Introducing Robert Stolzenberger – Decades Before Meeting

Sit near falling streams, sweet one
See life defeat rocks
And splashes kiss light
And I will know it somehow.

Spy a last hanging leaf
Brown with experience
Atwirl in the wind’s will
And I’ll sense gusts of hope.

Listen long to the snow’s quiet
When few would dare take joy
And certain you exist
I will find you years hence.

— Bio for RS —

when i was little, even tiny
my loving was my looking
and when I knew something new
that was love too
but with time I saw that “I” saw
and that I was he who sees seeing
now my love is hard work
that i am glad for its being

Robert’s blog is a blend of essays and verses and so on:
||Skirmishes With Reality||


Earth to Mars, Mars to Venus – David and Marguerite Redpath


Earth to Mars

My husband is missing
deep in cyberspace
He was last seen on Mars
(Does Elon Musk
know that my X man
got there first?)
Now I’ve lost all trace
Is he missing me
somewhere on Planet Poetry
whilst hunting
and collecting
in an alternate universe?
Where aliens
with inktipped claws
scratch each other’s backs
with a quote or a verse
of wisdom … or vice
depending on their mood
I don’t mean to sound terse
for it is their chosen food
To regurgitate the past
and masticate the future
From haunted dreams
to visions of splendour
night and day
they meander
Is that him I hear
swaggering like Jagger
through the front door
or some Jabberwocky
crying out for more?
No …
So if you see him
the one in an oilskin coat
a snakeskin belt
Cuban boots
and an old felt hat
please let him know
there’s a launch pad vacant
waiting for him
down here below
Just for my runaway
somewhere out there
lost in the Milky Way

~ Marguerite Redpath   © 2018

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Mars to Venus

But …
my fair maiden
of eternal bliss
love trumps
Or is it arrogant
of me
to say this?
Am I becoming
the cyber hermit
with observations
from some
distant planet?
My loving Venus
the cosmic tide
upon which we ride
has a heavenly permit
It leads me
It keeps me
in celestial transit
as I toil
in creations soil
have I left nothing
upon the shelf?
But words pressed
like virgin oil
from the ripe flesh
of life itself
Words put to the test
in the fires of hell
Then heaven blessed
upon your lips
with a holy breath
Am I caught
in the crush?
Am I chasing
the rush?
I’ve had my head
in the vice
of interstellar ice
at the light speed
of greed
The price was too high
And it wasn’t very nice
Is there peril
in throwing the dice
at a poetic level
With you
and the Spirit true
can I weather
any battle?
My Gypsy Queen
have you seen
all that has been
in one pure drop
of a golden dream?
Do you know
What is to be?
In loss
have you counted the cost
of a hard won victory?
You are my star sign
You know the Word
ever spoken
seldom heard
is deep within me
You are my grand plan
You hold my future
in the palm of your hand
Please be with me
For I am surrounded
by divisive opinions
being spoon fed
to hungry minions
from strange dominions
of magic potions
Toxins in the grave
of promises broken
My reborn Venus
I’m a slave
to your satisfaction
My lonely lover
do you thirst
for that burst
from where true love
comes first?
I place you
high above me
In the raging fire
of your desire
I put myself last
Do you wish me
to be
no talk
and all action
in this world
of blind reaction
Hating hatred
Fighting for peace
amongst the spies
of Trickle-down lies
As the last post sounds
for feudal economics
a war is raging
of greed and injustice
self inflicting
by the clenched fist
of unforgiveness
Forgive me my absence
Shall I
should I
cease and desist?
In love
I’m willing to be
your soul apprentice
For your call
to enthral
I find hard to resist

~ david redpath   © 2018

For more of David’s work, please visit: Highway Bloggery

AUTODIDACT – A.G. Diedericks


I’m uneducated

punktuated by subversion

My verses run grades in reverse

I see only art in my continuum

I am averse to your curriculum

There’s no path for me in math

No rhythm in my algorithm

No symmetry in my poetry

I bastardize

established linguistics

I do it

Just to smite the elitist erudite

My philosophy is detached from your morphology

My beleaguered elocution

poisons Ivy league institutions

I am an alumnus

from the college of sacrilege

This is the narrative of a native

in class with the iconoclasts

We block the conjecture

I put a sock in the lecturer; Leave 
’em annoyed

As i rock to the literature of pink floyd

I’m tryin’ to hold this mic, but my fingers keep slippin’

like Sigmund Freud

Fourteen ways to tame the beast – Wilde Taylor


Severe rules of conduct, engagement, deprivation, captivity…

Which one will you choose? Must you choose any?

Step outside the town square,

Can you? Will you?

Will yourself to cross over,

to the one-man archipelago.


Simply give in and give over:

Pervasive propriety and prescription

Wall-to-wall, they’ve got you covered,

No need to think or rethink

Act or re-act,

The work has been planned out

{follow the book of wisdom, tales from the past refining your mast}

They said it was so, and so you shall sow.


Saving order, restoring harmony by…

Serving up dishes on a platter – wholesome or hole-full hearts, charred and blotted by Mephistopheles’ stamp (luring lust for luscious litchis over a bed of decidedly delirious dementia),

Stuff your face,

Secern the guilty pleasure, fruit bitten

-arrest the feeling –

Show some temperance, damnit!

Settling for withered scraps, the staff of life enough for a humbled soul, just like you.

Shielded by virtues of faith, satiated by moral abstinence,

No need for the decadence of that delicious litchi fruit –


Off to bed, eyes wide open, green with envy,

That second estate earning more than their fair share,

Not duly derived or rightfully received,

All because of that silver spoon serving their fare.

No way you’ll tolerate such injustice!

Up and at ‘em!

Stomping off to the pantry,

(Candle in hand, feet dancing on tiptoe,


You, an intruder, catching a taste of this stolen life)


Gluttony, a new form of blindness,

Unable to make out the whole picture,

Seeing the dots in Monet’s floret fields,

Just the dots,

The whole, a minuscule masterpiece,

Sacrificed in the name of immediate

Greed, gratification –

That berry, begging for saliva,

That spit, relishing the taste,

Frothing like a hot hound

Rabidly raving for a piece of the pie.


Litchi shoveled in mouth,

Sudden explosion ~ boom, bang and pop!

prideful containment

Pulling in the ropes with cavalier certainty,

You’ll show them how strong you’ve become,

Shielded from the worldly come-ons and tantalizing invitations

To gobble, gulp and gorge on all the gourmet grub.


An internal dialogue pursues itself, chasing away thoughts of wrathful return,

You are a good citizen, faithfully following the mores of the meritorious masses,

but alas! Justice must be administered.

Portions must be rationed.

A basket of fruit, hiding underneath the delectable seeds,

Now filled to the brim,

An offering for the poor,

Raised as you were to find opportunities for alms-giving,

A charitable being, are you!

A yawn escapes, a debilitating dullness takes hold,

Slothful somnolence winning this dispute,

But a man must have internal fortitude,

Take courage, my son!

You will be rewarded

With marvelous missions.

Oh! Let it go!

Where’s the hope?

14 ways to tame the beast

Which one will you be:

Barbarian or biped,

Controlled or self-governing?

The choice is yours.

To discover more of Wilde’s work, please stop by at:

The Reckoning









For Me – The Stories In Between


Fragments, not pieces


Cutting, turning


Can you feel me

Entering, breathing

Fists pounding


That’s not quite deep enough

To give you want you want


There is something

Beneath this

But I’m not sure

It’s what you need


A little deeper


This time


To your regret

I remember to breathe


I’ll hold on

To this moment

For as long

As I need


For this is not for you

But for me


More from this author can be found at The Stories In Between


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The unpeeling of the mask

is making known once

someone enters your carnal abode

Flesh is ripped and you are there

Your imperfections laying bare

Maximised by a voracious glare

Though her agony is not actually due to


but what lies untold, more so

The spell that comes out of these words that cannot be disclosed

Can impede the morphing of liberties,

The desires she will carry on hidden

Contemplating her sexual miseries

Knowledge in this case, is not freeing

She does not want to end t-his daydreaming

It is all too pristine, one is thinking

Though her filth is covered in glossy inking

How can one fulfill their wishes?

When there are labels that are sticking?

Love has a weight and a preconditioning

This one comes with a tag

The price for commitment 

is to be marked with a pigment

Of scars that resurface upon healing


Written by the Irizillian Divastate, find more of her unmasking writings on her personal blog:
Expose the self.

The Love Memorandum

The Love Memorandum – David Redpath

David Redpath

20180121_111044-01-01-01-02774794570.jpegThe Love Memorandum

Still breathing
Living still
From oceans deep
a mortal spill
The waters testing
in the fullness of time
What’s in your heart?
Who’s on your mind?
Having received
the Love Memorandum
from Planet Freedom
Regarding that love
that doesn’t change
with the wild weather
Of love forged
in the fires of forever
A love that never fails
Like the latter rains
of a summer harvest
Love gives meaning
to this existence

View original post 640 more words

There’s No Dawn Where We Live – A.G. Diedericks

There’s no dawn where we live.
I watch as you step inside my soul,
scavenging for a candle holder,
accompanied by an indefatigable
passion to touch this purely decorative heart.

In my hands i caress your ethereal skin, freckled with my scars. On your lips, i turn your truths into lies
I’m all that you should despise
Oh, my beautiful marionette
When will you realize?
Tell me when it gets cold, and I’ll lend you my straight-jacket, whilst i put on another disguise.

There’s an equilibrium in madness.
In our tunnel; you had the vision
to descry the years of loyalty beyond the brutality. And time has stolen everything except our problems.

You see, I have always been the architect of my own abyss.
Until you came along and furnished it into your own wishing well, leaving me to rest & dwell, in this never-ending boundary spell.
Where my subconscious manifest monstrosities,

beneath a church bell.

I remember when we met, you told me that you’re just a figment of my imagination. I didn’t know it at the time, that we had seen eachother before, somewhere in the trenches of an ominous metaphor.

The truth is i am a custodian of doubt, anchored by a lofty disregard for change.
I don’t remember the walls being this shade of black. I don’t remember why our ghost writer left and booked himself in for an exorcism.

There’s no dawn where we live.
I watch as you self-flagellate, injecting yourself with Stockholm Syndrome
I watch your ambivalent tears burn with the aesthetic light of your smile destitute of truth
And you know that i would let you go,
if you would let me…
but you’ve always been more stubborn than me
even now, as you stand there..
laying your incorrigible flowers
on this free-fall bed.

A.G. Diedericks: I am disenfranchised; divorced from repetition, subjugated by a maddening darkness that breathes through my words. My work is as autobiographical as it is fictitious. You may vivisect it as you see fit.

He is also the Groundskeeper of Morality Park.

Introducing: Wilde Taylor – Simple arithmetic


The numbers turn around in my head,

they’ve found a way to form their own language,

Meandering from one extreme to another:

12.2 at 8:46, 18.8 at 9:30, 21 and one arrow up,

Shit! Start moving!

Run, do some jumping jacks,

No! you can’t eat that treat!

Sorry sweetie, I know your friends get to eat it,

but you don’t. 

Your sugars, they’re high, they’re so fucking high,

they’re skyrocketing –

breaking walls, breaking barriers, breaking spirits –

I’ve started to dream in numbers,

we communicate, the numbers and I,

desperately I seek to understand their meaning and their story,

what is their purpose?

Is it to inform or to gut?

These numbers, building fences around my heart,

the moss and weeds creeping in and creeping up,

every vine shaping itself into 6s, 4s, 2s!, 9s, 22s!.

Math was never my strength,

but these numbers,

they’ve forced their way into my brain,

they’ve made themselves at home,

unravelling codes,

carrying crafty collages of arithmetic

wherever they go,

attaching themselves to my subconscious,

breaking barriers,

resisting recognition:

sneaky borrowers of life,

rendering the account obsolete,


Borrow from us now,

we concede, take a cool 6.5

but you’ll pay for it in spades

tomorrow morning: 18.9!

What’s the balance now?

Sorry, you’re in overdraft –

You have to work harder,

keep trying,

it’s just a numbers game, really.

Look at the algorithm and deduce a pattern,

make moves based on the arrangement.

These numbers keep spinning,

they don’t seem to care that I hate math,

I push back, repulsed by all this measurable,

analytic, computational bullshit,

They keep on trudging, forming new pathways,

resisting my resisting.

Spring forward three days, I think I’ve got a grip,

I’m doing the math, it’s adding up,

these numbers and I, we are communicating,

I’m starting to learn their language,

slowly, number by number,

reaching consensus,

making up meaning, together, as we move through

the winding roads of digits and figures –


life saving, life altering, life sucking, life hounding,


And then the truth hits.

Like a broken up puzzle,

each individual number spread out in front of me,

too many pieces to count,

too many statistics, sums, totals,

I can’t decipher all these emblems.

I’m so tired, I’m so sick and tired-

These numbers, I hear them when I go to sleep,

whispering harsh truths, scary possibilities,

never-ending combinations,

I feel them as I lay my head to rest,

fibonacci sequences floating over my skin,

These numbers and I,

for better or worse,

til death do us part,


These NUMBERS are here to stay.

Wilde Taylor is a teller of truths, a lover of lies and a crusader of light. She’s naturally drawn to the dark (could be her Transylvanian roots), but admires and aspires to the light. It is through writing that she is able to excavate her lost soul and expose it to the brightest star of all, revealing odd pieces of another time. She continues to restructure the DNA of her Elan vital. To discover more of her work, please visit her personal blog:

Introducing: The Stories In Between – Mirror

Fucking mirror.

I have no desire to look at myself right now. But I can’t help but look. Each time, for just a moment during the approach, maybe, maybe this time, something will be different. But it’s not. It’s all the same. I can’t find a way to get away from this, it’s always the same. There has to be something that can carry me from this place, something more has to be waiting . . . it’s just too hard to accept that this is all there is. Where is the hope? Surely it doesn’t lie in all this.  I don’t care how deep you dig, nothing of any value lives here. And I’m sure, soon, you’ll give up. It’s too much work. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.  But please, before you walk away, look at my face one last time.

How careless is all this? How many things have we dropped along the way? Sometimes we step over and other times we just step on. Have you looked at your shoes lately? There may be more than gum on your soul. If you found a way beneath these layers can you accept what’s exposed? This is all for you but can you take it?

The mirror tells no lies. Well, maybe a few, but there’s enough truth in there that we can dismiss the lies. How else can you see the lines and darkness beneath the eyes? Who could ever look at yourself in the way you can? It takes a lot sometimes but other times, not much at all.

Because sometimes it really doesn’t matter. And other times it truly does matter but we just don’t give a shit.

Fucking mirror.


Life is pretty good these days. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember. It’s quite easy, too easy, to slip back to what once was, realizing it still is. I have the knowledge that there is an underlying hope in all this, which is one of the greatest gifts the years have given me. So the question remains, are you willing to expose that which lies in between? – The Stories In Between