The Accident Fallacy of the Fugue

By Lee La Morte

The Accident Fallacy of the Fugue is the newest compilation by Lee La Morte, including fictional storylines in freeform poetry. The poems present various dark art, philosophy, and pop culture themes next to a collection of creative lifestyle photography.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee La Morte
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736176221

Lee La Morte

Lee La Morte is a USA based novelist and poet with a passion for the surreal, obscure, and ethereal. Writing from personal experiences, elaborate inner worlds, and daydreams.

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Accident Fallacy of The Fugue

Copyright © 2021, Lee La Morte

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, store in a database and/or published in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Paperback: 978-1-7361762-3-8

EBook: 978-1-7361762-2-1

Requiem for a Drunkard

Drowning asrai in a fishbowl

Of caustic alkaline and boiling bedrock.

He was intemperate tippler left among,

High fashion leeches and a devil in golden fleece.

He’ll remember little from those nights,

Drenched in alcohol and popping generic brand (mg).

He’ll placate this pain with flowing amber

And bleach out any remnants of shame,

Lost at the bottom of a glass of absinthe.

Coating his heart in liquid hydrogen,

Frozen cocktail shaken by a terror unseen.

He'll let sluggish words bubble to the surface,

Speaking in degenerate split tongues

As sharp as the bite of scotch.

He'll whisper to that fire sliding down his throat,

To burn away those haunting echoes,

And leave his ribcage empty.

He'll curb his hollowed edges with a dash of bitters

And leave himself there to fester thoughtlessly

In a fleeting, manmade euphoria.

In the early hours of the morning

Or, are they the late hours of the night?

Here he’ll learn all the colors of bile.

Bags of lost memories and wasted youth

Hanging under his unfocused eyes.

And as the sun breaks the horizon in his twisted mind,

All he’ll hear is that heavy thrumming beat

That drowns out warning bells, overwrites misgivings,

That disappears with the last of his dry heaves.

And as the day passes, the stars come back to play,

He’ll rebel against lessons from previous nights

And read labels like road signs,

All pointing to a mirage of paradise and rapture.

Given Octave

Hey fickle little guinea fowl,

Is that you calling out?

Crying in a song so sweet,

Asking who's to blame?

Haunted by this misery,

By this pain?

In that lonely exalted state,

Vestige of a griffin dwelling inside.

Not willing to play pretend,

Or hide in fanning plumage,

With eyes pecked out by a hawk,

In the golden hour glow.

While the winds funnel through the trees,

Out it calls again, with only echos to respond

Lost to the soft sigh of the earth,

Do you have any will left in the quiet?

Or have you still not learned a thing,

When you've lost so much more

Than you ever tried to gain?         

Major Macabe, Minor Morose

Can’t stop this sinking circus,

Acute date night on the vertices,

Youth lost to Bermuda’s Triangle.

Russian roulette for two.

She taunts an indifferent reaper with