SpindleA Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe) A collection of closely related poems. There are ten of different lengths. Some are quite long, some are relatively short. If you have the time, give them a read. It would be much appreciated. -R.J-
Stray
Spindled quivers of limericks ventriloquist the nymph of incubus Cherry chimaera of neoclassical lassoed alabaster grasslands dilapidated That brim in swimming linen infinity The ineligible dwelling of melancholy swelling parhelion Melody quelling in the belly of evangelical elegy The char of bulbous knowledge samsara rubbing off On scratchy pathogens of hands in the stained glass pastures (Intermingling among dried riverbeds of wasted tears) Braille gales of coattail tornadoes Somersaulting polymers like amaryllis melodies Chthonic discombobulated symbiotic mantras of flora and fauna Saunter (acoustic nucleus) altocumulus plumage illuminating Ruminating in the clementine fermented heavens Of hallucinogenic genesis Spindling cylindrical prisons Of indigo behind closed windows That schism incendiary in the timid rhythm Of windbreakers of barren prairies Bearing varicose caricatures Eras of vicarious marionettes, Blossoming aquamarine Apothecary broth of over-frothing mockingbirds Of crepuscular death A Gregorian chant As the skeletons dance blessed By the echo(es) of effervescent Nephilim Who hold scepters of crescents In a rambling megalomanic canopy of hands Threads of poinsettia treading feathered Armageddon Tethered in leather reveling devilish Everest Among pelicans of mellow evangelical archipelagos Wings of stigma’s pigmentation Like nomads of cadaverous Lazarus Canyons of unravelling Babylonians Smoldering wardens of Asmodeus Orchestrating coursing metamorphosis Within the strings of a stray’s basil ukulele The spray of grey Himalayans Cat’s cradling kittens bare-fisted Between the missing lithium cistern Blissfully mystified by winding spines of bibles Disciples of the scythe’s road Reaping Elysian weaving museums speleothems set on by heaven As the worlds ripple twisting pixies in pristine lithium Conifers of the omnipotent hieroglyphic eclipse As the eyes of God crescent into pestilence And the clouds fall upon the world Like a predator Spiralling trials of braille trails azaleas Spires where wyverns cry out to the Lion’s iris of choirs of writhing diaphragms (Sure swerving to serve and) Sire silence hand and in hand Like a quiet sort of band Leaving dishevelled reverends tethered (Rebels) In the heavens Pendulums streaming endlessly of renegade new genesis Balconies of Valkyries among the scattered seas Of debris spray painted disease of graffiti Covering the steampunk umbrage Of thunderous bumblebee homunculus Sunken in the slumping shoulders of slit-throat slums Of a ghetto’s archipelago bellowing melodies Crescendos arpeggio assemblage camouflaging Godhood From the bottomless cauldron of staccato choreography The bog of halogens disembowelling men The evanescence of west winds mortar and pestle again Blessing blotched blossomings of crosslegged lackadaisical angels Bearing the serendipitous eclipse Between their well-toned thighs (Gaia) A sunrise, a ball of wool unwinding like a string The livewire of an unstrung violin within In the infinity of a symphony Symmetries umbilical mimicry Among unblinking idiosyncrasies Like neon irises that flower Hydras lilac in twilight on the violet horizon Nomadic gladiators Flagging down the cab of a vagabond Malleable valleys and alleyways Wallflowers of mountainous clouds like alabaster molasses caskets For astral castaways In the blasphemous blackberry Kissed abyss of the sky Spindling cinnamon incendiary Linden trees of green Swindling swinging trapezing In the terpsichorean breeze Like a spriggan’s amygdala or a nun on her knees Cashmere veneers of the delirious free Sodomy in the autumn leaves Harvesting menageries, disembodied monasteries Guitarists gargling on arteries Strumming a subterranean maelstrom of heartstrings Disembarking wingspan pianos Of bantering anarchy Rusted by the rain, under the one-eyed sun Is our barbed wire veins Different colours But the same (to be strung) Underneath the moonlit rays As our planet wastes away Shattered ceramic made of clay Battered amaranth of jade Splayed again this hurricane Drown still asking, grasping, Collapsing into rhapsody For the rain Basking, halfway Sane
Sleep
Stains stitched into the fabric of history Flickering images pilgrimage my grimaced intimacy These blistered lips still whispering crisply Falling like we’re Icarus Bewitching polycrystalline ammunition Lisping crucifixion’s apparition Littering the ground with magazines Collages of their broken bodies spreading across concrete Scratched into one vinyl disc screaming Put the pieces back together Put the pieces back together Put the pieces back together Bluejays of jailed railroads Pale with the haloed spade of azaleas The flowers grow here now The flowers grow here now This is my meadow Don’t yell The dead will hear you sleep The dead no longer dream We no longer wake
Shade
Hollow men Vessels of crepuscular resurrection Nocturne’s rakshasa, crows of apotheosis Of Netherland’s brethren Kaleidoscopic rocking chairs Of the stepped on stems of buried men/dead Of a cemetery of emerald memories Disassembled remedies Incomprehensible endings Hemorrhages in the minds of Gods Circumcised confinement applauds (Chalky mockingbirds) In dishonest comradery Drowning in the (valleys) (Boundaries of) bottomless Autumn audience Iridescence nestles/Iridescent nests Between the breasts of testament Tendrils of ventricles dribbling amaryllis Without any fulfillment Ravens of handmaidens and chamberlains Bathing raised in everglades Glazed grey by the veil of cottontail volcanos, Lackadaisical maelstroms fables of fairytales The horizon bides its timely demise In their empty, cemetery eyes A halo (For the communal funeral) (Of life)
Sol
Travel unravelling caverns of lavender scabbards Of battered avenues over a canvas of labyrinths Carpeting the knife’s edge of a city Cutting into the fabric, the fat of the land Leaving the bones behind Under a tattered flag Alone in the shipyard The ricochet of ghostlike hammers Can still be heard like a heartbeat On these old walls Building like a crescendo Sitting cross-legged like a buddha in love with Christ Crouching crocheted into the untamed waves And hazel gravestones of Himalayans Matrixes in the vapourware of destiny’s yesterday Like a mural of gears Rearing their ugly sheet metal heads Children beyond the silver mirror The warmth no longer lives here Cast your hands into the fire Work with the metallurgical murder of crows And pull out our screams Give back our silence This is everything we have ever heard I remember what we left behind In the deserts, frames of buildings From the sands of time Sprouting roots of steel vines that scraped the knees of God This darkness used to Burn (so) bright There is no sanctuary from light Each nook and cranny Feels its fingers tugging, its eyes watching, tongue gorging As if crammed into all corners of our mouths Smiling blind crying enlightenment So now We dance in the dust And play in the shadows While scarecrows strum and Tune guitar strings in their wicker throats And imitate the word of God Carried away by the wind Lending its severed ear to silence So that as silence speaks So that as the sound of mind Remain deaf to madness As if they haven’t heard of reason Shuffling through idea and ego with feeling The heart A dog pulling at the leash in a child’s hands Willing to lose itself, to disobey and feel through the forest, The stream, the river of consciousness Of emotion, thought To find freedom Willing to be stupid, unique, on its own intuition Or return to a familiar world of intelligent mediocracy Safe from creativity Callous of emotion, (flinching at) free-flowing, (ignorant of) curiosity How easy it is to fit the puzzle together for them I see every single piece As unique And cannot fit my frame Into a single photograph As they blur together These many minds Are better broken, distinct Are less individual Whole When shattered, kaleidoscope’d Bent out of shape And out of focus With intensity Madness is legion But does not lurk in the finite masses Madness is the only thing individual about thought The only reason I get up in the morning Madness Is Sol And perhaps Madness lights the way For those who must live in darkness For where I live White is black Smiling at me (Growing more beautiful than buried stars) Gnashing of teeth, bleeding of gums, umbilical chord tongue Raising its voice like a child of words Writing my story On its stygian lips
Et Obscuratus Luna
Heavenly memories headstones of utopia The dark cartilage decompartmentalizing the horizon The punch line A hurricane’s blackeye/closed eyelid A skyline’s pilot rioting quietly Siring society Aspiring violated Violence in a crying iris Flowering ballerinas owls of talons reaper Nihilistic and polycrystalline hipsters Of the crypts of whispers Whisky ellipsis elapsing asteroids Of tactless cardiovascular masturbation Of elation and crannied nations Alabaster rationalization Decompartmentalizing Nations naked natures of lacquered creation Masonry weightlessly crocheted On the bays of bombshells andromedas Bellowing velvet melodies of hellions To the skeletons of elegance Pelicans enveloping elegies Of evangelical Valkyries Lending their free hands to the chains of men forged from helixes Haunting altars to monstrous decomposition Astral mash of asters cardiovascular Polymers of halogens’ menagerie Of ovulating hate Discombobulated fate Monasteries wait For the monolith of greats Bottomless late Cauldrons frolicking create I ain’t no f*****g saint Frolicking belladonna Pawns of songbirds unheard in the blur of insurgency Balaclavas labyrinth pianos salivating Homosapien Through the static passageways Of radioactive blasphemous masochistic astronauts vascular Pastures of raptures’ asterisks crevasses Broken vases where Apostles are Rakshasas On the inching of every city block Of phosphorus gospel-kissed metropolis Every endeavour remedies heaven’s blemishes And blotches out the plane-walking apocalypse Pouring out my organs in metamorphosis From the crevices of my cracked bottle heart Sharp enough to cut flesh into leather And I wear leather like skin And I wear myself like a puppet Still lively in the hands of men On the television In the bathroom My words that bleed out dry coughing Everywhere Sometimes I listen to myself scream Until it rings in my ears like a telephone I never pick up The beat to my drum Is stretched skin torn into chrysalis Eggshell left hollow I wonder if the butterflies Have been crushed against the walls of this house The way I line the outside world Like a dropped water-balloon Splattering into canvases water-coloured black Where black is white Colour me surprised Colour me anything but bone I still wear my heart, my emotion, on my sleeves I have so many pockets I can hide everything in them Your smile is always visible I am anything but If I were to dream I think I would be a butterfly This world is a cocoon Everything whole started out shattered Breaking out of monotony I am a gear in a machine You provide the grease We slither soothing snakes One in the den of God Idyllic I shine in the dark like a lamppost Hanging its head A weeping willow of steel bark My roots digging into infinity Heart hanging by a string Tied up in my knotted fingers A broken guitar Strum me like a musical note Let me feel the vibration Of the strings beneath my skin A crowded room within my desiccated chest Empty tempo A wicker chair steeple In the ether God watches our two hearts eclipse The sun melting below the horizon The kaleidoscope of countrysides widening Smothering midsummers, motherhoods, judgement, love affairs Shimmering obsidian swimming stygian rigging Rivers of images of willow wisp ventriloquism My filthy hands cleansed by heaven’s Armageddon In the wishing well of parhelion’s exoskeleton The untuned moon a flower Flowing through supernova over the muddy morning Forged in Ouroboros The Kalpa of aurora borealis Over the black lactescent crescents Of decrepit vesicular mechanisms questioning epitomes and trombones The grin of a sliver’s silver in the sky Guiding me back to the shores Groping opal ghosts for the kaleidoscope coast Before I drown in learned nothingness And come back to the formless forest Boredom of decorum, of substance To catch my breath Before sliding back into the shadows and crevices Exploring emptiness Finding fulfillment Sailing through the lackadaisical railroads Like ageing braille azaleas Before the stampede of caged minds flatten meadows And pretend to feel emotion Under their dancing feet The vibration, the rhythm, the breath, they never intended to feel Simply there Missing every note Blind to visionaries Deaf to God (Somersaulting hummingbirds mumbling) (Strumming sunset smothered summits in the recoiling primordial foliage) Never finding the words To love each other But, as they look at each other now, strangely, and refuse to see (By the tracks left by dragging feet) I find I no longer care
Imago
Turning tourniquet churning hurricanes Borough from the bough A staircase of spines to the attic Cellars of cerebellum mandala Like a spiral chimera of winding xylophone A burrowing portrait That spells out the words “I am a loaded gun” (The shells in my chamber) (Ricochet and palpitate ultimatums) (Through the revolving door of my heart) Thunderous undertows Blunder in the sunburned tundra of carrion Sahara’s parable The underground palace of amalgam And stalactites Disemboweling Valhalla’s hallelujah I am the lost image of black upon the staircase of white I am written between the lines of grey Iridescent Geist spliced into isotopes Born of thorny unicorns with storm cloud horns Moored to euphoria, trails of halos The cocoon of a full moon looms illusive Wombs lucid in the fuchsia crucible of a cracked skyline of vases Like a set of shark’s teeth A brick wall where every brick is a word Built out of discarded false-Godlike letters I am the distance between here and there Now and forever Left and right Black and white Come meet me in reunion Part ways with togetherness Come back to goodbye Yesterday is asking to greet you Butterflies torrent agoraphobic seven stories Through the forested metamorphosis Mirrored theories washed up waltzing wasted on flawed spirits I see the image of what I should be in your eyes Blinking out the imperfections Like neon cemeteries In the dry cracked face of the earth Leaving my tracks behind To crawl through the hallway’s of crossed minds Blindsidedly intertwining in the wireframe of irises In the unblinking fire of civilization, cites The beehive of metal fences Barbed wire in lilac
My Own
I can still the feel, love That once transpired in between these walls Once inspired by livelihood Hold its breath, theirs, Underwater before the morning creeps in Through the heavy drapes Like a crack in the doorframe I have been unhinged from, Now only empty, space, open, but closed in Full of empty There are so many people like me Filling their worry eaten mouths That hurl their plastic bag piped stomachs at each other Like a church organ in desperation For a meal of lost souls, or the holy ghost Without the heart to forgive People become bloodthirsty, dry (for it) Drink the moon down their throats like a glass of wine Loaded dice aiming 3 sixes at lady luck Gambling their lives away I am not robbing their futures I simply secure my own Don’t think that when I step on eggshells I’ve never been the egg
Ontario
The current a furnace of metallurgical hurricanes Canyons of ceramic mannequins (Valleys of palaces Valkyries of orichalcum) Like anchored anvils of grand pianos unravelling gelatinous Whittling the schism’d (visage of) wisdom(’s pilgrimage) The splintered hieroglyphic fingerprints Of weeping willows hollow with polymers Of infinite oblivion and spriggan Of sprigging figments ligament in mimicry’s idiosyncrasy Like Mimosas of prairies Scarecrow holsters of explosive poltergeists Untwined in slices of overripe vice Fabric of travesties like clavicle labyrinths Cerulean pavilions of umbilical biblical vilification Patient Mother Nature Dips her wet kaleidoscope hands Into the Milky Way The way the sun drops under the horizon On lake Ontario While wearing a streaming bikini Weaving meteors of romantic prancing planets; Mars and Jupiter With the traipsing of Elysian graffiti Of boulevards of fallen stars Moulded into the pores of her azure viridescent skin The crescent moon kissing her cloudy cheek Waxing and waning under the pull of an undertow Gospels of sprawling metropolitan halogens Written on the cities illiterate walls within solitude A splintered axe embedded in the heart of a tree trunk Beaten splintered photosynthesis Gallows of phthalo blue avenues Within the grooves of the world tree The throat that swallows the word of God And digests his mouthful of flowering prose A monasterial burial in A last gasp for breath below the depths Of the crepuscular crescent A renaissance of calm choreography Of discombobulated celestial bodies pollinating Elongating Homosapien matriarchs Carpeting the ground in a distorted vortex Reflecting conception’s indefinite imperfections Oracles, fairies in hysterical marigold Like motionless oceans in the biomechanical Avalon Oasis on the tip of a broken spear Like an ethereal pyramid of lost spirits Buried caricatures in the chariot Of planetary cherry blossoms Born from the phantasmagorical flora As we orbit the torso of a porcelain scarecrow Ferrying paradise from the paraplegic eons Saplings wrapped in the cardiovascular asteroids Voice of a poltergeist deciphering an orphaned scythe Wiping the smirk from the dirt of the cliff face Turning over a new leaf Sown together reverends Of leather figurines, stygian obsidian trees calligraphy Bleeding through clearings of crematoriums Dreaming incoherently of a bloom’s seed Rooted in a fantasy, feathered remedies Planted by bantering mannequin hands From the static fabric of the hunter-gatherer amputees Rancid dancing entranced in the answers Left to question the bantering Rest to fester in vessels of polyester Oil lanterns of amaranthine chrysanthemums Flowering disembowelling the cowl of shrouded hallelujah Grooming the ludicrous into unassuming unity Strewn across my bedroom floor Bridging the swimming oblivion visage Incriminating Ecstacy’s echo from within my hollow skull The mountains speaking my lost language Mimic my rhythmic spirit of insecurities Breathing between the greaves of my well-oiled turmoil Stolen by the God’s of death and love Staring me down as I hang from the coatrack Plastered in my spit like a poem Wet with the rain of blending memories Ending in silence Beginning again in the noise I’ve yet to hear The monster in the mirror Looks just like you Sometimes I wonder why I shattered myself in the first place Perhaps I was just Puzzled by the pieces As they spindled like newspapers Articles as illegible as the sidewalk In the wind Birds without wings Trying to fly Like hands on a clarinet And each finger filled The holes in my heart This instrument That sings to you now Like an echo of a memory Or a hastily written poem On the fickleness The unfeeling stare, the apathy, of God Watching over the blind (visionaries)
One
Pillows vermilion willow wisp Guillotines for the phantasmagorical foragers Of waterborne oracles Chlorophyll in the mid-mornings Story filled corneas Velvet formaldehyde Of poppies that blossom Like coffins and swastikas The iris of a cypress tree, Pine needle cathedrals Looking down the mountain of dead bodies Tossing and turning Hurricanes in the turbulent riverbed Under a blanket of sky on a mattress of jagged stars Reaching out to the moon and grasping it in Her palms Building stories on the foundation of a clay city On the dredges of bedrock Cocytus The way words structure a sentence And the sentences become paragraphs Secret passages built in time Written by holy men That prophet off war in a divine comedy That have prolific dreams to share While the knowers sleep Like visionaries that have never left the cage of life The cave of shadows Bathed into every crevice of the walls The light that pours in Diluted like watered-down wine They are drunk off the holy spirit Ghostwriters for dead Gods Haunted by spectres of their own design Over the moon with their loaded questions Shooting themselves with their anticipation, imagination Every word pastel’d Like an elegant bullet Spattered compositions like a mosaic of aether Bodies painted in the mud Rolling around in the dirt ditch of the page Covering it in the imprints of their hands and feet Slick with themselves and their dry brush tongues They are more mural than man More veneer than body They become the crevice, the dark edge Everything hidden in the darkness becomes seen They reveal the skeleton to the flesh What’s the fun in knowing? I become the viewpoint, I embody it Why share it? I have nothing to share with you Nothing at all Just the image Not the object Just the sound Not the symphony The instrument of death is not a trumpet It is the blur between the lines of a page The detail is unimportant Intricacy is beyond the clear It is the static, the oneness, the gray, the in-between That is the true state of art So many people squished into one skull Art is an explosion Art is everything But remains One The final vinyl of the last scream Before the sun swallows the earth Whole Every moment An infinity of done Unendly so We all are The same painting The same play The same movie The same book The same poem Blurred into one stroke of the brush Flowering on the canvas Before an endless sea of white Meets the stretching shore of black And colour blooms from their sepulchre chrysalis Of fleeting eternity Altars to penultimance Cascading born from the gray gravelly abyss Of a dirty page
Zero
Temples of concrete pulse like an ulcer in malting palpitation Kingdoms of windmill linen spindling fingers of whittling amygdala Shapeshifting eclipses whisper lisping Wickers of unlit abyss chrysalis flicking Icarus Baptism’s rhythmic schisms shrivelled prisms Prisons under the umbilical vermillion sun Spun from the yarn of Kalpa Amorphous shapeless chaos Of order desiccating creation A crowded mirror in an empty room Like a half-full womb Swallowing audience of lost bodies I have grown close with death So much that the twang of life’s string becomes distant Memories of the two intermingle With hands ripped raw from strumming telephone lines Like a tree branch without bark I am the b*****d orphaned child adopted by God Let me hold the world up to the light (of the city) So I can see every detail pictured Within my clenched fist Or open palm Either way, grasping reality And all the subzero gravity of imagination Making image from the clay Shape from the chaos The torque of a hurricane Twisting back into place This machine Always rusting We built god from so many steel words Let us turn tail and run Through the forests of our creation Through the rusting hulks of giants Through the empty harbours soundlessly alone Where we once set suns like monstrous mountains out to sail Let the stretch of screeching metal sing Upon the flesh of thy enemy We are slick with the spit Of a civilized world Homeless in a place where there is no recluse What we need is more hardness What we need is more sharpness What we need is more heaviness More magnified earth, cold steel Bent into flowers of aluminum foil Loose screws between painted fingernails Metal before man Let the heart singing to itself Halt its hammering wake Let us be silent again Let the sound of static bend the earthly twine Shibari to the wind, and the earth, and flames Steam from our red-hot iron beaten into beauty Let the Gods trample over us with their calloused feet They too must know what it means To be delicately broken Left out in the sunrise of endless waters rusting Into roses Planting our feet into skyscrapers Setting our roots among the stones Bending under the heavens Of our own weight Jagged teeth protruding from the face of the earth The mouth of the metal muzzled jaws, Unbreakably shattered Each piece of our many parts A crescent moon Smiling between the concrete cracks Unpolishingly graceful Among pupils, schools of fish That flower like an iris On the blackboard Scratching the itch Like a broken record Mends bones of vinyl Notes from the underground Pistons of the glistening anachronistic Gears in an incoherent machine Ticking hands outstretched Arms shoved into the mechanism of lustrous musculature Musculoskeletal parhelion Peeling back the break of day From behind the crumbling concrete walls Like metallic clouds painted white ballad Graffitied discoloured and decorated in rusted chains Familial bonds, knotted digits twisting omnipotent Polycrystalline in the denim heavens Rusting vellum, cerebellum arpeggios Wrinkled handkerchiefs of smoke Like scarves slithering in the dispersed wind Overgrown with the yolk of mitosis Thrust into succulent nothingness A bantering lamplight Sanctuary anchored echoes in the dark Fumbling over figures Smudged with the fingerprints of existence Bathed with chapters unwrapping sacrilege in black afterimage Of a chapel's laughing amphitheatre In the alabaster rafters of a half-built sky Abyss plunging deep into the heavens below Uncharted waters of the bottomless highrises Drowned out by the crowing of the city noise Renovating the house of God In the white blackness The void of nothing’s crannied depth Gathering together in the blank room of one place Crawling on all fours Throughout the emptiness of existence People translucent transcendent Never there to begin with More see-through than the night sky Tears flecked like ash from the eyes of angels Churning in the burgundy eternity Of a rainbow railroad As our bronze and brass bodies Shed skins of shredded shrapnel Ricochet drift away in the grazing carousel Of carolling marionettes As clockwork mockingbirds of phosphorous Walk the crossroads of apocalypse Laughing at the temporary Like dancing amaranths chrysanthemum Disfigured in stygian obsidian brimming within The oblivion of freshly trimmed linden trees Debris of heaven’s remedies Tumbleweed breathing in The serpentine cursive of Ursuline weaving terpsichorean Elysium Healing seraphim, phoenixes that helix speleothem Crocheted effigies of endless dreams We are born from shed skins We are the empty shells of those who shoot pictures of their fleeting pasts Into our gravelly hearts You had best believe flowers become soil Be prepared You will be buried in the flowers of yesterday’s garden Rusted into someone else’s shine You will not be beautiful forever Uprooted tongues licked dry of words Wither under the burning sands of time I gather their faces in my blind eyes They are my gift For when my face Is gathered In the hands of the dead I have left untouched That God had forsaken and left behind Growing old The ivy vines of ivory Clinging to life Are afraid to jump From the side of this house Back into the dirt that birthed their ancestors(‘ pestilence) This world is twisted And from its shape The smouldering metal frame of a picture And I Fade with time Like the pictures of my grandfather His furniture haunts this house He is trapped within these walls And I smell the dirt The grass The wilting of wreaths The shadows on the walls closing in on me like His hurricane's eye Twisting and tossing and turning The hands of the clock are watching me Conducting a symphony bound to end Sometimes I can still hear The dead sing In the ears of corn In the stalks of flowers They call through their sorrowful cries To me and my headphoned ears And I Try not to listen (My eyes damp with their words) (My knees weak with their burden) (My arms empty of their love) As they Are far more beautiful than my poems (And I cannot write their lives) (Into/as anything but fading memories) [I want to cry] [But all I can do is laugh] [I wear these broken smiles I’ve found] [That don’t belong to me] [But] [As much as I hate them for it] [It’s good to know some people loved me once] [This was meant for me] [I was meant to collect smiles] (Like seashells left by the crashing tide) (Swamped by waves falling in on their selves as lovers might) (Collapsing into rows of city blocks) (I was meant to search for answers) [Along the (overflowing) waterways of the damned]
© 2021 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Author's Note
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R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Burlington, Halton, CanadaAboutMost of my poems can be differing lengths depending on the time you want to spend reading them. You can avoid reading anything brackets, or read it all. If you want an in-between, you can read only th.. more..WritingRelated WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
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