Coastal Erosion

Chris Nelson MBE

chrisnelson61

The ocean took its share –

Call it coastal erosion

If you wish –

And swept the soft away;

Bedrock pillars stood tall

Unaware of their solitude

And pointlessness

Hard-faced against the tide;

And winds slide shards

Like the paper cuts we felt

Trace lattice lines inside

The bruises no-one else can see;

Saved from the roughness out at sea

Our chains our punishment

For wanting more

Abandoned now to the birds;

Tossed like an unmade bed

Or pummeled like an insomniac pillow

The ocean unerring in its mission

A statement to the landscape

Retreating by inches

Its children lost to the low

Hidden beyond the sea-fog which sweeps

Like convulsive currents

Pretending all is new – a clean mind;

Breaking up or breaking down

The oceans takes us all –

Call it coastal erosion

If you wish –

With vacant smiles

And drooling delusion

It takes us all.

©…

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Creep

Treacle Heart, the quintessential londoner echoes every writer’s desperation up on Melancholy Hill

Treacle Heart

Writers, whether deliberately or unconsciously, seek each other out in crowded pubs on cold Wednesday nights. I thought you were alright-looking but probably just another creep. While I wrote line after line, frenzied, only stopping to down a jar or take a little bump off a key, I could feel your eyes on me.

(I am partial to entertaining creeps because I like their pathetic little faces
and their eyes that say, “I can’t believe she’s talking to me.”
They are, however, too easy to manipulate and usually
end up boring me: for someone who does not believe
in boredom, this is an inconvenience to say the least)

I asked you if you could keep an eye on my table while I went out for a smoke
and said, “Make sure my drink doesn’t get cleared,” and you said, “or spiked…”
and that was it.

You were a writer for…

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IN A PARIS HOTEL ROOM

hijacked amygdala features some of the very best talent on wordpress, head on over there and check into A Paris Hotel Room with the brilliant art & lit duo Mark & Christine Renney.

hijacked amygdala

Chris R-1-93 Image by Christine Renney

When it happened they were away from home. The smell was so invasive that, for a moment or so, Harris was unsure of where he was. Lifting the thin sheet he looked down at himself and at Geraldine, sleeping soundly on her side. He remembered then that he was in a hotel room in Paris and although the smell didn’t lessen it did suddenly seem a little more bearable. He was abroad, in a foreign country and this was something alien.
Convincing himself that it was coming from outside he slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Geraldine, crossed to the glass doors and stepped out onto the tiny balcony. It had been raining, the air was still fresh and the street below was still wet. In the cars’ headlights the moist air glinted.
The smell didn’t dissipate and at first he couldn’t locate it…

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Fall Through Mirrors

Fall through theusedlife’s iridescent mirrors & let yourself get lost in the labyrinth of her immaculate poetry.

The Used Life

i awoke that morning 
with a fantasy like any other
namely, a golden rod poking holes
in the clouds and i 
walking a mile of 
	dropped jaws &
		hanging clocks &
			lavender-drenched tides
to a castle in a tree that bore 
	no roots and
	waved an iron flag 
like a mechanical rib 
or a stale bird
	trembling on the
	lip of a volcano

every line is a world and 
	every number is a logic that falls 
	dead at the doors of our senses

there was a word for the face
that spoiled the dream, the line 
that dotted the i, the precision with which i wept at the departure of my sun-drenched crown we must forget what is supposed to be in order to express what is croaked the lizard at dawn, her two fingers dancing on the chessboard sister of the parakeet, clone of the man in a…

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Goddess

Mother Nature’s ghost writer, Aakriti Kuntal.

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Day 26 #napowrimo #prompt: repetition

Sound drops through the catalogue of fingers

The body is a mutant

in this black life,
awaiting a rise, a tilt, a drop

I stand at the shore,
the water circling my paddy feet

I am a porcupine shadow
in this holy dance of tides

I am a porcupine shadow
in this circling of fellow waves

This circling, this endless circling
like a river in madness
licking its own face off

I stand at the shore
under a black sky of spinning birds

only a patch of cold winter
trapped in the nights’ drooping jaw

I am the chatter of life’s teeth
Listening,

Listening,
Listening
I have been listening so long

Each drop of water
is disparate in my ear

I’ve been listening so long
my eye is a relentless shudder

I stand at the shore
and take the entire sea
in my mouth

I,

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BLANK EPITAPH – A.G. Diedericks

a blank epitaph enshrined

in dust

blooms coal-black petals

of which her lovers pluck

one by one – here, ‘neath the seeds of repent

where requiems are born

beyond sound

beyond science

delineated in a still-life of an

open house

where she hangs

safe from the perversion

of words

absurdists have long tried

to unbolt

that which led her into

this refurbishment of memory

where she levitates

like an obstinate ghoul

taking refuge in the velvet underground.

Augment

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

Color me in Cyanide and Cherry

augment*Image found HERE

Augment
I am learning about
realities,
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.

CLICK ME. I’M WHERE FREE STUFF IS.

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