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 Nov 2020
B E Cults
Tripping on Lynch
and sipping a fix mysteriously
digitized while any friction
imprints onto my drifting mind.
I used to wonder if the missing time
disappeared into the wicked "Why"
until it proved that concern was
the hidden eye that's twitches
behind the lid of the night sky.
it's indifferent to the light that splits
blissfully prismatic,
these dimensions lack what we wished they did.
That's a sick sadness to witness.
Believe that.

Tragic like the traffic lights reflected
what's left the windshields of smoking cars.
Bent steel,
horns blaring,
gas leaking onto cracked concrete.
Stars hang silent as the space between them.

Comfort zones.
I abandon those even better than I used too.
So pursue what you want.
Because as you can see I don't hesitate.
I chase narrative threads
like a pretty face in a crowd.
Being dead to things that chain you
to the proverbial radiator is good.
I promise.
 Mar 2020
Rupert Pip
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
 Dec 2019
last thing  i remember
counting backward
cold room fading

chest cracked
exposing heart
broken but
still beating

illusion of control
dissolves like

hours and days
my fingers

am i ok
not sure i want 
an answer

blue flame
of pain


dawn's light


i awaken
three month

i am ok
but i will
be the same

I bleed
for all

and none

will bleed
for me
 Apr 2019
In a drunken stupor
The glass wracks with guilt
Under pressure of a gaze
Willing for them to shatter

--People below carry on
The graying sky a signal  
To the viewer's thoughts,
thoughts about a perished soul

Room full of old confessions
Dreary with a taste of venom
Held in the palm of a sinner’s hand
Stuck out waiting for someone to eat off it

No one could take the weight,
The burden of being an iniquitous man
Before, his hands were occupied  
Holding two different hands in each  

One let go too soon
The other held on too tightly
And now they were both gone
Slipping out of these deceitful fingers
Another for my final project! Based on Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin from David's prospective. Please leave critical comments to help make this better! Thanks!
 Jul 2017
Philip Lawrence
Five-thirty p.m., 1985,
A crowded bus.
The passengers generate heat as
The men stand round-shouldered
Reading newspapers, and we all
Sway to the rhythm of the city traffic.
I scan the rows for an empty seat and
I angle past the others, ignoring all
Except for one.
He stoops under a worn gray hat,
An overcoat overwhelms his slight body
And his dark eyes glance from row to row
With urgency as the bus halts.
A seat opens and the little man
Moves toward the vacancy.
I am closer, and I will have it before him.
The man grips the overhead bar for balance.
He is short and his coat sleeve slides
To his elbow and faded blue numbers
Appear on his forearm.
They are clear enough.
I stand motionless as he slides by me.
There is room for him to pass, but
He steps sideways.
He does not look up.
He says nothing.
 Dec 2016
Doug Potter
Cur pillaged
garbage bag

Tampons strewn
cans licked

Rotten pumpkins
beneath canoe

Neighbors argue
redneck chatter

Dead squirrel
atop  car

Wild garlic
crooked fence

Open door
pour coffee.
 Nov 2016
Car rides, blowing smoke, ignorance is bliss, so is smoking dope.
Keep watch, tuck below. Take a ****, you said you'd be right back and i'm still holding this **** in since we last spoke.
City lights, plane flights. Breathe some air, keep chill.
Take a chill pill just relax, keep still here's some lax.
This town overdosed, kids missing found dead. Vision blurry, getting red.
Pay attention to the Feds.
Their just fiends, they're not your friends.
This life I know
This life I was drug into
Gotta watch yourself, gotta watch your back.
They do it for the high, they do it for the cash.
Quick to getting your cards stolen for a free stash.
Steady steady, think outside the box.
They will yank you, yes they're called the cops.
Take it easy. Do what they say.
Or you'll be in handcuffs, wishing you were praying.
Prison is where the dogs go. Jail is where the ****** go.
Guns in the Trunk, gloves on my hands.
Leave no evidence, I'm not punk.
Those around you, will impact your reputation,
Those around you may impact your temptation.
Bring my bag, bring a change of clothes.
Put these on, you're tagging along.
The faces and cases of all the **** and it's users.
You might run into one while with your folks.
Or you might be running from your family to find a ****.
Don't poke, edits aren't good.
Easy to catch a case,
hard to come up on a empty parking space
It will remain forever, never let you free
 Nov 2016
everything is bathed in white
less pure than summer,
muddier, grey but piercing.
the drab and dragging cold
reaches through to touch bone
and turns everything to slush.
for once in a long while,
everyone is as muted as I.
 Feb 2016
I met a man
On the 9 o'clock train
He didn't ask my age
He didn't ask my name
I met a man
With a scar over his eye
An empty bottle of ***
And a dog across his thigh
His voice came out in a whisper
So subtle and innocently fine
With a small gesture of his hand
"Could you spare a dime?"
I reached into my purse
Knowing I had much to spare
An un cashed paycheck hidden stealthily in there
I gave him some change
And we sat in silence once more
The train lurched to a stop
And opened it's doors
The man and his dog left
I never saw him again
But such an impression he made
Over a measly 10 cents
 Feb 2016
Charlie Prince
There are times
Much like tonight
When I want the city.
Nights when I want the gritty hustle buzzing in my ear canals
With liquid longing burning in the bowels of my being.
And through the lingering ring of restless machines
I would wander aimlessly.
Up and down streets past boutiques and café seats where people meet.
I would let the LED silhouettes of men and women in motion guide my feet until the beating of my heart and the grinding of trains and cars is absolutely indistinguishable.
Beneath a sky without stars, I can forget that I exist.
But only with a sentimental twist can that existence bring bliss.
Looking back now on the neon and grime, I have the time to take it all in.
Those subway rides when I would ride the snake,
Sharing the belly of the beast with those whose voices cease in the company of strangers.
Though eyes may align for a blink at best,
My mind would never rest on another
When she would breeze by
Hands outstretched
Mumbling humble rhymes with the hope that a few welcome nickels and dimes might fall from the pocket of a wall street man pretending to check texts on his black berry.
Or maybe those midday walks in central park when I’d skip my acting class to pack a bowl while I sat and listened to the street musicians who bled their instruments dry as if it were the only way to exorcise the city from their souls.
A taxi ride to Harlem
When we ****** in the backseat.
And though those free birthday drinks made me think I loved the way your tongue tasted
I knew in the back of my mind I was wasted.
When we arrived to your private hideaway and your picturesque descriptions of a love
Once sung stitched my lips, it was all I could take.
And though our hips did risk the heartbreak, my unfettered balloon of misdirected affection flew out the window with hopes to impregnate the moon.
Cuz when the sun scrapes through the skyline,
Into your heart broken,
Crystallized eyes, you feel so much less than empty.
Which brings me back to now.
As for how I now stand before you, flinging listless anecdotes from my chalky smoke coated throat…
Two words: Love.
So while I sometimes indulge my past perdition with immaculate midnight metropolitan musings steeped in sweat and cheap beer,
I am thankful that my intuition thought it better to put me in the company of those who I hold dear.
 Jan 2016
Arlo Disarray
his eyebrows said hello
and i knew i'd found home
a shelter for the night within his skin
a sense of comfort and purpose wrapped up in his sheets

the stale scent of tomorrow lifts and drifts from my cigarette,
and he's telling me that it was fun, but it's getting late
i guess tomorrow has come early, and it's time to look for another set of eyes to burn my image into

the neon lights from city signs reflect on the surfaces of puddles,
and for a moment, my feet are coated in them
stars are a thing of yesterday, in this place
no one remembers any of the constellation names

my feet are wet and sore from all the steps i've taken
but i keep waking up with swollen eyes
being spoon fed lies
about how this really is my home
 Jan 2016
Ayana Harscoet
bare feet
          concrete jungle
stepping, stopping,
the smallest of pebbles
neon flickers
                                                        ­      do not call after her
night erases the gaps
streetlights dim
                                              ­                do not call after her
she dances telephone wires
       asphalt horizons
                                                              do­ not call after her
even the sidewalks
are silent

— The End —