Tag Archives: Poem

Our Haphazard Oblivion

We are shrapnel.
We are constructed, the controlled ingredients

of our haphazard oblivion,
the wires of burning marionettes,

the discipline of terror. We are embedded
into the sky,

the dazzling apathy

Continue reading Our Haphazard Oblivion


How to Destroy the World in 140 Characters

You scream into the void

this how it goes:
war, war, war, you

Continue reading How to Destroy the World in 140 Characters

Naked Sky

When it’s raining, you imagine
the whole world is drowning.

it’s not.

moving along without you, bathing
in the sunlight
beneath a nude, azure


~ryas 2017


We disappear
into folds of skin informed
by fast food and
airbrushed glamour, our sin
the gluttony of survival.

We don’t survive, anymore; we live
hard and long, fellatiotic
music, the whispers of a mess
about our lips, our faces
concealed beneath our future children.


From Light, the Tempestuous Revival 

Your color, banned, your lifestyle:

you transit the sun, your face
from light, the tempestuous revival

of awkward ceremony.
We praise the locking away

of a man’s tears and
the creative motives of our mothers

because fluidity speaks too loudly,
flows too strongly 

through our
emotions.  We are in denial, shaman

ashamed of technology, and we
the worst demons of our nature

for fear they are our reflections.


Daily Post Prompt: Banned – http://wp.me/p23sd-133l

The Bleak Stagnation of Row, Row, Rowing

– Demilked.com
– Demilked.com

Of course I would dream
of her, she and I
skimming over a facsimile
of paradise

reflecting that vast blue mask,
which hid from us
the supremacy
of our smallness.

Of course paradise was a lie.
It was always a lie:
Gehenna, Shit’s Creek,
the bleak stagnation

of row, row, rowing
just swiftly enough
to float at the edge
of our own personal hells.

We were triumphant
in our decay,
in our prejudice to meaning

as we kissed
one another
through the totality
of feeling nothing.



In response to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Photo Challenge #135

The Pneumatic Nature of Laughter

Image by Forsaken Fotos
Image by Forsaken Fotos

Have you ever missed someone
who did not exist?

Have you ever considered the strings
from which stars are suspended

throughout the emptiness of your own being?
Have you ever wondered at the pneumatic

nature of laughter or traced the curvature
of a swan’s neck through the spaces between

a shuddering whimper
and that stone shattering the delirium

of your glass house? Have you ever
witnessed the rationing of an idea

so that the waves just beneath the lake’s surface
would not be moved to dance back into yesterday?

Have you ever dreamed of lavatating
in pools of too uniform tears

beneath that terrible forge
that touches the sky with its blue mockery?

Have you ever found yourself
denoted by your mask, that one

that denies the precision
of the cut that revealed the nakedness of your heart?


In response to MindLoveMisery Menagerie’s Wordle #125.


The Apostate, Fall

Jasper Francis Cropsey (1823–1900)
Jasper Francis Cropsey (1823–1900)


Fall would follow summer,
a too affectionate and whimpering dog, through ages

of excited apostasy–the apostate, Fall–
and we would ooooh and aaaah

through the beauty of dying so slowly,
voyeurs to all manner of unashamed flora

exposing to us their seed-bare glory
as they heralded that true death (you know that

death that hurries over the backs
of scentless winds).

But summer, tired of being followed,
filed for a restraining order.


What Ash Conceived Beneath a Rainbow


The echoes
of a failing eternity

sounded through
the abject crimson

of her lips. I was there
when God was there,

and she was the day,
her eyes

the episodic bailiwick
of temptation.

I slipped and slid
along the milk spilled

on the floor
and heard no one cry,

save those
who found horror

in the conception
of ash, and in what ash

conceived beneath a rainbow
with no edge.




For Mind Love Misery Menagerie’s Photo Challenge.

What the Jones Have in Their Garage

Photograph by Thomas Nugent
Photograph by Thomas Nugent


We are swept away
in this blue light
and it isn’t the vast infinity
of impenetrable day.

What is satisfaction
if it isn’t a commodity
or what the Jones’ have
in their garage or living room?

I tried to murder a cricket
with a can of Olde Spice
body spray because it
interrupted the noise

banging on the drums
inside my ears.
And as I drown the world
and its people in a bathtub

built from my intentional
disassociation from life,
I do it with the realization
that it isn’t God,

but Apple
who tells me
I could save their souls
with an upgrade.