Isn't it so... mind to hold nothing to keep when shadows turn to dark academia's requiem-maestria midnight's tongue of blasphemies when fingers dance on flesh in the absence of dawn with a scent of tragedy as the shadows play symphony softly winds in atrium's cry as the ghosts of our genius leads us astray to pages rarely read, of requiem-maestria ...isn't it so

Shaking higher the midnight hour letting the allegro roll no slow surrender keeping the wheels turning burning faster until the hum begins to rise like hands sliding up the curve of a spine finding its way to the hunger fingertips tracing the pulse the hollow of a throat tastng the salt of the big naught a rhythm you can’t escape of the silk unraveling like skin on a clock stretching into minutes shaking higher the midnig...

The leather seat groaned under Beau Lucifer shifting weight as he tapped nicotine-stained fingers against the armrest of his throne. A salvaged airline captain's chair bolted to a dais of crushed Cadillacs. Carrying the scent of the taxidermied dead in mason jars, Beau a master piece of sculpted grace reflecting the glorious light of his creator. Now a face of corruption in duality. a Highwayman of sins sitting on his ass...

Beneath the neon lights in a room of a small motel, putting the hoodoo on me with your cat eyes and Mona Lisa smile. Listening to Conway Twitty on the electric radio and watching the way you smoked that cigarette, with your full lips humming. Sipping a cognac, with your fingers tracing my spine and the bedsprings singing a gospel choir. Testifying to our original sin between tangled sheets and bitten sighs. You whisper so...

Lucid stains of dreams echoing defying gravity with shadows of the dark bird. In this void decaying memories touching the ribcage of my mind. Reflecting the ice that burns through the floor dragging me down toward the throat of the night. With the ghost of my quill still wet from the inkpot, the silence stretches into a wire taut between my lobotomy. Disintegrating into insanity, a narcissistic butterfly shrinking into da...

A kiss of Cognac ring of fire from the crystal oyster glass with a scent of warm lips whispering surrender in the amber light the quietest deepest kiss

Nothing can be heard now with the absence of sound and silence of beaucoup of a breathless thing. Touching the soul understanding the willow listening to God and silence of beaucoup

"Once upon a midnight dreary," I whispered to the corpse of my Lenovo, the words slipping from my lips in a cadence not my own—a voice borrowed from a long-dead bard, thick with the weight of centuries and bourbon. The laptop's screen, now black as a raven's wing, reflected my own hollow-eyed stare back at me, a ghastly specter trapped in its obsidian surface. The corpse of my Lenovo sat upon the desk like a cursed tome,...

Sniffing the wildwood flower that blooms in the inkwell of my mind, where once there were woods. Now insanity vines deeper than my tattoo of grief—I carve the veins in Mama’s wrists, blue as the bruises left by her last lover. The one who didn’t stay long enough to see her wither. Not as she was at the end, but younger, grinning with a cigarette dangling from her chipped front tooth. The smoke curls up past my fingers, th...

I bring you this: a bouquet of shadows beneath my ink. They are not flowers, but the lingering shapes of things that departed before they were ever truly gone. Les longs adieux. The slow, agonizing drain of the tide, not the crash of the wave. You told me the city was just a collection of bones, but I know it is a city of ghosts, a sprawling, sun-drenched, desolate, and beautiful nightmare of eucalyptus and broken glass....

The bard’s fingers hover over the ledger, ink pooling beneath the quill’s nib at the end of the day, when cognac makes thoughts grow deeper than the waters where the flamingos unfurl their wings, touching the rhythm we call life between syllable and shadows in the body… we call insomnia, what others might call ghosts or insanity—hearing whispers: “Polly, want a cracker.” Tallying his mañana, he scrawled debits between fin...

Aye, the nib doth part the flesh of the page, slow as a thief in a sepulchre’s shade— not with haste, nay, nor with the clatter of some dullard’s hammer, but with the whisper of a blade parting silk. Here, in this parlour of shadows, where the candle gutters like a dying saint, I spill not ink but the slow ichor of thought, black as a widow’s lace, thick as confession unfurled in the hush of the confessional. The parchmen...

With each drop of ink fall, fading to indigo, twilight’s measured rhythm unfurling. On the night into a world of its own, feeling each drop of oxygen. Soft as the blooming fog, a secret, with the dying light, memoirs of the quill. Its spine cracks beneath the weight, of every word unsaid, forged and forgotten. Sheets curl away like fists unclenching, whispering stories to the damp air. The scent of old paper, warm whiskey...

The steam uncoils like a whispered lie, a ghost in the curl of a tea-leaf, —black as a raven’s sigh, but something lingers, steeped too hot. Not leaves, but darkness, swirling slow, a stain that clings to porcelain bone, it pours like ink, but thicker still— drink deep, and taste what isn’t there. The throat remembers, it was never just tea, it was crumpets for you and me, and the shadow that does not dissolve, —oh, Sweet...

Tuesday: 4 PM… once upon my midnight dreary as I sat hibernating with a bottle of Jose Cuervo, after tripping over my shadow in a nocturnal dance desecrating my creeping insomnia. An acolyte of the dark academia, until the final page is full, or the darkness finally scribbles out my name, with a symphony whispering to the daffodils.