Nympholepsy, Her Play.

She was the succubus between desires,
Only living through that fatally etched reportage
Of loathing within screaming replacement appetites,

Who thought she was more avidity than night walker?
Yet, all her passions fell short of heart and fickle emotions,
That wild frenzy raging swift hurt, cutting only deeper,

Those eyes shone immorality between cracked sheets,
And she opened her legs again, sooner those than soul,
Tasting inky concupiscence on those bleak iniquitous lips,

Could she deal more than corruptions direful kiss?
Tawny bruises hidden beneath tragedy and make-up,
Her comedy, she exclaimed, existence in waking tears,

But nothing ever emerged past lies and surface pox,
Those tarnished contaminations regret nothing,
While your pneuma ingurgitates tenderness tonight.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Dissembled Shift

Does desultory skin dances
Along the isle of life’s dreams?

Devotions void on efflorescence ripples,
That lasting, feathery feeling,

How I’d walk the line,
Riding high on crucifixions ecstasy,

For those chasmic reflections
Or deep wandering sanctums,

Serendipity marks her forehead,
Washed with ebb and flow,

What peace is found in rough wake,
Plethora settled by dawns panoply,

And I see it all again,
The waking loss of divine love,

But, oh, that’s another story?


Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Time’s Your Effigy

She escaped tomorrow,
Draping forever across auburn skies
Without standing on the precipice
Of blended emotions with an empty bottle,
Her pigmented relentless origins.

It’s strange how much you mean today,
Between the fissures and figments,
I didn’t think our worlds would collide
With nova flare and digressed phantoms,
Yet, there you are again!

The leaves turn golden fuchsia
With loves late hours, soon to be ghosts
And gracious memories,
In age he became what he always was,
Trepidation and embedded fate.

I see you in passing,
Washed with fire and future,
I am not so much for ritualistic haunts,
But, there is no escaping your past,
Growing old in tomorrows shades.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Gringo Parade Is Live

Originally posted on johnny ojanpera:


As promised, Gringo Parade is live and ready for reading on Amazon. The Kindle version can be found here, and in paperback here. I hope everyone finds something interesting in my story. This one has been in the works for years, and almost never saw the light of day. It’s amazing what a little encouragement does for me. Yes, there are people out there who not only tolerate me, they also push me forward when I would rather sit still.

Thank you to everyone who had a personal or technical stake in this project. It seems to have gone rather seamlessly -but only if you take out the hours of editing ridiculous mistakes. Beta readers are a writer’s best friend.

Don’t forget to leave a review; there are some things that machines cannot do. It still takes real people. :)

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A Winters Tale (A Katauta Challenge?)

*Although I write many Katauta poems (a traditional form of Waka), none of them are really complete. Traditionally Katauta’s are one half of an exchange between poets, friends, family, lovers. A melding of minds, beauty, ideas and form… So, if anyone would like, below is one that I have just written… I would be honoured for a reply. And in case you’re unaware, the structure is very similar to a haiku, 5-7-7. Thanks for reading*

Leaves yield in winter
Ephemeral souls stealing
Fondness for another year

To A Cricket

I’d never wish death upon a soul,
Even demons with serrated kiss
Could not endure such fractured bliss,
But you, my friend, with rubbing wings
Are the epitome of their dark stings!
Through water torture I’d gladly sit
Or iron maidens made to fit.
Yet you, my friend, bastardise pain,
And each echo devours refrain,
When in a room you insidiously creep
And sing your song! Tweep! Tweep! Tweep!
Twenty thousand fucking lines
To your endless, ruthless chime!
Every second!
Every second!
Three thousand calls an hour,
Until in the corner you find I cower,
What little room you leave
When Into madness you sharply weave
That fragmented dry corse hum,
Until eventually my dawn chorus comes,
The day ahead seems deathly long,
And you, my friend, stop
Calling to your kin
And peaceful silence becomes the sin,
Oh! I’d never wish death upon a soul,
But if I find you my friend,
You won’t have such a chirpy end,
I’ll introduce you to my dragon of old
And we will see if you’re still so bold!



Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Where Harbour Frogs Serenade (Part III)

For anyone who missed part two, click here.



Were sky scapes bold
With Ashikaga’s strength?
Or Ginkaku-ji his only whim?

Silver and golden pavilions
Surpassed nothing, and poetry
Could not stop blood shed,

Private wars and skirmishes
Became the ungrateful minds of Daimyos,
Japan wept with crimson,

Deep within lilac and orchid hearts
Storms of regret cultivate waters reflection
Youthful wishes and child heir,

Stone eyed and broken hearted,
In lost grieving dreams
Did we find such wandering hopes,

In life he sought nothing
Where solace kissed his pain,
The White tiger to be,

And who could blame
Those with empty emotion
When Vermillion dreams haunt?

Our Hīrō lost, found a home
In sake and sword unbound,
Drinking away the ruby pain,


Until one day
Through circumstance
Inky skies bewitched the night,

And in betrayal, where
Embroiled jealousy raged,
Tearing families apart,

Dark days led assassins blades
To ambush in the dusk,
A place of drunken dreams,

Invited shadows subdued
And Stone Eyes stumbled,
Saving wounded lords,

The enemy of Yōkai Daimyo
Who gave the fallen samurai
A place among his home,

As eighty thousand men held
Their guarded hate, Stone Eyes
Contemplated chance,

Through the ranks he would rise
Until friend and lord held his hand
Like a brothers breast,

With eighty thousand swords of blood
To cut the Yōkai from its wounded
Infested hold on peace,


The hours grew grey
and old with malevolent death
And marvels stain,

Two great armies engulfed
Beauties kingdoms, tired, waiting city,
Oh! How Kyoto burned!

Smoke filled hearts
And blurred corrupt lines,
Destructions eminence,

What flames could hold back
The blanketed hate of raging fate?
Love ran into the wild,

Would a hero stand
For more than vengeful doom?
Where in dim light nothing blooms,

War slaughtered young, old akin
Beneath the azure eyes of ancestors
Mourning mankind’s sin,

What heaven was ablaze
To bring greed and fate
To forgotten passions?

Soon Stone Eyes and Yōkai Daimyo
Would slay the world with vermillion tears!
Could life outlast ferocious wills?

*To Be continued*

Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Geisha’s Tears (A Bussokusekika)

*A quick poem on the move, and a new form of Waka (Japanese Poetry) for me: the Bussokusekika. It is very similar to the Tanka, but with an extra line of 7 syllables at the end* 

Waters through heaven
fall among the crowded streets,
the Geisha, trapped
beneath unearthly downpour,
has only her oil-paper
umbrella, makeup and tears.

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Poem © Phen Weston 2014