Purge by Nicholas Osborne


inside me thrives a wild need
stretching—twisting its shoulders

a malignant fetus, in utero
sired by seed from the
ravenous vacuum of deep space
a gifted thing with unending hunger

hot pangs that rake at my guts—
cigarette cherries gently teasing the
softest walls of my organs

they beg me to loosen and leave
to smoke me out, until all that
remains is the pleasant and echoing


drained of yolk, but hollow-intact
like a blue-spotted robin’s egg—
a boon to the eye and fingertip but
at heart just a porous façade

its zygote, a decaying mucous drip
dangling low and gelatinous to
bring feast for the blue-bottles

I want to blow away with the wind
or fade away under blankets as I dream
or be elevated to heaven or dragged down
to hell—if we believe in the stories

maybe reincarnate as a cancer cell
and spend my hours dividing in two

it is imperative that I be sundered
quartered in the old way, where rough
men tie burning hemp knots around
the bones of my ankles and wrists
then slap all the simultaneous horses

gallop the dripping stumps of me down
the cobbled narrow streets, crowded
with niched-in shops and cafés

though be sure to kick and
ditch-roll the fifth quarter—
the one that dropped like a
wet bundle of pelts and
stayed where it lay

pound me as void and as nothing
enact that precise erasure
turn all of this inside out and shake
my frame until every cog rattles loose

feed my morsels to the
pigeons from a plastic bag
filled with stale breadcrumbs

saw at my medium-rare with steak knife and
fork—ingest my choice filet—wash it
down with a glass of big ballsy burgundy

stretch my tripe like an elastic band
from here to Xanadu and back again

scoop every scrap from this container and

let me be empty

We are very excited to have Nick Osborne contributing to SD.  You can find more of Nick’s excellent writings and poetry at his site:


For Your Kiss – Max Meunier

For Your Kiss – Max Meunier (Max Meunier Poetry)

i lay the braided stars
before your precious countenance

that you may walk
the path of light

where gods
no longer dwell

for we are but a figment
of ephemeral affectation

reflecting in the tear
that wells
in worlds
wont to forget

the season of surrender
shall not plunder my resolve

to beckon at your call
under the restless moon’s fluoresce


stripped and strung

in astral flecks
that flickered with foreboding

the myths depicted
in the dithering
of days foregone

still haunting,

as your fragrance wafts
into the garden
florid waifs found desiccant

wistful sentiments
entwine me
in an urgent yearning

for your kiss

[Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.]

Max Meunier Poetry

[Photo: Mary Pickford]


Brave & Reckless

I sit with myself

In uncomfortable silence

The held back screaming

Ringing in my ears

Tears running down my face

Again.  This is tiresome.

Should have bought stock in Kleenex

All of my demons

All of my insecurities

Have come out to play today

Mocking me with their laughter

Their taunting voices

Sing-song in my head

“Shit mother

Shit wife

Shit niece

Shit cousin

Shit friend

Shit human being”

Over and over again

An endless loop

Of recrimination

My personal demons

Remind me

That on days like this

I can’t even remember who

I am anymore

I don’t know

What is even mine to claim

I am no one

I am pain

I read an essay right before Christmas

Calling for compassion

For those “poor unfortunate souls”

Who are depressed over the holidays

Who engage in self-harm

Who may have contemplated suicide

She referred to them as “damaged”

My hackles…

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