Carnivorous plants are once again in bloom at Calliope Nerve. Three sticky-fresh museflowers await you: here, here and here.

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3 new poem-eggs have hatched in Thirteen Myna Birds’ nest. Peruse the hatchlings before they fly off here: 13 myna birds

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I’m your marigold candle, lighting the way home…
My poem Dia de los Muertos (1) is now summoning the ghosts in the qarrtsiluni: Transformation issue.
The altar awaits for you here: qarrtsiluni

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Go against the grain in linear fashion. Issue 1 of the new journal grain short/grain long is live, with my poem Ether-bound happily ensconced within its dimensions.
Leap in abandon here: grain short/grain long

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Seductive mucilage has arrived for a limited time! The chapbook collaboration between the luscious Juliet Cook and myself, CARNIVORACIOUS, is now available exclusively from Blood Pudding Press. Each poetess has cultivated 5 poems based on carnivorous plants for your nightly nitrogen fix.
Stick your finger in a Venus Flytrap here: Blood Pudding Press. Now. Right now.

I’m delighted to report that CARNIVORACIOUS has sold out!

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Contemplate a life come and gone. Danse Macabre 18 Aschenbrödel features Dia de los Muertos (2) from my Day of the Dead series.
The calaveras awaits you here: Danse Macabre

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My poem Why I hate beerocks from my True Childhood Poems series has been charted and graphed into the latest issue of Sein und Werden labeled sein, cos, tangent, juxtaposed next to Juliet Cook’s symmetrical piece, a pair of conjoined twins waiting to be studied and dissected.
Wrap your left-brain around it here: Sein und Werden 

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Little red pinpricks glistening in the sun. The latest issue of blossombones is ready to draw some blood, including my poem Incarnadine.
Get over your fear of needles here: blossombones summer 08

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Fresh from the oven: three burnt croissants on a pink poison doily ready for consumption in the Spring 2008 issue of  Wicked Alice.
Sink your teeth in here: Wicked Alice

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Otoliths 9 has nestled my poem Pointillist among the bones.
Excavate here: Otoliths

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New creeping onto the scene: ECTOPLASMIC NECROPOLIS from Blood Pudding Press, the one-off magazine of delicious/malicious literary delicacies, featuring my poem The Patient, along with 29 other jucy poetic offerings from a variety of succulent writers.
Ooze over here: Blood Pudding Press

Now to find someone to publish it. Or perhaps my own Black Kotka Press will do it.  That way I have complete creative control. But it would be nice if someone else wanted to do it for me. BKP will be bringing Carnivalia to the masses for their ecstatic pleasure already!!!

Vicodin Flytrap

Bitter pills. The bleating the bleeding the beading of sweat like dew. The ache to drip into the sweet abyss. Seal me shut, airtight, hermetic hermit in a hydro poison bath. Bathed in shivers. Awash in the tremors of desire of on-fire lust of needing to trust the hand willing to sew the lips shut. The prick of tiny unicorns with barbed wire treats that ping the meat in twitching legs. Needles like leaves dipped in sticky saliva lick my fleshy fat clean. Unhinged by twin horns by a devil’s trick by a night in nepenthe armour. Lancet on his white steed. He’s found the Holy Grail. Swallow whole. Deep in the throat. Dissolve into bleating cells bleeding cells beating carnivorous bitter cells eating me complete.

no way out
of the nitrogen night
the creepy crawly
hidden in a harm(ful)less
pretty flower pout

begging pollination
penetration
oozing sticky sweet
invitation inside

whisper in foreign tongues
exotic language
lures with promise
florets reaching for their sun

diamond teeth
hot bated breath
lays in wait beneath
a fresh

hint of death delicious
and ill-fated

Oo Triptych
1.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stranger. Cracked hatched and eyelashless. We
need aviation here. I am fearful of heights.

He reaches across many streets, arm outstretched, to where I sleep. I am
carinate now. There are 3 fresh eggs in my nest. I didn’t feel a thing.

2.
Clippings scatter; they spot the down cover. Wings flutter
with fanfare but I am no angel.
We aren’t meant to be caged. Our path has been laid.

He breaks my ovaries with skill. Warms the skillet
to scramble my yolks. Mitosis  with one hooked bite.
I consume my future. My beak is pure.

3.
It didn’t make it.
The fledgling fetus.
Fresh from the shell.
Pushed.
Or fallen.
Carrion for vultures.

And I knew how it felt.
And my swollen heart broke.
And I saw myself.
And I knew what I was.
And I buried it in the hole
the vultures left in my throat

when they ate my song.