A+Secret Art Surreal Dreams Available at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger......also available Surreal Dreams Two and Three......If you like the surreal and strange then this is the art for you!!!

Horror Express,Surreal Dreams,Surreal Dreams Two all available at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Bristles and Terror

Ron Koppelberger

Bristles and Terror

She touched the bristles of the straw broom, her fingertips came away smeared crimson and gray with the dust of a struggle. Small beaded teardrops fell to the wooden floor from the blood stained broom, spattering in tiny blossoms, finely petaled blooms in blushing sinful retreat. She was tapered in rags, burlap hems and heavy cotton sash. Gentle ringlets in golden corn silk haloed her bloody checks, a beauty defined in delicate degrees of warmth.
She returned the broom to an upright sweep and worked the swaying rhythm of mutual discouragement. Pools of cooling blood streaked the floor as she swept away the foolishness of death. The bodies of Frank and Leona Jenkins lay in disarray near the cottage hearth. She had conferred with the shadows in quiet repentance when the couple had invited her into the cottage. She had been searching for food, hands expecting the warmth of another living creature; the door , latched tight in its unbiased remark, its lofty logic, had surrendered its contents as a middle aged man, large silken, worn well in wealth and status. He had opened the door and offered her his hand. She hadn’t perceived him as villainous, nevertheless the truth had borne witness to his evil intent.
She had crossed the threshold quietly thanking the man. He had avoided her gaze as he bolted the door behind her. “You’re ours now babe and we’re gonna have the best time sweetie.” he whispered, “ Purity and grins, grins and ash, grins and ash.” the woman chanted menacingly. His betrayal complete, he grabbed her arm and chuckled, a bit of spittle touched her check. “Grins and ash, save us a kiss for the miss.” the man’s wife laughed.
Her arm hurt where he was holding her and an anger engulfed her in desolate union. She favored her pointed fangs as she grabbed the mans head, pushing it forward and to the left. Her teeth dug deep and he screamed,” Aaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee.” His blood pumped and he fell unconscious, then dead. The woman came at her with a metal poker from the hearth, “ What have you done, what have you done?” she screamed in a rictus of bare teeth and clenched jawbone. The woman flew backward and into the hearth, smashing her head and rolling into the ash pile.
Scrutinizing the smears of blood she mouthed a quiet, innocent prayer for the wont of a vagabond vampire, a desperate enchantress and an unwary vampire in search of haven, in search of respite near bristles and terror, near night and the passion of an endless dream.

Mismatched Blood

Ron Koppelberger

Mismatched Blood

Fury and overfed wraths of beckoning mayhem whiskered the wolfs slumber with the temper of bitter cream, curds in sour blood, the flesh of a dazed chafe and mazy portent, the carnivals main attraction, “Wolf or Man“ the sign read. The wolf dreamed and in firebrand agitation, forward unto mismatched blood, a type of fury and unbidden allure in fuzzy goosebumps and ecstasy, all bliss and desire, all wont for escape to the cool forest.
He dreamed of her, snarls and growls, howls and grumble-rumble convocations in yellow eyed consent. Fine-spun futures in flame and ash, in cinders and burning accent, he dreamed and in that dream he found release, release unto the elder gods of freedom and hunting passions the carnival cage long forgotten and his mate near, close in the attractions alcove. He dreamed of his mate, the mismatched blood, the contradiction in fanged arrays of whelp offspring, “Good seed,” she whispered to the dreaming wolf from her cage, “ Good seed my husband.” He saw jet black in twilight shadow and the silhouette of an absent sun, black and devouring with an acquired embrace, a gentle surrender to the charcoal fur and clawed ambiance of the female. A dark peck and a wicked pact with the ancient alliance the midnight demons of err. She cooed in his mind and all the substance of ethereal futures revolved around him in delirious celebration, “ Evermore my love, evermore we shall be free from the cage, the lair of men and grinning human children.” The wolf shuddered, the humans were bad blood and maybe so was she, the mismatched assurance of scarlet terrors and bloody heedless wont. He fought the urge to yelp in tangled beds of straw, screaming and oblivious pulling him closer to the edge of desolate abandon. He fought and when he awoke he remembered the mists of what might be, he remembered the chase and the hunt, the divine satisfactions of an angel in alabaster feather and gossamer contrast. He remembered love and the promise of Eden.
Yawning and tasting the cool dawn airs of morning-tide life, he thanked the heavens for the start of a new day and the treasure of insight. “Straight forward.” he thought, “ Moving in paw sure paths toward the divine.” He soon forgot the mismatched blood and prayed, otherwise unaware of the currents, the fates that guide wolves and man. He looked ahead, to the fable of cerulean skies bought by daybreak sunshine and the promise of freedom, freedom from the barkers and the clowns and the other humans in guise of what children find fascinating. He thought of the female wolf across from his cage and the will of what he needed, to find the secret, to venture out and live, simply live free of man and his chains. They were both prisoners to the show, the dark parade, the carnival of the wolf, the carnival of hearts and caged spirt, a mystery unto his knowledge……the freedom he sought was but a dream and in the end of that long day of contemplation a child stood near his cage.
“Lookie, lookie a beast terrible, careful, careful son he might jus take a mind to swallow you whole if you get too close.” The barker turned away for a moment and the child reached into the cage. He sniffed at the boys hand for a moment then lapped at his fingers. The boys fingers tasted of cotton candy and dandelion greens. The wolf paused for a moment as the barker yanked the child away, yelling, “Back vicious beast, back!” The boy wore a startled look as the barker unteathered a whip and snapped it through the cage bars. “Stand back child!” he said as he left a welt on the wolfs back.
Later the wolf would reflect upon his lot again and the passion of the dark female opposite him. She was wild and shadowy nevertheless, she would be suitable and he craved freedom from the confines of the cage. She looked across the dusty hallway and whispered we will be free my husband, we will be free.”

Reveling Ages

Ron Koppelberger

Reveling Ages

Summoned by the rise of flawless paint, by the color of blood-red twilight,

The resonant mind of temptations dream gave renewing tonics and looks of wrest challenge to the group of praying, studious ravens; in confederate rule and real bond they established the angels of dusk with sleek shadow and homage to the mischief of the thankful owner, the master of evening silhouette and darkened indigo night.
He troubled the sky with searching eyes, expectant, needing, beseeching the wont of a dream laden mist , more sleeping than conscious , regal in claims of ascension. He found genuine salvation in the availing energies of enveloping secret. They said shed the seed and join the child of heaven; he watched and the flittering lights in the evening sky danced and sang, close, embracing the heavens and ravens breech. By sought, tried need he waited for the shadow of the sun and dawns promise, to fly in winged spheres of otherworldly passion, he swayed and the fabric of a woven web silken spider silver, rare, laboring the birth of a new journey, embraced him and brought him along to the stars as ravens shivered in cleaving union with the reveling ages of understanding and course.

Velvet Sash

Ron Koppelberger

Velvet Sash

Anew in shapes of columned time and lace frill, in

Rhymes of reason and will. A design in conscious arousals

Of breakfast range

And noon-tide

Sweets.

A better part of the least in degrees

Of ethereal satiation

And dressed magnitude, a forge in furrowed

                                                                                Velvet sash.

Warm Bark

Ron Koppelberger

Warm Bark

Bracing for the whim of doubt and wise diversions

In raven’s breath and sparrows in profound repute,

Unto the migrant will of souls and tears in somber

Everlasting brand, an exiled ambition borne with the

Caress of desolate vagabonds and silent airs of honor,

The mournful cry of bone weary seductions in velvety moss

And stagnant morass, cattails and warm bark, by the

Western sunshine flowing beneath the spaces and between alabaster clouds

Even tall pine bough fur, the respite in terms

Of bidden suns and the way to

Pearls, the way to gentle

Solace and the way to dreaming

                                                                   Dramas in silhouette.