heavy rain from a darkening sky
and buildings  fall

no one knows what will be left
running down the nowhere
where dreams die
on a metal tray
at the hospital morgue

trouser leg pushed up
the search for black ink
and a child's name
begins

perhaps the arm
the hip

the back?

and the children plead,
lie to me,
tell me,
i won't die,
today

and the silent screams
are left in an eternity of why?

foul and bitter hearts
will prevail
on both sides,
this is the poetry of death

Eve C6SS6NDR6

Can I take my playlist with me when I die please?

I Live like there’s no tomorrow
Be who I want to be
And be happy about it

That’s what I try to tell myself

My latest name is Eve C6SS6NDR6
Eve is more relaxed than Shadow, the previous.

She can stay up late.
And listen to her playlist forever.

But there’s an energy of love so pure that she can only feel in dreams.
Sleeping peacefully.

It’s hard to get there.
But she remembers it well.

The songs of the playlist are still playing.
When she wakes up she hears them in her head.

Up like there’s no tomorrow.
Wanting to die but not now.
And be happy about it.

Can I take my playlist with me when I die please?

I wish I couldn’t see the things that aren’t ok.
I wish I didn’t feel the pain.
I wish I didn’t hear the noise.
And that I was just able to move without the tension.
I’m so stuck.
I’m so sad.

I wish I could leave this dark place and the pressure.
I wish I was free from everything.
I wish it stopped, all of the pushing and pulling.
At last.

I’m so dark but my hair is light.
Dying it won’t fix anything.
So I try not to be tempted.
Leave me be, I’m so sad and so tired of it.

A fire smoulders; red heart deep in black ash.
The poets life dying; or so it seems.
Ancient portal; the tempting muse;
Calls across the sea from a far off shore.

"There are a few good men like you", she says.
"Men out there are gods, born to be worshipped
they were told good women aren't created with tongues to talk back
Men out there are tyrants in their kingdoms
they are broken and their women die trying to mend them
blinded by ambition they can't see what's in front of them
and have seen terrible things happen to men like you so they don't believe.
Men out there are burdened by expectations,
they shoulder the shattering weight of society's pressure,
Lost in their minds, they forget to be present...
They're a civil war and the battle sometimes returns with them
fights lost resolved using the punching bag they married at home...
Every step forward, they're pulled five steps back,
Entangled in a web of a perceptions they can't unpack.
Men out there, like caged birds do long to be free,
Yet the bars of expectations deny them the key.
They're deafened by their own silent screams but they refuse
to lean on anyone, after all, growing up they were told big boys don't cry."

A canary flew
in my
window and sat at
my desk with
me.
It said,
who are you?
I replied,
I'm a base
poet that's been
dropped on
his head by life
a few times.
Eyes like a
kicked dog, and a
beard that doesn't
grow straight.

It chirped like
a Bach concerto, and
said,
ah yes, we are
all just dead
birds at the
bottom of a cage, tiny
lice crawling through
our eyes.
No song.
No light.

I said,
you're a strange
little fellow.
And we sat there,
like that, waiting
for 6:00 am
so, I could make
a beer run.