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 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Nat Lipstadt
ten minutes to write.

score the music,

melancholic
the repetitive phrase,
but
I refuse it.

instead I bathtub splash
hard soft rockin' roll,
the boon dog now soaking,
quizzes my sanity
what does he know?

Score the life times.

five minutes to write.
trite crumpled,
hook-shot into the trash,
but trite costly,
one minute of a lifetime,
scared, sacred, but scored by
ruts, grooves, ex personas in my life,
the black markers of my insane
pushed under the water,
drowned by music.

One minute to write.

Poem:
a good start to the day,
please pass the soap,
shampooed the trash out of my life,
the rest, now to start.
PostScript:
if shampoo or soap not be handy,
that trash when it comes,
just refuse it.
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Jessi S
Untitled
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Jessi S
There's only so much I can do with two hands
when I feel like I'm restricted to only one
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Robin Fulford
He tries to capture her beauty within the lines. Stroke by stroke her beauty unravels.
He paints what he sees, who he sees. In every line there are the true colors of her.
Piece by piece their love is brought alive by the paint on this blank canvas. This blank canvas, hollow without emotion until the brush smooths over the surface.
No one but he can see her as a whole, she is true beauty itself. Without this model, without this image of her there is no love his vision.
He is visionary she is imagery.
Can you see as he strokes her hair into flowing locks or how deeply he admires her shape?
With love there is no wrong way, there is no wrong way to express how you feel and with this painting he wants her to see her own beauty, her own self worth.
For before this she hid away from the world because no one saw her for her.
They saw only the surface. With all the colors of her soul, you can start to see who she is.
Not what brands she wears, not how her hair is done or the latest version of her phone.
For he paints her with nothing, nothing but her glowing smile and bright eyes. Now where is this glorious painting?
Well it’s in the house where the man is living his days out until his muse returns.
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Frisk
cicatrize
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Frisk
using stalagmite icycles as tooth picks in between the crevices of my head
my brain is getting frostbite as if i ate too much ice cream at once, but this
sporadic heartbeat is going into myocardial infarction, and all at once, every
second goes into slow motion, a familiar stillness before the blast of powerful
dynamite, bats living inside me are vexatious inside my head, like a parasite,
you weren't even noticed until you completely wracked my helpless body
with worms and ticks, leaving me with some sense of how a sick dog feels,
a walking contradiction and an anti-compressive depression that leaves me
with nothing. you're a sea that keeps on growing, a forest that keeps on burning
and a fire that is everlasting and almost behemoth, i'm helpless

- kra
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Nat Lipstadt
why and how should you know?

behind beneath in between the teeth

my fingerprint whorls and whirls

under other's names and
my secret identities

a word a phrase a hatchet a blade a
pruning knife,
a confession of confusion,
relieved by my cutting saves.

my stamp secreted my ***** implanted

my style unseen yet bidden,
my name hidden, my children born
but still is my heart,
like the parent that
has given up the child.

but you love my
screamed and un screamed, and my undoing of
the doing you not see me named

nature in paces and means
admit pleasure at my scrivinings
there but for the grace of whom

but to me

for am I but the
editor
o'er my bones that
*nobody knows
nobody sees,
nobody knows,
but me^

you tread,

crunching my invisibility
to smoke and smithereens,
the pimple on the poem
lifeless turned luscious,
yet, gnome gone the next day
^ Lyric from "long black veil", always give credit to the dew.


here a period, there a comma,
a phrase truncated,
a work saved, nay,
reimagined,
in the forest's silence
who can tell,
who swung the axe,
who grew the tree?
 Jan 2014 Gabriel
Frisk
these chandeliers were home to roses, now fallen petals on this abandoned courtyard
short handed late traced steps and short lived excitement, we are concentric beings
filled with the same steadfast frame of mind, brick by unnerving bricks tower over
burnt down villages, this love found in fairytales doesn't truly exist in real life
there's a hot wired circuit around my blighted mind, suffering from dementia,
or was the diagnosis faith in this fantasy world i created with vivid metaphors
and words i cannot pronounce, just to get across the fact that i believe in this type
of coping mechanism, that this silence is the most clearest my mind's ever been
at the lowest level of the food chain is where i sit, waiting to be swallowed
and spit out into a world with the core being torrid obsidian matching the
color of the asphalt where i once laid and the color of people's hearts
i've met over the years, serendipity is nonexistant just like chivalry
although i really wish there was such a thing as chivalry in real life

- kra
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