2-18-2019
2-18-2019
2-18-2019
2-19-2019
2-18-2019
Confirmation of Darkness
Monkish, he is a monkey starving
in the limbs of a barren tree
watching the ape community thriving
on lush jungle life
unwilling, unable to join them
surviving by consuming vermin
crawling through the skin of his brain
There’s a tin man howling
whose body is a whistle stop
where blackbirds rest and cackle
dance across his stiff arms
make sport of his scarecrow appearance
He scatters seeds on the ground
to lure them off him
A continuum of negativity
has swallowed his universe
beginning with naked parents
the poor rags of their death
His lady’s kisses have been taken
carried away in strongboxes
offered free to strangers
Struggling to find peace of ground
running bare-skinned through snowfields
his spirit howls out to the gods
seeking confirmation of destiny
its voice singing a litany
handed down from the cradleboard
in chains, the slave camp of his being
If not for the glad-song of his children
he might swallow the carpet nails of life
sing a rasping, gushing blood-song
allow himself the strength and release of weakness
Through their innocence, they sustain him
demand with the purity of their love
that he stand diminished, love them unconditionally
She met him in a lightning storm
captured, ran away with his heart
Years grind our dearest dreams to dust
They become clouds to confuse and confound us
A poor lover, he struggles desperately
to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts
of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2019 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 ©
Monkish, he is a monkey starving
in the limbs of a barren tree
watching the ape community thriving
on lush jungle life
unwilling, unable to join them
surviving by consuming vermin
crawling through the skin of his brain
There’s a tin man howling
whose body is a whistle stop
where blackbirds rest and cackle
dance across his stiff arms
make sport of his scarecrow appearance
He scatters seeds on the ground
to lure them off him
A continuum of negativity
has swallowed his universe
beginning with naked parents
the poor rags of their death
His lady’s kisses have been taken
carried away in strongboxes
offered free to strangers
Struggling to find peace of ground
running bare-skinned through snowfields
his spirit howls out to the gods
seeking confirmation of destiny
its voice singing a litany
handed down from the cradleboard
in chains, the slave camp of his being
If not for the glad-song of his children
he might swallow the carpet nails of life
sing a rasping, gushing blood-song
allow himself the strength and release of weakness
Through their innocence, they sustain him
demand with the purity of their love
that he stand diminished, love them unconditionally
She met him in a lightning storm
captured, ran away with his heart
Years grind our dearest dreams to dust
They become clouds to confuse and confound us
A poor lover, he struggles desperately
to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts
of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2019 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 ©
2-13-2019
1-23-2019
1-14-2019
12-17-2018
12-11-2018
12-9-2018
12-31-2018
12-5-2018
11-29-2018
11-12-2018
Credit Due 11-19-2018
11-7-2018
11-4-2018
Authoritarian 11-3-2018
from Reptiles and Dust: Delicacy 11-1-2018
birds 9-27-2018
9-16-2018
9-11-2018
Jacked
A guy came into the bar one night, attempted to levitate me. I snagged his martini glass and ate it. He laughed at the blood dripping from my lip. We smoked tar opium after the gig, played poker all night in the harems of our dreams. Very high, I was not levitated. Chords Drawn I found myself singing, a praying mantis listening. Made me feel thankful that gods (if there are gods) have a sense of humor, and insects no predisposition to what is cool. There is death in the music of the fool. I drank deep of it in the whiskey rooms of my youth, hung hopes from it, didn’t wear hopelessness well. An idiot dreamer, midnight schemer, I howled myself hoarse singing Satisfaction, Wild Thing, Oh Suzy-Q, a bunch of other business I made up all by myself. Life is a lullaby, a blending of voices and spirits. Ghost-beings come visit a man. Fools, in particular, listen to what they have to say. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
9-7-2018
Ample Validation 8-29-2018
Actions Speak 8-24-2018
Actions Speak
Suicide is a dream all beings keep The weak name it nightmare The strong ones Who are they whose name is a whisper a Jane/John Doe promise an acclimation Investigators decide whom peek under the pall voyeurs and fools Which is which http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
8-19-2018
Retrospective 8-17-2018
Beware (8-2-2018)
Only Fly (7-30-2018)
7-29-2018
7-29-2018
Letters from the Monastery:
|
2-3-2019 Bleed Out
Gotta heal what hurt you or bleed on those that had nothing to do with cutting you.
1-29-2019
8-1-2019
Father, I have seen the eastward sky
descending in a freefall a raised fist in objection the first bird, morning sparrow end of night. There, where my pillow’s lain her face in its cradle a cool breeze wafting through the room shadows in half-moons where kisses have left them my lover’s eyes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2019 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2019 © 
1-8-2018 - Father Time I
Adulterated Standards 1-20-2019
12-28-2018
1-15-2019
12-21-2018
Covetous 12-14-2018
Bee Mental 12-7-2018
Bee Mental
Inner Piece Two/Ten Tin men on the radio, hiding under the knob, a twist of which is summons served, signed and quashed. The People’s Court, net dividing, ace after ace go unanswered. Sing and follow the bouncing ball of life after life. Follow, come on all of you, follow me down. Violence thrives in the city night. Owls swoop, devour wisps of spirit scent. Bees bumble-sex the flower. Will want decide or noxious need, human flora, a lust for demons. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Squirrel 11-25-2018
11-13-2018
11-20-2018
10-30-2018
10-15-2018 - Momma's Rain
Contemplating Murder
Momma’s Rain: Introduction to Chapter 20 Ain’t got no place to go I’m just a ten-year-old kid wondering about stabbing myself in the bellybutton like those Chinese ninja guys I lie about god I ain’t saved Poor folk don’t get saved They get used and taught to lie back stabbed and double crossed I understand kids that kill their parents kids that love their parents the same kids spend the rest of their lives listening to people in white coats If I stab Daddy and stab me and we don’t die what’s Momma gonna do Cops and doctors are the enemy They won’t let us alone to die http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
10-6-2018
10-2-2018
Ago 9-28-2018
Veracity 9-21-2018
Veracity
Truth is not won, it is earned, takes time, cannot be bought and paid for. It is not where you find it but when you find it, truth, what you do with it. Uncomfortable, not easy to look in the face at times, be careful how you handle truth. Contrary to the well-worn adage, truth will not set you free. It will most likely bind you to it, open your eyes to the comfort, safety of lies. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Shotgun 9-8-2018
 8-29-2018
Enough
Fearful of death determined to live forever impossibly worried blind by half we scurry through the scattered alleys of life In our time of youth not enough time rarely enough money hardly enough love grasping at ends scarcely ever enough Adulthood finds us pursuing religion politics and careers running downhill, fornicating procreating, recreating scorched in a pyre of ignorance tangle-fires of youth We struggle to earn enough be enough realize we haven’t learned enough paid enough attention before thought we knew it all frustrated that our children know too much about the wrong things refuse to listen to what we have learned Nearer to and acutely aware of death fearful there is not time enough to protect and teach them to survive we worry the empty rooms of elders passed Graying and balding regretting, forgetting slowing, going down sentimentally elemental we are overcome by chance thought that what has been may be enough Our spirits prepare us to journey leave our feet behind on the worried path we have trod We begin to remember cocoon water births with new eyes caress what is left our lovely children and life mates that we may tell them in our going the joy of knowing they are the all and ever more than enough http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
What We Are (7-27-2018)
Fade 7-1-2018
6-27-2018
 Mold 3-24-2018
Meditation 1: Night (12-29-2017)
Fugue (11-21-2017
Enough (11-13-2017) Enough Fearful of death determined to live forever impossibly worried blind by half we scurry through the scattered alleys of life In our time of youth not enough time rarely enough money hardly enough love grasping at ends scarcely ever enough Adulthood finds us pursuing religion politics and careers running downhill, fornicating procreating, recreating scorched in a pyre of ignorance tangle-fires of youth We struggle to earn enough be enough realize we haven’t learned enough paid enough attention before thought we knew it all frustrated that our children know too much about the wrong things refuse to listen to what we have learned Nearer to and acutely aware of death fearful there is not time enough to protect and teach them to survive we worry the empty rooms of elders passed Graying and balding regretting, forgetting slowing, going down sentimentally elemental we are overcome by chance thought that what has been may be enough Our spirits prepare us to journey leave our feet behind on the worried path we have trod We begin to remember cocoon water births with new eyes caress what is left our lovely children and life mates that we may tell them in our going the joy of knowing they are the all and ever more than enough http://wordwulf.com/philosophy Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©  Hell You Say 11-7-2017
Gleaning 10-24-2017
Mirage (11-28-2017)
Mirage
principled father mother of purity absence of vanity sincerity of purpose all things humane freedom at any cost safety in numbers glory in defeat atonement of sin pity as pacifier normal assemblage benevolence of royalty holiness of priests the erect politician moral policeman singular motive best intentions chaste kisses government promise lap of luxury sincere beggar sex for sex sake love for sex sake heaven sake reconciled victim rehabilitated rapist whenever 'I'm sorry' love other than self existence of oases a dignified death sincere amnesty this bears repetition this bears repetition this bears repetition art for art's sake man in gods' image woman as reward honorific recognition original sin any reference to aeon distance as love bait I won't hurt you my dog doesn't bite obvious intentions light of day light of night wise men animals as speaking idiots other than human shared prosperity faith in dervish sanity of justice welfare Cadillac clean water drug counselor psychological awareness social security hope for the poor foundation of family driving on the telephone green peace war on drugs capital expenditures common sense lifetime warranty satisfaction guaranteed customer service free rent damage deposit Christian forgiveness the open sea dumb animals good guys and bad guys them and us clean living winners and losers a free ride one square inch unpolluted relief valve escape key any true witness other than chaos normal behavior square corners outer limits inner peace immaculate conception protective custody a round tuit acceptable losses the flying man death of gods age of reason missionary largesse preventative medicine innocent until free will human connection mated for life dominion funereal disguise bread winners non combative personality organized religion a striving toward normalcy process of elimination running stool amicable reconciliation affordable housing good drivers critical mass high priest drug lord dutiful wife eclectic taste the third breast idle conversation state of unrest state of Colorado state of being merciful heaven absolution of sin war and peace battle mockup unadulterated flesh season of plenty life on far planets this one in particular backup system angels and hat men ladies of the night accidental collusion intentional chaos will to power wont to shame acronymic truth prison politic unequivocal device prayer endings amen random violence any number of senses innocence lost a shovel full of Eden plastered in Paris father as bitch same gender parents man as god holy remembrance holy cow mythical union forward thinkers successful committee I didn't mean to a bad seed the good son overkill homing pigeons Christ on a toothpick sincere prostitute honest john solemn oath They sat in a circle, the two of them. Theirs was a shared awareness of nothing. Infinite possibilities, a vision of Lords danced between them, will of Creator, wisp of essence. Incapable of boredom, with some sense of humor, a combined energy, was given birth the moment. Having no sense of entitlement, not only did they not name the child Time, it was loosed, allowed a will of its own. These of the circle yawned as their child adopted a spiracle tone, wrapped itself in universe, mad inventions of its own. The result, what it created, made a terrible howling and the parents, annoyed by the child's noisome toys, allowed the two-sided circle to close. Thus were erected the heir apparent and errant parent. The spoiled child, angry and alone, playing in the blood of its mud, began to manufacture discontent and a creature whose image mirrored what it imagined it might be, given mortality and physical form. These chose to idolize themselves and porcelain gods in their image. The child, Time, swore a fury of vengeance upon the beings it had made, that they would wither away, face always a declining and decrepit flesh, hunger ever more for youth as Time itself devoured all before and about them. Finally, each moment was named for this merciless master. The hollow spheres of its kingdom were erected temples owned in the name given the master and that name was GOD. fidelity of flesh unintentional idol death after life Mirage won the Marija Cerjak Society Award for Avant-garde/Experimental Writing 2002 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
“WordWulf, your work reminds me of shards,
those things you find in the kiln, beautiful fragments when the whole thing has blown.” And the Stone Man Said Serve me up dirty filthy and ill-used I am the cartoon at the end of dawn A mother’s prayer quick lips of sorrow kissed echo of the new night God help us we are slain by moments of anger it hurts finally hurts no more Echoes of woe cry the new city built upon pastures flowers of doom Don’t cry me down ye awful lament scarlet promises sea of new blood Following empty you are what lies next stone heart eye of moon Fingernail traces eyelashes weeping a lone figure intolerant shadow Maybe she’s wicked lips apart magick Her tongue of flame passion divides Old soldiers and new lovers pretendering peace a fortune of skin We are the pale standing outside you a misting of star-shine penumbra undone Don’t you dare wake me with mute invitation Where dragons have flown my heart is gone Our cloak becomes a withering wall Beneath the veil a hermit resides She is cooking fish to feed her man slave a bit of wine to hurry him down He places an ear on the pit of her navel A child passes through the face of a dime It ain’t Hitler It’s Ike Hurry on singers watchers impatient They only came to hear the end of your song and so it is father whose breast is without us whose heart is within us whose belt is upon us and mother stirs the soup chicken noodle it is no chicken no noodle soup nonetheless A caravan gathers round an open-mouthed child He points to their camels strange alien hump An hour of madness must I possess a vision of angels heart of the beast Last night I saw you bare assed naked Bombs made your cities and titties dissolve Who were you then with your crack in the sky Who are you now laying spread before me There are brave new voices islands of silence where cave people dwell residue of shame I want a new blanket to cover my faces to shield me from the I want the wind in my home Old man bite your tongue Your gun lies dead in your hand Cover yourself You are disgusting to the new children A grave in the city where geese go to graze a feast of bones and hollow moments Pigeon shit in the sand the mortar of giants brave deeds spoken crumbling walls Visions of paper pitiful wisdom the shaman in flames who laughs the fool Bruised sky of my face bitter sweet of mine heart Divide the peace of me make arrows and napalm And the Stone Man Said was published in the anthology Storm Cycle by Kind of a Hurricane Press in 2015 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Privation (1-17-2018)
Presuppositions (1-16-2018)
Toss Penitence Once (2-19-2018
Ken (1-31-2018)
 One (1-25-2018)
The prisoner knuckled his eyes until stars blanketed his cage.
Blind to his keepers, the stars there to stay. 
Sans Ambit (1-19-2018)
Consumption (1-13-2018)
Pariah (12-9-2017)
Our garbage is treasured and delicious to children of poverty. Unexpected and unknown, it tastes better than government commodities and/or nothing at all. Have you watched hunger’s children in their rush to eat and gobble it down when mother notices worms crawling the food, that they might consume it before she takes it away? Damn me damn,
wish I didn’t understand. Pariah On a cold steep night, Harley rumbling ‘tween my knees, I watch the beggar man dig, his gleeful dance at morsels found, a gobbling pirouette. Eyes closed tight, a beast warren of hunger prowling bones of the poor. Momma got no fat kids. Proud and fearful, she prays. She works at the club restaurant bar, a ten-penny waitress, pinch and tip, empties plates into her hideout bag, treasures she smuggles home to her litter. Ah, Mister Beggar Man, we are brothers of the blood. Underneath coffee grounds, slick ash cigarette, lies the prize precious ort. We are proud in our poverty, angry in our shame, wrong side of never and lost, found wanting. I kiss the wind between us, ride fast into the night. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Abandoned (1-5-2018)
Lowerly (12-28-2017
Meditation 98: Abeyance (12-27-2017)
12-2-2017
Interposition (10-6-2017)
Meet me with your bodies for crosses,
goodness overlapped by sin, jewels of your imperfections worn as bracelets ‘round your thighs. He steps into his shovel. Stones sing; steel voices ring. Yes, the morning dew clings to the flesh and his face. His face weeps sweat at three by six and two yards deep. A blackbird whispers: Alms for the Digger Will we finally remember to be satisfied of moment, realize there is no surprise in time spent seeking back. Mysterious connection, we of human invention tend to view ourselves as extensions of god beasts, anal retention. Shadows in the cave lake, wicked teeth and no eyes. Glide smooth, serpent fish. Celebrate darkness of vision, an ancient realm, copper seam. So pure, we existed before heathen events of mutation. One last curtain call; an old blues man adjusts hiss steel teeth. He takes the bit into his mouth and rides ‘er one more time, each unspecified event of madness. (howling harmonica) (this part sung) I don’t care when the night-wind blows. She gon’ say me a prayer. She gone, she gone, she gone. Tell ya ‘bout woman, author of madness, priestess, witness. Carry me to the killing ground. Lay me on a field of fire. My flesh won’t burn. My flesh will not burn. A mist of ghosts rise, divided by distance and slaughtered anew. They are blue and gray in the dawn, boys wearing masks of men, thin whiskered and hollow of cheek. She gon’ pray us a prayer, mark the end of our war, mark the end of our war. (harmonica moan) A fisher of pearls probing your wound of flesh, discovers a cache of fish eggs, roe. The fisherman fertilizes them, carries them away in a canning jar, calls them sea monkeys. He ends up joining a circus where his life becomes an adventure, a chance to be all he can be, no idle passing of time. Then there’s the plan to feed the homeless in China, inspired by the bleached bones of home, walked over and tossed aside. Few see beyond the tinted glass, pleased to be on their way to aid the less fortunate. Who’s gonna shovel the elephant shit? To youth I say, rejoice in a ravenous feast of years, your blood lust to have it all. Hump your way toward oblivion. Suck energy from the day. Spit it into the faces from whence you came; defecate on the courthouse steps. Wiggle your ass silly and walk away. Breathe deep your smoking revenge. Soon enough you will bury those who made you and, when you went too far, dug deep to arrange your bail. A reoccurrence of dawn is no swift illusion or less real, the morrow. Too young for wisdom, old enough to know better, climb onto your soapbox. Wear them proud, your half-assed clothes. Ah hell, nobody gonna pay the digger. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
5-27-2018
5-24-2018
5-22-2018
5-20-2018
Think Twice (5-18-2018)
Unequivocally (4-25-2018)
Monition (4-17-2018)
 4-16-2018
I can’t hear the night with the lights on
They blind my ears, destroy my focus A tiger of fear stalks their shadows creeping up to capture my spirit and terrify the little boy me I can’t see her face in the music where I go to hide away from her Songs I used to sing to her image are my new door to freedom in their legion of sadness I can’t find my ass in the dark with both hands, invisible arms a tactile prisoner of light whose eyes demand proof and purchase the illusive wall of life Wednesday took the lies of summer wrote them on a book of leaves divided amongst the winds scattered to hither and yon tablets in stacks and stones beyond http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © A Sense of Sixth was published by Skyline Literary Review in 2006 
Letters from the Monastery: XVI
Art of Denuding self He awakens from a night of no sleep whose black chromium edge has ripped the top off his mind She sits in the laps of bible men accepts the attentions of gentlemen who do it to her but never say it The chisel of love has whittled him down He stares at the skeletal remains of his once fulfilled self in his minds-eye mirror laughs uproariously at the remnants flushes them down the toilet The sword has two edges anger and shame Prostrated, he takes it into his mouth thrusts it deep and twists In a purging gush of blood he initiates an expiation a release from guilt and pain In a garden dark the howling man rages his flesh pricked, punctured by thorns sublime, his retribution far past the death dares of youth He claws at roots and earth shares them with his blood Dawn has no equal in his tortured black-hole eyes He crawls away to hide Lesser than carrion, he gags on the fetid stench his ravaged corpse of night leaves it to the worms The only path through grief and the road to wisdom is to learn to become a withered and empty husk He is blown through himself slack-jawed and empty a scarecrow on a stick http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  Genius, the result of interaction with an entity or thought process of which one was previously unaware.
Beware pretending, mirror dancing, mimicry. Scratch an itch that doesn’t exist until you do.
Origin (1-29-2018)
Posit (1-15-2018)
Masks Aside (1000 Days-806) - 12/15/2017
|
