an Absurdist Aliens’ Allegory


His grandfather’s last name was Inoswego –

He was robed in feverish thinking –

an Absurdist Aliens’ Allegory

etched on the eyes


ascetic, harshly featured saints.


His shaky hands,

like an octopus swimming in a hot broth,

wrote the lines in stark rainbows

on the walls of his twilight room.



In the land of the Chimera,

every tchotchke, doodad, and artifact bear,

their own menagerie of incorruptibles,

are sitting quietly, in cabinets and on shelves;

there will I meet you again.


Remember, that place,

full of days

bound by the wind and walnut shells ?

I used to live in anticipation,

full of stencilled shadows –

your hair spiralled,

clinging to the sleeping breeze,

even as regret turned


complex spatial structures,

a portable triptych


equations of albatross bones & frozen feathers.


Matter, aesthetically turned into Moebius strips,

twines between corridors,

echoing a more archaic art –

Grail Sine sighs

with your footsteps

on corroded rugs.



Tears of sand traced

memories on your face –

I’ll give you ten thousand kisses,

and then,

Ten times more

beneath the gold striations

on drenched draperies.


No one knows whether the initials

are those of the print-maker,

the book binder, the book-scald-presser,

the book’s owner, a whale-skinner,

a misplaced patron – or

the intangible incarnation of the deceased –

remnants of an artist with a refined sensibility,

like rose petals beneath the cactus.


Asemic Tarot Card 45 – The Metaphor Fabulist

The body of the River, suffering from depression, steals away her daughter – climbing up to a small mountain village isolated from the wild narratives of the North, dreams layered like fine silk, formed by the unpredictable world.


Odeon metaphors climb tall Epithets –

leaving behind Pitiful Hats.

Oxymorons exude bittersweet

Xotty Yellow Mirrors,

Ornate Onions,

found near surprising juxtapositions,

that cling to ephemeral epistles.


The Sparks sanguinely sing.

Grains of cumin

gently fall into the sleeping becks.

This folklore has crafted

a comforting poignant calibration –

jumping kitchen sinks

hopscotch across ceiling tiles

to the beat of Celtic reels –

flips and flickers,

fear-caring effervescent spirit tongues

touching Truth.


Bbq’d perogies brown,

crisp & swell,

bursting open –

a congregation of butterflies.



In the small Forest of Oxymora, history is woven in moss & mirrors of starfish monologues . Hidden Kelp becomes a poet in the sky. This has a history of inevitable reflections and philosophic pointillism.



Fabulism – “a range of non-realist narrative” or a literature of the fantastic which includes, but is not necessarily limited to magic realism, slipstream, literary science fiction, new weird, modern fable, fairy tale, literary horror, and surrealism. I resist the idea of one clear definition and refuse to draw a solid line between genres as I actually prefer to blur them. Most definitions, like manifestos, tend to exclude and qualify to the point of being useless to any practice of writing for wholeness and mystery, which I feel is an original gift of the muse. (Editor David Memmot of Wordcraft)


Tale of the Seven Brothers

Here is a short tale about seven brothers and what happened to them.




A very long time ago there were seven brothers who lived in a village. Over time, one by one, the brothers died, until finally only one was left. Eventually, he also died of old age.



Those who knew the last of the brothers, felt his loss, and those who knew him hardly at all were less touched by his passing. That’s the way it goes. Of course this all happened long after the nine legged horse ran along the ridge just beyond the village, and Farmer Brown’s largest pumpkin hatched into a scarlet peacock that carried off Miss Margery. Well, some villages are like that.