Screams rip through the woods
Miles away, I hear them as whispers.
Is that a song for Easter morning?
Lemon custard and honey-basted ham,
Eating as the blood fills my eyes.
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He doesn't really love you. Not yet, at least. But if you read his poems he'll love you forever. And he'll bake you cakes. Oh so many cakes.
Who the F is Duane Honeydew?
- Duane Honeydew
- Master of indecent arts. Has rested his unholy claws in Alaska, Norway, Syracuse University, Montana; the coldest corners of the universe. Currently lives amongst wolves in Northern Wisconsin. He warmly welcomes hate mail at the following address: duane.honeydew@gmail.com
Duane Honeydew's Lovers
Blog Archive
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2007
(26)
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April
(21)
- Foggy Night Before a Sixtieth Birthday
- Can Lonely Words Revive the Dead?
- Execution in a Rose Garden at Dawn
- War Banners of the Finest Heathen Flesh
- Opera Cellist Pondering His Smallness
- Rusty Badges and Sand-Clogged Throats
- Whisker'd Rogue Hunters Kill On High
- The Man With the Piano Wire Mustache
- The Heiroglyphics of a Morning Homicide
- Sharpened Cleats and Cloven Hooves
- The Quiet Murder of Carpathian Hunger Pangs
- Pecking at Dried Vomit on Thirty Third Street
- Spelunking in the Blasphemous Innerspace
- Desert Phantoms Stalk Old Law Men
- The Thunder Screamed Decaying Songs
- Breakfast Sausage Bleeds for the Mistress
- Thor Watches With a Turkey Leg and Boner
- Saturday Morning Cannibal Pep Talk
- What the Spade Hit in the Garden of Malice
- The Burnt Sky Drips Ashes in Our Eyes
- The Dead Rest on Easter Basket Grass
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April
(21)
Lives Destroyed:
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