Lobster Stuffed With Tacos

Warning: Contains Science Fiction. Don Gloves and Masks.

I Found You

Outside Tang-rein,
where the rock juts up,
concealed in dooling willows
bowed heavy with rain
before moss-covered crags—

I found you, a facsimile of curious
workmanship, crumpled in the weine grass.
By whose means left you
disposed beside the rock, by Maker
or your own power—I knew not.

I brushed aside the flora clung on
your visage of carved oak.
Handfuls of pooled rain rinsed away mud,
Unveiled the mockup of your slender mouth,
eyes frozen in craftsmanship.

I laid you down upon a table,
arms and legs of broken uslang elm,
torn horse sinew; a cross stitch I found,
I unlaced. Inside, beneath a master spring of ash

An egg-shaped husk of agobi melon
placed curiously in your torso,
nestled down in your hips,
oddly soft, warm to the touch.

My knife gingerly pierced the womb’s husk,
pried apart not the sweet meat
dried as market candy, but tendrils
like hoarfrost, an odd fibrous flesh formed
into a figurine, head bowed, hands folded.

You were with child.


In Olden Days

Shinn builds her from out of uslang elm
and horse sinew,
a macabre form, having no name.

She escapes, across a field of geld-gulch,
careening and gesticulating towards town,
clattering feet atop Revatahl Road,
damp cobblestones laid by small hands
whose mothers wept for husbands drunk
on the whores’ Mist.

Before the villagers watching aghast,
Shinn pursues,
watched by an amused Oberlin, 
the Windsheet barkeep,
as the facsimile barrels past
headlong into the corner Shoppe of Tricks.
The exploding cacophony pales
before the brays of Oberlin’s plowing laughter
throughout the market square air.

Upon the wreckage Shinn stares,
cascaded over crushed baskets of plump linsin
and kasards folded from dried dole flowers,
a leg in paroxysm, tension in the main spring
drawing to an end.

“Wha’ she called, this one?” Oberlin howls.
Shinn whispers, “Daughter”
so none could hear.

Upon a Stone Floor

The congregation of Ethril
sings their faith upon a stone temple floor.
Teaan’s song mightily cries
for Kaeril’s return,

who long ago abandoned their covenant bed
for the harlot Maggeda’s prodigious wiles,
left Kaeril to bay miserably outside
the whore’s cottage for mercy credits,
having sold his armor and shield to the pleasures
of mounting her and breathing in her dank mist.

Teaan pleads with Hamril’s gods–
“Iyani, I humble myself before thee.
Guide Kaeril into his children’s arms.
Strip away mine anger to allow
My bodice to receive him warmly!”

Into her kerchief she coughs up

This she hides from the children.

(You Mean A Floor Lamp?)

Black chord protruding,
snaking down the shaft,
the pronged end unmated,
dangling from a knot.

Secured on top
an opaque bowl,
with empty sheath.

in a darkened corner.


Everyday It’s Something (Today It’s National Chocolate Cake Day)

Science Calls It A Day


Soylent Corp. Press Release (May 31, 2020)

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Just Have The Damn Cheeseburger

You pace silently

But you don’t touch milk—

“I lick this ice cream its mine!”

Your ears perk and pan

But don’t hear when called—

“Can has opened, is mine now!”

You sleep all day

but when I’m tired—

“Kneed you wake, play now, it’s night!”

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