the glide that stuck to her fingers

jack booted thug, group of a bullet

threat thereof


to take what he wanted wearing the

muscle, wearing


the cobbler’s nails


blackened stubble on a hardened face

with shallow


depressions where a blade cut in like

furrowed soil


gave coppers the slip down crevices in

mortared walls


carried the jackknife rusted deep down 

a soiled 


pocket with stolen coins, flipped, tails

they lost


held up in four walls and a dirty mattress

dirty sheets


rusty water dripping with intent to  commit

annoying feelings


curtains painted with dust, termites eating



lifting a wallet felt a woman’s hand soft

manicured nails


smelled fresh linen clothing and high heels

short skirt


she ran her index finger under a five o’clock

look got


his undivided


shave and a two bit haircut, three piece with

a gold


chain watch, looking rather sharp, smacked

a kiss


moved to a city loft, big brass bed that spun

sensual intense


reformed, he put on the needle, put on the

record phonograph


she danced the glide that stuck to her fingers

he applauded…


Copyright © 08/13/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®



Called this because you will quite

frankly ‘schist’ in your pants for you

see, you’ve entered the world of the

Nile Crocodile . . . and they do like

to prey on one’s individualistic style.

Whether it be for a quick swim, or

those brazen enough to skinny dip

But sorry, no Tarzan imposters, not

even Edgar Burroughs, and if you’re a

monkey, it’ll be goodbye Mr. Chimps!

Schistosomiasis has a natural feeding

cycle, it likes to attack from within

With humans as its primary meal

When it grabs a hold of any limb

There is an immediate penetration.

And since it can’t really chew raw

food, it does a thing called the death

roll (hold the butter), don’t expect to

emerge, but rather be submerged,

Tucked away for a midnight meal.

When they’re not eating, they like

to sunbathe, but don’t ever expect

to apply sunscreen—after all, at a

length exceeding twenty-one feet,

It would cost a small fortune.

Of course, there is a remedy to

this infliction—simply approach

it stealthily, insert your hand in its

mouth and rip out its teeth—hey

you may even turn it into luggage!


Copyright © 05/28/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry® 


she was well acquainted

cloud gray clawed itself 
across desolate sky,
abandoned space
bright sunlight forbid,
auctioned off;
one little girl, pretty dress,
stood by
the Hedgerow, listened to the
Altdorf chatter,
but not like a street chatter
but with her only friend,
a small, lifeless dollie;
soon, a heavy Peculiar,
much like thick soup
then, she picks up Hedgerow
sharp clipper
gives it a Dwarfen handshake
with scabbed,
small, delicate hands
Hedgerow bush begins to sway,
this way
that way
like a sail on a steam tank,
maize to cut through
the row feels in its texture bark
she, looking for a mother figure
who might cook,
who might sow
in an untilled garden
reap a responsible husband,
or just a father figure
she, follows the Morr’s man,
follows the Morr’s maidens
who sew pretty little dresses
on dollies,
she, be all but years
3 + 3,
then cellar kept
cellar starved,
small mice get caught in a 
secluded spider
her, tears silenced
crying silenced
light through a slit window
shows a hand to
wipe them away,
much as in the one in Ruins
of Rainald throw,
she, once danced with a 
sister where sunshine
dripped through cutout
holes in
abandoned sky
smiles left them like passengers
departing abandoned
train stations,
now, she only talks to herself
now, only talks with a dollie
does the sign of the cross,
does tell truths to Verana
does hum the Grimm tales;
then, Candleheads with the 
black dog hunt,
is she found? wonder
priest along, condemns parents
to the Morr’s cradle
it’s quite permanent
mother swings
husband swings,
plus, her dollie…
she, years older,
train travel
with her sister
baggage carried with gaps
where they once hid,
but one caught, sent away to
Ruins of Rainald
now, baggage tossed under
wheel sound
now, dance together under
Copyright © 05/20/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

sleight of hand

transformed themselves from children to slight
of hand in front of the silver bulb light
two waved flags, all wore turbans, one sat on
a musical chair first after the music
played no more
performed their feats on Saturday at “New Hillsoats
House on Jibbets corner”,
messrs. “Ransleys and Mipps”, proprietors, never let
any riff raff in,
“mrs. Waggett, the vicar’s wife, soul of discretion,
like pocketing a fiver during a church
holy water baptismal,
liked to wink at the choir boys,
she didn’t care to be on any straight and narrow,
not even with holy figures in stain glass
windows looking over her shoulder,
took in their wash on the sabbath,
just like castle serfs who washed crusader’s
crosses in moats of dust;
the children’s legerdemain turned sand into comets,
matches into magic lanterns,
hand fans into whirlwinds, audience members
disappear behind billowing curtains,
and for the pièce de résistance, flew around
“New Hillsoats House” theatre on a
moth eaten carpet
messrs. “Ransleys and Mipps”, proprietors made sure
the three received several curtain calls;
standing ovations were at the foot of their beds
given by parents before the
sandman came,
four watt lightning bugs flew through open windows
and plugged themselves into electrical
the boys had light like dimly lit stage candles which
flickered similar to the vicar’s wife’s romantic
ab·ra·ca·dab·ra, these children transformed themselves
from a set age boundary to adults,
the silver bulb light took a new black and white
of younger clothed with magic
cradled in their slight of hand…
Copyright © 04/13/2012  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®