Year II - Issue XXXV
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lub-dubThere are lovers
I will never be able to
crawl out from underneath;
I’m caving in, lungs
no longer able
to exhale lovely things.
However hollow, I’ve got
these artist hands,
these god hands of mine
that can save lives.
What’s the point
when I’ve got little
& no one can ever seem
to find my pulse?
Trust me, I'm a PoetA ship sails trusty waves
amongst a big blue sea.
who never sways,
not even an inch.
wound up so tightly.
Life challenged with a
handful of covered laughs
and insecure metaphors,
sell out the heart
torn from the chest,
placed in a mason jar of rum
with better judgment.
No angry man can sail a ship
through any kind of waves without
Maybe no one ever told you
I hold logic to butterflies,
they're in a lot of my poems
and I must say to you Dear absent one-
without witnessing a small child
chase a butterfly in a
wheelchair, no angry man can live a life
asymmetryAt the end of everything, the stars burn themselves to smoke and whimpers, lying in reality’s abandoned ashtray – the stubs of something no one will ever use again. The universe gathers her shawl and fixes her hair, vain to the last, even though no one is there to admire her. She is wizened and wrinkled, more than ready to collapse into a point, sink down into the protective embrace of wherever it is universes come from.
At the end of everything, the galaxies have shattered on the floor, scattered as pieces of broken glass. Lonely atoms shiver and shake, alone, rattling in the empty space between dead planets where water used to
They fought, my brave, implacable forefathers,
outnumbered and outgunned, swept aside
as the lethal tide of conquest overwhelmed them.
Those who survived were crushed, humiliated,
driven to the infertile margins of their former domain.
My people were driven from the Great Plains,
condemned to bitter memories, to the company of ghosts.
Their shame oozed from
their spirits’ festering wounds.
Each returning day I must mourn
for a world lost long before I was born,
I weep for those who died, I feel their spirits
as they sleep, tormented by an anguish of dreams.
Red Indians, redskins, native Americans,
-these names are b
Quill in Red Ink One could taste the misery in the stale air of the rickety old house. It was falling to shambles more and more before Evelyn's eyes every day. The only home she ever had rusting away to pieces. The floorboards warped, ceiling cracked and windows caving in that groaned in the night as the wind blew clearly through the busted plastics that crafted them. This place she'd grown up with hopes and dreams; a place of laughter and joy but now an empty and rotted corpse that had decayed faster and faster over the following years.
Perhaps as a child she had just been mislead not to realize how grimy and dirty it was. How the dusty old cellar; a familiar hide-and-go-seek spot, had been unkempt and unsafe for use even then with the termite nibbled beams of support beams holding the building's structure above her head. Those had been simpler times she supposed. The ease of a childhood belief that had died and withered away like fres
the hungry look...the hungry look,
the gully of your throat like wraiths,
we can feel you rusting, lost one;
i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet
and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,
but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,
and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;
where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq
Against Your WallAgainst Your Wall
This was a war that would
Go on to involve roses.
There were times where I would wish,
Wish to make like Kerouac,
Get on the nearest road
If fortune favoured the brave,
I would stand a pauper in your shadow.
So now you know,
But you don't understand.
You are my dear Rochester;
I a madwoman in your attic
Held against my greatest will,
Throwing stones with poetic scrawl to break windows
As well as your wall-
Yet the truth is
I still want to be more than another brick.
Ageing...Mid-February came with frost,
And for the first time it reached me.
That tracery of white planting its flag
And creeping into my hair;
A tiny reminder that everything changes and passes
The first sign I’m nearing the end of my Summer
Although Spring had not yet made the leaves green.
who are you?there is someone
behind your mirror
as your vision blurs,
obscured with melancholy.
other eyes loom
over your rouged crinkle-cut arms
and your crystalline tears.
Axe and Cigarettes (are Home)I need you and
the way you smell like axe and cigarettes
A phone call wont cut it
when I can't touch you
because the miles between us
keep me from your smile
and those dimples I cant quit kissing.
Why Canada, eh?
Why does that country want you so much?
It doesn't need your touch and love so much
as I do. Do I have to fight
the earth to shift so I
can keep those lips where I can
I wanna be selfish. I've been
give give give
all my life, so please can I--just once--
Is it my fate to lose every safe place
and warm face that makes me feel like
I can exist here on this painful planet?
Let me be selfish.
dismantled pygmalionwhen the sun collapses unto itself
and empty wombs grace the palms of this earth
heavy with child, bearing the soft progeny of chance, abandoned
to cover the land-
you will teach me how to reverse this network
of clockwork dreams, how simple mathematics can be
when calculating the degree of loneliness in countered white
virgin affairs- crippled calligraphy. show me the distance within these
isolated cells, obsolete- reflect the solar ticks
of all that is and was you and me. oh stranger of these quiet tides,
project all that is within, and sear your star-death breath bright into these
tragic north pacific atmospheres: release. give
ConfluenceAccording to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;
I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then
dark spotshearts are heavier between fingertips,
warmer on icicle tongues,
and the words that spew from the intervals of your incisors
are drops of wax on my sun-burnt skin.
i feel you.
and you are the bruise on my hip
i keep hitting on the sharp edges of your seethed whispers.
and if your intentions are to keep me
from forgetting the violence of your adoration,
worry not, they're what i fell for in the first place.
outlinesthis concrete flesh
has never burned red
but has been stabbed
all too many times
so there's no one
who can draw
UnconcludedI said no -
once, twice, thrice, countless times but
the skipping of beats
the wry unexplained smile on my lips
Just won't easily go away.
I fall -
hard enough to feel a pang of pain
No need for "why"
Not even "what"
Just the inconsistency of "not suppose to happen".
I understand -
convincing myself that I do
get through unscathed
get pass this phase with no regrets
Just that... I'm not sure "when".
I know -
what crossing the thin line means
nor a full stop
Just the infinite cycle of possible shattered pieces.
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