Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/08/21

Frailty’s Baggage~ Dreaming of Jim Morrison

There is no grief in language
when you’re stricken, cast down,
changes silhouette past silence
pausing sullenly through the
echoing corridors of my mind.
Torn posters without poetry,
without song, without love,
face hopes and fears in the mirrors
of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden,
and his metal heart sweeps through
abandoned philosophy as the curtain
closes on the sensual train.

I want repetition of song, recollection
in truth; to create from the oblique,
denying the erotic, an obeisance to
the power it steals from those of us
who can’t find anything to live for,
but everything to die for. Cast not your
demons of treachery, tears, anger, and
betrayal on me; the elevator is rising.
There’s fumbled endorphins offered
up as a cocktail with some really good
whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the
lily and the rose,

let the bricks soften to deep greens,
let God speak austere though vacant
fields while you grow stillborn
through drugs so sweet. Let the
suicide take on its own craft and magic,
as daylight comes and a stranger’s face
brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming,
in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib
is gone, son of Adam and He shall
have her heart; lowered lids expand as
they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock.
White roses growing in the corner,

lilies dead on the sidewalk.

©2021 Theresa Gaynord All rights reserved.

Theresa Gaynord

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/15/21

Halifax Honeymoon

We spent days sightseeing,
love making in the nights.
Except for the one day
we stayed in, made love twice.
In that deepest slumber
of warm somnambulance,
love heat dreams soon gave way
no matter how such dreams
fought at the forceful dark.

The place, unfamiliar.
I was unsure how young
I was, but the stairs stretched
my legs with each step made
down the dark steep stairwell.
At the bottom was light.
It opened into a room
with one ceiling light on,
a window on the far
side of the room was blacked.
There was nothing in there
except tools on the floor.
I saw no one around
but, I was not alone.

Then I woke up screaming
and my wife embraced me
tighter and sponging up
my cold sweat with her flesh.
Chills faded with her heat.
She calmed me, reassured
that I was safe, awake.

“It’s all over now, hon,
no matter what it was.”
… Yes, it’s all over now,
whatever it had been.

©2021 David Alec Knight All rights reserved.

David Alec Knight

David Alec Knight is from Ontario, Canada and has had poems appear in Wayzegoose, People’s Poetry Letter, Canadian Writers Journal, and Verse Afire. Anthology appearances include The Sandwich/Mill Anthology, 10$ Cash Value: An Anthology Of Assets, Ellipsis…, and By The Wishing Tree. His first collection of poems, The Heart Is A Hollow Organ, will be out before year’s end. David works in healthcare.