Ray Succre

. .
Ugly from a Lamp Near the Door
Lets her head to his chest, which conducted,
her listening undulated prime, stethoscopic.
The iambs so regular and in such certainty,
this is more male to her than else.
Then pugnose down, engendering to
historical traits—unbeknownst, and
without talk or notion, all of her beldames
at some age or point had been torturously
talented at this one embellishment.

The pits flare, air steams through,
eyes close, brows lift.

Then, boa jaw unhinged about
a crushed sup of full body,
bone, hair, like settling
hands, head, morphia,
she contrapts the pistil to the maw canon,
and creates his sped consequence,
a universal collision with frantic sensibility.

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, ART:MAG, Laika, and Raunchland, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard. Ray Succre's Blog