These are a continuation of this sequence.
She drifts from above,
lying on our resting place,
skin pearl, divine, dead.
Silence reigns down here.
Grey industrial decay,
the cry of dead souls.
Smoke from the pipe and
her perfume by the window.
Neon, rain outside.
Soil and Blood and Death,
divinity comes with pain;
unholy, we rot.
A Yankee Poet in Greenwich Village
Remembering William Butler Yeats:
June 13, 1865–January 28, 1939
Whitsuntide: Sacred Fire, Divine Gifts, & the Quest for the Holy Grail
The Most Dangerous Game: Capital Riddles in Western Culture
Interview with George Burdi: Man Against the Modern World
Mihai Eminescu: Romania’s Morning Star
“He Doesn’t Worry Too Much If Mediocre People Get Killed in Wars and Such” Tito Perdue’s The Smut Book & Cynosura
Jalal El-Kadali’s Oyster Mountain