Brooding Maiden and the Beast – Basilike Pappa


Ornaments, bars, neon 

and people: by their useless regrets they have colorful streets and a grazing fever

Feelings of peace and security then take over, adding them to crowds

smoking outside restaurants

bleating, masturbating –  

the orgasm like pastries sold during an execution

In the mornings sometimes I cry 

but when the night comes we fuck on slides

 –he strong, me greedy– 

in a playground 

as damned as his arms 

when he’s away

These misplaced cravings for the divine

can become as addictive as shoplifting

The clenched me, my secret burning,

urges his growling, his strength,

the feeding

We take eternity where we find it

If only I could feel the sun on his skin 

lap it up off his neck

but I can’t even fantasize

being stranded on an island with him

without imagining the whole shipwreck

so I bury my wish under the loose swings

And overthink


View original post 282 more words

Basilike Pappa, How Demons Get Their Wings

It feels great to be Dodging the Rain again



Here comes streetlight
and me again

a lover’s cheap charms
all over her diary

ambrosial language
for naked game

erogenous trust
her throat moans deeper

my sliver of smile
how can she know

true love cuts
red is a singer

in vocal cords
to stain her dress

death is a river
to wash her away

my knife is fed
I feel them grow

Basilike Pappa is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. Her work has appeared on Intrinsick, Timeless Tales, Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics, Bones – Journal for Contemporary Haiku, Sonic Boom, and Visual Verse. She is a member of Sudden Denouement – A Global Divergent Literary Collective. Most of the time she can be found reading near a window in Greece.

You can read more of Basilike’s work here, and on her blog Silent Hour.

View original post

Mosquito Soup and What It Meant – Basilike Pappa

On Free Verse Revolution, with a strange kind of soup.


There was a man who had mosquito soup for dinner

I should have told him what it meant

I laughed instead; scared him away

I want to tell him I’m not the same

but sometimes I run after windswept crumbs – 

the chase still alive under my skin

I want to finish that story where the rigor mortis of a major planet

dried the sea, left the fish flailing in the shallows;

I started it as we gin-fizzed against the yellow of the kitchen walls 

(egg-and-lemon sauce, the kind I detest) 

– I want to tell him what it meant, but it was in a dream, so it doesn’t matter

I was chemicals on top of everything else–

think of a smooth bandage over the present– 

and he held on to a bag of old clothes (when afraid, stand still) 

He was wearing them when his casual plan backfired underneath

View original post 154 more words

I Am the Woman – Basilike Pappa

Being the woman your mother warned you about, on Heretics, Lovers and Madmen. I have some sisters too you should watch out for.

Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen

I am the woman your mother warned you about:
She and the other matriarchs exchanged recipes. Babies in arms, children tugging at their sleeves. High pitched squealing. The perfect detergent for spring cleaning.
I zoomed out.
Someone asked me something, I said ‘what?’ Then they exchanged glances.
– Isn’t the day hot, and could you beat the eggs?
– Sure, why not?

I beat the eggs and I was thinking the last time I did spring cleaning must have been summer because it was hot. Then someone came and brought me pot. That’s how I missed a spot on the window glasses.

I am the woman your mother warned you about:
When she told me ‘when you get pregnant,’ I said ‘I’m not taking any chances.’

‘Son, she’s cold. Chit-chat was like we spoke foreign languages. I have a feeling she’ll never bake a pie. She only paid attention when…

View original post 315 more words

Basilike Pappa, As Rain Inside The Brain

Proud to be on Dodging The Rain today. Thank you, Neil Slevin!



Melinda stores memories inside chickens – uncaring birds.
Buys groceries.
Eats. Cleans. Makes a cup of tea.
Sitting by her window she knits long scarves. Hobbies are a good thing.
It all feels like calling home and speaking in a foreign accent, or like a strange cat sitting on her armchair.

Melinda used to have her rooms full of nightingales. Sometimes she flashed them at people. Well, she is only human.
But counting nightingales before they sing all their songs is a cheater.

It comes as a missed train, as rain inside the brain; as unequal exchange, torn page, minimum wage. It comes as derealization, depersonalization, as minding the gap but still getting your foot stuck in it; as varicose vein, chest pain, not so sweet martha lorraine. It comes as blue, to paint blue the heart; as human factor, x-factor, max factor. It comes as…

View original post 1,029 more words