Hanging on the crucifix,
Of broken spirit and limbs,
Bellowed the changing winds,
The autumn air fallen,
On the march of winter song,
Of gales and tempest,
Black roots,
Clinging to the earth,

My heart haunted,
In return,
I feel my pain weeping in the undertow,
Blackened by the nights midnight glow,
In gasping breath, I hold,

The crucifix bleeds the sun,
We are all alone,
Darkness to bolt,
To grasp at our throats,
Our hearts a voodoo curse,

In valleys deep,
Of serpents lair,
Of ravens nest,
We seek,

In the shadows,
Under the light of the moon,
Broken echoes,
Pieces of fragmented glass,
A reflection of our soul’s path.

I was inspired to write this poem, after listening to this incredibly beautiful song, by Australian singer/songwriter Emma Louise.

Hope you enjoy it.

Prey-A Duet With This Mortal Flesh


Moonbeam wisps ignite—
I am,

tangled in loves silky spin,
dizzy with delight
inebriated by her visage,
I am,
threaded in loves web,
soaring to forbidden heights
too daft to see,
I am,
matted in a net of woven string,
tighter still her knots they twist,
I am,
thrashing in vanities mirrored burlesque.
enthralled—I am prey
motionless as she consumes
in a venomous cocoon,

I am,
hungry for you.

Written by Matthew and Jennifer
© 2015 This Mortal Flesh © 2015 Ink and Quill

I just want to say a massive thank you, to Matt from This Mortal Flesh. This collaboration was a wonderful challenge, as our writing styles are quite different. Quoting Matt, ‘West meets East.’

I’m a bit of a romantic but I love Matt’s darker writing style. It was great to see where our poetry lead. It was such an honour to work with such a talented Poet. If you are not already following This Mortal Flesh, please head over and check out his incredible writings.



Andrew, from Connect Hook’s powerful and intense poem; Incensed! Enjoy!


For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ,
in them that are saved, and in them that perish:
To the one we are the savour of death unto death;
and to the other the savour of life unto life.
II Corinthians 2:15, 16

I take an ember from the pyreIncensed
and consecrate this smoldering fire:
a glowing coal on which to burn
an aromatic thought, and earn
a crown, perhaps… or a stampede:
mad hooves to make a poet bleed.

An ode to the dull-wit herd’s defensors:
self-appointed poetic censors.
Where would we be without the squeal,
their rolling eyes, their bovine zeal?
Quick to enforce what’s orthodox –
(upon their coward souls a pox)
swift to castigate dissent
their peeved opinions swift to vent –
lest people think that poetry
should harbor strength or liberty…
They offer up their condemnation
spiced with righteous indignation:
“Racist, sexist, bigoted too!”

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