Sunday 21 February 2021

Three Poems by Z M. Wise

Crypt Tonight

How delightfully morbid,
the dreary air sings softly this eve.
How delightfully mad,
the cobwebs form a silhouette of your entrance.
I hung a miniature skeleton on your door’s exterior.

Cinematic slashers hang as still life.
Three-dimensional bladed fingers reach out and touch me.

That location on the floor where
we could not contain ourselves,
giving ourselves over to the lips of thirst.
Wicked for you, darling…
villainous to the bitterness of 
vino rojo.

Incense symphony plays on the
tips of our accustomed Saturday nostrils.
Let the spiced smoke beckon us
to a dancefloor sans musical rhythm.

She invites you in to her crypt tonight.
My weakness, her house of darkness.

Her records of eclectic taste
reek of refreshing attitudes.
The humorous soundtrack to 
how we would guffaw at his quips.
Underground punk rock anthology
makes me dig deeper into the hushed spectrum.

Two felines guard her hallowed temple,
one elderly and lethargic, cigar-induced coughs,
one lady of human teenage years.
She clings to affection like lifeblood.


Her yellow brick road couch,
where our arms first gave in
to one another…
your peaceful aura against my
fantasy-laden heartbeat.
I cared not what was on the tube,
just as long as your body’s mind warmed mine.

She invites you in to her crypt tonight.
My Achilles’ heel, the ability to feel.

Shì Bàn Gōng Bèi

Tanya Tango,
a stitch in time saves nine.
Your effort, a will-o-the-wisp of defeat.
Lost in the trenches they
climbed out of in wartime.
Every spice and dried rose petal
you added turned your virgin moon
into yet another rioting barrier.

Tanya Tango,
I declare that your war
is officially over, yet the
hum of anxiety’s minions
that burrowed themselves like moles
in your chocolate orifices of vision.
Lead me astray…oh, to die another dawn-trodden day.
Bang my gong, pollute my organ.

Tanya Tango,
catharsis’s definitions are interchangeable when
burying yourself under six feet of 
vino blanco.
The blush in your desert face,
succumbed to a Wilde fire.
I miss your laughter like I
miss the paleness of wintry streets
on Chicago’s exposed medians.

Tanya Tango,
away with me in the spiritus
you transform into every eight suns.
A kiss from you in city lights,
a couch affection session on the
stage of intimacy’s backbone.
Loss of fluidity in spine of metaphors.
But, then…this was always a stage.

I Don’t Fall in Love

Ragas play for me on Hindustani scales,
the Eastern music of universal light.
Pebbles sink themselves under a childhood lake.
Moonlight’s mutterers argue nevermore.
Sunlight’s stutterers suggested we explore each other’s core,
an activity I know all too well in which we partake.

Of deepest root, I stand by my homeland’s tree,
firmly planted in a civilized jungle.
Mother Connection aligns with Terra,
ensuring that no faithful servant of nature will stumble.

Sorry to have known that your tales have
spun into yet another web of deceit.
Arachne, princess extraordinaire, turns obsolete.

All that is love struggles to be heard.
All that is love remains to be seen.
I don’t fall in love with the Jack of All Trades
and I don’t fall in love with the Sumerian Queen.
I don’t fall in love with Gilgamesh’s paranoia
and I don’t fall in love with the Gardenia’s forevergreen.

Senseless is the suffering I face,
day in and day out of this cyclical corridor.
Revelations swarm in the forms of epigraphs.
Sunday’s constant judgment silences the mourning weeper.
Millennium’s Silver Era has come for the scythe of the Reaper.
I melted the golden calf on an unnerved deity’s behalf.

Have you ever been in love, Daemon Pauper?
Have you gazed upon the uncertainty of the unknown?
Have you ever fallen in love, Daemon Childe?
Have you ever touched the center of the wishing stone?


Lady Sage, I call upon you to
reap the benefits of the prophecies you foretold.
Empty marriage carries me over the tombstone’s threshold.

All that is love inherits the storm crow dust.
All that is love belongs to the Common Epoch of Being.
I don’t fall in love with the Wilderness of Jokers
and I don’t fall in love with the Damnation King.
I don’t fall in love with Medusa’s fate
and I don’t fall in love with the Gardenia of Futile Things.

Z.M. Wise, a proud Illinois native from Chicago, poet, essayist and co-editor.

1 comment:

  1. Not sure what it all means but I like the words used.


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