F. G. Denton

Terza Rima Purgatory DLC

Selected remastered poems. To be released in December 2025.

Blue sky is turning into purple In optic sensors, neural chain. The echo signal loops in circle, Amplification of the pain. I clench my fist; my rusty fingers Remember softness of your hand, The warmth in sensors coils, lingers, A burning chip in no man’s land. A howling wind is blowing near, You used to laugh under the storm. Your fingerprint, left on the mirror, Still casting shadow, light and warm. Your coffee cup is old and dusty, An urn with ashes of the past, A clock on wall, its hands are rusty, A doomsday hour long had passed. Your books are left with open pages, The stories you will never tell, Will burn my circuitry for ages, The last of those who toll the bell. I send transmissions every hour, One day, you might receive my words. The latest volt of solar power: “Forever yours, in all the worlds”.

Content warning: body horror

The surgical steel is reflecting my eyes, My cloudy irises holding the form. A red-letter Y of a full-body size, The heart overheated is no longer warm. Confirm every sign before taking the blade, Be sure that my shell has no human inside: What if I’m still sleeping, my dreams in cascade— No visions are left for these eyes open wide. I am just a number, a case in your file, A minute for you, but the end of my dawn. Be gentle, my coroner, gift me a smile, The very last gesture before I am gone, Be gentle, my coroner, don’t drop my heart, Don’t break it against icy tiles of the floor. No blood in aorta, no breath to restart, The signal has faded inside empty core. The very last time close my eyes with your hand, The tower has fallen, has broken the chain. Another existence, a far-away land Is where everyone meets each other again.

Metallic taste of tears, red drops on paper, It’s ripping off my skin to get away, Inside of me it lives, my inner shaper, Poetic exorcism is on the way. Whatever reader thinks, however biased, The monster stays on page in any case. I pet it gently, look it in the iris, Red glowing eyes are leaving smudged ink trace. “We thank you very much for your submission, But what you write is not what we would print.” The space between the lines—presupposition, Where arrogance and hubris casting tint. The monster growls, it wants to break confinement, I calm it down until it stops to fuss. I tell it that for us it’s not assignment, That we’ll be fine if no one knows of us, That we will haunt whoever dares to question, Will always stay in every cell of brain, That monster and creator are possession Of every single poetry domain. My monster’s called an old poetic meter, It’s rigid form and shape intimidate, It growls again, it scares away the reader; Refused to change the mold and imitate. “They just don’t get the music of your lyre,“ I tell the monster, skip one beat of heart. My iambs—not for sale, my soul’s on fire: Burns in appreciation of the art.

In shaking hands I hold the paper, Another scripture in archive— It percolates with acrid vapor, My only way to stay alive. It propagates itself on pages, The endless scrolls across the floor, Scratched-out lines are macrophages, Devouring each infected spore. In every word—dissemination, That is replacing thoughts with noise; Infests in every brain location, Fills up with protein alloys. It shows reflections all mishapen, The shadows blinking in response— To every reader it has happened, Poetic trail of broken bones. My muse has cursed me with the virus, But I must not let it to spread, My bloodshot eye, uneven iris Is trembling, slowly turning red. In every word I’ve ever drafted— A part of my poetic soul, Necrotic stanzas stitched and grafted, Disease misfolding every scroll. Just one more draft until I vanish And leave the questions in the air, From mortal plane forever banished For writing poetry-malware. I bleed on page, the quill’s on fire, The lyre is untuned to scream; Each single poem—a tripwire, Contaminating your bloodstream.

Cold of surgical steel, cold and stiffness of hand, Kocher clamp clicked in rhythm with the coroner’s heart. In anamnesis mortis the story remained, Doctor Jekyll is filing the post-mortem chart. In her life only ars nobilissima est, Formal shape of the sentences holds the reports. In the motionless body just heart in the chest, Souls returning to life with the dead language words. In the mirror she sees not her usual gaze, Not the eyes of a human who guides afterlife, It’s the poet of dread in the clearing haze, This is Hyde with her quill, sharp and deadly as knife. Words are dancing in strings, link together in chain, Follow rules that she sets, fit in multiple shapes. Tears will dry on the page, blood will leave drops of stain, Tiny part of her soul there forever remains. Symbiosis of arts, dualism of the mind, Never mixing together, but always so close, Sharp precision and imagination combined, Poems—cure or poison, depends on the dose.

My muse is a menace, she came uninvited, She made me write poems, my quill she ignited, No personal feelings, no borders acknowledged, My head she infected with blasphemous knowledge. She plays broken lyre, untuned into noises, Of souls burning slowly a million of voices. I ask her to stop, she agrees for a moment, Then makes me write blasphemy shaped as a sonnet. She gives me a quill, tells me “This is so urgent”, While painting the portraits of Dante and Virgil. “Ars longa”, she says; “Vita brevis”, I answer, To quit writing process she leaves me no chances. My muse is my critic, my judge, my garroter, Her words—asphyxiation, my throat to throttle. I give her my poem, the best I can offer, She reads it and says: “You’re a talentless author”. My muse is a menace, she smirks in reflection, She smiles with expression of my own projection. “Be muse to yourself”, she has whispered in silence, To seal the agreement, poetic alliance.

Digital dread in formal verse.

CONTENT WARNING:

Psychological & body horror. Violence, torture, invasive medical imagery. Suicide & self-harm. Loss of identity, mind control, imprisonment, surveillance. Religious themes & blasphemy. Non-consensual sexual situations (non-explicit). Mass death, industrialized human processing.

Reader discretion is advised.

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