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 Mar 2016
Busbar Dancer
Soon the Dogwoods will bloom, and
bring one last gasp;
A eulogy for winter-
a final little bit of cold remembrance
for our unwashed faces.

Summer is for a different song. Brand new wrongs,
slick fingers and
a sunnier side of sin. The good kind.
Twixt those sweaty inner thighs
hides a secret worth savoring; a secret worth harboring.
Salvation is warm and...
I digress.

In the interim lies spring,
when we debate the merits of
crucifixion and/or fertility.
Around here, crucifixion wins since
we love a good ******
more than a good ****.
Who am I to argue?

So we wait for
something different.
Breath bated -
anxiously anticipating change
with a hitch in our collective chest.

That change will come but
not before the blackberries have had their say.
 Feb 2016
Thomas P Owens Sr
and when the last of the shadows climbed into his bucket
the little boy that no-one knew
whispered something to them and carried the bucket to the ocean's edge
he was seen by several setting the bucket in the water as a wave approached
then turning towards the other children along the beach
and motioning them to come
which they did, some 60 or 70 of them
suddenly drawn to this boy that no-one knew
he looked back to the sea
at the crest of the horizon
a dome shaped craft that dwarfed any vessel known to man
emerged from beneath the waves
suddenly hovered silently above the beach
darkening the skies
it was there but a moment
and was gone
when the astonished crowd turned their gaze towards the young boy
he was gone
as was their own
December 22nd, 2112
seventeen minutes and 21 seconds before the Sun died
obviously this did not occur  :)
 Feb 2016
amrutha
Here I am lying against this pillow again
As the moon's haunting the starless sky
at the same hour of dusk
As a trembling secret writhes under the mud
Growing into my roots screaming through my leaves
Moaning like moontides on a full moon night
And here I am lying down staring
at the sleepy shadows walking away slowly on this ceiling
Behind me, a window to eternal space.
 Feb 2016
Mateuš Conrad
the alphabet is incorrect when nouns come to use,
why necessitate the ordeal of a, b c... x, y, z -
the first sequence an order of literacy,
the second sequence an order arithmetic -
the correct lineage of letters from henry ii
to richard the i, to king john was written
in the minor carta of (bytes): tetra-, petra-, exa-,
zetta-, and crucially yotta-; everywhere transgressions
of the original standard arrangement of
the first memory placebo you learn at school,
placebo memories out of schooling,
ineffective memorisation swayed by the self,
and soon that lost too; memories that shall please
the doctrines, where once we were coalminers
of our selves looking for that nugget of cold,
by being schooled to restrictions, we found only
many nuggets of coal, and as they say: the cold
grey en masse realism of being suited and booted
with the sole reward: procrastination and procreation.*

indeed quantify in the realm
of  ∞ (infinity),
but then express a quality
of 1 (the union disregarding
obstructions of centimetre,
millimetre and nanometre,
or the excess of gigabytes)
avoiding the kantian symbolism
of 0 - negation - of any
number to your liking given
power over the base:
with the squared acidic or otherwise,
mitigating ∞ of the unfathomable,
to search for deo sapiens
is to search for yourself
when others defined you in
the narrated enclosure of **** sapiens
and the 20th century's failures:
it's the pedantry of unlearning
praying to something and simply
thinking about it: secular ****
and you the wriggling anaemic tadpole.
 Feb 2016
Emily B
sometimes
i get a glimpse
of words i think i ought to know
from poets i used to read
way back when

i keep running
down dark alleys
chasing shadowy figures
and alluring words

where do the ghosts
of dead poets go
anyway?
draft
 Feb 2016
Denel Kessler
He pulls away, precariously balanced
above the raucous creek slicing through
the campground’s city-like togetherness

she protectively hovers, hands cupped
inches from his slender back, prepared to grab
honoring his need for independence

the crooked lodge pole leans
toward what little sun is bestowed
upon it by its larger brethren

a mother, a child
a tree, a stream
soft light.
Atop the emerald earth,
a bush of crimson ablaze.
Blush of sunrise.
Bruised rouge of sunset.

Kaleidescope colors of
complex designs complete.
Ahh..but for the lingering questions.
Questions that continue with the
fresh of each day...

Rita...We call to Rita!
Our ethereal selves.
She calls, We come
Into her night of dreams
Woven within her dreams of day.
We come in Our
Saintly stance.

Rita hears.
Knows Our hearts.
And so to her,
We present ourselves.

Rita feels
the plush nuance
of Our ancient wisdom.
A melding of truths

Rita knows
She is a conduit
through which the
breath of message
and knowledge exchange.

'Sine timore'
Without timidity or fear.
Imbued deep within
her Irish blood.
Gift passed from the elders.

Yet, this Lass of yore,
stands away from the podium.
Has chosen not to grandstand,
or grasp boldness too tightly.

Goodness of power is embraced
laced with enchantment.
Able to transcend The Veil,
She walks Her path.
Our winsome
Saint of Impossible Causes.
 Feb 2016
ryn
Today bears the weight of erstwhile trepidation.
Uncertainties exhumed only to be hung up as ominous flags.
Black as night my widowed heart paraded through the procession.
Garbed in ash encrusted, sequinned frock, hemmed train all tattered in rags.

Herald the face with no features yet obscured behind a chiffon veil.
In hands, a bouquet of black roses, worm-eaten to the stems.
The mourning sun only gave the weakest glow,
feeble attempt to rejuvenate all that is stale;
to imbue the shimmer back into forsaken jewels and dulled gems.

Her entourage kept up with heavy feet; all grim and sullen.
Also faceless... Armed with pitchforks and torches.
Today they will draw much; having thirst for crimson.
Today they witness her death as the black parade marches.
Inspired by My Chemical Romance's "Welcome to the Black Parade".
 Feb 2016
Sjr1000
The Fly flies
Here and there
Seeing through the prism
of a thousand eyes
Trying to put it all together
He's thinking he's immortal
He's eating ****
and calling it honey.

He's lingering above the magic funnel,
His companions,
well, they're calling him,
beckoning him
to the feast that never ends

Freedom
or
gluttony

What a flip
What a Fly's dilemma

He's sure he's found eden

Wouldn't you dive
right on in?

He would have made it out again
If it hadn't
been
for that
"One more little wafer".

Now the fly trap
has been rolled up
heading for the dump

He'll still be buzzing
for a while
unlike us
his fate he does not know
Like any fly soul
he keeps telling himself
he must be immortal.
There is an Mont Python reference, of course. Just one more little wafer.
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