MAYHEM - Issue Four

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Mark Prisco


I wonder that some devil
doesn’t show when you roll
the dice across the wave-
tossed board; and I, up all
night turning some hot
Latin word I once
forgot; my love, we burn
for this, good. I call

upon the dead selves beneath
my toes, the hollow stare
of those Who Know; the livid
look of freshmen; the lips
still questioning; affirm
you live still in the mind,
which is real, anywhere
anytime. We divine

there’s more to death than this
lumpen flesh I pierce
with a spade; a glint
remains in the worm-soiled
skull interred now some
6 years, ah: that
dress she was buried in!
even, permeates

the ground with stale perfume.

Contributor's Note
I’d like to thank Winz. Without their support my poems would never have made it thru the womb.