Hoarsely Imagined

On the etheric plane
Rising hazes of anomalous
Life forms, flicker,
Not quiet here nor there,
Live out in quiet tumulose plains.
They dried cultivated manifestations
Of barley and wheat
From arid embankments.
Where they kept asking
The makers in consensus,

“Do we cease to exist if no one can sense us,
When remembrances of barely
Thought out incantations
Partook in their feasts?”

“If we need to eat and drink of this mead
And we live these moments
Just as of those who breathe
Are we not as real as they appear to be?”

The maker in turn responds
Daily, tumultuously toppling
Toppling trees too far
From those of whom
They’d have been intended for,
With the thunderous roars
From eldritch lightning beasts.



Finicky finches peck at handsome quantities of
Exported chia seeds, flicking their heads in
Noticeable caricatured turns, from tracking
Movement to avoid fistfuls of porcupine quills.

Qualitative wandering rules of a thwarted alignment
Found on the side of brutish hippopotamuses, sliding,
Verifiably engrossed inside any moor you can picture.

Disassociated from their animal nomenclatures, they
Start to slink away from predatorial chases
Brushing past bumps from rough boulders.

Meaningless encounters, valued as such by
Xenopus, croaking, bothered by their reasoned writhing
Zealotries, count down to deadly xenotropic viruses.

Jabbing fish, quickly sinking in muddy bogs,
Learnt the utter futility with every bone breaking thrust,
In frightful knowing, in losing sight,
Within the dimming
Trickling twilight.

In Love

It had been better to have believed
All events had occurred
In fictitious assemblance
Instead of hoping that the space shaman,
Of heightened decibel frequencies,
Had convincingly drawn up
A minutia
Of some intrinsic value
In our wisp’s existentiality.

Inundated within waterfalls,
Our frustrated wisp, beside
Itself, was swept away

Aliens are breathtaking
Aren’t they.


Bushtits with effervescent black hole gullets
Fortify ilks of lycanthrope defenses;
Downy nests in thorny bushes,
Supported by the bluest spider silks,
Purport effigies in illusionistic monogamies
Due to snapped threads that gave way to
Yores of souls connected by strings
‘N’ magick in crystallised bricks.


Mutant rodents skitter ahead on
Persian rugs across the foyer
Covered by a layer of
Slime and soot
Shrieking their
Squirrel like kuks.

Feeding on formations of future’s
Gestations in the foray of mysterious
Silhouettes, when
The maltalent never knew
What “deserve” equated to.

For the same matter,

We’d Run

These things they swing and bop
Through, dangling on jungle vines,
While they’d screech and whoop.
Hidden, but seen on site
Through leafless lines.

These lifeless things
We hide from those
We say we love
Because we love
Those lies just as much,
(But not just).

Puff, puff,

Despite Warning Signs

With weighty shields
Held up to hunched up shoulders,
She rides, inside inversions of
Javelin games that preceded
Fanatically styled themes of
Prevaricated controls
Within previous experiences
Within emotion’s scents.

Wracked with regrets,
She sought evidential proofs;
That a life riddled
With loopholes
Did not, in kind, deign
The deranged,
That empires had been
Wrongly assumed.
Then, decidedly, estranged.

Her discontent in vulnerabilities
Proceeded by winged frenulum strengths,
Fraught in her gossamer threads,
That could’ve been avoided
Had she stopped to think for a bit.