Mozart’s Beak
January 16, 2019
-ONE MUST GO BEYOND TO BECOME-
Sometimes I stand in one place,
but I am not there
In this place,
you do not know me.
Here, my blood boils between sighing senses and a sewn In gut
Like cats teeth
I gnaw and claw at my weakest strands
Pulling apart the places where I failed to take a stand.
I stand heart swelling between my pores
pushing
this scared crows beak through atmospheric places fighting for MORE!
Ruin and rapture, left to swim amongst the stars I soar.
As my lips peel themselves around
Paradoxical pastries pleasurable and poisonous
It is my insides that hemorrhage rabid & boisterous.
Adom split, I am divided by three
Frozen shelled it’s my soul that screams FREE!
Pouting, swollen in arrogance
It bleeds through my eyes
Where I remain is far from where my soul flies.
And as I sink beneath the graveled earth, devoured
by swallowing mud and loving larva
it’s Mozart’s beak that reminds me of Nirvana
Flapping feathers furrowed then freed above
fluffy mounds of blushed cotton,
Breeze brushing backwards beyond dreams begotten.
Tonight I dream of leaving it all, of basking in the forgotten.
And in that warm, dusk kissed light,
Horizon stretched
My insanity is etched
A thicket of desires beating through pounds of flesh.
Thirsting for resurrection, I stop only to drink from my own reflection.
Still stood, cold framed
Purged
And sweaty
I soar with Mozart, extending myself, creating compositions, rubbed and ready
Violent they’ve become sharpened steal pointed and pinning
Forcing me to go to the beginning.
And in the beginning, “the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.”
My veins weep as my breath, it leaps beyond this eternal sleep.
Sometimes I stand in one place,
but I am not there
In this place,
you do not know me.
But should you look upon my pushed past in present face
There you’ll find, entombed inside gorged lids, my soul, the God of impenetrable space. 
By: Magnolia Lafleur
What Crones Up Crows Drown
September 27, 2018
And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical, they shall ever never rust.
Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed.
Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning the flirt.
Algebraic equations tunneling the mind, make it difficult for her to follow that big bunny’s behind.
And since I am no neologist, dreaming in ratios and gold, I can understand what the Jabberwocky’s point was in being told.
Oh and ahhhh the joy in those frabjous words interlocking the tounge with the mind as it does.
Confounding it all is.
This world’s upside down.
You’ll find that man who claims to be of scripture filled with Mach·i·a·vel·li·an sound.
And that human who won’t work, it’s only because it left its soul in the hurt;
something those pecking birds feast upon in deserts.
But fear thee not and believe in thy all,
for a Tureen of soup may cure the fall.
And if ye shan’t believe in thy might, I suggest you take an absence from this thing you call sight.
Go ahead, be brilliantly bold, as blind as a blissful old bat,
fill your belly with the stars till its round, fruitful and fat.
Go on twaddle twinkle, trip towards your leave;
as it’s won’t be quite difficult in more than six impossible things to believe.
-Magnolia
Acrylic on canvas ♡
( © 2018 Magnolia HL )
