Breaking water, diving in with my body, head first.
Rippling seams and leaving stitches unfinished. I dive in to let the purity envelop me. Cleanse me and my pores,
return me to where I started from.
Release me from wars, unopened doors I wished I turned. Forget wounds of battle on my skin.
Open me.cut me open and leave me bleeding. Let my blood sink into the earth until there is nothing left, let me walk this earth for miles and miles, let me feel the pain in my lungs and the hoarseness of
my being escaping from my throat. Let me build a moat around my princess castle and then tear it down. Lightning strike me and rip my particles, rip the matter from me like guns on glass. Crack me and tear me. I will get up again.
I will rise.
And Let me sing,
sing until my prayers are whispers.
Forest water, reflecting green, serenity.
I have dreams of black claws like raven glass closing in, scratching me bare. Howling and deep long nails and witchy eyes cackling like the darkness overlapping. I’m scared of the demons within closing in. I hide from the light, unaware of how I’m blocking out love from my life. Is it a dream or an old queen’s tale? My heart has seen so much and now I walk like wind or stones in snow. I trudge along trying to remain strong when the forces pull and tear the ramshackle down to the ground.
I’ve been breathing and living, seeing so many things and this compilation of stories warms my belly and tears my flesh.The happiness is what breaks me. Suspending the never-ending. I am so close to the grave that I dug for myself but I must keep walking past that linear line that I set for myself. It is lines within circles. So many flows, I thought I chose the whole. Breathe. Pouring myself out into you. I wonder if I give and give it will fade into the soil and the canteen will empty. Melt like water. Feed you and leave me. Is it releasing or is it unhealthy for me to give myself away.
I gave myself away.
I have strewn pieces of myself into everything I have touched but I am afraid that one day there will be nothing left. Nothing left when finally I receive pieces of someone else. Will I take the pieces from them and have nothing left to share. Excuse me, it is not like me to be so dramatic and I am afraid to write things like this because it feels so cheesy except the process of seeking deeper is breaking that boundary and that un-comfortableness. Where did our love go? It existed between the skin and the bones. It was a facade or something else. I am not very sure. Not lust but colour, it was dewy green like steam from a coffee cup in the morning. Or the rain on the window pane while I slept in your arms and refrained from needing you too much, I cannot write about you without tears, write about your skin or your smile, and I am in a confined environment as I write this where such things are not very acceptable. I am hiding on the screen, escaping my heart. I cried this morning because it was all too perfect.
I am cut open I suppose. Like that song “And it was your heart on the line / I really fucked it up this time / Didn't I, my dear?” Mumford and Sons even feels too perfectly imperfect that I laugh at myself and this funny hole I am in. I don’t like the swear word though, sometimes I laugh because it works. The “f” word in that song it just kind of fits. It is like the pathetic-ness and the hilarity, when we slip in mud and are covered in filth when we have nothing left but to cry and to laugh because we are crying because nothing in this world really matters or it matters all too much. Because I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t think anybody does. We just muster our determination and passion and roll with it but still there is an element of unpredictability no matter how routine we have gotten. No matter how far we have fallen from our roots. Excuse me for crying this morning, don’t worry I laughed it off after. I laughed because of life and laughed because I cried, and I cried because I love you.
And now I walk like wind or stones in snow. I trudge on with all my strength. Wisping like whispers caught from the ears of children and passing through the world. Cold like ice on swing sets and little hands clasping them. Red fingers and red noses. Snot on mittens and sharp pain. Winter.
I Wisp like wind in water. I crack like stones of sand and rock. I break like waves on the shores of life. I cry like the trees at night. Howling to the moon. I open when you call me. I close when I’m falling. I hide like children at night. I am under the streetlight, orange, alley cats in shadow homes and grey cement, dead rats, broken bones. My eyes are bare, sunken in the light. I suppose I should muster my might. Find peace beyond my fight. Escape distress. I wish you saw something more. I wish that there was something else. Speeding on.
Gauze and gargle,
clots and codeine.
Where wounds heal,
violence fill the void.
a beacon of hope.
A crown for the headless king,
asleep in the depths of his saliva slicked cave.
Clasping and grasping,
an imposter of the highest caliber.
"I'll buy it." Suddenly we're left clasping
white proofs of purchase and, on it,
our reprehensible signature. Nothing
else. Not even a clue what exactly
we've subscribed to: Brand's?
Faster broadband? That discounted
getaway? What kept us
chatting the salesman on our sofas,
an image of naivety and shrewdness
shaking hands? In fact, making the deal
without even passing through
those tedious stages of persuasion. Why,
in the first place we even let these conmen
through the door!
But we didn't.
This slow, brooding realisation - like vision
coming into focus - that we can't keep out
what governs our life. That betting against
the odds, we may just win the big jackpot,
and that keeps our hands fastened to
the lever's smooth railing. From the corners,
we don't even catch the salesman slinking.
The door shuts like the closed mind
it left behind.
her right handed face reclines
and peers at me from the shadowy
recesses of her distressed mind
wrapped now in the silken leisures of
forgetfulness and surrounded
by the christmas thin dream illusion
purchased at great price to define yourself by
mere reflections of a perceived past
like living today through a photograph of childhood
mold your nature to the template but its plastic features
are brittle with the cautions your heart throws and
reproachs seen in all avenues of egress
her leashed thoughts are chained to the premise
that she cannot overcome the troubles that shadow her life
so that she move in concentric circles around my last dealt words
she peers from behind this set of thoughts and
with all that inner noise clouding her vision i must navigate
the perilous waters uncharted
she means much to me so i step with mindful care
lest her defensive pattern flee with her like
a bundled child up a dark road with fearful glances
for the great unknown some rough beast in rabid pursuit
that is in reality's harsh light nothing more than
shadow of childhood trauma
i sit at the emergence of her thoughts and wait for her to follow
spoken is trailed by felt
spoken can be constrained and recanted
but what is felt is a woman's temple and that
should not be breached with a light foot
she appears from underneath her veil of tears
and my hand clasping hers reaches her need
where no words to say would suffice
i am yours and yours alone
Each flick of your strong forefinger
unleashes another surge—
and the explosive percussion is mirrored
by the rapid battering of your heart,
the backbeat of a silent jihad.
The air is thick with the echoing
screams of the shoppers as they
scatter between tall, unsteady racks
of clothing, hair dye and toothpaste,
hiding beneath circular tables in cafés,
sliding flat on their traitorous stomachs
to cower under dusty old cars.
The fear in this place is tangible—
You can smell it, taste it, see it all about you—
it causes your blood to sing.
You enter a market with your comrades,
and as you have done in every other store,
you fire your weapon into the air—
sure to clip the quickly dispersing mass of
people shrinking behind a dusty
cigarette display, and you are pleased
by the sight of two men hitting
the ground with a dull thud. Their
blood pools as a warning, a tribute.
Then you announce loudly, confidently
that you are only here for the non-Muslims—
the Americans and the Kenyans—
that everybody else need only be a hostage,
not a martyr for a cause that does not
concern them; children will be spared.
You disband to interrogate the fearful
and to root out the traitors,
to determine who will live and
and who is doomed to perish—
you have become a ruler of this shopping
mall, reduced to its shivering bones.
You can see the cowed lies etched into
the lines of their faithless faces,
and with another flick of your finger,
you send them to face Allah without
even the slightest hint of hesitation.
In a far corner of the market sits a
meat counter, where locals buy their
bloody flesh, both clean and unclean,
You sneak behind and discover
a woman dressed in black,
her milky face a thin veil of calm,
hands clasping those of her two young
children, a small boy and a willowy girl.
The boy’s green shirt professes
his love for New York City.
All three stare at you in petrified silence,
and for a few moments, you just gaze
straight into the woman’s wide eyes.
“You said children would not be
harmed?” the mother asks softly,
each word flowing sharply through her
accent which cannot be American,
and she stands suddenly. This action
is quite startling, you remember later—
you are already on edge, your
finger still on the trigger, and
somehow a bullet lands in her thigh.
The mother is screaming, pulling her
daughter close as the blood pours forth,
an accidental fountain, but her fingers
cannot reach the boy, who is standing,
walking over to you, so close you could
tear him to shreds, his body would
be Swiss cheese—unidentifiable.
“You are a bad man,” the boy says,
narrowing his tiny green eyes into
excruciating slivers and pointing at you,
“let us go.”
Her screams ring in your ears,
a cacophony of terror,
and your heartbeat slows to a clop
as the boy’s finger remains pointed at
your heaving chest, an honest accusation.
“Come!” you screech, waving
your rifle in the air like a toy.
At the front of the market, the mother
can barely walk, so she loads her children
into a cold, shining metal trolley.
You see an array of candies, and grab
two chocolate bars, handing one to each.
“Please forgive me,” you hear yourself
saying, “we are not monsters.”
The girl is crying, clutching her candy,
but the boy just stares through you.
“You must convert to Islam,”
you tell the desperate mother, who is
loading an injured boy into the cart.
“We are not monsters. We are not monsters.”
She does not speak, she only pushes the
trolley, limping slowly.
“You must convert to Islam. You must convert.”
You help the woman maneuver the
cart through the bodies strewn across
the pale tiles of the shopping mall,
and with every repetition of gunfire—
you reassure yourself, and the woman,
“We are not monsters. Please forgive me.”
She stops again to pick up a different child,
though this one is screaming in French
for her mother and must be forced.
“You must convert to Islam.
Please forgive me.”
As you reach tall, glass double doors,
you pause, knowing you must stay behind.
The brilliance of the sun blots their
figures out of your vision, so you simply yell,
“Please forgive me!”
This is where fear turns to bravery
where kindness is given among a hail of bullets
where the victor is one that saves
even with the aspect true of an early grave
Here in the fields of the brave
I sit and praise the fallen
looking at photos of loved ones
I cry and praise the fallen
Each name written in blood
each one I call hero
whist all around me I see
cold hands clasping to the skies
This cold and forgotten battlefield
do now I stand and bow my head
and not for the last time in my life
I praise the fallen.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
We two boys together clinging
Paradise garage dancing
Old people alarming
Tower top gazing
Discordant steps searching
Sound of you falling
Giovanni's room emulating
Stop the lift kissing
And then returning
On our mattress
Fulfilling our foray
Thoughts like whispers drifting
Around wishing to occupy some place within,
Twisting veins unravelling alongside pulsing arteries
Framed by networks of bones and marrow.
Pulses of passion streaming from limb to limb
Only to return to whence they came.
Taut skin clasping everything together,
Souls sandwiched somewhere between
The blood, the bones and the meat.
hands clasping hands,
skin pressed against skin,
toes kissing toes,
lips melting into lips
and yet i still wish
there were a way
for two bodies
to be even closer
I am in love with words in such a way that I bury myself in them, savor them, letting each little phrase be absorbed into my tastebuds.
I lavish in the babbling streams of letters until 4am on lonely Friday nights
feverishly copying, documenting the ones that particularly speak to my poor naive little soul.
I pour poems like wet concrete and lay down,
encasing myself completely in the words
not even bothering to take one last gulp of precious air as the cement dries over my mouth
because the metaphors provide all the oxygen I need.
Little witty sentiments swirl through my brain in such copious numbers that I must stare at the ceiling for hours in order to process all their individual brilliances.
There are just so many ways to look at the people and the world and relationships and the environment and traveling and coffee and new york and books and life and writing
and more ways to describe it than all the atoms in this ink pen I am clasping in my shaking hand,
that I often find myself dizzied and dazzled with the linguistically loquacious, insightful possibilities