Tony Daly has work forthcoming or previously published in PoluTexni, Star*Line, Danse Macabre, and others. He has a wife, two children, two dogs, pays the bills by writing boring stuff, and serves as an Associate Editor with Military Experience and the Arts. For a list of published work, please visit him HERE


Some ask me why I raise buffalo
on the western range,
miles away from civilization,
secluded, removed, alone.

I quietly point to the morning sky,
at the near-distant mountains
piercing Aurora’s red light
with Nephelae skirts encircled peaks.

I quietly point to the midday sky,
as fledgling Rocs swoop in flight,
Marco Polo’s favorite predators,
fanning their brilliant feathers.

I quietly point to the evening sky,
at the fairies that light the night,
winged angels whose natural beauty
knows not the street lamps’ glow.

I quietly point to the midnight sky,
at the ominous crimson moon
whose light corrupts my very flesh,
strengthens mammalian breathe
and leaves me quiet no more,
and their questions arise no more.


The harder I try, the more it fades, elusively,
her name, her scent, our purpose for entwining,
and yet I clutch on tight to wisps of memories.

I see silver moonlight glinting off her 
flowing hair, swirling through night sky,     
her gaunt form streaking across rooftops,  
star light glistening from smiling fangs,    
the scent of decaying flesh washing over me
as she breathes passionately upon my neck.

The memory of her clots around my conscience
and traps me in the evening when we met.
If I could, I’d give in to her completely,
drown in the frenzied lust of her starving eyes,
hold her tight, wash her lips with my crimson love,
until I dissolve completely, and we truly are but one.


Claws skitter
across stained ceramic
dancing with
unexpectedly rhythmic flow
suspending cephalothoraxes
over remnants
of my unwashed week

Flowing over
desiccated toothpaste
dry blood
dodge the onslaught
of yellow phlegm bombs
easily seeing the deluge
with eight eyed foresight

Amusement runs out
as quickly as ammunition

Panic sets in
you frantically skitter
up bowl’s edge
only to be
thwarted by this battle’s
Dicke Bertha

A raging river
of rusted water flows
cutting spindles at joints
slamming carapace to cold ceramic
carrying languid carcass down drain

Standing triumphant
and alone once more
no longer distracted
from internal darkness
I light the match
and am once again
washed away