October 14, 2020

Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.

Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.

Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from

the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,

moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.

And oh the things it bares witness to;

Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.

Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.

How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.

And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss;  one third of our lives.

What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?

For it is they that wrote this, not I.

Eyes of white,

Eyes of gold,

Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.

These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,

Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.

Safeguarded at all times.

But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,

They remain open,

fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;

 They do not sleep.


The Rarefied & Colorful

August 4, 2020


Albeit barely born, by the time he hit one, he had already seen and created the world.

And while letters had not made sail into his unfurnished mind or wrangled between the columns inside his vacant mouth, his heart spilt of stories in far away lands, undiscovered pastures, roaring seas and of a friend in whom no journey was improbable.

It was upon the back of a pictoric baby elephant, the young boy would fall asleep.

Bobbing inside of sequestered thoughts, his head lay warmed by the sloppy and playful movements of the babes frank and floppy ear.
The sun pressed heavy against his lids, securing a passageway for careless dreams.

Smirking in the golden light, with eyes shut, the boy saw the earth extended and rising; the very form of natures ample bosom evaporating into the mirth that exists inside of a formless habitat.

Illusive was the rushing wind sliding betwixt the window seals of journeying butterflies dipped in ink.
Surrounded they were by birds thrashing about in a performance with grand sonority aimed at pleasing a slumbering prince.

Connected to his dear friend, his hands became prismatically interwoven, holding the very same print.

Sprinkles of mustard dust swirled with black night, flushed into scarlet curves that drowned inside the reflective skin of emerald leaves.

They were one and the same.

Together they journeyed to the ocean, where, through keen magnification, they observed the condensation of a violet sunset cavorting, in blustered fervor, with thawed foliage and sunken clouds of white.

They wondered past caramel mushroom abodes, deers trapped in necking, phosphorescent trees and hospitable vines.

A world built upon the back of the collected musings of  the an emblazoned mind.

And as he grew, in him the elephant remained; a token of remembrance of all uncharted dreams and to the prodigious mastery that rests inside the thirsting veins of  not merely a Walter-Mitty, but a conjurer of immeasurable possibilities.

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.

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Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed.

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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.

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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.

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Confounding it all is.
This world’s upside down.


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You’ll find that man who claims to be of scripture filled with Mach·i·a·vel·li·an sound.

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And that human who won’t work, it’s only because it left its soul in the hurt;

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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.


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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.

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Acrylic on canvas ♡

( © 2018 Magnolia HL )

Porcelain Cup

July 10, 2013

And held between my knees and this gray old cotton skirt,

A porcelain cup it rests, with swivels of you in melted dirt.

And inside these swivels of you, are looping, daydreams
Sparked by deeds, not done, and never ever to be seen.


Steam engulfing reveries swimming in my pretty porcelain rivulet.

And all the while I take long

loud, visceral, sipssss

Close my eyes and let the vapor stroke my eager thirsty lips.


Sitting here, tapping my foot to the beat of my pen
Imaging you walk through the door,

over & over again & again.

Foam tracings of what was once suppressed, now expressed.
And I delightful in it’s proclivity towards daydreams tasty & undressed.


Oh so flushed and out of sync,

my fancy for you makes me re-run & over-think.
Proliferating feelings of upside down, right side up, see-through, covered,

 so in & sane this love drunkard.


But until snow and wind freeze you on my way.
(Warmth being the thing you feel with everything I say.)
I’ll spill my ink on willing leaves and scribble away brain waves.
Stare into heated porcelain and see visions;
Falling leaves falling for me, jellyfish stinging you in your head and  having you wake up in my storm happy bed.


Transparent cravings bottled in the angst of firmly, fixed fingers
Pressed against floating like fuzzys, sealed in my coffee rim figures.

Man Ray, Self-Portrait with Camera (1930) and, left, Solarised Portrait of Lee Miller (1929)

“But they say if you dream a thing more than once, it’s sure to come true. “

Shut Eyes Kept Breath

July 5, 2013

That’s where she existed best.

In the dark, in the light, high upon the rafters,

Perched above the clamor of civilization.

Where fog embraces light in the form of bulbous clouds.

Where the pangs of sorrow are dulled by the atmospheric civility that only floating can offer.

Where tears find home in rain,

Calmness in the breath of nothing,

and stillness in the charm of fluttered roses.

And just the mere possibility of all this, that desire to break free from skin,

It cruised beneath her heart and pushed against limp veins.

Like leather tightly wound against screaming bones,

She felt the itch of wanting to escape;

To melt past rattling walls and bursting bubbles.

But only with shut eyes and kept breath could she find the courage to leap.

And spinning in the solitary moment of her first step was truth flashing upon somber lids.

It was in the rain,

It was in the wind,

It was in the beat of the sun

and in every crater of the moon.

She was interwoven in the bliss of this deserted place.

Every night bathing in the light of the stars

And every morning dancing with a flock of wings.

In her despair she had surrendered to the dream and found triumph in the crux of her soul.

Pirouetted in the divinity of absolute mirth, alas she was home.

Midnight Interlude

February 10, 2013

By: Magnolia

To this experience, she was a guest.

Her usual floppy stance became erect and watchful.

Her eyes scintillated and sunken in fright

As a phantom, superior and with bizarre curiosity

Arose, deliberate, detached and delighted while disentangling itself

Inside the lucidity of a half- remembered dream where

All walls collapsed

Atoms took to beat and

Form neglected the boundaries of human conceptualization.

And while reality took to bed possibility

Buildings skipped from side to side, back and forth in comical repetition.

Red became green, blue, pink and plush purple.

Numbers echoed their  “I am’s” until they, like a string of pearls, conjoined into a choir of nothing but decoration in an empty space.

Fatality became a companion only to walking apathy

Bombastic unpredictability became soothing potential

Quick became irrelevant

And like the sloth, all had abandoned the clock

And just like that, slow became comfortable.

This outer body experience left her observing the shell she originally inhabited

As all it’s questions, and pondering and confused, rampant vocalization,

Silenced her timid lips, and all that remained, was one thought

“Am I dead, or am I free?” a wonder that lasted but a second,

For suddenly the turbulence of beauty sliced into her experience

And the happiness of a moment coded in the feeling of a kiss;

Encircled, nuzzled and clutched every molecule

Below and between the gaps of every impossibility.

And a voice breathed forth the

Absence of fear and the presence of peace into an anxiety filled form

Everything was nothing, and nothing was everything.

And all that mattered, embraced the obsolete.

Closed eyes, and in the silence of her peace, her skin whispered, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

And in the dark, the face of an old man, expressionless, and bound to no sense of gravity

With one look, injected truth into into her barely beating veins,

“My love, thou inhibits all and everything. Boundless, you are the daughter and son of this creator. And your soft gel like tissues, afloat inside a castle of bones? A mere means of transport in a sea of possibility.”

And while her veins pouted in swollen satisfaction, with her last ounce of strength before her soul cavorted with a sleeping body, she said,

“I understand now, but if I forget later?”

And with no words, he thumped the answer into her heart,

“Then close your eyes and open your child.”

With those last words, she awoke

Drenched in the knowing that there was nothing more to be done,

She surrendered to trying and excavated complexity from the jaws of her trained mind.

And her eyes, drooped in the reckless abandonment of being in love with the infinite,

Tickled inside her enlivened flesh.

For there was no becoming as she already was.