~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet was then published by Howling Dog Press in its Omega series. The entire epic piece will be available in print from Howling Dog with graphic art by the author 2012/2013~
~daddy called her angel~
~she danced around in circles~
~piggy tails bouncing~
~voice singing with the radio~
~I can’t get no~
~satisfaction~
~tripped into a table~
~broke momma’s favorite lamp~
~so momma administered~
~some corporal punishment~
~bottom lip protruding~
~arms folded in front of her~
~big four-year-old eyes full of tears~~she ran to daddy in the driveway~
~why’s my momma such a bitch~
~he lifted a tear from her cheek~
~hell honey angel~
~I don’t know~
~she hugged his leg~
~can I sit on your harley~
~so she did~
~snuggled into the sissy bar~
~she snuffled a bit~
~favored daddy with a smile~
~thought to herself~
~I ain’t no angel~
~grace on one hand~
~smooth as silk~
~spider milk~
~anger shifting~
~changeling~
~she was possessed of~
~XVIII. latent latitudes~
~so mystery is dark~
~yet lies pale upon that face~
~both lively & sorrowful~
~she wears ribbons~
~falling from a nest of hair~
~whose branches display dignity~
~a tin twinkle of passion~
~impossible twists of irony~
~aspire to reach the sky~
~where dreams are torn fresh falling~
~colors laughing~
~some terrible breeze~
~a prayer away from those~
~a wing~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~damned to be rabid dog bitten~
~the twisted vein at the business end of a needle~
~molested by someone’s older sister~
~or was it your own~
~alone in the bathtub~
~the only one in the room~
~cryptococcus in the tomb~
~c’mon l’il girl~
~got somethin’ for ya~
~brethren misguided~ ~the woman has broken his heart~
~says she loves him too much to love him~
~unable to say goodbye~
~she refuses to say hello~
~the mystery of gender is elusive~
~islands are free as they stand~
~defenseless in the face of tides~
~the loss of love is a nearer death~
~as its constituents are breathing still~
~a double suicide as it were~
~grief, a shifting wall of shadows~
~the pallbearers were blindfolded~
~united in their stilted, stiff-gait stride~
~a corpse enters & owns any room~
~he longs to be the last man standing~
~the whole damned world has gone to sleep~
~the refrigerator and tick tock clock~
~growl through his sleepless insomniac mind~
~is a wizard buried under a dead tree~
~whose roots strangled the life from him~
~when he attempted to ingest its seeds of knowledge~
~he is the prefect of loneliness~
~a crowded voice in an empty room~
~ten-penny wishes on saturday night~
~the tinsel voice of the woman says I love you~
~as recorded on the telephone machine~
~so long as you promise to stay away~
~& realize I need not to need you~
~his flesh is onion skin stretched~
~o’er the starched bones of mediocrity~
~a spider web bouncing on his eyes~
~whose maker has seen who he is~
~& eaten her way through his brain~
~is a thin masque veil of death smoke~
~rising from the fading ember life~
~she told him & his brother~
~tostand up & act like men~
~they argued, fought over bananas~
~chased naked women up & down halls~
~life gets swallowed by alleys~
~mad dogs on the moon~
~he said he was glad she was dead~
~either a lie or the tears in his eyes~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet was then published by Howling Dog Press in its Omega series. The piece will be available in print from Howling Dog with graphic art by the author 2012/2013~
~jewels in her tiara~
~spider children~
~dreams astound her~
~she holds it in until~
~breathless~
~she is startled awake~
~no one notices~
~but her day is coming~
~she saw ghosts dancing~
~knows full well what that means &~
~XVII. just like father~
~she demands fair measure~
~what comes owing as her own~
~holds it out against her~
~is appalled by father’s ignorance~
~the thick skin of his span of years~
~but warmed by the embrace of her man~
~quite fearful at deeper levels~
~a creeping awareness~
~of the need to compare them~
~her pain is a shield~
~she covets her jewels of children~
~grace on one hand~
~smooth as silk~
~spider’s milk~
~anger shifting~
~changeling~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: V~
~birds at the sepulcher~
~black wing twisted waistcoats~
~looking through the window~
~her lover disturbed him~
~a dead one-eyed stair~
~climb me up quick~
~don’t wanna drown alone~
~the semen dream~
~bathtub coffin~
~Music the Winter Moon Invites~
My brother called me a liar. Some days he knows me better than I have strung words around my throat. One day I might just jump off this planet. I feel like the moon owns me. Fearful of water, I am drawn to tides. The drowning man contemplates suicide.
If hell existed, this would be it you know. I’m hiding in the body of my former self, telling it no, refusing it succor. The woman it loved is poised and ready to bury her fangs and rip off its head. Some folks are too ignorant to be afraid. They become the next brave victims.
We made noise like cannibals, aborigines in the desert pounding dry sticks against hollow stones. Drug lions pounced from under cars, stole away the children from our used to be. He has a live puppet for a wife and a corpse for a bed mate.
Wondering as I pull the winter moon down to my eyes that they may yet be drawn to it without her at my side, the sky reach of our seek. Will she share it with a new stranger while I fade from her heart, disappear from her dreams. I truly dread the end of winter. Summer lightning without her will rip through my heart.
Children with your sidewalk wagons come rolling down to meet me. There is nothing in the world like their laughing, its absolute synchronicity with my being. Bells, bells, do you hear them peeling, peeling. Where the church spiders live, my eyes follow them alone and no one sees.
Tomorrow the ten-penny city awaits. Counters mete out the coin of the realm. In the shadow of the woman stands a boy, his face a face I have come to love. His father devours and I must run away because and before he swallows them both. She will not have me; there is nowhere left to hide.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: IV~
~damned to be rabid dog bitten~
~the twisted vein at the business end of a needle~
~molested by an older sibling~
~alone in the bathtub~
~alone in the room~
~cryptococcus in the tomb~
~c’mon l’il girl~
~got somethin’ for ya~
~Brethren Misguided~
The woman has broken his heart, says she loves him too much to love him. Unable to say goodbye, she refuses to say hello. The mystery of gender is elusive. Islands are free as they stand, defenseless in the face of tides.
The loss of love is a nearer death, as its constituents are breathing still, a double suicide as it were, grief, a shifting wall of shadows. The pallbearers were blindfolded, united in their stilted, stiff-gait stride. A corpse enters and owns any room.
I have a longing to be the last man standing. The whole damned world has gone to sleep. The refrigerator and tick tock clock growl through the mind of the insomniac. The wizard is buried under the dead tree whose roots strangled him to death when he ingested seeds of knowledge.
I am the prefect of loneliness, a crowded voice in an empty room, ten-penny wishes on Saturday night. The voice of the woman says I love you, as recorded on the telephone machine, so long as you promise to stay away, realize I need not to need you.
My flesh is onion skin stretched o’er the starched bones of mediocrity, a spider web bouncing on my eyes whose maker has seen who I am and eaten her way through my brain is a thin masque veil of death smoke rising from the fading ember life.
She told us to stand up and be men. We argued, fought over bananas, chased naked women up and down the halls where life is swallowed by alleys, mad dogs with moons in their eyes. He said he was glad she was dead. Only I saw the lie in the tears in his eyes.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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