Fallowed Souls

Fall is yellowed,
eyes like pathogens,
green manure skin,
recovered grins,
lust the dust of unused
wheat fields,
and I am sallow,
tinged, and wading in,
hands above hollow
stalks, my love.

She squats ‘mong rusty reeds,
holding her knees,
and I unzip silently
behind her ghost gum face,
pull out all my wicked weeds;
I’d saved the best of these
to sprinkle on her crown;
she doesn’t turn ’round.
And after all my seedlings die,
I, too, unbound;
our fallowed souls
feel one final sundown.


  1. I love the decrepit, disturbing imagery; the stringed accompaniment to that weird Lynch short reminded me of the frenetic strings on the Clash’s ‘Lose This Skin’ from ‘Sandinista ft. Tymon Dogg: riveting and blood curdling brrrrrr

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh, nice connection; and so very nice to see a comment here. My late night writes are an outlet really, so I thought, this is my digital space, I’m going to be bold and include one every now and again; love Lynch’s shorts. So glad you could see the artistry. Thank you.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I’m all in favour of being bold in writing: my ‘another friday night in paradise; pushed the boundaries for me; I reckon I got away with a few things, like going off in tangents but that’s what ‘wild’ writing is so, yeh, go for it !!!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Cheers to getting away with brilliant verse (I speak of yours). What’s the point of wielding the pen to only one end? Glad to have a fellow free-spirited poet friend.

        Liked by 1 person

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