House of Heart

It is too soon
to prune but wilted petals

wave provocatively from a
bowing trellis

among the bent stems the sun is pleasing to bare shoulders.

Pulpy worms are sweet to scavenging tongues of hungry birds

plucked without warning from spidery veins of leaves

Elongated roots relentlessly war with nicked and bleeding fingers

I know it it is too early but chaotic gardens long for control
once again.


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Princess Blue Holly – 2

PBH super hero, advocate for the earth, animals, assault on women (and men) eco crimes etc. is getting quite a following and (quote unquote Resa) “She will clean one’s clock w/ titanium boots featuring retracting needles loaded with concentrated poison berry venom.” So, please enjoy the amazing artwork of Resa and get on the bandwagon. Princess Blue Holly.

Graffiti Lux Art & More

Princess Blue Holly is the first Superhero who changes outfits, crime dependant!

Above: Princess Blue Holly avenges Crimes Against Animalsin her Cat-O-Nine Tails ensemble. The 9 tails braid themselves into 1 tail in the back, when not in use. Best not to get lashed with a tail! The ends are equipped w/ spiny holly leaves & poison berries. Scratches, with berry juice seeping in, will make you see the light.

It all began with Crazy Free Art to music. I wanted to draw PBH, but she already has an outfit. I went renegade, & just did what I felt like. It’s scribbly, but we thought this could be an outfit to avenge Eco Crimes, Monsanto specifically!

Holly & I are working on PBH, together. Click on the poem, and visit her blog!

Below: Princess Blue Holly decks out for a night of fighting Crimes in a City’s Dark…

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This Winter

I will  indulge the unconventional.

On a  mossy  hill behind a mock castle

we will  read Aristophanes  to harems

of nymphs as they strum their Lyre for you.

While  you transform words into wings

flitting the hearts of lovers I will

contemplate the perfect angle of your face,

breathe the amber resin of pine that

permeates our senses.

There  in the unruffled pools of your eyes

I will die just a little.





wheat fields rolling

give me your story
minute as a wish on a star
Did you run through blowing
wheat fields your yellow hair flying
those secrets of the heart
give them to me
I am swallowed up longing
When you fall I form a scar
read to me  of  love and life
those petals closing in the dark
stay lest I fade away.
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Beautiful !

My Sword and Shield....

In that instant
I saw for the briefest of moments
The evening horizon reflected
In the dark pools of her eyes
And I can’t
For the life of me
Remember having seen anything
Before that

Scribes came
From the four corners of the land
Spilling dusty tomes
From the folds of their robes
Upon the mosaic floor
I poured through them
one by one
Ancient texts, encompassing
The whole of creation
Eveything that ever was or will be
And there was no entry
To be found
For Her

The ink on these pages
A pigment formed from the ashes
Of the birth of creation
Emblazoned here
Upon the pulped memory
of a tree born long before my shadow was ever cast by our sun
Her soul was no work of creation
It was prelife
Beyond anything that could be considered

I took up my sword
With rusted edge

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Pagan Dreams

In dreams my

spirit guide is a Peregrine Falcon

with  wings open wide still

she never flies through ancient

pathways  filled with wood

and dark  amber resin

even in dreams she concedes

she is  not  a  bird but never

really earthbound.


Image result for Karol Bak art bird lady

art by Karol Bak

Posh – by Gurkski

Pick up the pieces

House of Heart

Drab morning, no aperitifs.
Someone left a suitcase monster filled with Marihuanilla.
You are still sleeping, opened  to my peeping eye,
your auburn hair anarchistically fanned out on the pillow.
I put on Monk and  return to serious business,
rolling overweight Mexican calumets and
while I meditate on the perfect shape of your breasts
I inhale to wed my self to life again.
Three joints later all has become lovelier and
I bow down to make lips meet.  “Coffee, my sweet?”.
You bite my ear,  ” frappé!”
I smile, ” oh, Greek”.

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From the train window I can see miles of Pines, they seem to go on forever. There’s a golden wolf howling at the moon, chanting to the midnight Gods. By morning that will give way to Palm trees and screeching Cicadas. Tonight the stars reveal the belly of the world that we all come from. What I have left is a photograph. Tell me night-time dreamer, why you hold so many secrets in your heart. When we look into each other’s eyes
all we see is star dust.