Oloriel writes the kind of poetry that will augment your literary palate.

Color me in Cyanide and Cherry

augment*Image found HERE

I am learning about
about how two, or more, or none
clash or fornicate
while there is a bunch of scientists
in white coats
in a circle
writing down their observations,
casually translating
entire micro-cosmic lives
to single digits, in a row, or one above another;
one in Fibonacci, one in crooked spirals,
one unconsciously in the exact parameters
of a small cottage on Greenland.

what does my chair think of me, whilst I think of you
and asking you really
pointless and foolish stuff
such as and to be precise
how do you see two paperclips making love
so I can see what my own circle of white coats
has to say about it;
how would it look like if we both
carved our names upon a stone in Nordic runes,
what is your favourite flower as opposed to
your favourite scent of laundry…

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let the devil wear black: FREE!

samantha lucero

if you have a kindle, my first novel is FREE ON KINDLE RIGHT NOW, for a limited time! although, it’s always on kindle unlimited for free, right now anyone can get their paws on it.

it’s not the sort of story that i ordinarily tell (as is known, i’m usually all about the horror or fantasy, & this one is more psychological), but it’s a story that i told. & it’s free until (unintentionally) midnight, on valentines day. 🧛‍♀️

cover design by Mitch Green at radpress publishing.


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Samantha Lucero: The Fullmetal Alchemist

samantha lucero


where memory rusts, limp on a clunk of

dry land & dragging me through the sequins of a

small earth

i croak to the fractured window of a bone-white ford truck groaning down, shambling up a shaft of dreary road.

i, a silver figment or mislaid filament, a filigree wafting bare thru realms hot & rose-gold, loom where the skeleton of the truck is parked eternal: i see the rotting choir of burst leather spaces, vacant, on which the sun has dug its holes. little else remains within apart from remains; i’ve loped from one graveyard to the next.

840 minutes in a warehouses’ baking mouth bending metal out of men, where oil-dyed hands stain wonder-bread or stay-at-home wives’ necks, they used to make trucks like those. and like the one that was his daddy’s buried in that old garage. all he had was that truck

and all I have…

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Greeneyedgirl79 is a writer whose heart & soul is felt in each and every syllable. This immaculate poem is one of the many treats you’ll find on her beautiful blog.


1you and I

who will care about either of us

when time has dusted over details

with every generation, new mouths to feed

the clamor drowns out

quiet purpose and histories of those

who stood before

as if every young soul must

vanquish those who came before

to make their mark

history is not told by those who won the battle

but by they born of bloodshed

for no history seems to matter in a world of noise

and false succor

where even children wear masks

as adults wait patiently for their disintegration

building artifices as high as they are wont

to stand without feet

you and i

our time will go unnoticed

and one may argue

what does it matter?

as long as we know

isn’t that enough?

but we seek in our nature

to share beauty and joy

for loveliness to be known

as I would write forever…

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