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Red Ice

The write was written
red ice
twice bitten
his soul a black clot

a faucet for a neck
she fell in a crepuscular fold
odor of tincture fuckubus

red mouth
a snarling kiss
a hot hiss chariot
a black bite

her womb spread wide
for a tongue that didn't end

nail polished nipples
like torn cherries
soft gauze tourniquet
a slow yield
milk petals and rivulets

a ghastly confection
leaning over like a spilled pot

so much for the kitchen gods

her gullet a metropolis of jewels
forced throat bound
on a black cross

she sailed on a magic carpet
like a vampires fizz cocktail
a red ice float
of starvation
his mind a dead sky
a pageant of coiled clouds

he held her down
she levitated

they were in love

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
sexual content ..vampirism
Editing stage: 


I was recently in the Dali museum in St. Petersburg and I imagine your poem as a Dali painting. It reads like a narrative you see in the still moments of painting. The details listed in nice poetry. I suppose there is stuff that went into it that don't have to be known, like what was going through Dali's mind when he entitled a small work "Skull with its lyric appendage leaning on a night table which should have the exact temperature of a cardinal bird nest" And the images of that painting are just mesmerizing.

Have you illustrated this poem? It works nice as a poem, but I think would have more impact with illustrations. For vampire and nonvampire lovers alike.

I think your poem can only go so far, as can a surrealist dream. What I guess I mean by that is that not all poems exist after the moment of reading. Those that do you keep coming back to, because their truths keep coming back as truths, as poetic truths. It has a philosophy outside the poem. You are attempting something in the last line, which I don't fully get (where? in love) but perhaps, as an example, get this
"love" into the poem the poem can use that as it's universal draw.

As you have suggested to me that my work lacks a certain rawness of intensity. I am not disagreeing, and am considering that as I am writing lately. My suggestion to you is to find a way to get some of the erotic power to jump out into a universal- just for example, like Leda and the Swan by Yeats, using the myth:

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

It is had for me to review all your work, it takes so much time for me to analyze and
to give you a proper read. But I'm trying!


I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

You Know Mark because you work so diligently I hold you in highest esteem and your reviews always cause me the deepest reflection which I thrive upon and truly thank you for.

were in love typo DAH

It occurs to me some poems music art etc. are iconic. Zeitgeist come to mind
Some books are read by many others by only a few who are perhaps touched or even changed by them. Alejandro Jodorowsky had few fans but those who loved his work where mad for it
I saw El Topo 3x I was shocked and thrilled by the initial death scenes and loved the story of a souls passages and transformation, Jodorowsky made films about him self The terrors of his youth and his liberation through Buddhism

I would love to be to be a celebrated poet , even a film maker of dark pornographic erotic art or as you suggest to make visual art to comingle with poems but for reasons complex that cannot happen at the moment

But to get back on point about your insight that my poems can only go so far absent perhaps of some universal relatability I think that is right but if I may disagree not bereft of philosophy all though one not commonly held and it has never been lost on me, always gnawing. Further I may suggest that I know exactly why In other words My view of it is Im a poet of the ID I write about the secrets people keep from themselves; the dark thing that lives within. The need to be loved in the most unholy of ways
A kind of erotic comatose lucidity generated by imbalances of power How pain can be pleasure promised How dissolution is seductive to passives, the ultimate feminine.
I'm steeped in years of the occult, S & M , ie all the crepuscular folds of the subconscious, so how is that gonna go far? I have feared to put up some of my poems up here because they embrace the out of bounds. I may be crazy but I'm not that stupid and on second thought I may do it anyway >%@)_%?!

The pay off for me is that on occasion someone very special will come into my life and tell me I'm writing about them That they feel that someone understands them and yes Mark I'm a scourge to those who embrace certain forms of normalcy

Philosophically and spiritually axiomatic of the left handed path
Crowley writes
" Do what thou wilt is the whole of the law;
love is all , love under will"

What it means is one must be there authentic self and that it is kind of a suicide to ignore ones primal nature, ie demonic side and to shut it down. Its not to say one should transgress the will of others , not at all, but on some level one must integrate and acknowledge and feed the totality of ones self or go mad or just fade to grey and drown in neurosis an outgrowth of repression; losing ones vitality and destroying ones heath to fit the mold of group think Incidentally this occultism remains foundational to psychology

Demons Embrace

i constantly feel the need
to express to you
my inner unreasoned
masturbatory stream of consciousness.
and i want you to know
i consider it an immense luxury and privilege
for you to be so kind
as to stand
under my ghastly orchard

my darkest poems
blood letting streams
are a kind of erotic
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
well of torments
a soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling cunt lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures

exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils

because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment

while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas

out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us

muffled ticks
and splintered sticks

My poems let my demons out

yoo hoo it's me
my name is Pinky Lee
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies

in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted

To be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold

bind it not
nor let it bind you

author comment

give me your email if thats ok and ill send you some images of my latest work
My art work at least in part feeds a different side of me A need to make something remarkable hypnotic seductive to the mind, a different vector of creativity

author comment

you dwell on the past
whereas you must
your own mind cast
let it last
till the day's sunset

if its worth a come back
then the sun will say, yes
else just collapse
in the cauldrons of time
you are just an ordinary point of mime
worth less than a dime

create such poetry
out of your own will
which will render a dying man still
to hold on to his last breath
his last sun has set...

Remember the Rose

Youth shrivels away
as one comes of age

I pass away from this page
just remember me
as a Lover poet
an Anonymity
as does a Rose
symbolize it for the human being
past present and future
for generations gone
those yet to seed

The Rose alone never dies
as in pages of books it always lies
as a hall mark of time!

Is this worthy of a second read?

A lovely write to heed Lovedly

author comment

it is deeply embedded in the bardic soils. Long live the rose!
There are yet many hours of sun before the sunsets beneath the clouds!

It is unique that the comments require poetry to respond to the polemics. Each poem, like a train of consciousness, proceed with poetic intent. Such makes a poet. I was just playing my guitar, playing Bach, and it's so hard, you must play every day, keep your technique sharp, it takes little time for the fingers to forget...same with poetry. You must write every day, keep your muse sharp.

Your comments reveal the intent:

" My poems let my demons out"

"Remember the Rose"

In each of these poems are images, words, ideas that shape a poem like a drawing
for a painting. There are very strong lines, both are confessional in the extreme,
like a letter written in poetry. Each is very personal and revealing. They need a little carving and coloring to be a totally polished work.
But they are a wonderful way to communicate to me, personally, and I thank you for this sharing. You are each reaching out, trying to touch, and so I answer you with a poem, I think you might have seen:

And You Touch Back

We wear each other’s reflection
We carry each other’s shadow

We wear each other’s sorrows
We carry each other’s terror of darkness

Some guide us to pillars of marble
Others lead us to the wildflowers

At times my eyes see the veils of northern light
That times others see the dew of milky way

We can wear each other’s smiles
We can hide in the masks of sadness

So these words touch you somewhere
And you touch back.


El topo 3x...yeah...I've also seen "Wings of Desire" and "Fellini Satyricon" and "The Thief of Bagdad" a few times each too.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

Thank you for that and your beautiful touching poem
Yes "Fellini Satyricon" more times than I can remember
Demons embrace is an older poem written when I first started
Your critiques of my work grow within and are transformational in the best of ways

It is not lost on me that a review is painstaking work and even if I push back its because there's something I don't get yet, haven't yet assimilated or need clarification on

I believe my newer work like "red ice" is cleaner Your mentorship advances my writing so just know I'm always delighted to hear from you I read every word and apply myself to process

Thanks Always

author comment
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