Memory Flames
(after Chelsea Hotel #2, and other songs by Leonard Cohen)
If you remember the Sixties
you were not there, some bore said
later, at a clever dinner.
The Sixties, yeah.
We were there
and we remember it well.
I went down on you
while the limousines still waited
and the afternoon light
fell, slatted gold
on our emboldened bodies.
Now that we are both
passed
I think of you more often.
And you, Suzanne.
And Marianne.
You are all hot flames to me still.
And your light still gets in.
And not one of us is mentally aching now.
Or ill.
Bio: Ivor Daniel lives in Gloucestershire, UK. His poems have appeared in A Spray of Hope, wildfire words, Steel Jackdaw, Writeresque, iamb~wave seven, Fevers of the Mind, The
Trawler, Roi Fainéant, Ice Floe Press and The Dawntreader,
After..., Re-Side, Alien Buddha, The Orchard Lea Anthology (Cancer) and The Crump’s Barn
Anthology (Halloween). .
@IvorDaniel
when flies walk upon my forearm hairs
proprietorial as landlords
and the land is ripe with roadkill
extreme weather scenarios
play out in real time
climate diplomats gather
but the plenary is beached -
delegates cloyed
as wasps in coulis
we sit around
the water table
with an ashen thirst
everybody wants to make a move
but no one does
like watching the bleaching of coral
the only thing agreed on
is that all this is unprecedented
unprecedented rainfall here
unprecedented temperatures there
unprecedented use of the word unprecedented everywhere
in high summer
the deluge
the canicule
the conflagration
ants grow fat
grow wings
buzz my ears
we pick at
the brittle wishbone
of consensus
wait for crows
locusts
to draw down the dusk
with a dry calling
We Are Green
One winter’s day
through condensation windows
I mistook a withered gunnera leaf
for a heron’s wing.
Imagined the bird
coiled, primal,
waiting at the water.
Months later,
in the veiled sphere
under a summer gunnera plant,
I imagined myself
small,
deep in zoological realms
below explosions
of virid strong-stemmed leaves
as wide as the sky,
blush flower spikes
pushing up and through.
Today
in seasons of indeterminate grey
when squirrels
do not know
which page
of the nut calendar
we are on,
it is the verdure
I return to.
I daydream of a kinder world.
Daylight and rainfall
elect a parliament of plants.
An upper house of trees.
We are green,
enfranchised.
XY (No Means No)
X.
Doctor Foster
went to Gloucester
in a shower of rain.
Fred and Rose
they quit town
but left a nasty stain.
That’s Fred West -
more than a sex pest.
Did unspeakable things
in his dirty vest.
Y.
Cycling past
the rape seed fields
brings it all back.
The yellow so vivid,
you lying on your back.
The yellow, the horror,
you want to be home,
but find yourself
involuntary, prone.
He seemed ok at first,
he said he’d drop you back.
The stony ground remains
no aphrodisiac.
You shut your eyes
your demon’s back,
slow, stupid in the sack.
And No Means No
involuntary
lying on your back.
Choose Your Own Mother(for Rhianydd Daniel)
I have heard it said
the yet unborn
can choose their parents.
A strange idea, this.
Although we live in times
when nothing is
beyond belief.
If it is true..
If it is true,
I ask myself
the reason
I chose you.
Indecisive as I am,
and daresay was
before my birth,
there is a scenario
in which I am at peace.
Wherein, unborn,
I somehow hear
your singing voice.
And from that time
I have no choice.
sand in your blood
I remember when
you scraped your leg on coral..
a rose rust bloomed raw
under your skin..the
sea was a blister the moon
was a bruise.. all night
your fever rose and
fell..lava tides licked feral
flames..sand in your blood
Ad Astra Zee
I am waiting for my blood
to clot. Broad beans
block green veins,
velvet furred.
I am ripe
for it.
One day my feet
will be corms,
shoehorned
in stony ground.
My soles are up
for it.
Hey Astra Zee!
I want my
second dose
already.
I am weary
of this solid flesh
my veins
so unimpeded.
Bring on the levelling dark.
I am ready, pale horse
for your clip-clop.
For blood clots.
Bolt, beauteous breathlessness!
Bolt, cramping throbbing pain
stampeded!
the paranoia shop
sells mini cctv
for the home or handbag
sells cctv any size you need
hard-sells hard knuckle dusters
and knives all shapes and sizes
beyond imagination
for your perfect tribulation
they say carrying a knife
puts you more at risk of a stabbing
but the stab-proof vests are on offer today
see the cute hand guns
to fit your hand just so
the paranoia shop
nestled between Gaultier and Kenzo
I love to window shop there
It makes me feel so safe
worm haiku
exit wounds out of
apples, soldiers, the worm out
of one the bullet
Perfect Bed
I dream I am at Bembom Brothers
Dreamland funfair park
with Tracey Emin.
Hard by Margate sands.
I know I shouldn’t drink that Vodka
on the Helter Skelter.
Apart from that,
a Day as Perfect as the Lou Reed song.
We Kiss with Fish and Chips Lips,
Join Hips. A Turner Sunset
Going Down.
I guess it is the Golden Hour.
Blair’s Babes
and even some of his men MP’s
are busy Changing a whole heap of things
for the Better.
Back in your room
we remember that
we even Changed the Bed this morning.
The linen soft and cool next to our Optimistic skin.
(This poem has previously appeared online in iamb-wave seven)
Going back
I went back, and it looked the same.
I was not expecting that.
Expected the usual rash of
New Builds, creeping up the hill.
I went back, thinking
it would all look smaller, like
when I came back from America
aged 19, and it seemed like the train
home had shrunk
in a B movie.
I went back
looking for what?
The muddy lane where
we skidded our scooters?
The neighbour’s garden gnome
one of us pushed in his pond?
The Fish Caves, where we played
explorers? Journey to the Centre of the Earth,
or at least
some way in
to that disused tin mine.
I went back, not to look for
my Dad, just some of the places
he used to take us.
Halfway between morbid
and curious.
I went back to the old conker trees
and the scraped knees. To the
broken fence on Bishop’s Wood Road,
where it said No Trespassing
but my Dad said we’d be alright.
I went back to the old quarry
with the pond we thought was a lake.
I’m channeling a half-
remembered sense of comfort,
danger. Somewhere between
Teddy Bears and Teddy Boys.
I went back to stacking
boxes of seaside rock
at Woolworths.
Each stick had writing all the way through,
persistent as memory.
From up on the hill
you can see it all.
The only thing different
is wind turbines out at sea,
turning like time.
I remember a school master who left.
All of a sudden. The smell
of that old classroom
at the end of the dark
corridor. Scuffed floor wax.
Thanks Sylvia for the Sylvia Plath/Anne Sexton Challenge
You married Ted, slapped
cobweb faced British poetry,
long overdue
Bio: Ivor Daniel lives in Gloucestershire, UK. His poems have appeared in A Spray of Hope,
wildfire words, Steel Jackdaw, Writeresque, iamb~wave seven, Fevers of the Mind, The
Trawler, Roi Fainéant, Ice Floe Press and The Dawntreader. He has poems forthcoming in
After..., Re-Side, Alien Buddha, The Orchard Lea Anthology (Cancer) and The Crump’s Barn
Anthology (Halloween). .
@IvorDaniel
The water lilies are not the ones by Monet, I’ve seen hanging in the museum
Covered in glass
made only to glimmer by the reflective light,
fingerprint smudged as if someone thought to reach in and pluck one
- pull it up and out of the water, attached to the silt
like an umbilical cord
The ones I hold are real in a small dirtied dammed pond on a capsized canoe
And we break the pads from their stems and cut the stems from the silt
And we think that to drink the water through the stems will take out all the bacteria
And it tastes likes fish scales and the scent of snakes,
And I know you’re lying when you tell me we’re survivalists
And the sun catches you and I think of drinking milkshakes in Santa Claus, Indiana with you
And I pretend this lily-straw we’ve made, because you’ve watched too much Crocodile Hunter, is made of paper and the water is chocolate
and I don’t think of all the little things that call it home.
I don’t think of that at all.
Twitter: @RachCraftsTales
A Letter to Monet by Kevin DeLaney
you're supposed
to feel things
behind beauty
there is supposed
to be pain.
but when
I look at you
I feel nothing.
I don't feel weight.
I don't feel broken
or any sort of sad.
I don't even feel
thankful.
I don't feel
like fucking or
any sort of heat.
I hardly feel strange.
when I read you,
I am coherent
and I can remember
my own name,
and that is not
supposed to happen.
I should feel
some sense of death,
and I feel none
but sincerely,
there is no shame...
it's not you,
it's me
at least
your work
is pretty.
Twitter: @kpdela
The Pond of Life by Vipanjeet Kaur
A dream-like pond mirrors Life
like a glass painting:
A microcosm of the cosmos
and of human life;
An image of the illusive world;
A dark water palate
reflecting loneliness of Life
where mix, merge and emerge
coloured dreams of Life –
The turquoise of the sky and
silver grey of clouds
painting the centre,
The tree top olives colouring
its bankless margins;
A backdrop for unfolding
the play of Life –
Enacted in the foreground by
Water lilies-red, pink and white-
The majestic aquatic autumn beauties
Shining like stars and fireflies,
Twinkling, illuminating and dotting
the dull sky-like surface.
Standing upright with slender stalks
on the circular plates of green leaves
after shedding impurities of Life;
Emerging immaculately from the mud of life;
Dreaming of rebirth and resurgence;
Deep in meditation or sleep
within their enclosed petals
like souls seeking redemption.
Opening the cup of petals at night,
like seekers awakening from trances
bearing the enlightened light
and effulgence of moonlight,
and worthy of partaking nectar of purity,
They bloom and embalm
the darkness of night
giving wholeness to the transient Life.
Bio: Ms. Vipanjeet Kaur from India is a poet fond of writing poems on various themes like nature, women empowerment, self, spiritualism and life. Her haikus have been featured in the international online journals like Haiku Dialogue of The Haiku Foundation, The Haiku Pond, The Cold Moon Journal and the Scarlet Dragonfly Journal and her micropoetry has been published in the Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry). She has also read research papers on the topics of Literature, Human Rights and Women Empowerment in a few national seminars and international conferences.
She can be followed on Twitter @vjpoeticmusings.
wordpress website: https://vjpoeticmusings.com An Impressionist's Perspective by Pasithea Chan
Who needs an eye when holding a brush
with a heart full of love to paint beauty?
Why reminisce beauty when you can witness-
love’s purity and experience its peaceful bliss?
You don’t have to be Hercules’-
Amalfi to understand a lover’s agony-
or sympathize with Melite’s envy.
Death does not distinguish between
lament for lovers or unrequited love.
Only an impressionist seeks clarity to be free
from a sky that pulls aspirations with memory.
His brush pulls lives into a scene with sentiments.
Only a cataract eye overridden by artistic mentality
leaves out trees’ shadows haunting reflections.
that haunt lovers’ souls before waters.
The pond’s waters pulled Monet with its lilies-
pulling the river from rushing back.
His brush joined them in their colorful strokes
to sing life’s it is what it is peacefully.
Today he invites thee to be like him free
of interpretations held in minds & simile.
Monet’s Water Lilies’ Pond shuts down a sky
crowded with echoes of lost wishes and goodbye.
Let its blue hues carry you on its lilies’ tunes
to where Alice lives on with your impressions
on the beauty of living in the present.
A Poetry Showcase with Pasithea Chan (September 2022)Changing Light on Water by Louise Longson"Colours pursue me like a constant worry. They even worry me in my sleep."
(Claude Monet, December 1914)
A cold brush of sleet stipples
the windows with sound, tapping
in the grey-rose dawn. A dream-
jumbled code of unsolved impressions
lays wresting, half-forgotten
on the tip of my vision, hesitating
like a horse refusing to jump. Broken
now into blurred, incoherent shades,
the cool-blue world seems far away, far
from familiar; increasingly coloured in red
and sepia tones, even as the winter-soft
yellow light washes over the waking day
Bio: A qualified psychotherapist, Louise Longson works remotely from her home in a small village for a charity that offers a listening service to people whose physical and emotional distress is caused by loneliness and historic trauma. Not having to go into the office since the start of the pandemic in 2020(a 2 hour plus round trip) allowed her the time and headspace to write. She has since been widely published in print and online. She is the author of the chapbooks Hanging Fire (Dreich Publications, 2021) and Songs from the Witch Bottle; cytoplasmic variations (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). Her poems contain themes of trauma, abuse, loneliness, grief and loss, seen through the twin prisms of myth and nature.
Monet With Water Passes By Me by Maid Čorbić
I am unaware again
that my life has no more ravages
only my hopes still stand
to be an old man
and to strive for my dreams
I know I have to be so strong.
because the meaning of life for me is
to save myself from hell
and that every day I strive just to be
all that I am and am not
I know that my fate hangs in the balance.
but that monet has become all to me.
because without him I am nobody and nothing.
and I have to make all my wishes come true.
while my body swirled at the bottom
and I am ready to sign my agreement
as long as the soul is still looking for its own sea
because without him I became an ordinary man,
a desire for direction and a goal that has become irrelevant
all because of the children's black game!
Bio: Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that repeatedly
praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator
of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for
humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan.
The Lilies by Thasia Anne Lunger
The Lilie's
never
give up
They float
and bloom
They refuse
to go under
The lilie's
have learned
how to
stay calm
and persevere
A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Thasia Anne LungerMonet/Hockney haiku by Ivor Daniel
I am so seduced
by your water lilies I
take my glasses off
squint and look deeper.
More like water lilies than
actual lilies
like Hockney’s big splash
pools look more like swimming pools
than swimming pools do.
Inspired by Bob Dylan poetry by Ivor DanielBlue Moon by Marianne TefftBlue Moon appeared in the Spring 2022 issue of Literary Cocktail Magazine in May 2022.
You splashed your watercolors
Across my stony heart
Like Monet in his garden
You made me your work of art
With perfect lines and sketches
You knew just where to start
By sunrise I was dreaming
We’d never be apart
All your shades and shadows
Painted pictures in my mind
A brilliant fairytale that came
Once upon a time
Never-ending rainbows
Telling stories line by line
By sunset I was dreaming
Of our Technicolor night
Like chalk dust on a rainy street
Love slipped through our frame
No dashing knight to count on
No pot of gold to claim
No longer close by my side
You still come now and then
The album in my mind’s eye
Tells me where and when
I’ll see you again
Blue Moon
Water Lilies Ballet by Jacqueline P. Dempsey-Cohen
A frolic of dustlight
a merriment of sunlight
slowly deliquesce
into arabesques of color
violet shimmer, cobalt gleam
cadmium yellow, viridian green
tonal mist glimmers the air
a playful pirouette of pigment
sending sense of sunlight asunder
Yet below, quiet wonder,
a muted requiem of hue
cobalt swirls with palest blue
vermillion fades to rose
A delicate dance
in shadowed depths
Sunlight plundered.
twitter @boscoedempsey
A Monet haiku and monoku by Lev Hart
#1
sunny afternoon
painting the light
within Water Lilies
#2
art gallery visitors lost amid Water Lilies
bio: Lev Hart, having lived on this planet for 69 years,
is becoming impatient with the tardiness of his
rescue ship. Meanwhile he has majored in English,
worked with homeless people, moved to the Gulf of
Aqaba, and returned to Canada. His beloved and he
have been together almost forever.
The Water Lilies in Claude Monet's Mind as I Feel Grave by David L O'Nan
A whole, a dump, I worship in my sadness.
To be a flower that is not dead in this dark room where my mind has shed.
I feel like I cannot break any further as my body hits the water.
Caution: the water is too cool. But it looks warm enough to me.
A blue day reflects through the trees and my eyes obey the power of the water lilies.
The fears begin to fade, although I have not moved from my internal shade.
I have dreamt myself into a Garden, I have began to feel Giverny.
You hear the echoed voices from outside from the unruly.
Tune them out and swim in my friend! Your only true friend right now is the imagination and escape.
I have deleted out the traumas of my past, my current, my midnight tremors.
I have held the water lily in my hand and worshiped to the gods of art, of beauty.
Repaired. In a sweet dream. Kidnapped away to the Water Gardens.
A blink out of the trance. Neglected. The dream vanishes. I want back my Paradise. Another dream some other night....hopefully Monet will haunt me again.
Two Haikus by Jessica Swafford
1)
Pink water lilies
gone - gasp as frog quickly leaps
safe from my big foot
(2)
dragonflies gather
quiet multitudes swarming
water lilies gone
A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan (from several books pt 1)Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey WrenBare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle
Hazel Willett grew up between country and town before the Carmi, Illinois roads. A right red arrow sign points “Corn Seeds and Corn Sold here”, the left black arrow sign on the other side says “The House of Prayer” all you see are fields. Where are these places?
Well Hazel got married a few times to Ol’ Red, Ol’ Roy, and Dwight the drunk. She had a few kids, a few odd girls and a couple of country punks. She had one son the cook, Willie Buck and one son that knew how to crook ‘Lil Clyde. Together them boys could steal some hearts, skinny dipping like frogs out in the pond while mean ass Dwight drove around drunk mowing a mess of crops with his rusty red tractor.
A few years in the boys got through school or left before the final bell tolled and enlisted into the Air Force. They learned the game, got married and got a divorce to two Lindas 2 weeks before they left off to their first mission.
Well Linda Jean and Linda Darlene moved on quickly and got hitched up with the Grawlikee twins. Sean and Shoney Grawlikee. The best metal head country loving boys with the coolest motorcycles and the coolest 8 track system playing the Allman Brothers Band until the birds fell from the sky to their death from the Ramblin’ sounds.
Well back to Willie Buck, known for his cooking the best Scrambled egg chili and blood red puddings, but Clyde felt lonely out there near the Philippines. They began to hear about the rumbles of the wars in countries nearby. Clyde fell in love with a girl from Manila. They talked about babies, farming and building a home back near his mom. Well this girl didn’t feel quite the same for Clyde. She didn’t fully like his idea. She said “no, no, no red tractor, I’ll stay here” then he saw her walk away to another man about a mile away at the corner store. The man was wearing shades and smoking nearly 2 packs at once. It was Clyde’s enemy in the Force. Jimmy Wesley, the self proclaimed loverboy who could convince any women that walked by that he was quite the investor. “One day baby! It’ll be me and you in a big mansion and we’d have all the horses you want”
Well, Clyde got mad. Escaped away. Beat up a greaser style man on the dirt road. Clyde stole his coat and his car and made a skip-hop-and a jump to the nearest Aeroplane. He made it home back into mama Hazel’s arms and her ripe red flowery moo-moo dress.
Hazel said “Welcome home baby, Daddy Dwight is missing…or maybe the ass is in jail… I tell you what Clyde, find you a gal down at Birdie Brown’s bar, marry her up and you can have Dwight’s farm since I’m down for the count and falling more ill everyday damn it!”
She took a silent breath of wretched smoke straight into Clyde’s ear and whispered “You can save up and get you the newest red tractor on the market”
Clyde got giddy and got him a factory job and began singing Buck Owen’s tunes to hippies in the bar that were stoned and tipped him torn dollar bills. One of those Friday nights he saw Marie Smith, a childhood enemy who know was smoking about 2 packs at once and dancing around. They got to talking and next thing you know they were dancing to “Summer in the City” he said “baby, all this scotch has gotten you looking so pretty”…”and it would be an honor if you come to my horse farm estate and become my wife” Well she thought Clyde was full of gold…but he just sold her a pack of lies with wandering eyes.
The couple got married on a rainy El Dorado night. The slick haired preacher got them all wedded and ready to go. 2 weeks later she is looking outside. Clyde is outside yelling “Baby! look at my new ride” Hell…it was the best red tractor around.
4 years later, 6 kids yelling, and a deadbeat neighbor who keeps inviting Marie over for a weed break and a jean shorts photo session. Clyde is walking around, hands in pocket, brass knuckles and a lucky rabbit’s foot in his clutch. Instead of fighting his neighbor Kenny for a lost cause he kept walking up that hill and sat by Mama’s stone. He talked for about an hour and said sorry Mama…I just wasn’t as successful as you wanted me to be.
A few minutes later his brother Willie Buck pulls up with his famous Dr. Thunder Cherry Pie and his family of five. He says “Hey Clyde it’s going to be a great Christmas ain’t it?” Well before Clyde could answer in shame, Willie Buck pulls out a check and says here’s 50 bucks…buddy it’s time to tow away that motherfucking red tractor!”
Clyde begins to hitch the roads and hopes to hit Hollywood to stalk Dolly Parton.
The Red Tractor Micropiece from Spriha Kant
The Red Tractor
stands polished
excited to assist
his driver’s nominee
in plowing the fields
(c)Spriha Kant
Small town Whitley City, Ky from Marilee Poppins (Lena Saunders)
Review of Before the Bridges Fell by David L O’Nan. Ivor Daniel
A poem is a bridge built of words and hope.
Before the Bridges Fell takes us to many poems, many bridges. We cross from nightmare to
light and sometimes back. To a mindscape where a bridge is a crossing, and simultaneously
something to suicide jump off. Bridges across to the murky hopeful past of literature and
lived experience. And to the tawdry here and now.
In these dubious times of ours we read to escape, but not always into beauty. The
characters in these poems navigate scripts not fully written, open to doubt and danger. The
improvisation of their daily lives is hitchhike-ride scary. And these poems nail the truth that
without that risk, we would not journey, would not create.
O’Nan has ‘seen the ruin’, and has kept on living, kept on writing. The poet has witnessed
humanity ‘Driving erratically and uncaring of a permanent damage’, on
‘freeways full of a new rage blinding -
From metastatic stars on American car plates….
An embolism on a prairie field’.
And further on up the highway, in another poem,
‘you can feel a little rot. When the curves of the road are at your throat’.
O’Nan has seen the banal and the ugly side, and captured it like Hunter S Thompson and
Ralph Steadman captured it, and thankfully for us he has kept on going until we can…
‘Watch the cities become countryside.
And watch humanity float
Off these infertile grounds’.
In these poems there are precious moments when, as in our lives today, we are brought up
short marvelling at moments of beauty (conventional or otherwise) amongst the horror and
the drab;
‘We were cut from the Jerusalem sun.
The pile of rags in the oils of the sand’.
And there are glimpses of nature shining through;
‘The birds digest our mayhem
to the streets’.
And sometimes, there is peace and contemplation…
‘Let me sit another night and feel my completion through a pond full of stars’.
But overall it is the unresolved angst of Americana, of humanity, that bubbles up through the
sand in these poems, where …
‘lives are just scars
to look at in our corners of a heaven.
We continued gunning down true leaders.
We took the beauty from our land’.
O’Nan is prolific and well-read, and up front about his influences. He has one of his
characters
‘hunting Bukowskis down with bottle cap bitten
teeth’.
In his Acknowledgements O’Nan describes himself as ‘an editor for humans all over the
world’ and goes on to say that ‘the worldwide writing and reading community is the always
fascinating...beating heart of the world’. This community is indebted to David L O’Nan for
these pertinent and powerful contemporary poems. And for all the energy he puts into
boosting other poets, and helping that ‘beating heart’ beat.
All the poems in Before the Bridges Fell
‘weave in the beauty and the
broken’.
This is where we live, between the beauty and the broken. As we navigate the storms and
fevers of the mind, the need to live between the dreams, ‘to brush the teeth, comb the hair’.
To see our deal with society through. This book will help us do that.
A poem is a bridge built of words and hope.
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.The return & revised version of “New Disease Streets” by David L O’Nan Poetry and storiesPoetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and WhispersAvailable Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey WrenHard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!
Reviewer bio: Ivor Daniel lives in Gloucestershire, UK. His poems have appeared in A Spray of Hope, wildfire words, Steel Jackdaw, Writeresque, iamb~wave seven, Fevers of the Mind, The Trawler, Roi Fainéant, Ice Floe Press and The Dawntreader. He has poems forthcoming in After..., Re-Side, Alien Buddha, The Orchard Lea Anthology (Cancer) and The Crump’s Barn Anthology (Halloween). . @IvorDaniel
Fevers of the Mind 