edgar whitman wilde

Anguish...by...Edgar Whitman Wilde

The lime trees are heavy with the glitter of wind

Words like a host of flies buzz inside my mouth

A fire roars in my head an apocalyptic holocaust

My sentences articulate themselves

Like an erotic bruise on a boys neck

Appearing with a rapacious and concentrated existence

Forcing me into an uncompromising solitude

A concealment like the sitting of a stone in its own shadow

I am on the other side of time where transient moments

Imprint themselves on other people’s minds

Forming and colliding in immense fictions

But there is also a sustained silence

Within the speed and space of thought

That holds the creature of my metaphysical anguish

Flying With Cut Wrists...by...Edgar Whitman Wilde

Flying with cut wrists

Above the color of a surrogate self

Osiris Son of Earth and Heaven

I suddenly feel the warm red viscous liquid

Slowly it seeps out, furtively at first

Then with more determination

Down my arm across my right hand, across my left

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip

I can sense it congealed on my head where my hands have been

Clinging to me not wishing to leave

My face is caressed by crimson fingers as a lover would

My eyes, ears, nose, mouth, neck

It seems to roam over me looking for a home

Trickling across my lips it offers, no dares me to taste

Teasing me, but my mouth cannot respond

Lips now matched against the scarlet

A growing blue in comparison, colour mix

Form a new symmetric sapphiric jewel

I feel rushing air as off a great wind

Bright white lights curiously dance above me

Invite me to join them

Colours speed past

Drab, dreary colours green, grey

Then suddenly a veil is laid upon me

thereafter all is meaningless

All is black

Vincent...by...Edgar Whitman Wilde


I sit for a while destitute of thought an insonce dissonance of macabre music playing out melodies in my mind. Then realising, I now know what truth is I decide to lie. For truth is merely the fiction of lies. I declaim the sentences that issue from my lips, tell the eye that the little lace dress with its beautiful white hem is not there. That what it sees is a delusion an unreality. Fearful that the eye may not be duped in such a way I hurl the most violent and vile obscenities at the black pulsating pupil. Then I reach out thumping it with closed and clenched fists. Foul smelling black blood spatters over me as it gushes from the eye. Like the horrible fountains that spew water from the round mouths of gargoyles. Mouths that always give me the impression that they are about to give oral sex in appeasement to sexual fantasies of even the most debased encounters that take pace in alleys, or in a schoolboys bedroom. But I don’t care.

The eye vanishes and light once more fills the aperture that is my bedroom. The fish are gone. The little lace dress with its pure white hem shines radiantly with poetic gaiety in a luscious allurement. I finger the virginal white hem. There is a moan of pleasure but I’m not sure if it’s from me or the little lace dress. It’s certainly not from the o’clock who intimates in distracted tones its displeasure at the intimacy between the little lace dress and I. Once more proclaiming consequences of a dire nature should I persist in my pleasurable pursuits of aspired knowledge. However the great experiment is in its own undoing and so I pursue my decadence my dissidence and discovery with missionary zeal.

They still whisper about my complexion, my long blond polished hair and my tall thin body the colour of golden syrup. Their gendered minds made by a society of self parodied idiots, confused and confusing, mistakenly thinking other is wrong. I ponder on this then smile at the results of my mental undertakings.

(to be continued)

A wind...by...Edgar Whitman Wilde

There is a wind

a wind that displaces me

from the limitations  of the present

it locates me in a century

i shall never live to see

a coloured wind

that overtakes me

lifts me out of this present

transports me into

the fragments of a fiction

it is a wind with violet eyes

it disperses me

into celebrated elements

a wind that cradles me

listens to me

a wind that stops me

in mid-sentence

makes me fumble

over the cohesion of my words

it is a wind that

drapes the mirrors

causes voluminous

approbation of thought

across purple, blue and red lit canals

a wind that is

the potency of a swallowed aphrodisiac

blowing through my veins

a wind of implacable silence

that causes me to hear

the tireless serration of

my mind expiring

on the last moonlit beach

the colour between brown and blue...by...Edgar Whitman Wilde

in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, right
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue


EXHIBIT #3  Edgar Whitman Wilde has an uncanny resemblance to Percy Shelley

I have long been suspicious of the unbelievable similarity not only in the “look alike” appearance between Edgar and Percy, but also in their common unique ability to capture the soul in their poetry.  Is Edgar actually a Time Traveler to the Fourth Dimension that met Shelly on that clan-destined meeting in the garden of Shelley’s villa on Lake Geneva? Interesting question to explore.