dewy gew

dewy gew

tacky steam strings seem to
sneak filthy figures into
gang drench dreams

drips of nocturne’s nectar
cleave moist lips’
surreal seams

hot butter spreads wet on hips’
sway to shape-shifter waters

blistered, lava mist
come forth molten kiss,
non existent

soggy fragrant flames in
in tangled, pleasure angles

of trembling lank limbs
stemmed frisky 

petals parched
in weeping hours

© Anthony Gorman 2019






Grumpy’s friend, Gwen

Every ghost boy needs a friend.  When you’re grumpy, and you turn away when you’re spoken to, building bridges to more joyful places can be tough.  Friends are hard to come by when you’re pulling blinds closed all the time.  She took my hand, her name was Gwen.  As kindred souls, we swirled many evenings of wine and write into our minds. 

gwen house

Once a flame, now a friend, she continues to write her nights away while teaching drama to students with a lust for obstinance.  Gwenever runs a farm, a family, and chases dreams to the edge of their cliffs.  As lost as I, in hooks of songs and worries of adults,  she sent me this poem, which I now share-



Sometimes the muse is blindfolded
Gifts are granted in a game of
Truth or date.

Determined by the
Flip of a coin.

You stumble into

The day you were born,
Your new family took you home.
The request of your mother,
Afraid to keep you
Her past life calling.



Struggling between worlds
You try to
Dream in double-time.

Closest I’ll ever have to friend, Gwen lit my fuse and watched me fizzle and pop.  She’s true, she’s worked, she’s blue.

Her blog is Brushed With Mystery

brushed with mystery

and she would be honoured if you would stop by and say hello.  The world would be a lonely place without Gwens.

Thank you for reading,