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 Mar 2023
Carlo C Gomez
a desire to erase,
to stay away forever.

an opportunity to transfigure,
to sit on the floor and wait for storms.

a line to cross, a lion at dusk,
a catastrophist.

a pen filled with acid,
a book of theories full of holes.

once this begins, there are only endings.
 Apr 2021
Francie Lynch
Just picked up my thirtieth pair of glasses
(perhaps you call them eye glasses).
Progressive, photo-chromatic, temples with wrap around cables.
Same round frames since I was sixteen (first saw them in How I Won the War).
I don’t mess with what works. We fit. No need to look further.
Had my eye on the prize.
They give me perfect sight. And I waited years to get perfect sight.
Always needed glasses. Finally got them when I was eleven.
Big family. Immigrants. No health coverage. So, no glasses.
Couldn’t see the forest or the trees. A genetic thing too.
Several sisters and brothers are as myopic as moles.
Mammy and Daddy never wore glasses (which is not to say they didn’t need them).
All granny glasses are wire rims with a golden finish.
All of mine were. These ones are round black wire rims. I’m being so adventurous.
I remove them (singular is a monocle) to shower and go to bed. I never ask to try on someone’s frames, and I never loan mine for a second (Period)
I also have a face that has grown so accustomed to glasses, that my eyes have surely deepened into my skull. I don’t recognize myself on my driver’s license, health card or passport (Why do they insist on that? I’m never asked to remove my glasses upon surrender of any document for visual verification).

I’ve yet to regret the wealth I’ve spent.
Their cost could pay the rent
For a third world family for years.
It would feed and clothe a village, I’m sure.
I'm not blinded by how good I've got it here.
The title comes from Jer. 5:21
"How I Won the War" starring John Lennon. He first wore wire rims in this movie, and removed the stigma of being called "Pop bottles" in the school yard.
 Dec 2020
S Smoothie
Hold up

Enough of this bird drip

Wipe your nose and look up

Pathetic blind mice play 2 wise sheep

The artificial heart beeps

While yours bleeds

Your blood is coin

A fools folly of *****

Your child sacrificed

Cut to pieces and torn

Yet for the afflictedbstrangers you mourn

For animals you weep

Some to **** some to keep

Scientific lies poison your mind

Call the message fear

Call the message hate

Call the message division

God does not exist

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Fall asleep zombie

Fall asleep sheep

The lion sleeps tonight

The red dragon stalks

Green eyed monster

Gives birth to the invisible beast

A burden

Gray matter feeding artificial martyrs

You can do it yourself only you can't

You can be free only youre not

Poked with incessant panic

Prodded with incessant fear

Switch off

Recall the message

Recall the message

Recall the message

We are not saved in this world but the next

Unless...
For the wise
Not the intelligent.
 Oct 2020
Francie Lynch
Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.
 May 2020
Camellia-Japonica
I wondered today if anyone was recording in high definition this World in caution? kisses banned, so’s holding hands, but wash your hands a lot or you might miss to ‘Out that ****’d spot’.

How apt, a spot, a circle, a corona, isn’t that a beer? Let’s all now cheer for key workers, clap for nurses the NHS, let’s forget what started this mess, was it China? A pangolin? A Mandarin?

Conspiracy theories abound, they’re all doing the rounds, oh look it snuck back in, abound, around, they’re all circular sounds, circle back to the start, wash your hands.....’Out that ****’d spot’.
© JLB
15/05/2020
20:41 BST
 Jan 2020
Carlo C Gomez
"I'm restless, I think I'll go for a walk."

And so, you visited Ephesus,
on the ancient coast of Ionia,
browsing books in the Library of Celsus.

You wandered through
large ionic columns in Jerash,
the chariot marks of
the Oval Forum and Cardo
visible at your feet.

You then climbed Mount Alban
to the rise of its 2,200 terraces,
“Grand Plaza” shadowed from the sun,
where the ritualistic games
often meant death.

"How was your walk?"
I asked upon your return.

"Substantial," you said
falling back into bed.
"But not as tangible
as my life with you."
 Dec 2018
Ally Ann
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't
The pain is subtle at first
A still whisper of solitary words
Stitched together with pulling scars
and stained pages.

We weave the night,her mysterious follies
take shape against our reflection
keeping score for the needy
while damning the meek.

Bravery reigns as sword touches flesh
etching fears to woven rhyme
blood let in letter form
a release to all who know death.
I'm in a really dark place at the moment and finding it really hard to write. Please be kind! x
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