Watch, stranger. Keep vigil in the night. Witness as we fools conspire with our weather.

In twisting clouds of spirit-flesh

I imbibe without the swallow,

And hear his song in sunken breath,

Each fantasy to follow.

For body and air confess their cult

In temple halls to dwell--

Far, far gone away into the inner

Sanctum of the Vale.

Dwelling not in liminal

Prostration without sky,

But all-confounding, ever-mourning

Ecstasy to 'scry.

O’er waters black and boiling

I kiss the shrouding mist

And entreat her give me naught,

But teeth sunk into wrist.

For oddity is not so strange

To creatures such as we:

Philosophers and poets-errant,

Lost mystics of the Sea.

What stands between? I wager naught

But Nothing and nothing more.

That is the plight of glory bought

On strange abhorrent shore.

I lounge in waters dark and warm

And think I’m far away,

Yet I am just another phantom

Caught in electric decay.

I cannot see beyond this black,

Though I itch for shape or sound

To guarantee I’ll not dissolve,

Be left alone, nor found.

Dear Magnificent Mofos:

What does a Bastard have in common with a Pearl, a Bottle, a Fire, and another writer with Implications? They each live and thrive in their neighborhoods, running their streets in the boroughs of Prose. and making their bones with words thrown down like no others. Watch them own their boulevards in today's feature on the channel:

https://youtu.be/MDFC55RDg2g

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I am still

struggling

to accept

I accept

Nothing

Less . . .

dissatisfaction

proof

in vintage

undrunken

stupor,

beneath

the cork

I, grow

older

I grow,

older

I grow

older,

I grow

older

I'll be

drunk

and for

10 cents

some one

will redeem

me, empty

09. 09. 2023

Acceptance challenge @Raynstar

My ribs are like a cluster of twigs

Snapped and fraying at the ends from the rain.

They hold a hatching egg at the center without a shell

A salivating blood-vial, unearthly even.

I think my fingers brush the edge of its tender face

Press the fear from its little lungs

Flick the crimson drops that grasp my skin

Onto the faces that look my way.

Why did you have to gaze into my eyes?

Why did you bear forth the strings of your soul

Like stories bound in a circle and caroused

From their tumult and frivolity?

Darling, the poor don’t see the ladder you climb.

Some of us don’t understand that when you throw

A brick, it hits somebody, somewhere, and bleeds

Even if you don’t smell it, feel it on your fingertips

Like her departing touch on my arm. See this

Sobriety. See my behavior and careful etiquette

Loosening my tie and untucking my shirt, I did not

See you, and I am sorry. I am indeed ashamed.

And yet I sleep while I drive and my feet and hands

Do the labor of my brain, so instead I can replay

The last word, the last time I looked upon your face

And wonder to myself if ever I shall see it again.

It would be a shame to have lost another before

I ever knew she was so near. Regret. It’s a heavy

Word. It’s a taunting syllable and another in the dirt

Roots and all upturned and cast back down

Like a mortuary stampede. Why is it touch that

Mocks my paucity of strength? Why not taste or

Scent, or even my eyes or my ears, why should this

Tactile trial so beguile me with every handshake

Every meeting of your eyes and mine and the flecks

Of blood I left on your face, unnoticed, but bright

In the light that is your stubbornness? Let me be

I beg of thee. Kiss me not with mouth or glance

Give me neither drink nor provender, but rather

A swift kick in the side, break the nest around my

Bleeding heart and let it fall to a poorly lit floor

To be returned to the dust from which it never

Should have come, to be interred without a word

I beg of thee. And yet you look at me, you

Stand near and keep your history engaged with

My gurgling throat, like a queen amongst the

Rabble of us lethargists and madmen, her hand

Outstretched in cautious contemplation, like a

Child, I suppose. Like a traveler in a new and

Different land. I’m not so pleasant though.

From the earth below your feet, you snatched

The shell-less egg before its fate fulfilled and

Gently offered it to me, with a tiny smile and

A world beyond my wounded grasp.

My ribs are like a cluster of twigs

Snapped and burnt and bundled back

Into a crude imitation of yours.

But your Before implores me take

A moment, just a thought, to place it back

Inside my pack until my lack of faculties

Could blaze within these youthful bones

And turn this leaden box to one of gold.