Cleopatra’s Ruin

The day the Egyptian pharaoh
strode into New York,
they surmised she was dripping
              she charmed snakes

     she didn’t appreciate
                            Roman taste
                  save when they took her
                                     to bed


Morning Bird

I am awake way too early
 the sky hasn’t turned slow burn blue
                                     Just yet
        I have so much to do
                     Friday is happenstance
                    I sit on the fence of
                              advancement or
                                      utter failure
                      Again, and this, this
                                   feels like a rerun but
                       I know this episode is new

             So many trinkets to organize
                   so many adornments to obtain
                        for theatre… for show, for
                                        Fun/ For



I feel as Æthelflæd, warrior queen,
                     dangers often surround me
               Lurking off in the distance/
                                  oars heaving
                   into the sea/ against the ground

the bruises on my arms heal slowly,
turn blue, purple and fade-
        green as the lone fickle frog
                    shadowed                                            stairs &                         

baiting me——->

T’wards the waning white breast
                                       of the moon
                        rejoicing in our summer
                           Harbinger of the rain
                                  so the symbols say
As do I_____
            For it has poured all day &
                                         And yet, all year
                                        This is the first
                                               I’ve seen astray

 — LM

[Authors Note: inspired by The Last Kingdom first, and true events]

The Lexicon.

Midian Poet

Fotografie od Pixabay na


The Lexicon.

Lubomír Tomik

pod paží klíč k srdci,
vítr se zvedl,
otočil stránky Lexiconu

někdy je překvapení součástí cesty,
překvapovala jsi mne pořád,

miloval jsem to,
vždy jsi na realitě udělala pevný uzel ,

musel přijít jiný Alexandr,
aby ho rozseknul

mne jsi rozsekla jen napůl,

má nejkrásnější Gilotino


Fotografie od Artem Beliaikin na

The Lexicon.

Lubomír Tomik

under the arm the key to the heart,
the wind picked up,
 turned the pages of the Lexicon

sometimes surprise is part of the way
You always surprised me


I loved it
You've always made a real knot in reality,

another Alexander had to come,
to chop it up

You only cut me in half,

my the most beautiful guillotine!

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You crept in through the side
       just like I imagined,
       just as I’d instructed
       when I received word overnight
      you were here, suddenly here, & static ran all over my body
            but I numbed it out
            because it was the truth.

I wasn’t picturing ahead of time
                       what you’d wore
and I don’t think you were expecting me, in turn.
     Everything was so fast and loose//
& I couldn’t stop either of us
                   even if I wanted to.       
                   Madness has a wicked draw.
It sucks you in like the Cheshire grin like the smirk on your face reflecting the one on mine, as tongues and lips and erogenous zones razed with heat. There are no lights but an icy blue, green and gold, the stars in mine amplify & we strip our expectations and leave them to the black hole spiraling on the floor.


Best of Luck

untrained in dementia
& alzheimers patients, I gaze around;
these seniors are wilted
drenched by faded sun through drawn curtains &
tempered light from the television

They’re tired, you say, oh-so-casually,
I’m tired too. . .

You don’t know this, miss, but
I couldn’t sleep mulling this interview
I arrived to the wrong place first &
still pressed on, accepting then
I’d fucked my first impression

heart thundering & shifty-eyed
you say you’ll show me downstairs
a dozen old couches and antique chairs
tables, refrigerators, porcelain plates
washers, dryers, scattered remains
of lives … and I
[could’ve bolted through the back door]
slammed back in my car &
LEFT [there and then]

That’s when I said fuck it, because
I know what people like you hate to hear
So—- I said what I did
Just to make you distrust me since

You’d reminded me when I was worn
                               down to
                               my last
      And asked if there was something
                                me/ that

Hiding my disease feels necessary
& I have no other choice, but
unlike your cheery bullshit
I know society at large doesn’t give a fuck
about these poor people
about you
or me

Best of Luck —


[Authors Note: even if we could switch shoes I wouldn’t let you walk in mine for a second]

wounded caricaturist

      Localized cryotherapy
& poignant telepathy
                 are the cures I’d had
                                   in mind

      They say sleep can be the cure-all
                   but that’s without any menthol
              so I’ll let the crowd decide

             What shape, my silhouette?
       Does it adorn horns/is it scorned
                  is___ fate, your marionette?
                             don’t tell me yet,
                        don’t utter a word
                      I want to be wrong
                Let the shivers tell me I’m wrong
                            Let them softly say,

Re _____ drawn.


Step Lightly

When where and what
                    do I feel is the truth?
          There is __
                             no more war but
                            I feel you   s

                     my minefield

                                        these sensors may
                                        EXPLODE if you
                                           choose to get

     & it is a selfish mechanism
                 but I trust
               when I want to let loose
                  and show
                        You’ll let me go
                                    & feel it
                              because there is
                                no protection
                                     I can offer
                                  [like I’d offer]

              simply because you’re afraid
                          that what’s pouring out of me
                             may spray onto you



Cra/cked ceramic bowls  

were once repaired with gold

                         celebrated and preened
                instead of decried

         for their flaws

never crushed and thrown in trash heaps
the way I’ve treated myself lately___