~The Butterfly Poet~ ~it finally arrived~
~that day words wouldn’t come~
~the empty feeling refused to go~
~he tore his hand~
~from the glove of his mind~
~watched his imagination~~those minute remnants left~
~dribble onto the notebook~
~a blot pattern blood ink~
~he wrote an ode to the butterfly:~
~whose wings of earth~
~& feet of sky~
~an invitation to glory~
~the likes of which I~
~see sun through each~
~a fluttering~
~land~
~beautiful~
~mute~
~you are so much &~
~expect so little~
~you are at peace while I~
~envy you heaven~
~that fair bit of sky~http://wordwulf.com
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Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
There are times I go down until I am surrounded by yellow music. There is nothing beneath me. My mother’s dead lips smile and say, “See, there is nothing lesser than we.” The earth is my camp breath, her worms and the heat of my bowels. Night sweat means nothing to those who do not sleep. It is a balm, an outside offering. Please take me to the circus, that I might witness the misery of other animals, the empirical majesty and absolute dominion of man, where only the elephant is sadder than me. Lost in a sea of green money and fingertip fishes seeking greedy, sucky, moments of avarice, she has eleven open mouths and swallows the whole of me. Did you see the frail lantern alight in the window and the name it was wearing. Yes, its message of Phaedra and calling itself home. Falling into a forest of a thousand guitars, whose root strings are tender, is the master of chord. He hangs himself from the nearest guitar, dies on the music of the wind. “Meet me in your dreams,” she cries, “the next best thing to being there.” Shadow shapes call out to my name. I am blind in the periphery and in all dreams I die. Like a wounded animal, I smell the rot of my flesh and damn the maggots for eating parts of me left better to putrefy and deliver me to the end land. Sleep is the kingdom of the healthy, where the strong go to rest and the weak to escape. There is a madness between sleep where pariahs such as I, alleys roam. In a pasture of lowing, moon-swept, pastoral and fine, I am the hunter’s lust to slay with fang and claw, all that lives, to starve on a body of prey. The pretty boys were singing downtown, making heat for long-legged girls, flinging epithets at the old men, beggars and high roller winos. Midnight don’t mean nothin’ to strangers. I got one foot in Jesus, the other in the ditch. Spirituality is like ringworm. It makes you itch, digs down deeper than your flesh. Why don’t you take me out walkin’ until my feet are under water and my eyes are full of sand. I’ll look down and wonder, all gritty, where the hell did they go? The man on the radio says ha-ha, talks to girls about their titties and why don’t they join a swinger’s club, do it in front of their old men. He breaks for a commercial about shaking babies to death. Life makes about as much sense as two nickels rubbed together, don’t make a dime. You put it all up front and, when it falls down, you walk away and wonder, was it something you said or maybe you didn’t. I knew a man named Jimmi. He got real pissed when they took away one of his m’s, set fire to his instrument and banged his head on the floor. Ah hell, it’s all in the letters. I loathe rooms with four walls, double doors and window mirrors. They see everything you do, look back, contemptuous, to remind you of everything you don’t. Yesterday there was something in my soup; I believe it loved me. The prayer I said over it was beautiful. You are woman; you are my hope, my dream and then I swallowed it whole. There may be enough pills in this bottle to still the phantoms behind my eyes, that I might cop a few hours of death, leave this drifting shadow place for the delight of ebon fantasies. Be kind to me, you damned night. Allow me acceptance, her invitation and, with the blessing of Phaedra whose death by her own hand is the sleep death, a revenge of sons. http://wordwulf.com WordWulf Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com © artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner © Blessings of Phaedra was published 2008 in The Hudson View nominated for The Pushcart Prize that same year
~my sons are guitar men~
~the youngest~
~Zedidiah’s~
~day job is working overnights at Target~
~he shares an apartment with my grandson Billy~
~Billy woke up & snapped this pic~
~sent it to my Blackberry~
~Z told me the rest of the story later~
~he is youngest of my children~
~simply complicated~
~a very fine young man~
~guitarist in z~
~the young man~
~& his guitar~
~alone in the wee hours~
~he realizes~
~he can play himself to sleep~
~epiphany~
~to be his father~http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
excerpt from Madman Chronicles: The Warrior, chapter 64, The Trouble with Luis
The patron’s handsome Native American face was a study of agony, eyes slammed tightly shut, voices of the centuries howling through his mind. To have found his Yllai after all these decades in the hands of her raper was very nearly more than he could stand. A quick and painful act of vengeance was required. Wild in his fury, he sentenced the rapist to be dealt with by the capable and practiced hands of Luis Vasquez, a master with no equal in the art of torture.
the extent
of one’s evil
is but a water mark
the flood of anotherChapter Sixty-four
The Trouble with Luis
There’s blood in my head,’ he thought, ‘An’ it’s three feet thick. An’ blood in my hands... too.. too much blood. Upside..upside. Upside down. My arm, oh God, my arm. Gotta get outa here. The walls, they’re closin’ in. I’m too fuckin’ scared to scream. That bitch... that bitch is gonna pay. Oh yeah, she’s gonna pay big time. Don’t see how he could hurt me anymore. My arm’s broke an’ I’m tied down like Jesus. What’s he doin’ with that camera, some kinda fuckin’ movie? Oh God, I hurt. This spik bastard has to have a weakness. I’ll wait, jus’ wait... Oh shit! Oh fuck! Here he comes!’
Luis set the tripod and adjusted the focus on the video camera. These caverns with their ingenious hoists and pulleys were fine for the business of torture but they just weren’t designed for movie making. There were no movies, no electricity, none of that when all of this had been built. ‘It would have been a good time to be alive,’ thought Luis, ‘a time fit for a man like me. Ah well, I will learn the buttons and the switches, just like I have learned everything else in my life, by using them’. He could have had someone else run the movie machine but it was his experience that most men didn’t have the stomach to even watch what was about to take place in this hidden cavern in the vault. Or else they enjoyed it too much, took pleasure from it. Luis chose not to be around such men. There was a piece of work to do here and he would do it. It was as simple as that. This man had hurt the Patron. For that sin he would pay dearly. Making him pay was the job at hand and Luis was just the man for the job. Oh yes, he always preferred to work alone.
This was Luis’ first experience with film making. In the past, the Patron would come watch for a while if he decided to take a personal interest in the proceedings. He was not a cruel man and most times chose not to watch. He knew the value of punishment, that a man in his position must mete it out. Luis had never witnessed the Patron partaking of any personal joy or fulfillment when punishment was administered. With this man it was different. Yes, he would be the exception to the general rule. The Patron would be very busy tonight, he had told Luis. This was an event he preferred to be able to savor over and over and it had to be taken care of immediately. So... the camera and the tripod. ‘Ah well,’ Luis thought, ‘It will prolong the man’s agony. Each time I change positions I will have to readjust the camera. He will be forced to wait, left dangling in my web. He must be a very bad man, something to do with the new girl. Ah well, torture is a fine art and I am a Picasso. My knife is my brush.’
Lance was suspended in a trestle-work, a rack of sorts. Luis liked to think of it as his web. Lance’s body hung spread-eagle, upside down. His feet and hands were fixed by tethers to the four corners of the works. There were a series of gears and checks to adjust the tightness of each tether singularly and a master gear to adjust them all at once. Lance began to moan loudly, a pitiful whining sound, almost liquid, slobbering from his mouth. Luis reached out and tightened the master gear a single click. This brought a blood-curdling scream from Lance.
Luis shook his head sadly. This one would not last. There was no bottom to the man. The Patron would surely be cheated of the satisfaction of a full treatment. De’ Angelo, now there was a good one. Most men from the South, that Luis had seen, could endure pain and come up spitting. They had bottom. And maybe this Wulf they spoke of, he sounded like a good one, the one the Patron referred to as Brother. Then there was the large one, the dark man. Luis allowed himself the luxury of a small smile as he thought of the giant. One day the large one would cross the Patron. On that day he would be handed over to Luis’ device. He would be careful with that one, guard against him in every way. He was a very dangerous hombre. Luis was a patient man and all he had to do was wait.
Ah, but the work at hand. Luis had hoped to save the iron masque for the taking of the tongue but the weak one kept crying out and sobbing. The masque would contain and quiet him, of that Luis was sure. Luis understood the masque as well as a man could hope to understand any tool of his trade. He had personally experienced its application a full score of years before and he would never forget the experience. The upper part of the masque screwed to the top of the head like a crown, while a hinged apparatus fell down to engage the chin. When the head and face were fixed in the iron masque, a small tubular guillotine affair would be forced into the mouth. The tongue would have nowhere to go except into the jaws of the guillotine. Once the tube was fastened to the masque, a simple lever would set the guillotine in motion. It would grip the tongue, stretch it out slowly and painfully until the guillotine severed it at its base. This routine was accomplished with much choking and gagging, the breaking of teeth. Once the masque and guillotine were in place, the subject was unable to cry out without choking himself. This was a benefit Luis especially appreciated, since he abhorred loud noises of any kind. Torture, in Luis’ opinion, should be endured in silence.
Luis zoomed the camera focus in on Lance’s head, then moved away from the tripod. He approached the man from behind and passed his knife before his eyes. “No, no, no!” Lance screamed. “Don’ use my knife! It ain’, it ain’, oh God, don’ use my knife!” Luis cocked his head and looked into the eyes of the man. He stroked Lance’s long brown hair to calm him, then jerked his head back and scalped him in one deft movement. His eyes never left the eyes of the man, even when they rolled back in his head as he passed out.
Luis held the bleeding scalp up in full view of the camera lens before laying it on a side table. Luis had never met a man he couldn’t look in the eye. He had stared silently into the eyes of the men who had taken his tongue. Many years later he had stared into those same eyes as he took their lives. The eye of the camera though, it bothered him. It was as if it were sucking at his soul, stealing the dark secrets there and in some unfathomable way compromising his art.
He took the iron masque from the table and screwed the crown in place. The man didn’t move but Luis knew he was alive because small pools of blood formed as he tightened the screws into his skull. The face lock squeaked as he lifted it up and clamped it firmly to the man’s jaw. Luis went to the table and returned with a can of oil, which he used to lubricate the moving parts of the masque and guillotine. He tightened the screws into the man’s jaw and adjusted the framework to accept a face with a wide-open mouth. Luis set the oilcan back on the table. He gave a slight shrug for the benefit of the camera and returned to the man with the tiny guillotine in one hand, the knife in the other.
He tapped Lance’s nose with the guillotine a few times and got no response. He shrugged his shoulders again and buried the blade of the knife in the man’s hand. As the man screamed, Luis slammed the guillotine into his mouth. It was a good scream, perhaps the perfect scream. It positioned the tongue just so, right where it needed to be. Luis checked and tightened all the thumbscrews on the iron masque as the man trembled in horror. He pulled the knife from the flesh of the man’s hand and watched as he choked and gagged, his body writhing and jumping, pulling against the tethers, shaking the trestle works.
The man held his eyes tightly shut as Luis dangled the knife above his head, allowing the blood to drip off the blade and form twin pools in the hollows of the man’s eye sockets. He blinked the blood away and closed his eyes tightly again. ‘This will not do,’ Luis thought as he listened to the sounds of the man’s eyes clicking and choking. He took a folding chair and set it up beneath the man’s head. He sat down and clamped the head between his knees as he pulled the eyelids up by their lashes. The knife came to his hand and, with a few deft cuts, the lids no longer belonged to the face of the man. Luis held the two spidery looking pieces of flesh up before the eye of the camera. He stood up and pushed the chair back with his foot before setting the man’s eyelids on the table next to his scalp.
The weak ones gave Luis a pain in the ass. They wreaked whatever havoc they chose, then howled like jackals in the jaws of the wolf when the tables were turned. Luis checked off the list in his mind. The tongue must be taken while the man is alive, since the integrity of the skull and face must be preserved. The taking of the skin was the fine art. This was where Luis excelled. This one was a unique challenge, since the lines of the cuts would be dictated by the lines of the man’s tattoo work. The coils of the snakes began at the navel and the crack of the man’s ass. They flowed into flames which licked at the base of his chin and the mounts of his ears.
‘If he were only strong,’ Luis thought, ‘It would be so simple, scalp, take the skin, castrate and remove tongue. But this man, he is weak. He will not be around for the best of it. This one won’t last. .Nah...’ Luis casually flipped a lever on the masque and the man’s tongue was gripped and pulled taut. It hung dripping from the masque. There was a small tinging sound as the guillotine severed it and released it to drop on the floor. Luis picked it up and held it in front of the camera. He twisted the man’s head around to face the lens and dangled his bloody tongue before his tortured lidless eyes.
Luis carried the tongue to the nearby table and dropped it into a large jar of formaldehyde. It left a series of tiny blood trails as it sank to the bottom. He picked up the eyelids and dropped them in as well, wondering if they would float. They did, like palm fronds on the face of the ocean. Luis saw this as a good omen. He felt the man’s eyes watching him. Good. That was as it should be. Maybe the man was stronger than he thought. Luis hardly ever wished he could speak, words having brought him the humiliation of his life, the taking of his tongue. And, in Luis’ opinion, actions spoke much louder than words in most cases. But now, just now, he would like to tell the man, ‘The best is yet to come. You have not begun to suffer yet.’
There was a fair amount of bleeding from the hand and scalp but that should cease when the man was turned over. Luis turned a large hand crank and the trestle works wound slowly around until the man was upright. Luis never thought of his victims by name. In most cases he didn’t even know their names. They were inanimate things to him, a blank canvas for the working of his art. He took a bucket of soapy liquid from under the table, the same liquid, in fact, that Misty had used to clean Angelo’s wound. The irony was not lost on Luis as he dipped a paintbrush into the bucket and used it to bathe the edges of the tattoo where the cuts would be made. The Artist required a clean canvas. The water was cold and goose flesh covered the man’s skin. Luis stopped abruptly and dropped the paintbrush into the bucket. ‘The camera,’ he thought, ‘The bleeding camera.’ He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, then went to make the necessary adjustments.
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 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©
~the sink drip drips~
~the clock tick tocks~
~sounds deeper than blood~
~engrained like the smell~
~of papa’s cigarettes & momma’s fear~
~he began regretting the future~
~quicker than forgetting the past~
~remembering fellow long riders &~
~comacho charley’s woman~
~loretta~
~sexy damn mean~
~all that needs be~
~this storm~
~this life~
~he thinks~
~he lies~
~reading tolstoy~
~jabbering jibberish~
~on his back~
~standing up~
~with buddy kat~
~I like this cat too much~
~he thinks~
~would have forgiven mother~
~her damned pets~
~if he’d known then~
~what he knows now~
~yes & his son~
~might have been nikolai~
~what a great sound~
~that name~
~no room for that~
~in the bottom of his youth~
~junior~
~he suffers embarrassment~
~disappointment & shame~
~at the vanity of his used to be~
~a terrible longing~
~deeper than eyeless fish~
~crystal ball blind~
~to have it all back~
~lose none of his knowing~
~as if he finally masters sleep~
~it will be good~
~& all there is~
~all that needs be~
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WordWulf
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& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property ofTom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~two of my younger brothers paroled from prison to a drug rehabilitation facility~PEER ONE~
~me & the boys packed up our gear & went to play for the inmates~
~this is a song we wrote specifically for that gig~
~Curse of Days~
(live cut)
~life don’t teach, amount to much~
~children, it’s a slice of bread~
~it don’t hurt when the fist comes down~
~drop you to your knees, your head~
~something breaking deep inside~
~children, take your breath away~
~fear is borne, ain’t no good to cry~
~born into a curse of days~
~growing up, a battleground~
~children, it’s a slice of hell~
~detention, take your punishment~
~no one gets inside your shell~
~walls grow thick & deep & wide~
~children, hide your love away~
~bite the sky, any helping hand~~go messin’ with your curse of days~
~tattooed tear, a pound of flesh~
~children, it’s a man, a cage~
~ain’t nothin’ like that closin’ door~
~make temper, set the lines of rage~
~angel call it, a whistle down~
~children, he got dues to pay~
~sun don’t shine on the prison man~
~living out his curse of days~
~line moves slow, a lady cries~
~children, it’s a loaded gun~
~she can’t stop~
~yeah, she kiss his face~
~the dead eyes of her fallen son~
~ya move along~
~we plant ‘em deep~
~children, we got hands of clay~
~beginning & the in between~
~the end, we got our curse of days~
~life don’t teach, amount to much~
~children, it’s a slice of bread~
~it don’t hurt when the fist comes down~
~drop you to your knees, your head~
~some thing breaking deep inside~
~children, take your breath away~
~fear is borne, ain’t no good to cry~
~born into a curse of days~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~there’s an angry carpenter building~
~a table without any legs~
~a mother teaching her children~
~to fetch, sit up & beg~
~the dogs of night make a prayer~
~for the lady without any hands~
~as she applauds the one-legged preacher~
~who left his parts in old Viet Nam~
~the little drug angel darlings~
~stare into the guns of the raid~
~& the children under the table~
~bless their hearts... Esplanade~
~you will never know where I’m going~
~until your feet taste paths I have been~
~a tear & a cup overflowing~
~sins of the lost captain’s men~
~I wonder if I might find purchase~
~a brick or a ring in the wall~
~a coffin to hang on forever~
~to hear the great sparrow’s call~
~there’s a chorus of blind singing patriots~
~flying a song without wings~
~they may lose their direction~
~they will never forget how to sing~
~she is an opening flower~
~a path for the living parade~
~lay down in her soft bed of roses~
~to bleed... ah sweet Esplanade~
~may be the gods do not see them~
~may be the gods’ eyes are blind~
~there is no end to their praying~
~for surely the gods must be kind~
~& they hide away from the madman~
~who tells them they are betrayed~
~he waits for the full moon to take him~
~then he howls, howls... Esplanade~
~dead poets speak through their silence~
~they whisper “return nevermore”~
~a child looks in the mirror~
~wonders, ‘why the hell was I born~~some one has slain all its warriors~
~tortured the king of its soul~
~mother and father are preying~
~in the bar room for pots of its gold~
~life is the constant reminder~
~death, the warrior who waits~
~fate owns the face in the mirror~
~the key to the lock on its gate~
~so have you noticed her freedom~
~the laughter behind all her lies~
~where chaos & order go dancing~
~& only chaos survives~
~I walked the shores of her oceans~
~soft & cold & afraid~
~followed the paths of her creatures~
~cross her vast expanse... Esplanade~
~I have tasted the breath of her seasons~
~her bitter root & sweet wine~
~& though I know she is wounded~
~I seek her like something divine~
~as I approach her wound I am kissing~
~the blood drops her suffering made~
~my feet caressing her footsteps~
~my lips whisper... “Sweet Esplanade”~
~she lays her pain out before me~
~the soft ragged edge of her truth~
~I lick the scent of her fire~
~with the misguided tongue of my youth~
~the scars are written upon me~
~from sleeping too close to the wound~
~skin so easily broken~
~on this eggshell side of the moon~
~& the tides are breaking forever~
~on a sweet violin never played~
~where only warriors are dancers~
~on the last grass... Esplanade~
~I’m breaking bread with the serpent~
~making love with the mice~
~there’s a game I play with the devil~
~betting against loaded dice~
~& I die at the end of my prayer~
~my face breaks the earth unafraid~
~your heavy stones on my body~
~I whisper... “Sweet Esplanade”~
~I have drunk myself into stupid~
~sung her praises through my whiskey breath~
~for the tender peace of her body~
~the long-suffering pain of her death~
~I keep a piece of her soul in my pocket~
~& I sleep with her every night~
~I hear the wind through the willows~
~& kiss her lips when we fight~
~but a beggar has set her on fire~
~for a ransom that will not be paid~
~a thief has stolen her jewels~
~she suffers it well... Esplanade~
~there is a ghost haunting my castle~
~she cries, I think I know why~
~her heart is ten thousand times broken~
~she tries, they won’t let her die~
~so she crawls in my bed of an evening~
~struggles to keep me awake~
~I find myself reaching for her~
~hungry for the love we could make~
~courage lies under the blanket~
~the windows are dirty inside~
~you cannot see through a mirror~
~just going along for the ride~
~she is all, she is all that exists~
~make myself naked & wade~
~follow her down ‘til eternity passes~
~she is all, she is all... Esplanade~
~all tangled up in my covers~
~afraid of the dark & the day~
~I wait ‘til she comes to hold me~
~& chase my darkness away~
~then I lay at her breast like an infant~
~suckled & cozily warm~
~she covers my seed with the earth of her body~
~to shelter me from the storm~
~I drink her milk & I bite her~
~feeding upon her the same~
~I call her triangular mother~
~& know her by no other name~
~with her blood & milk on my muzzle~
~I cry in the mess I have made~
~she wraps me in flowers & powders my ass~~she is all, she is all... Esplanade~
~I live in a box in the attic~
~measure my space two by two~
~drag myself out for holiday weekends~
~& photograph pictures with you~
~maybe I’ll take you there with me~
~touch with my hands in the dark~
~which one is which~
~I get so damned confused~
~like a child playing with cards~
~the best of the times I am rolling~
~in fields of flowers & shade~
~watching the children as they start their journey~
~into her heart... Esplanade~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic 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©
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