Ever so alkaline
in your denial,
crocodile hammers
and penny nails,
tears and whistles,
you’ll get your fix.

Tact

Worthless,
we weld tin
to our teeth
and tear them down.
Scraping scrap
from testimonies,
testing maps for
acromonious lack.
This twisted tack admits,
our tortured backs
will never brace
to make the turn.

Ya’ll are putting it out there…

…experimenting with stream of consciousness today, I’ve noticed. :p

Distance vanishes, the absence
of distance pushes against the eyes.

Margaret Atwood, from “A Boat” in Selected Poems, 1976-1986 (via proustitute)

Platitudes make it all better…

No, really..

Line by Line

Couplets construct
our shoulders in agony,
Meters relay
our descent.
Metaphors like
to pose us as broken
toys, boxed in regret.
Pens carve out cavities
and leave us to fill
our essence with
hurt and
amalgams.

Credit to Livingmorbid for the inspiration behind this post. Though I’ve corrupted it a bit.