Wednesday, January 26, 2011

i called you my butter cookie

i know them way back, packed
in the supermarket, stacks after stacks
labeled blue, each blue can
our big city's favourite, wrapped in red
spring's warmest gift.

it must have been your baby blues, or me
overwhelmed in a scent
so flattering, in a way
so sweet, it caters my court,
your ship.

crunchy touches, sugar on top, taste
on my tongue, the best flavor
unlocked - the best thing i know from you country -
all these golden pieces of loveliness
sink in memories.

by cherry rao


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Monday, January 24, 2011

Incoherence ... incofuckingherence

Because tear-choked incoherence will not make you hear I wonder
If I could harness humour to explain my hurt.
Would it make a difference?
Do we survive because my inability to specify results in silence,
Because of my reluctance to hurt,
Because of my inability to value my needs,
Because on too many levels I cannot believe that I have anything to offer?

Should I have challenged your selfishness, what I now perceive as selfishness,
Rather than be sensitive to your feelings?
Would you have been less so as a result,
And if so, less so what?
So what?
I am unsatisfied
Again, since it is seemingly OK for me to pleasure you,
Although I am not, myself, a source of pleasure,
Which hurts, reduces, negates and renders me humourless.

by Esme S.


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Thursday, January 20, 2011

I am surrounded by alcoholics

They are here, there and everywhere
Friends and relatives
Unacquainted about life’s responsibilities
Hanging idle with a bottle of poison
Living while destroying
At home under their mother’s nose
Or all alone, nobody to talk to
In a world that is isolated and freezing cold.

I see alcoholics where I live
Young and old, all nice people though
Expressions of dejection
As if a barstool is the most comfortable place to hide
Or maybe just plain petrified
To face the world and all its problems
Through wide opened eyes.

I had an uncle who was an alcoholic
His wife left him
He then lived alone and drank as much as he liked
So one day he decided to place his head inside the gas cooker
And kill himself by breathing in the poisonous fumes.
I wonder why?

I have an uncle who is an alcoholic
His wife left him too
He now lives and drinks with a younger woman
She is a heroin addict decorated in self applied tattoos.

I had a girl, she was an alcoholic too.
Unbeknown to most, she hides it very well
It was hard to walk away
She gave me great head, she really could screw.

I am surrounded by alcoholics.
Although my parents, they barely even drink
They have often warned me about the degrading lifestyle
And the uncontrollable and horrid nature
Of an alcoholic
And how a world can crumble
While family and friends cant do a thing but watch on
With unconditional love that is ignored and taken for granted.

Maybe it is ok to hit the floor once in your life
Devotion is then highlighted
Guardian angels in the form of loved ones
Peep from behind the curtains of heaven
Express the free love.
We are here
You are there
Without each other things will never be the same
So lets enjoy it while we can
Lets awake to the sound of the bird’s singing in the trees
Fresh and sacred
Hands held high and spirits reignited to daylight and beautiful skies.
Lets live to enjoy our moments and smoothen memories.
Relinquish through maturity.
And when that day finally comes to sink into our coffins
It will be to sweet and everlasting praise.
Your time here has not been ended, but accomplished.
Enrichment and inspiration
Risen and derived
From the hearts of fulfilled lives
Final farewells untainted
With wishful goodbyes.

by Paul Hendricks


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Wednesday, January 19, 2011

APOCALYPTIC JAZZ

The sky is falling in transparent fragments
During an encore
By a band saturated
In sweat and saliva
Crying out for redemption
In accented brass tones
Their eyes bulge
Their veins pump
Like shotguns
In vigilance

They all wonder
When will be
Their last note
Their last breath
Their last request

Inside this vacancy
As the sun hold on
With its last rays
Competing
With the clouds
Shipped in like cargo
Impaling the moon’s romantics

Windows shatter
The earth quakes
Along with the bass
The drummer’s eyelids
Refusing to shut
Just yet
As the snare ticks

Lovers long for the last touch
The others embrace the one close
Or themselves
Huddled under tables
(in front of the stage)
Some cry
Others just accept
High pitch, solo driven
Margin expanding
Resolutions
At the gates
To implode

Fingers grip the valves
Clutching the last few moments
Bleed
Knuckles stretch straight
Cymbals crash in echoes
Within the unforgiving
Foundations sink
And no one is ready
To leave their regrets
Drowned in boos
Rising an octave

by Jason Jepson


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Tuesday, January 18, 2011

THE SINKING SHIP DILEMMA.

The ship is sinking and I
have the tinned food, the knife,
fishing equipment – yadda yadda -
in my dingy, but now I face
a more problematic dilemma.

That is, I can only take one of
these, either A) a box full of
poetry and fine wine or B)
a box of beer and porn. I decide
instead to go down with the ship.

by Matthew Roberts


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Monday, January 17, 2011

humming along with a lisp

this happened
back in the day
when a dentist had
a set of pliers and
a bottle of whiskey.

had the front
ones yanked
good riddance
it ached
and infected
tasted blood for
over a week.

had a hell
of a smile
after that
wrecked my
embouchure
for a stretch
my only
instrument
was
pussy.

it was okay
at first she
didn t want any
toothless man
down there.

she let me suck
her tit s
they tasted
like warm beer.

after awhile
she either got
used to looking
at my smile
or missed the
feeling.

either or
doesn t matter.

was back
where
i wanted
to be

hummin
right
along
with a
lisp.

by Robert Ede


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Thursday, January 13, 2011

So Deep

Let me try to take
what is no longer there.

Let me rob from this moment
kindling, matches, and flare.

All I know is this
I am Rorschach-stained (again) by that first kiss
and the words–
“I never thought I would see you again,” followed by,
“I love you, suck my dick.”

With one more rip into
my familiar fabric
you’re the true fuckslut,
bitch.

I take in your guile
I give your venom a spit
remembering so much about you
I’ll simply omit.

by Kyrsten Bean


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Monday, January 10, 2011

Short coming

There is something
missing inside me
it must be missing
a gap
inside my head
because I fill
myself up
pour the fermentations
down my throat
gullet filling
but I stay incomplete.
I cannot pour
enough in to rise up
into my head
the words spill out
as the liquid
finds equilibrium
gurgling, bubbling
behind my tonsils.
I am missing
something
something else to fill me
missing something
to fulfil me but
happily when
my throat is full
I still have other
voids and the wine
bottle is to hand.
I am missing something
inside me. I
make do, a short
and narrow substitute
for the real thing
a short coming
but I am
missing something.

by jkdavies


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Friday, January 07, 2011

Ephemeron

It happened so quickly,
the way her love shattered

into a thousand fragments,
each a tiny mirror reflecting

a magnificent sunburst,
blinding her soured vision forever.

And all she had done
was ask him,

ask him in a quiver,
'Did you fuck her?'

to which he lied,
the bastard slipped

so that the truth hit her.
She knew it was over.

by Zaina Anwara


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Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Letters to Myself as an Old Man

In ten years,
I’ll write five letters to myself.
No, not five letters but ten poems,
living poems that inhale and exhale
and that can have the wings of a bird
or the guts of a fish
or the teeth of a snake.
These poems will act as a memoir
of sorts for when my face has more lines
than a pitted stone;
and I will find these poems locked away in a box
lined with velvet and dust,
tucked away somewhere in an attic or
a writing desk perhaps.
The same desk where my arthritic fingers still
drum the typewriter, clacking my remaining teeth
in a sort of rhythmic beat.
These poems are letters to a version of myself
at age 72, eyelids drooped over my blue, blue eyes
like great gray parasols.

by Andrew Ketcham


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Saturday, January 01, 2011

Cruelty

Cruelty like sediments into water container
Even inadvertent stirring spoils
The serenity and sanctity.

It suffers from insomnia
Unleash its irritation of sleepless night
On orphan and weak.

People are poor by kind
And rich by cruelty
As if goddess of learning herself
Were blessing them
To deliver the speech extempore.

Everyone is embodiment of explosive
All we need is to light one spark:
Calling wrong a wrong
And get ready to sing a swan song.

A group of trigger happy youth
Making to and fro of road
Like venomous bees around honeycomb
Provoking and tantalizing to say something
All you have to do is to stir up the nest
And they would do their best
Better we know the rest.

Intolerance on rampage
And tolerance victims of stampede
Now none trembles with fear
All shudder with anger
The strong with one
But the weak with all cylinders.

Gone outside to seek entertainment,
For week-end refreshment
Wife suffered molestation
I suffered frustration
We flavoured hot juice of insult
Returned home with hurt inside heart.

by Vivekanand Jha


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