i want to stop being angry
but i saw how you looked at her
i want to stop being angry
but i saw how you kept looking at her
i want to stop being angry
but you haven't talked to me since last may
when the sun was beating down
and the grass was too green
and you held my hand
and i broke your heart
but you swore we were still friends
because i was more than a girlfriend to you

i want to stop being angry
but nobody looks at me the way you look at her
not even you

I remember the first time I saw your striking blue eyes.
You were walking past me and for some reason our eyes met.
My awkward hazel met your beautiful ocean blue.
Usually I am afraid of meeting eyes, but for the life of me I couldn't look away.

I remember looking at your eyes while you laughed with your friends, mocking me for something I had done.
For some reason, I was still in love with your beautiful ocean blues.

I remember dancing.
I remember looking over and there you were with your beautiful blue eyes.
Even though nothing could get your attention off the bass, the dancing and the powder running down your sinuses and the pills dissolving in your stomach,for some reason, you couldn't keep your beautiful ocean blues off of me.

This time, the tables had turned.
It was you longing for my awkward hazels, and me acting oblivious to your beautiful ocean blues.
As if they didn't make my heart race and my knees tremble everytime I got a glimpse of them.

But soon you will forget my awkward hazels, and I will be left longing for your beautiful ocean blues.
- 4 / 08 / 15 Catherine Roussouw

i have never been sophisticated
sophistication just never related
relative to everything i hated
hatred of the over-stated

i have never been materialistic
materialism isn't a characteristic
characterized by a mind that's realistic
realize, i am not hedonistic

i never gave a **** about tradition
traditional is subject to my definition
defined by my own composition
composed of passion and ambition

He kissed me.
Soft
Then harder
And harder.
Our breath intertwined.
Passion.
I felt alive.
My skin on fire with every touch.
The rage in my heart growing with every kiss.
Him on top of me.
Making me forget my name.
I moaned
And he knew.
He knew he had me right where he wanted.
He whispered in my ear.
'You're all I've ever wanted.'
He kissed me  
And I knew
There was no way
I couldn't fall for the boy
Who kissed me.

Two silhouettes muttered through cigarette smoke next to the tall, black double doors at the head of the corridor
unfazed by the white rectangles flickering above us. The doors parted
next thing I knew, I was in
a black box of four tall black walls, and a clammy black floor
made of the same padded fabric as the entrance doors.
Riotous bass pummelled through the room like a tortured bull.
There were hundreds of people here; maybe more
but they were all lying docile, faceless and still
against each other.

They were all young. I picked up an inconsistent rhythm of chests rising and falling
like ripples ushered across the sea by a gentle breeze.
Yet it was the overwhelming sense of flesh here that
lit a snarling viciousness within me. How it excited me and how
I feared it.
I was a butcher, afraid of what he could do.

I saw someone I recognised – her brown hair was tied back, her eyelashes
twitched in her slumber. I stepped over and sat behind her. She pulled herself closer to me
and kissed my cheek. I buried my face in her neck and placed my palm on her bare stomach
took my index finger, and ran a circle around her navel.

I can’t remember what happened after that.  Images slip through like
water in cupped hands.
But I remember the raw beat, and the gentle ripple of chests
and how it reminded me of the sleeping new-borns in a maternal ward.

i.

She hath given me a home
Sent by God she was;
Unearthly, to men unknown.

ii.

She hath breathed the breathe
Of life;
Wherein all is right.

iii.

She showeth me day
In mine dismay;
She's the sparkle to me, at night.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication

I feel strongly for a
boy with eyes the color of
bullets
and with biceps built strong
like bolts in the armor
of a tank.

He wears stains of dirt
on calloused hands from
years
of digging plots 6 feet down.
(He thought his name
would be on the tombstones.)

Behind a small smile
and a boisterous laugh,
the affliction rages on. He is the army
of one, battling against an enemy
he’ll see only in the reflection of
his dog tag.

he loves me, he loves me not.
im not your ******* flower &
i have no more petals to be picked.


c.f.