Nights with the Ocean

•August 26, 2016 • 6 Comments


*Image found HERE

Nights with the Ocean

Sister Darkness,
I fear my beloved fears me,
I am not sweet, I rot like no other,
a granary of cobwebs and spiders,
a body of water anything and anywhere,
but none to drink,
he is wet lace across the misery of my bones
which I do not arrange in triangles,
no above and bellow,
a sisterhood of deep, dark holes
and strident veins.

I can hear the women talking,
echoing throughout my voids,
they toil away in their flowery blouses,
they wander away and return through such patterns,
their chests silent, never cackling,
pilling up years;
secretly they stockpile pomegranates in their hips,
I see them not descent.
I hear them rosy like aftersex poetry,
I hear them brimming like milk on a cold January morning,
I hear they fix the world
and Death does not notice.
They turn dead roses into poultice,
I see them cry, I see gold,
gold sprouting in their tears,
so much gold a digger could retire after minutes;
they talk and talk and talk
about him,
and sing and lure and hum
around him
and raise children from the stains of coffee grounds
and whisper and gossip and whistle
like answering machines,
they hiss for the bliss, like hounds
under the clouds, while they wait for the bus;
they would slit his throat with a train,
as sunlight dolls with bone dust on their lips
and give him cherubs for each pair of hands
that he would grow,
and desecrate the solace in the city of sand,
those concrete prophets of an invisible man
that convince the day into existing
and talk, and talk, and understand;
and talk, and talk, and wail in joy,
their heads sunk inside his chest
like it’s a cathedral,
smelling like jasmine and jewels and takeout steak,
they talk, and talk and ring like bells,
and every new love will last as much as the cell,
as much as the last buried body,
in the music, in the lie, in the bed, on the street –
in each arm of Sun’s tireless fleet,
in much more than me.

But what do they know
about the sea?

It does not talk, it does not debate,
about how long a skirt, or pain, can be,
it screams for dogs of light begone,
it screams they are not needed here,
where nothing is soft and puffy
and gentle serene,
or a dazzling , unforgiving dream
of amputated wildness.
It does not trade, it does not serenade
sadness for second hand lightness,
mistress for murdered darkness.
It does not talk, nor circle or bemuse
like porphyry, slipping its tongue into abstinence
It seeks to swallow, split through, find a use
for marshmallow boats, it gurgles silk
to wrap the wounds it nibbles with
salt and twilight and Moon,
it towers above love,
it seeks, it destroys,
its chronically allergic to the noise
of beauty that does not know
the gurgle of its gut,
it does not talk, and talk and talk and murmur
last thoughts of Aphrodite
before she drowned,
it does not leave one sate and hollow,
innocent and guilty of life,
to the seashell’s meat its waves-like knives
carve rock-a-by-babies for moss covered ladies and soothe the night.
It does not lust like wound up toys
and curves like gifts,

it silences, and silences and rests with a cerulean voice,
it takes his messy hair
into the coldness of its underwater lair,
it dies
whenever it must.

I will lower down a glass atop his body while he sleeps,
I will descend to it my ugly, darkened ear,
I will listen for the dead ocean of his blood,
I will listen, no matter what I hear;
Sister Darkness, do you think
that that’s enough?

The Makings of a Bread

•August 8, 2016 • 27 Comments


*Image found HERE

The Makings of a Bread

At five o’clock in the morning
in the household, reclined
In the grey belly of the city,
Only me and her
An hour maybe,
Before our loved ones
Chirp like newborn sparrows;
Around two hours
Until bakeries unfold
Their pastries ‘fore the mouth of the street.
Years gaze from within her sockets,
Stirs and spits from mine.

“Let us bake our own bread, grand-daughter”,
she rises, slowly.
“I never did.”, I say;
“I’ll teach you.”, she defies,
emptying the cupboards one by one,
laying the ingredients on the table
in a pattern
so unfamiliar to mine.

She splits flour, pours water, cracks eggs,
Two bowls, she says,
Two pregnant Sun’s, one for me, one thine,
Her wrinkled hands dive in
And grind;
I touch the mush gently,
She, a mother of years, a mill of her village,
I, alike a hungry artisan.
She says:” Think of your son, and squeeze.
Think of hearts, and stir!
Think of love, and rip and join!”
My dough, pale yellow, barely taking form
And hers is done.

We cover our raw to dream and rise,
It’s five o’clock and twenty
The birds hail from outside
As we cross eyes and I feel
Spoiled, rotten, useless
With gears in my core
And I whisper to myself
How she’s so wise and old;
Never ask her what she ate
When it was war.
Instead we talk about TV, and discount
And clothes,
About seaside and neighbors,
Cut down trees and parking lots,
About souls in row
Waiting to buy coffee
While our breakfast grows,
And after a while
She picks the dough
Like she used to pick me from my crib
And nips it,
Twenty thousand washed plates
Clenched within her lips.

“Mold it now, dear.” She says,
you are crafting a soft pillar
for the strongest of empires!
She kneads the unmade
To left and right across,
Like bridges;
She spins and rolls and then conjoins
Everything whole, back again
Until a loaf is formed
And I follow,
With my flesh – candid; childlike.
We cut three times
For breath,
We lay our breads on the brass
And close the furnace door
And wait
For the smell of it
To occupy the household.

Brown, yellow and golden.
Like the earth we thread,
Like the dirt under her fingernails
In the summer,
Like the sunsets spent swinging at the park,
Like each Autumn might be
The last one we share,
Like musk on her favorite skirt,
Like a womb of the white core,
Like my son’s teeth when he smiles,
Soft like his cheeks
Like hers no longer are.
It’s well past six o’clock
When two loaves await
For butter and knives.

But we break them, instead,
Two chunks of two
Sticky, dulcet lives,
Just like that – raw. Plain.
And my bread tastes like
Skyscrapers and dust
And electrical wires,
Like rust corroding a heavy sunset,
Like rain on the asphalt.
Her bread tastes like
Love. And Pain.

*This is a poem from my book “Colour Me In Cyanide & Cherries”, and was inspired by my grandmother who I love dearly.

Some parts of the poem are deliberately exaggerated or penned down wrong, in an effort to show perhaps how much my grandmother had to teach me about various things, cooking and baking taking the first place.

I know the poem might not seem like much, I certainly would not say it is of the finest word-craftsmanship, but the poem is very dear to me and I wrote it with much love and intention to preserve my grandmother in what I love to do best, and that is write. I can go on about her forever, but I am leaving those tales for some other days.

Hope you enjoy reading the poem and if you have a story of your grandparents that you once commemorated in your writing (or did not), tell me about it in the comments, because I would really love to read it.


•July 19, 2016 • 16 Comments


*Image found HERE

*The original on Serbian is below


My time in the deaf room ends.
The stalks of wheat sway,
they do not know teeth.
They rub their titter on the nettle.
My curtains are pale,
soul in a fever;
the river calmly pulls the fiddle bow ,
swallows penetrate the asphalt.
The boulevard is a winter without snow,
lips dried blueberries,
strung like laundry
between cheeks.
The stars pullulate patiently,
the heavens slouch between clouds.

What do I whisper,
to you,
unruly blue,
so in front of me, now,
you redden?


*It is a weird feeling when you are unable to translate the words you use/hear daily into your mother tongue, as well as realising that the translation we all use is just the English word, pronounced in a Serbian manner.


Moje vreme u gluvoj sobi je završeno.
Stabljike pšenice se njišu,
ne poznaju zube.
Taru svoj kikot o korov.
Moje su zavese blede,
duša u groznici;
reka smireno povlači gudalo,
lastavice prodiru u asfalt.
Bulevar je zima bez snega,
usne sasušene borovnice,
nanizane kao veš
između obraza.
Zvezde niču strpljivo,
nebesa mile između oblaka.

Šta da ti šapnem,
goropadno plavetnilo,
da se preda mnom sada

The Room of Untuned Drums

•July 14, 2016 • 4 Comments


*Image found HERE


The Room of Untuned Drums


This is an overused oscillator.

Youth, like a swallow
overstuffed with cotton-candy.
The garden gnome is still, knows better.
I would mail his wise cone to Andromeda.
This is sorrow, wanting to change,
this is a misspelled name
that wants to burst among the stars,
that sad song, forever lodged in the back of the throat,
the dull life sliding in and out
of the black drawers, celluloses
on a metropolis office chart.

When you siphon me,
there are no psalms left;
urchins darken in the roibush,
my questions knotting in the abdomen of Poseidon.
The sea-sick hollow men are always fathers,
unbuttoning the Moon like it’s their willowing housewife,
a scared brood mother.
Give me twenty thousand able legs,
give me a bastion of benign horses,
give me countless a drunk desert pungent with tents:
I would still walk into the ocean,
than to you.

This is a padlock, for the river,
this is a plea of hush,
to wrong ears of already senile seers.
To love, is to destroy,
rip the mind like petals,
rip everything, everyone,
in most specific, sweetest ways.
To love is to swallow the day
wearing dead things pinned to a collar;
to be the denominator.

When you look at me, am I screaming?
Do you disassemble the clocks,
replace lungs with rubies,
boil the hearts you take into
apricot jam, feed the hungry?
Cloud number 9 is the whorehouse
where the records spin.
is a promise.
A promise of steins in the dollhouse,
an omen of veins in the toy house,
innocence on the factory line,
lying in a coffin, in a dress of pearls,
pretending to know outcomes much like Juliet did.
And she did, and he did, and I did and so did any and none,
baptized with two arms around their necks in bile,
complaining until they were simply done.
This is a razorblade that will teach the Sun to smile,
a riot on the porch of
lethargic vindicators.

In an alternative universe,
my hair perhaps curls like the houses of snails.
I don’t smoke, I don’t tell,
I eat with you every Sunday,
I am all proclamations, all broth.
Somewhere, I am a calcified ephemera,
a brooch on a fancy, polished, gray suit,
comfortably mute.
An ambisinister clerk,
disposing of your secrets,
I am putting the most delicate flowers on wrists,
I am putting the shiver into night when children are kissing,
I am constantly whistling, screwing up order,
I am bribing the sunsets with whiskey.
Quite possibly,
I am a narrow chamber in a long gone wound,
fed Roman coins, spitting out plush.
Unrepereably wired. Undeniably strung. Dumb.

Then so, I will barbeque
your house of a million crying eyes,
the ladies will wear lipstick
and love whoever they please;
me, on my knees, pulling out aortas,
I will turn them into flutes,
I will shut down for luminescent dreams,
disquiet with a lack of noise, choice
feed the roses, breathe the roses, snort the roses,
mutilate my seams, decompose the will
in the belly full of meat hooks, a turnstile of a sin

of your face, fading,
from horizons of lacerated meadows,
your voice drowned in the orgies of electrons,
rag doll, careless lord, creator;

random number generator.

*Inspired by Wordle at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie! Do check it out and join in on the writing fun if the inspiration strikes you.


Visions of Zarua Blog Tour – A New Fantasy Book among my favourites

•July 10, 2016 • 13 Comments

Visions of Zarua Blog Tour Banner

It is my great pleasure to participate in Visions of Zarua blog tour. I was generously given this book by the author in exchange for an honest review, and I simply adored the book. Below you can will be able to read my review, get to see ad hear about this awesome book from mine and perspective of other participants and get to know more about Suzanne Rogerson, the author of this book which is now taking place among my favourites in fantasy genre.


Visions of Zarua Book Cover

Book Blurb:

Visions of Zarua


Two wizards, 350 years apart.

Together they must save the realm of Paltria from Zarua’s dark past.


An ancient darkness haunts the realm of Paltria.

Apprentice wizard Paddren is plagued by visions of a city on the brink of annihilation. When his master Kalesh dies in mysterious circumstances, the Royal Order of Wizards refuses to investigate.

Helped by his childhood friend, the skilled tracker Varnia, and her lover Leyoch, Paddren vows to find the killer.

The investigation leads Paddren down a sinister path of assassins, secret sects and creatures conjured by blood magic. But he is guided by a connection with a wizard from centuries ago – a wizard whose history holds the key to the horror at the heart of the abandoned city of Zarua. Can Paddren decipher his visions in time to save the Paltrian people from the dark menace of Zarua’s past?


Sounds great, doesn’t it? And now, for my review:

Reading “Visions of Zarua”, by Suzanne Rogerson, was a refreshing reading experience for me and it is incredibly hard to write a review and not squeak out all the spoilers that made this book a highly recommendable read to all fantasy lovers from me.

The book, with the vibe and style of writing, reminded me of my favorite writers, like Robert Jordan and Zelazny. What I most enjoyed about this book is definitely that atmosphere. The book is a work of classic fantasy, as opposed to the scheme of modern fantasy. The language of the book is simple, yet engaging, and the reading feeling is both descriptive and most of all, highly sensory.

I think the author did parallel storytelling in a masterful way, that did not for a second feel burdening or hard to follow.

The characters are rounded and I got tied to them and what I would specifically point out, I liked the character of Varnia the most. It is difficult for me to connect with female characters in fantasy settings, but “Visions o Zarua” did that for me. All the characters are unique, creative and never for a second feel like tools and disposables.

Another thing that makes this book above the rest I see nowadays in the fantasy sections is the way the author handled romance. I loved the way love and relationships were handled in the book, again, a striking contrast to what you would nowadays read. Original feelings, felt as you read, not just blend shock value, and overcrowding with reality feelings. A fantasy book should read and feel like fantasy, after all, depict something we dream of and strive for, something to work out in our thoughts and transcribe and assign to our realities – and this book does it.

I will definitely re-read the book again in the future and experience “Visions of Zarua” once again, while I wait and heartfelt hope for more books from the author. I recommend this book to every fantasy reader who had their fill of cliché and desires an original, serious, deep and thoughtful story.


2015 author photo 2015

Suzanne Rogerson

Author Profile

Suzanne lives in Middlesex, England with her hugely encouraging husband and two children.

She wrote her first novel at the age of twelve. She discovered the fantasy genre in her late teens and has never looked back. Giving up work to raise a family gave her the impetus to take her attempts at novel writing beyond the first draft, and she is lucky enough to have a husband who supports her dream – even if he does occasionally hint that she might think about getting a proper job one day.

Suzanne loves gardening and has a Hebe (shrub) fetish. She enjoys cooking with ingredients from the garden, and regularly feeds unsuspecting guests vegetable-based cakes.

She collects books, loves going for walks and picnics with the children and sharing with them her love of nature and photography.

Suzanne is interested in history and enjoys wandering around castles. But most of she likes to escape with a great film, or soak in a hot bubble bath with an ice cream and a book.


I don’t know about you, but I was so impressed by Visions of Zarua, I will be on a constant lookout for new books by Suzanne!

Interested in the book? Here is where you can check it out, buy it and connect with the author, as well as check out an index of all the posts in the blog tour and read what others thought of the book (if you are silly enough not to to make my word for it that the book is beyond amazing!):


To buy links


Amazon UK

Amazon US





Social Media links








Visions of Zarua Blog Tour 2016 Schedule


Mon 27th June betweenthelinesbookblog Promo Post

Tues 28th June rosieamber Review

Wed 29th June bookwraiths Indie Wednesday feature, Guest Post & Giveaway

Thurs 30th June aliasfaithrivens  Review & Interview

Fri 1st July TheTattoedBookGeek Novel extract & Promo Post

Sat 2nd July teripolen Promo Post

Sun 3rd July alinefromabook Review & Promo Post

Mon 4th July barbedwords Review & Post about Varina and her favourite recipe

Tues 5th July baubtaub Review, Interview and Giveaway

Wed 6th July shelleywilson Promo post

Thurs 7th July jenanita01 Review

Fri 8th July spookymrsgreen Promo Post

Sat 9th July thehappymeerkatreviews Review & Promo Post

Sun 10th July color me in Cyanide and Cherry Review

Sun 10th July Lucciagray Q&A

Augury of Red Plasma

•July 5, 2016 • 11 Comments


*Image found HERE

Augury of Red Plasma

A clown on a leash,
I lick the boiling bedlam,
The egg cracked
On the edge of a frying pan,
A Sun that comes.
Inside, like a mandarin,
I am split water, somebody’s daughter
Tasting like cordial darkness.
Should I fear?
Of having you, described
With a palindrome that does not sting,
Self taught in embroidery, stitches,
Frail for sparrows, frail for horizons,
Frail for all the frailest things.

Love, I love, and wear 1 A.M. black,
Love, the love is you,
Antique eyes collected in tablespoons,
Maracuya, skinless undines,
Cavalcades of flamingos; pulp.
You, in the darkroom, pregnant with an archive of bodies,
What will you break of me,
When the world slides down on the toothpick,
Touches the tomato, pepper, goat cheese,
Is gone in a gulp.

You, love, skeleton,
Still ache of still old pain;
You, in the train, full of bones of twilight,
Empty the mill into the sky,
Whisper into the solace of the room.
Is the string tired? Is the lie petty?
The king well fed?
I, am merlot, dripping down on will o’ wisp,
A hyacinth clawing through the third stomach of a worm;
A consequence of sleep.
You, in the bed,
Silk and cashmere, blood and guts,
A draft of sycophants.
What do you make of me?
Spring-cleaned cricket house, a broken violin,
The garden of tone deaf drunks
Thawing in a box of cut off trunks
Of hawthorns.
A decorated ruin in the plains of Shangri-La,
Hypothermia in the apple,
Love, like a surgeon, his head in a suitcase,
A protagonist who says goodnight to the moon,
Denies, shuts the doors, turns of lights,
And cuts through softest of you
Into softest more the drabble.

Love, for you, whatever is you,
You, in the library, red and mandragora,
You, picker of sugarplums, love,
Extractor of blues, the bigger dosage
For the spoiled bleed,
The diver through the jealous ocean,
Love me, dear,
I’m somebody’s wayward gun,
The unpaid postage,
Invocations, godless and undone.
Don’t love me,
I love you, love,
A pound in a chest,
A pound in the dirty floor of the fountain,
A pound and a rap and a tap
In the grape the chaperon chews,
You, love, in
The warmed up leftovers,
In regret and forgive,
In what it means to live, today, yesterday and now,
Ungrateful, like a swine,
You, with your heart of rust and chrome;

You at a desk of recycled meteors,
You, home.

Identity Routine In The Poutine

•June 14, 2016 • 26 Comments


*Image found HERE


Identity Routine In The Poutine


In the darkened hours do the ghastly meadows drone,

I, am dead, but in the crevice of a lip,

Branding me with names I used to own.


Who places, then, like poker cards, my scars against the glow?

I, a pearl, that slumbers amid sunken ships.

In the darkened hours do the ghastly meadows drone.


The questions softly landed in the rigid palm of crones,

The trees, parading in my gut with naked hips

Branding me with names I used to own.


I think I heard my heart conspire in the pocket of a stone,

Tune like arsenic, translucent, small sips.

In the darkened hours do the ghastly meadows drone.


I find me, a cosmonaut in vacuum, hollowed, and alone.

At quarter to six, over tea, the dream rips,

Branding me with names I used to own.


In the backdrop of the rooms I smell my fading soul;

Shadows, lights, all hungers. Angles for the dibs.

In the darkened hours do the ghastly meadows drone,

Branding me with names I used to own.

*My second ever villanelle. They are antagonising and mesmerizing at the same time, I will certainly write more of them, trying to challenge myself every time to use words harder to rhyme or, to say it better, rhyme it how I want it🙂

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