Futility is a tempest,

a dreary muse that lingers


A dreary muse that lingers

Stands on the rock calling

Wet hair curling

and sticking like ropes of slug

to her shoulders


Her lips part and speak

the most exquisite language

Eyes cast upward,

arms across her heart

succulent temptation sings futility lilting,

and  free unbound

and ionized self sings muffled….

Gagged and bound,

plates in lips


coils around the neck

choking….. sings…. croaks….

and the clothes that she wore

on the last day of her life lay folded

in a paper bag somewhere

and I wonder…..

If she knew


she buttoned those buttons at dawn


Dawn breaking……


beneath layers of nightly storm

like some beast stretching it’s wings,

and yawning

waiting, sighing

Angelic bloody fate

to be born