Falcon Hunter

Cabbage roll and one-dollar flat noodles, a place to lock the bicycles out front, our booth is by the window. We are reciting kill is kiss as frames of film, jointly remembered, inform our budding courtship. Trapped in a radio station, voices and language will save us, while these chopsticks unite us.

K. Shawn Edgar 2017



Film Fights: The Box

Watch and vote for my last-minute entry into “Wait, What Was That Noise?” on the Film Fights website. On their homepage, click the “Middleweights” tab and watch “The Box” by Decapitated Pitchers. Thanks, and stay gold.

K. Shawn Edgar | Woodheavy Brown | Decapitated Pitchers | Simple Pictures


Rogue Element: Life Spasm A

In The Realm Uncertain

Gone are the breezy moments, where driftwood is a dream catchable; and where the carefree steps making up a sprint are the easy sounds of sand and pebbles displacing under bare feet.

“You gather the supplies, I’m making the camp.”

K. Shawn Edgar | Steel | Gravel | Ceramic

A Space Poem: Hecate


Pic of Love Under Lights

Photo by K. Shawn Edgar & Woodheavy Brown


Europa in Satin or Titan’s Gas Hatcheries

All for the birth, and the warm hatchlings sang: Shout, Shake, Shine!

Our lives are coming home to Titan; the gassy propylene contentment

is life’s easement on property lines; singing a frothing la la tat la tea la

There’s heat in the moon, if viewed through the right lens, la tea tare la

Our first true space travelers will be lei plastic container manufacturers

pushing the lines of assembly out, up, oh la la ti to hues of orange fade

On Europa, past, a haberdasher bleeds remorse for fine satin fabric decay

Its warp threads, never caught and looped by mirror planets of the weft

so the weave falls apart, becoming the darkest black spot la ti gleaming

in a hatchling’s eye; come full stop, infrared, bring out green’s gritty desire

showing its truest all-color back to us in the hydrocarbon haze


floral winter cream’s lace, which cloaks the creatures of other Worlds

for all hatchlings know: they Live… in the Waters

speaking in nature’s groove, ridge, groove, oh la la tat la tea la

Talk, vocal ultraviolet, to the hive in disarray, telling us new riddles to say

Are those bundles of gas queer hatcheries for Titan’s teaming natives?


do we wrap the unknown in hopeful satin and creamy lace for a new chance,

a new beat,

a blazing fresh change of pace,

blindly shooting our one lasting-lastly kiss, forever on, to Titan’s Bloom?

K. Shawn Edgar | Firespawn | Dubious Groundhog | Lapsed of TimeSpace

One Sided Parking Lot Conversations

Volume One:

•The windup man is telling his friend, shuffle feet, about the overlapping details of a dead father’s woodworking precision. The two men unload grocery carts into the trunks of cars.

“He graduated from high school in 1961, and started working the wood in his dad’s garage. Scraps leftover from building the house.” Shuffle feet responses with a hasty head nod.

Windup man spins on: “The cabinet my father left me when he died, he past at the end of June, was his—he’d always joked—like a thesis project. ‘Intricate,’ my mom called it; ‘flowers inlaid in wood like they’d bloomed there and Gothic-era peasant women tilling and planting. So real.’ My dad had artistic connections to representations of old European agriculture. Thatched roofs, I guess.”

At windup man’s first intake of air, shuffle feet half turns his lower body—Is this the gap in traffic, he wonders?—No, the moment’s gone; suddenly it has closed as closes a line drawn in wet sand. Quick and seamless.

• forward to The Fomorian

K. Shawn Edgar K. | Fomalhaut K. | Lemmy Caution K. | Goth Newt K. | Undead Streaming K.•


The Queen’s Rusty Spanner

Puplicrats United Logo

The Queen’s Rusty Spanner

Lodged in her gob

from where it came

no one’s ever known

the rusty spanner

the broken teeth

but she isn’t dead

she’s only been bled

a little to a liter to a lean

white witch

High over head

hoist your Jacks

we’re gathering at the well

to force her hand, to demand

the rusty spanner

the broken teeth

The queen’s to service country

so bring your nuts and your bolts

K. Shawn Edgar | Gob Stopper | Thief of Fate | Goth Pumpkin

Extend to Wall

blood pic with water

“Blood Water” – K. Shawn Edgar 2032

Extent to Wall


On Saturday, March 7, 1856 Magdalen Morales saw the face of Landin Qualm through the window glass and screamed:

Someone else laid this skin. Years ago. It was but a single mix, a fledge of flint. Simple bake. Take from it the little nourishment contained.

Face bait
she has an unpleasant
dead taste
Boiled egg waste

she won’t set right

indissoluble in the pit

upsetting crumble cries

from fiery demon thighs

Neighboring long-boned sailors

sadly cruising the shallows

K. Shawn Edgar | Word Whore | Soft on the Inside | Blurry