my affection for him is as deep as the color
the red flower, that he gave to me on the
way to school on a warm spring morning,
had turned into after a year of being pressed
between the pages of my father's favorite book.
the flower was soft, vibrant, vivacious. it
somehow reminds me of the way i used
to be up until a few years ago. later it turned dead,
dark and dull, but still very lovely. it looked fragile,
as if the delicate object would crumble down
to the floor with just a light touch. It stained the
pages of the book my father loved so dearly.
he stained me, a daughter who spent the entire
evening of the next day, screaming and sobbing
in the kitchen, begging for my mother to believe
that i've done nothing wrong. my friend threw
that flower into the trash can, it was probably for
the best. but it's quite often that i find myself
thinking about how much of a comfort that flower
could have been in these few years of his absence.
I. The event wall:
east deepening yellow,
going limpid azure south,
west, white, unalloyed,
at the center, a dark void
lightening, radiating outward -
never breaking the event-horizon.
by tradition, is done clockwise.
II. Reading the tiles
Is peace in expansion
Incarceration. Staring at the tiles.
Acceptance or rebellion?
Time doesn't tell.
You are free now:
making a mascot of you,
we have set you free.
While singing paeans
to your greatness yet,
we bemoan how
coolies and niggers are
be-spoiling our home.
Rest in peace!
We'll wait for Christ.
Tribute to the man of our times, who we yet, as usual, betray...
it's all in the smile
it's all in the eyes
dancing in the dark
feeding the lies
dwelling on us
on dear love
When the months turn cold, my heart turns to stone
When the colors fade, my chest aches
And when the wind whispers my name, I shiver and silently beg no.
My eyes flick up to the sky, I watch as the low dark clouds of my nightmares haunt me
I watch, frozen in time, I choke on my caught screams
I clench my fists to my sides, and close my eyes
I sink into the storm as it surrounds me
I hold tightly on to the memories of you and me
And I watch as reds and oranges reach the sky, destroying what little was alive.
everyone thought of being the perfect one
to see, to make, to create, and to believe
these words were their stamp
to make themselves the unbreakable mannekins
raising the status is their goal
thinking that they should achieve what they need to achieve
looking that removing one's diginity is part of the process
to have a happy life
now the stars started sinking in
pressures of unbelievable lies are stated
following everything that they should do
in order to maintain the happiness that they should deserve
to copy, to fake, to kill, to tease
are now their words of wisdom
as they seek the mountain,
the mountain of bulimic fitness
wrong, wrong they were
thinking that the impurities within themselves should be burned
for once, the universe calls their attention
and they decided to go to the road to kill
their perfect dissonance
nothing seems to be the answer
they cannot see the truth
if we would be perfect, then we are
diminishing the balances of the existence of everything
and then I realized
that she was there, still standing
holding her heart
that was once pure and light
and now she bears the dark
as she has no use of this world
for she went to the light
and never came back
closing the covers was the only thing to do
as I remember holding the knob
telling her that it would be fine
because her imperfections were nothing but
happiness to me
she was not perfect in my illusion but perfect in my reality
as I touched the box, the musical box
the sunshines were singing
the perfect tune
that she once danced all through the night
that made me remember how happy she was
with just being herself
to me and to everyone
my friend requested me to make a poem that talks about "perfect dissonance" and the result was these two poems
As I wake up on a cold park bench
With pebbles being thrown at me
My clothes are torn and I smell a stench
Of alcohol reeking from me
As I rub my icy blue hands
Over my hungover face and dark eyes
I wince as I try to stand
I double over and muffle a cry
What is she doing?
I hear the dirty whispers of passer-byes
With sideway glances and pursed lips
As if I was deaf and blind
To my worn out clothes and rips
When's the time?
Asked the barista at 9 a.m.
"Living on the streets for months"
"Come on, you don't give a damn"
And I know he's smiling with smug triumph
What can I do?
I heard an old lady say from the corner shop
I smiled: "maybe a time machine would do
Or a job or a home or for the prices to drop
But you're too kind, I don't want to bother you"
So what is there to do
And what is the point
Of questions I can't answer
And people that disappoint?
Look at me, drunk and homeless
Who here did I not anger?
And look at them, fulfilled and blessed
Who's the obvious winner?
Could you ever shamelessly answer?
She appeared first in a dream
when I was fifteen. Yes,
she was the fire of ecstasy and those first licks
set my world aflame.
She's a shape-shifter, sometimes
blonde, sometimes dark,
but always softly naked when she comes.
She often whispers secrets
in the molten nights.
But when morning breaks,
and I'm alone,
I struggle to remember. Accordingly,
I search the cities, the far off mists and mountains
and the subterranean rivers
every writhing, glistening day.
But it won’t surprise you to know
that where I mostly go to find her now
is under the volcano,
the place of endless fire.
It's where us dreamers and the demons
dance with our desire.
Mike T Minehan
It is dawn and she crawls
Little feelers begin to rotor
A tiny push on a tiny motor
she hopes and prays no trips or falls
She traps herself within a stone
And hangs herself to sprout like seeds
As she wakes up, her body bleeds
And where the wind is, so will she be blown
There sits a worm who refuses to cry
As she turns dark colors and falls to the ground
The wind blows on, there was no ill sound
And now he's seen the wilt of a butterfly
was a sailor lost at sea/ ship had struck the phantom reef/
water stole it like a thief/ spared me life for the time being
Clung to timber for my life/ fins cut surface like black knives/
couldn't wait for me to die/ their eyes glinted, black as night
one vast ocean, I, a fleck/ Death's fingers tight around my neck/
thought I’d had my final breath/ another prisoner for The Depths
two arms grasp from blackened sky/ hauled me o’er the ships port-side/
wiped the water from sunken eyes/ stolen from Death, her precious prize
my rescuer, a man of old/ silent gaze of past untold/
‘round his neck no chains of gold/ aura distant as wind was cold
old ship sprinted through dark storm/ silent men vs. devil’s swarm/
our faces set, violent, worn/ against thick ropes, muscles tore
"I am the Master of my Fate, I am the Captain of my Soul"
I wondered why my friend's writing and art
Were stronger when he confronted his hate
Than when he speculated on a virtuous state
Or cavorted with his notions of love,
Wanting to be bestowed with wings from above.
Why is it the pieties he'd express
Stirred up like the dust of some old book,
Bleated like a sheep yet felt like a crook,
Had failed to move, to touch, or to impress?
Why is it the dark desires unfurled art,
Commanded the summer moon and power,
While pieties had no perfume or flower,
Not even the loose wheels of a lumbering cart?
Maybe it's because he'd often escape
The demons through timidity, cowardice,
Thinking kind words could kill what's behind the drape.
But sometimes, unexpectedly, he would look
At them, not escaping through some old book,
Through pious platitudes: the twilight wood,
The shadows, the panther, the Cyclops eye -
He sometimes saw them without the forlorn cry.
He worked with what he had, and not the Should.