Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.



Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.


I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.



Sustainable Regrets

I had heard of it as an exhausting stroll, down a lonely path.

Of the hope that lie on the other end…

A picturesque landscape.

With nothing but old friends.


In honesty, no one knows where that road to regret goes.

For that lonely road only remain sustainable…

‘Til life grows cold.


Lucky traveler, some maybe.

With discarded brush below their feet.

Finding a whimsical way to place mistakes on retreat.


They will amble down a path…

Not seen before.

It is not for the faint of heart.

Nor the timber and brush anything but painted on…stark.


Winged jokers from above will toss leftovers at the scatterings of pride.

However, if one stave’s the course…to not know the ending.

Embarking in finality to that last slope.

A hill seemingly condescending.

Regrets will expose themselves in the longer than usual walk.

A journey out less difficult than once thought.