Wanderer

Nov 2016

Akira Chinen

All this noise in the world
And no one is listening
No one is noticing all the wrong
All the ugly words to the song
Children sitting gathered at tables
Laughing as they should
Laughing while they can
Life fast at their heels
Horror awaiting to replace their innocent
   days
And whose daughter will go first
Whose little girl will lose her will
      To smile
       To trust
        To love
Whose precious ray of sunshine
  Will be dragged
     To
        Dark alleys
         Dark couches
           Dark beds
Whose little flower will be
         Stomped on
         And crushed
         And dismembered
      And left living a life
      Constantly wishing for death
And who would do such a thing
   To such a sweet little smile
  Will it be by
    Monster or cousin
    Or uncle or father
    Or neighbor or stranger
    Or husband or friend
And whose little boy will lose his way
   Lose his way from patience
   And kindness and love
   And respect
Whose little boy will grow into brother
  Of brother of father of wealth
    And of name
Whose little boy will be taught by
  ignorance and ***** that he must be like
  the father of his brother of his brother
  of name and of wealth
Whose little son will grow into the monster
    of the illusion of being a man
Means taking whatever he wants
   whenever he can
Whose little monster will be left to wander
  and stray
    So far far away
     From the days of being
      A monster was only
        pretending and play
I sit and I sip coffee of sugar and cream
  And I wish and I pray that this was all
   A bad dream
But I cannot refuse or deny it
All this horrible horrible noise
Among the children laughing
With naive painted grins
I shudder inside of thoughts of their
                                       innocence gone
I tremble to know of futures of
                                        terrible wrongs
Whose will grow into murders of racism
  and hate
Whose will find themselves victims of ****
Whose will find themselves innocent
  locked behind bars awaiting death row
Who will turn into monster and beast
Who will turn into hero and friend
Whose little boy
Whose little girl
Will brave the road and pave the way
  To a future of endless
               Innocent days
It cannot be a day too soon
Let us hope it is not a day
                  Too late...

repost

Wanderer Nov 2016

Empty with Loss

The creaking song of autumn trees
Softly singing in midnight breeze
By cool glowing light of silver moon
Close memories are tied to hearts that wound
Into strong arms I once lay, easing into sleep
Now I whisper by shadows, my secrets they keep
I can still hear your voice reading Vonnegut in bed
Where you read now is all in my head
Year after year the hours do toll
My once diamond heart now reverting to coal
Fragile and dusty to embers with flame
I wish I could quit you and bring you back the same

Another year is sliding by without you. The ache burns still.

Nov 2016

Akira Chinen

fevered mind

Sweetness
I know your just a dream and an illusion illustrated by a fevered mind and painted by a broken heart
Dark grey eyes in a black and white photograph of something innocent with a lustfull wonder and a soulful gaze
And you are in beauty and love the definition of perfection
and maybe I'll fall in love or find madness or maybe it will be a little of both and it will be an impossible thing made possible
I could love you past the infinte unknown and through the nothing of what comes next and find you in my past and futute lifes and love you more each time
Yet if I reached out to touch you and moved my lips in front of yours and hesitated for a moment of what felt like eternity
and then moved again
in an instant would you not disappear
and fade
The paint dryed to dust and carried off with the wind of this waking dream
and the illustration turned to mist
and ghost of memory
Then you would be gone and the love would still burn over the surface of my heart and your picture would still flicker in black and white on the walls of my soul
The smell of gun smoke and gasoline to remind me of an impossible dream
And if you instead reached out to me and hesitated and then...
Would our worlds collide
Would you pull me into dreams and illustrations of books and
tales of impossible love
Or would you be made real and be of flesh and bone and blood and passion of something soul and wonder and innocence
Or would we both be pulled somewhere inbetween and walk a silver line above the sky and clouds and find our story already written in the stars
Our every chapter and our ever time and our every name and our ever love

Wanderer Nov 2016

Dark is She

Pieces fall
Snowflake shapes
Each reflect differently
In its descent from Hrímfaxi's mane
For I am Nótt, scarred by shadow
A blanket of stars tattooed across my brow
Reigns of frost dangle from crescent fingertips
Guiding dreams through the night

An ode to us 3am worshippers.

Nov 2016

SG Holter

"... ... ..."

This axe was made from
Oak and
Anger.
Forged in the fires that
Shaped my cardiac
Armour.

I'll never surrender to a
Woman
Who sees love as war
Ever again.
It's been a long,
Lonely time.

But I've seen peace.
Still sacrifice to the gods,
Praying for brief, cold
Winters; for all other
Seasons to be neither.
They all have room for a

Woman between them,
But my hatred for ego
Is a burning beacon of warning
Even I myself shun.
I just want the silence.
That deep, deep silence,

Whose last word will never be:
"Me,"
But:
"... ... ..."
That, I can love.

This axe was made from
Oak and
Anger.
It beats paper; scissors; stone.
Sees me armed. And still
Alone.

Nov 2016

Stephen Walter

Id or Sin?

How much of what we write versus what we truly think and truly feel is true? How close do these things run in parallel? How often do we lie to ourselves for the sake of presenting ourselves more human in the eyes of our peers than we really are?
  How many truths have I forged to seem less animal than I truly am?
  Do I do it on purpose, or am I just as much a victim as the public who reads it?
  Where do I really begin once my ego ends?

Oct 2016

Akira Chinen

throw the book in the fire

There are still mornings where I wake up with a raging after thought of you and a hard memory aching for release. I lay in a pool of cold sweat that still has the perfume of your pheromones that you left stiched in my skin. And I can still feel the warmth of your lips over the scar you left on the inside of my thigh with your teeth the night you wanted to see what would come first... a scream or a moan or the taste of my blood against your tounge. Your way of loving burned and reduced me to ash every time our flesh tangled and twisted and contorted and melted away until we were nothing but lust and rage and passion fusing together under sheets and over floorboards and in front of mirrors and ontop of counters and parked in driveways and in the downpour of the rain scented by the lost and found ghosts of love. I don't open my eyes but find myself praying to gods I don't really belive in to fall back to sleep and find this dream of you again and again and find myself questioning if you were ever really real. Some would say that this was the kind of love you could only read about, that it was the kind of love only madness could dream of... that a human heart and mind and body couldn't survive such a feverish affair. Or maybe it's just me, maybe I'm the one trapped on a page, the fool and the pawn to some story book queen with ink for blood and paper for skin... if that happens to be true, throw the book in the fire, but for old times sake... read it one more time again and again