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65. Drowning in the blood of a misbegotten moon
An abortion of light that stretches ahead of me
Through a graveyard of trees
Elms under which we danced desirously and deliriously
Each step marking our days without end
Their journey marching beyond the horizon
The night’s beckoning calling us to explore more forbidden realms
Strange interludes of grasping and sighing met with promises
Words fed more by carnality than practicality
Vanishing from the personal equation
As mourning becomes electric
Brightening dearth’s more stately mansions
Rooms in which we spend our gold
Now and then I ask when we can leave
Autumn’s shroud decorates the path we walk
When you run ahead
Your hair slicing the tarnished silver beams leading me on
Pale reflections hold me fast with memory tendrils
I watch you disappear into the grove
No longer the servant of loss

87. Things will be better when we’re back in the city.
Your sisters will weave through loopholes in society
Your uncle will put his gun away
We will not talk about the child in the cherry orchard
Boneyard seagulls scream ahead of our arrival
We will no longer lose ourselves to minor pleasures
We will float through the urban landscape
Brilliant creatures bleached clean of idleness
Our needs bled into parlors
Last light travels to meet us
Gunshot speed as it is mentioned
A seagull lying in our path
Silences our trial
A clinical verdict of emptiness
Filling us up with obligatory lies
Rewriting our return to infinite regress
A play within a play within a play within…
A mirror hell lost to despair
Setting a sun, the color of a dreadful penny,
We walk towards the unattainable

114. Trying to refeather a fossilized bird
That once sang away our sorrows
Sitting in the sycamore by the sea
I throw a bone to the ghoul that eats at us
Its slaver coats it
Gleaming fish scales in the sun
Each glint a maddening promise of return
As a black tongue licks the gore clean
Savors the sepulchral tang of loss
Crystalline pinions sprout from the marrow
Ruffled by an early September chill they shatter
A sharp powdered down covering the cemetery drive
Not the hindrance I was hoping
The funeral train switched tracks
The pine boxes jostled, thunderclouds gathered
A fly buzzed in the thick silence of air
Skewered still by the promise of electrostatic discharge
The expected crack and rumble swallowed by phosphorescence
The door opens
The bare stone avian looks unblinking into eternity

About the artist

Oliver Baer does many things. He was the editor of Cthulhu Sex Magazine and Two Backed Books. His epistolary novel, Letters to the Editor of Cthulhu Sex Magazine, was published in October 2019. His short stories have appeared in two books of Soul Scream Antholozine, Trembling with Fear, Even in the Grave and April Grey’s anthologies as well as others. His essays have been on blogs as well as books. His poetry has appeared in Goodreads Best Poems 2020, Empire Poetry Verse, Hear We Are, two books of Soul Scream Antholozine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Punk Noir Magazine, Paper Teller Diorama, Cthulhu Sex Magazine, Horror Between the Sheets, Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase Vol. II and other publications. His book of poetry and photographs, Baer Soul, came out in 2011. His CD of poetry set to music, Gathering Souls, which came out in 2013, spawned the show A Conclave of Baer. The band Lucky Witch and the Righteous Ghost, released an EP, Dreams in the Witch House, that is inspired both by HP Lovecraft and his poems. He was the writer for Deena Warner’s Halloween Card project in 2021. He has appeared as an indescribable horror from the depths, sometimes with a light saber, and his likeness has appeared on tv and film while his voice has been heard on internet radio as well as a podcast or two. There have also been various artistic renditions created of him. He is visible using the virtual spectrum of social media by following him on Twitter https://twitter.com/obaer and/or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/obaer3 Much of his work can be found at http://tentacularity.wordpress.com