ADELAIDE Independent Quarterly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Trimestral, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  








By Hyrum K. Hunt





Honeymoon For A Ghost

I am a ghost to those I choose not to meet
The collateral pain must be bittersweet 

Dermatophagia is their germ tonight
To drink on their flesh, to become blind

I am not a criminal but I am here to collect bodies
I will carry each one on my back and forth from the lobby

I did not choose this disease, it chose me
All that I witness now is sin and deceit 

The chandelier shattered; some shards fell into my arms
But I am not here to dictate the harm from the harmless

I am no judge, jury, stenographer, nor the court clerk
They chewed their wounds and created their own work

I will not die a little; I will die a lot
Bury me please with Job's dying thoughts

I am almost finished; I fulfilled their will
I have one more chore up in Beverly Hills

Deformation of will ill spent 
How serendipitous, we all have met

I will not stop until the fantastic damage is done
I am what my mother becomes

I cannot drink faster than this
In this house of hell there is no further descent

I kept my relatives safe and my children deaf 
I belong to no one but the fingers of death 





Collapsible Hearts

Desolation's door is hollow
Marked with the scratches of fingernails who it has refused and forgets

Dead floral arrangements litter its entryway
The walls of which drip canary yellow

It is located on a dreary, decaying island 
The boatman is difficult to please

Those that succeed are blessed
Merely because they number very few

For them and for disparate reasons
Existence became overwhelming

They each wished their ghost to be given to the night
There was so little love in their lives

The door opened, deliberately 
Each shook Desolation's cold, deadened hand

And were told, "This is your end. If you understand this you may enter."
Each did with a smile and solemn nod

There is sanctuary in not being
It is a prize for those with collapsible hearts




The Volcano Choir

I am living in the age of anxiety
In the plague and shadow of my other lives
The ones which squirm in disaster
And seek only to avoid the very worst

The triumph will arrive in triptych
Each penned by a different tongue
I have collected them and hung them on a rod one by one
Gently, to be sung to sleep by the song of an indebted angel

The breaks are broken, the lashed will remain quiet
It is the solitude which keeps our beliefs somewhat intact
Young dissidents, young criminals, young derelicts, young blood
With aim correct and aged with damaged intent

The orchestra is a bastard son 
That weeps not quietly for anyone
It raises its voice in this madness
And hides the wine inside the kitchen cabinet 

Its mentee, the sun, was unimpressed 
To prove itself to itself more than anything else
It has torn into the side of the sea
To devour it whole, jaws completely agape

Ravenous for destruction 
Fortified by the foundation 
It stole from its father 
With the mouth of a gun, a blade for a tooth 
And the desperation of insolent youth

Its time is a bloated, begging banquet
Fit for blood, lust and thieves
It claims to have no use for that which is sacred to you and me
It spits with only one tongue; it has discarded the rest to damage well spent 

It is galvanized at the force it has amassed
And sears those whom dare trespass
Against its wishes
The floor unbuckled and swallowed those whose names appeared on the list. 

I was spared.

Its sister sun has until now chosen to lie dormant
Disappointed by her brother's acts
It began to blossom
And desecrate and correct the words perpetuated as fact

There are sides to be selected
But I was temporarily sidelined, recovering from pneumothorax 
The air was suspended in my chest 
Until my left lung surrendered and limply collapsed

I am nearly whole after thirteen days under my doctor's care
I was provided a manual and a bottle of oblong pills
I placed them in my jacket pocket
And was discharged from the facility in the parking lot

I assembled with the discontent
At the corner of Vermont and Sunset
The congregation grew increasingly larger as the hours spun by
I am part of this growing volcano choir

The message was met with an outreached hand
Scabbed, blood encrusted with a skinless index finger
No one would move or speak 
So I shook it and was lifted to a location undisclosed

I was awoken by a nurse, my wrists fastened to a chair
"There is nowhere to run, child, your journey will end here."
The room was illy lit
And the walled dripped canary yellow

There was a laceration on my right thigh
Which I had not noticed before
There were cables, blood and bones 
Strewn about at random, littering the floor

A single frame continued to flicker on the wall
"Give up" it screamed
I meekly shook my head and whispered "no"
The nurse returned, unbound me, and said "you are free to go."

I am not certain why I was released
Or of the obligee's intent
I returned to the volcano choir
And said, "go on, love, you are next."





Amplectere Noctem

My mother told me to embrace the night
I will not disagree 
I've spent the last five days in the infirmary
With a lacerated tongue, a breaking finger, and a wound that chooses not to believe 

I wore a wrecking ball for a suit
With a rope tied around my waist
The sunshine is disorienting 
It shakes my blood; it breathes my love; it does that which it pleases to and with me

The deprivation is sinking in 
The auditory hallucinations
Are having their way with me again
Tossing me against the wall just to see if I will bleed

I have a debilitated lover that probably cares
Far too much for me
I have no idea why she gave her body up for nearly free
I am her blind spot

My well being is a thing in progress
I have no time for me, only for her in this whirlwinded catastrophe 

It has been nearly three years
With her hip fastened to my wrist
By a tourniquet and an ornament 

I thought that I knew love but I was so very mistaken
Her arms around my chest is all that I've come to need

Valincius was correct
But it is not what I have come to expect
They are here to collect my eighty first bone
And shuffle loudly into the night

I am bereft of strength; I am a weaker than a a day old kitten
But this surging serotonin will permit me to breathe
"Before you martyr on
And leave the best parts of me on the ground
Toss which remains of me in a dumpster in the alley."

But she had different plans
She barricaded the door and withdrew an embroidery needle and golden thread from her purse
Without speaking a word, she stitched me 
Into something resembling a body

She finished, smiled and admired her work
"Not too bad, love."
She kissed me on the cheek, held my hand and whisked us away
"Hurry, the ghost will be here soon."

We raced into the night toward the moon
Seeking our niche in the nocturne
The world is over; the world is ours
Come my love, disregard concern, embrace the night





Rotting With The Gargoyles

You should not have come alone 
They are selling death tonight
They are nearly giving it away

The parasol in your left hand is rotting
The consigliere will take your right wrist as a souvenir
Please, love. Run

Nothing good happens here 
Just the blood we sing to the insolent
In a minor key for Despair

If it is worth having, they will take it from you
Every last dew drop 
And the honeysuckles too

I am resigned to whatever happens next
Where the rivulet flows clean
And is ignorant of this breaking machine

I have a rusting timepiece 
To keep me company 
It is unknowingly counting down toward the moment

When this spiraling catastrophe will make its end
At least I will know precisely 
When my time will sleeplessly arrive

Rotting with the gargoyles 
On Perdition Street 
If any of this structure made sense

I would shout it to you if I could
But the vultures scraped and strangled my tongue
And took my blackened lungs just for show

I cut a swatch of cloth from your dress this morning
To remember how you felt 
Before this madness grasped control of the day

I am fortunate
I still recall your name
The young blood, the warm flesh, navigating death in this godforsaken wilderness 

I have struck a deal with the marigolds
They want me to sing until my lips bleed
I will do my best, the angels will know

I slipped her a note as she fled
"Meet me at Firestone and Paramount at eleven to ten"
Even if we have to pretend, we will summon the will to bring color to this monochromatic town again





About the Author:

Hyrum K. Hunt is a forty-two year old author and attorney residing in the Los Angeles area. He lives with his fiance Melissa and is the father of two adorable children. He has been accepted to and intends to attend The New School's MFA Creative Writing Program - Poetry in the fall of 2017.









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