Her Formulae

From a transcendental spacecraft she peered
Hesitantly into our Nethersphere.

We stared at her otherworldliness,
With our mouths ajar at slighted steels,
As she dropped hollowed amber pearls
Along with small albino peacock flues
And fragilities of unidentified substances
In disordered chaos’s inside chances
We meticulously caught; created
From machined computations of
Aster calculations by her formulae.

Shooting down in hypergravitational velocities
They’d shatter into microscopic smithereens
Along with the vortexing winds they flew
Away with those other mysteries we’d
Never get the chance to witness:

She jet streamed from us;
Flames gradually engulfing.


Nightmarish incubus’ soared through the kingdom, icily
Crystallizing subterranean plains in alizarin crimson yields.
Frozen figures of sarcastic synergies imploring motion
Within obstructions disintegrated as farcical defiances
While lost souls cowered inside these forgotten labyrinths
Where energies were consigned to shaded hiding spaces.


An underdressed Elvish Kissandra hidden
In the oak lands, sings her fortuitous odes.
She strums her harp, her hands plucking
Melodious tones as they glide to and fro
In scales that petrify our egos senselessly.
Tripping in a weakened state, she slakes
Her treacherous bloodlust with a stake,
Crudely made, rapturously laughs, then
Appears to run with dislocated joints,
Deeply plunging it into our necks.

They Knew

God, he’s chewing with his mouth open again.
Sarah pushes over one of her peas on her plate,
Places her fork down impatiently as the metal
Chinks on the knife beneath it. Harry looks up.
Fuck, did I say something to piss her off. The fuck
Was I talking about.
Time dissipates for an instant,
He obsessively goes over the past few minutes of
Their conversation, but can’t pinpoint his blinding
Miscalculation. Talk about ponies, she mentioned she
Loved them.
“Ponies are great, huh.” Sarah forces a
Smile. Crisis averted. They proceed to engage in
Conversation throughout the remainder of the
Night. Sarah laughs, she smiles, but not quite
Like she did the first time. Harry gets home and
Lies in bed rehashing the details he is capable of
Remembering. Recalling every misspoken word,
Blunder in action, every reaction that could be
Perceived as annoyance, berating himself over
His behavior that could be viewed as “weird”
(Whatever the fuck that is). But she doesn’t call.
Not that night or the ones following. He starts
Reasoning that it was his gain, and that it was she
Who had lost.

Harry would keep going on these dates, Sarah too.
Where both would, at some point, find themselves thinking;
“I deserve”.


A three eyed
Asinine reptilian
Scours the dimensional plane
With glowing holographic irises
Of yellow orange hues
With spokes
Of icy ultramarines.

Our three eyed
Reptilian crusader
Who’d been born
From royal decent,
Had been granted
Telekinetic powers
Through trials and tribulations
In warzones where it gained vision
Into stolid events of unfolding futures.

Now it stands
While clad
In its embossed skins
Formed from habitually molting,
Made to be constantly ready
In a battle mode stance.

Its armor
Of perfected
Of weaponized
Spiked studs, sharpened
Into slicing razor edges,
Amongst the finest
Tones of silvers
In the darkest
Of alloys
Of steel,
Of iron and
Titanium scales.

They shine brilliantly
In glistening
Lusters, while our warrior
Madly shrills and stomps
Its monstrous feet
In undulating sycophant beats
In rushes of hilarity
It thrusts
Its mighty sweeping rapier
With superhuman celerity
In mesmerizing zipping prowesses.

Ascending in steady surges
Unto domains
In the throes
Located atop a cliff
Riddled with poisoned nets
Hidden under covered ditches
Where discussions of covertly
Held operations were made
For clandestine approaches
Of motivations in hideous discoveries.


We Shadow Lurkers have a tendency to stick to – well, the shadows.
There have been several controversial discussions on the ethics
Of the “’Proper’ Way of Hunt”, and are still in circulation. But really,
I don’t pay attention to those sorts of things. Oh,
No, don’t get me wrong. I have my – things.
Like, I don’t really like hunting families;
That’s just not my thing. There are some bigots that don’t really seem to care
About the dangers of leaving offspring without their parents,
But normally, I don’t associate myself with them.

What I’m about to tell you, sort of contradicts with what I just said.
I know I said I “normally don’t”, but there’s a reason for that.

It had been just like any other day.
I was prepping my equipment at my hunting shed,
(Which I had built far away from the bustling city),
When suddenly I heard three knocks on my door.
It’s rare that anyone visits me; especially out here.
Cautiously, I slide the cover from the peephole to check who it could be –
Some weirdo wearing a cape
(I mean common, everyone knows capes
Are the worst thing to wear when you’re hunting).
I give her a second to speak.
She doesn’t.

“Uhhh, do you need something.. or something?”

She responds in some weird mix of garbling language I’ve never heard before.
I can’t really understand what she’s saying, but she seemed harmless,
And she seemed hungry and cold, so I let her in.

“You came at a great time, I was just about to go out to get some food.” – lies

She garbles something at me again, but I thought I heard her
Say she wanted to come, so I handed her a knife.

That’s how it all started. We’d hunt together, pretty much, every day,
Didn’t really speak much, but I enjoyed her company.

We’re out in the forest tracking some prey on our own,
When I hear an abrupt skin prickling screech.
I rush over to access the situation and see her convulsing;
Her body morphing, lumps shooting under the pall of her cape,
Then it stops.
I lift up her cape –
She’s killed a mother
And she’s stopped moving.

The Missing Piece

An avid carnelian turtle initially stonily searched
Questionable interdimensional whorls for a cooler space.
Previously artistically crafted, rectangular wings
Fulfilled its suggestive longing to stay in that place.
And when it met its destination -or thought it did-
It then witnessed its piteous fate of lost grace.

In layered dimensions it learned its incapabilities
By examining fecal trails that gauged morphing lands.
Its blustering amateurish attempts of outside adventures,
Tanking, as it blubbered from sour tokens of forgotten hours.