Autumnby The Little Witch

Summer is in the back of her throat, wrapped in a delicate wax paper mache of tropic banana leaves. 

The clouds in the sky above her look like puffy coat lapels, or like pubescent pouts post the negative vacuum of a shot glass per the Kylie Jenner lip challenge.

All around, the leaves craft aeolian chrysalises; you can taste the pre-gold fulvid beer, and the sumptuous boudin noir in their pigments.

Leaves of Uruguayan blood pudding lie crisp in the grass; next to them, icy orange peels with sugar rinds that are buttoned down with tumeric candied dates. Rich head cheese jellies and prairie oysters paint colors of carné on ash blonde lawns.

Autumnby paints gold dust on underbrush flanking the dirt path through the woods. Her chocolate brown afro curls turn a cool blue in the dusk. 

She is swathed in an oversized white plush cowl, her bluish curls making a halo around her mahogany face. 

Her magic swirls around her; fall time fortunes fill an ivory tusk cornucopia with the pollen of golden wish dust: crabapples, hard cider, maize moonshine, fermented berries and buttery gourds tumble from her lips into the fog.

Autumnby hangs wishes from the coat hooks of peeling tree bark, from the lose threads in dew studded spider webs, and from the figgy purplish-sables of rotting rose thistles.

Have you seen this little witch granting wishes in your neck of the woods today?


Beach Bomb 

At dawn, Cuban cigar smoke and Cognac buff the cloud bluffs till they shimmer gold.

Midday is painted with Gordian knot, unsolvable blue, blue that invokes the totem Deva of the salt sea;

The eventide’s sea is a ruched ballet satin, foaming with teardrop lace; and pudendal pink with wine set of sun and starlight.

Guazy mauve illumines cloud nine; the brined air wefts icy, tulle cirrus; and suggests meteorological moksha.

I wish I could disappear in a swish; 

get gone 

like a chandelier of clean rain 

cascading in a water closet; I’d go down the shower drain in a vortex, my portal’s cirrus spinning like the geometry of wind turbines, and I’d  make a single formulaic glass rose before gurgling to nihil. 

I’d go like 

the waves that draw back their 

jeweled seafoam hamsas from the seething kettle of flambé sands.

Then I would have moksha: freedom.


Can I pull myself out of my own shadow; from some meta, superstructural rabbit hole of
cocoa darkish velvet?

I try
to pull my soul by the nose
out of the mirrors
of my pelvis

I go up the seraphic
forever-wed staircase;

It’s all
sewed with wedding bands;
it’s a
moonlight pantheon            ,

upholstered in
bottle ∆blond∆[¢land]∆est∆[ine] gold
and opulent sunrise yellows.

It rounds bends like a baby-
soft helix of satiny DNA;
a strain of.          singular.      

(bottle blondestclandestine

Here, the sky materializes
in a rush of shamanic violet;

waves of mauve sky fleet
towards beaches of
frosted glass, their
frozen time’s sands
glitzy and illumined
by black lights.

Witch’s Eden

The druid
conjures ice frosted
angel’s tears
from the carrion

She builds gold-foiled
canoe-crescent suns;

They’re a bioluminescent
Incan yellow, like
the souls of
deceased wildflowers

The sorceress makes blood
from pulverized
rose petals.

She is a white rose
in the misty gloaming,
and a swan at
the crystal dawn.

Her metamorphic
is written in claret on
the pudendal
walls of Eden.


A steampunk Rolls Royce
floats on a yashmak of virga;

it’s a sporty castle in a closet
with ceilings as high as
god’s sole’s;

from the outside, this vehicle
of meaning is a flying chariot,
like Howl’s moving

Virginal Virgil is vvriting
under a canopy of orchid
colored thighs.

In the balmy
garden of heresies
time is like a groundwater
sundial: underneath you but
it moves with the gravitational
force of shadows.

Here, the gilded virgin Mary
studies the lusty zoosemiotics
of feral humans through a tiny microscope.

The Pyramid of Lost Treasures

The Mummy’s Eye is an aqueous globule forged from champagne colored garnet stone. It’s chatoyant eye winkles under a continuum of gold sunlight; buoyant flecks of silver dust drift on the yellow air within this opulent tomb. Explorers have searched for King Tutankhamen’s enchanted thyrsus, now worth millions, for centuries.

Now, here in the ruined Atlantis of this magical mausoleum, I’ve discovered the holy grail of ancient artifacts. I reach a deeply tanned finger out to touch the ghostly scepter, all crusted in precious candy colored jewels. I touch the succulent Egyptian Eye as if it were a dripping forbidden fruit.

Suddenly, a gust of sparkling, wine colored wind bowls me over. The wind’s smell is musty, like old scrolls covered in downy soft mounds of lint, dust, and gems; as the wind dies, the smell is imbued with the dusky scent of wet, fresh roses.

I taste wine and honey on the air, and see the stellar constellations of the zodiac glowing on the tomb’s high ceiling.

Golden hieroglyphics form a mystical, golden helix in the air; suddenly, a regal form materializes before me: it’s King Tut, dripping in gold like an immortal honey comb.*

Fun Fiction: Mystery Manor Part 1

During the gay, roaring twenties there lived a celestial blue blood named Heiress Claire Voyánt. During the Jazz age, she was a regal flapper in her early thirties.

Voyánt had icy, thaumaturgic features: her hair was moonshine liquor; her eyes were tobacco, or maybe a smoldering, gun barrel color; her skin was ethereally white, and tactilely cool.

The heiress’s wealthy relatives regarded her as The Platinum Vampiress. Similarly, some of the beaus from her phalanx of gold digger suitors termed her, rather affectionately, Mar Belle, for her glacial integument. Nobody ever seemed to call her Claire.

On top of that, nobody ever seemed to survive long enough to tell the secrets of her pharaoh treasures. Her boyfriends always perished by turns both violent and occult.

As for her family, those who were left in the land of the living all had one thing in common: they kept their yaps off of Claire. Mum was the word.

A friend of mine who thought himself charmed in life, coincidentally became one of her favorite beaus. He met her at her pretty cousin’s debut. Voyánt had worn a leggy, sequined number with a split up to her hip. Devon couldn’t resist her curvaceous hypnotics.

He spoke of her and their burgeoning quasi romance one evening, while we were having a postprandial smoke. Their fling looked more like one sided polyamory to me, with him being just another biscuit in her tin.

“Darlington, this girl’s my golden ticket, she’s a genie in a black dress!”

“Dev, I think it’s too soon to be planning pensions.”

“Oh no it isn’t, Darl. She’s bored to death, and she thinks I’m exciting–”

Devon took a deep, excited drag from his steaming fag. I just looked at him. Dev went on,

“The heiress has been sated in gold her whole life: she’s got a mausoleum like trove of precious jewels; she’s got vaults of endless money;

She owns an oyster farm that produces rare violet pearls, she sleeps in fine black silks, and even owns The Scarlet Eye of Re, an enormous ruby that she calls her ‘pet blood sapphire’!

A woman like that doesn’t know what to do with all that money. Nothing is novel to her except for poverty and white bread.”

He stares into the misty gray night, his nostrils spilling elongated curls of smoke.

“I’m going to marry this girl,” he says resolutely, “if it’s the last thing I do.”

Suffice it to say that he was crazy about her Grace Kelly looks, and crazier about her money.

He intended to live like a neo-monarch, but wound up, not surprisingly, dead.

In the weeks following Devon’s passing, I hired a private eye to dig up some dirt on the Platinum Vampiress. Her records were squeaky clean thanks to her ablutionary money.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when she called to invite me to a private dinner party. I couldn’t refuse, she insisted, as the last relic she had in the world of Dev’s.

I told her that I could eat and she laughed.

Her property was a lush hillside château with Gothic fixings, featuring a grandiose rose arbor; this garden was smattered with marble angels, empty champagne bottles, and fairy lights.

On her estate, I drove under a contrived canopy of flowering trees. The mist took on a strange, necromantic tint. Purplish petals accompanied the emerald rain as I knocked on the large doors to her castle.

The castle doors moaned as they opened, revealing the Vampiress  bedecked in a stunning floor length evening gown of glimmering gold and silver.

Around her neck was a choker of large rubies, and in her hand a limpid quicksilver weapon: She clutched a dagger with a hilt of blood sapphires.**************”