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 Jun 2014
XNtricity
we offer each other such                   bittersweet things
clip one another's wings    but I dare to fly so
high like Icarus reaching for the sun you make
my face run, eyes melt                 to wax, lax and loose
you flutter like feathers                             disconnected, detached
floating on the back of the                         dark sea, you and me
we don't quite measure up                                  to where we should be,
my arms are getting heavy                                      and who will catch me?
 Jun 2014
CA Guilfoyle
In your hands
I shall place
sweetest flowers
little yellow suns
to hold you
shining

upon your palms
I will map days
follow hidden paths
traced through trees
to reach
quiet rivers

holding your hands
at the border's edge
free dive, trusting
letting go, to fall
our two souls
deeply connected
 Jun 2014
Sputnik Andrade
Los fantasmas iluminados de las casas que son museos se han despertado. El viento huele a lluvia cálida, las escaleras mueren en la más completa oscuridad, ¿cómo una casa se convierte en museo? preguntamos, resguardados en la dulce bruma del vino, no rojo, sino exótico púrpura de tierras lejanas.

¿Cómo las casas se hacen museos, entonces? Ilustres sombras se pasean a nuestro alrededor. No tienen nombres ni rostros. No hay cadenas, ni ruidos, ni matices. Sabemos que están ahí porque tocamos la piedra (tibia, tibia, nunca muy fría) e inferimos su presencia. Son ellos edificios ahora. Son techos y puertas y columnas. Ideas primigenias de resguardo contra la vida. Con o sin caballerizas.

La casa es museo. El museo antes fue una casa. Sea como sea, los gatos se escabullen entre los barrotes de las verjas. Tranquilos, casi elegantes, con los ojos fijos en destinos que nadie puede adivinar, porque ¿qué piensan los gatos? ¿en la vida? ¿en la vida que es suya o qué es nuestra? ¿cuál es más vida, la suya o la nuestra? Delgados y amigos de la sombra, se escabullen. No temen a los muertos, a los vivos, a los carros o a la poesía. Ni a los tejados verdes muy altos, ni a las ventanas de cristal muy grueso.

Somos, entonces, gatos que se escabullen (yo el gris, tú el ***** y la luciérnaga el pardo) y que crean mundos en las casas ahora museos. El vino en los labios, las manos en los bolsillos. Mundos instantáneos, como una mirada fugaz; mundos invisibles, como la idea de una casa o la idea de un museo.

Casas, museos, jardines solitarios, funerarias, escaleras, túneles. La arquitectura de un mundo gatuno. El mundo, vasto edificio, visto desde los ojos temerarios de dos sombras, ágiles y acostumbradas a confundirse entre la muchedumbre, que se refugian en una esquina de una casa que es museo. Pero una Casa y un Hogar después de todo.

Hogar de respiraciones agitadas, de luciérnagas intermitentes, de bocas que son más como estrellas que se dirigen a su inminente destrucción, que son más como olas que se estrellan contra las rocas. Manos y labios violentos. Cuerpos encima de un pedestal. Resguardados, protegidos, venerados. Pedazos de un todo que se han vuelto invaluables y sagrados.

Gatos salvajes, creadores del arte más empíreo, más absoluto. Arte que será puesto a perpetuidad (y por fin encontramos la respuesta a nuestra pregunta) en el museo que antes era una casa.
 Jun 2014
Elizabeth Squires
the homestead's hallway
always felt slightly drafty
it made one shiver
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that I fall in love daily
Held under so many captivating spells
moulded and crafted by all walks of life
I find myself longing for all of you
the broken, the fallen, the bruised
the saints, the sinners
the righteous, the dispossessed
the holy, the unholy
all meet here
to speak of life
as they feel it
as only we know it.
Onwards, upwards
Downward spirals
kindness, cruelty
crashing through boundaries
bounding across oceans
carried on wistful sighs and broken dreams
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that it breaks my heart
Then brings me back to love again
All within an hour.
 Jun 2014
Ashlei Cottom
Ashlei Cottom
Sweetheart, fine art is not about pride. It's about FINDING pride. It's about creating something and taking pride in the fact that you did. When I read your poetry, all I hear is "Me, me, me, I'm the best." That's not what poetry is... Poetry is not self praise. Poetry is taking the most hurtful, joyful, mixed, complicated emotions that you have and putting them into words that make everyone understand. You may tell write back and tell me everything that is wrong with my poetry, but I will not care. Why? Because I know that I have successfully been able to express myself in ways that other people can relate to and enjoy. Ways that they may not have been able to express the same feelings. I have confidence in your ability to realize your mistakes and fix them. I look forward to seeing these changes. So please, take this to heart and write. :)
Loghain Carvó
How laughable that one of my lessors attempts to give I art recommendations.

Ashlei Cottom
It's not so much your art I'm trying to change, but your character. It's your character that is reflected in your art.

Ashlei Cottom  
And if I could ask, why do you assume I am your lessor?
Loghain Carvó  
I am not assuming, you already have shown that you are a lessor human through your words.

Ashlei Cottom  
By encouraging you to keep doing what you love and bettering your character? Sir, I'm sorry, but if that is your opinion, I don't think it is I who is the lessor human...
Loghain Carvó
That is not what makes you my lessor, You are my lessor simply because you lack the artistic vision to fully appreciate the magnitude of my grand works. Please refrain from responding to this message as I wish to waste no more of my precious breath on peasants.

Ashlei Cottom
And how is it that I am a lessor human if all I do is try and help? Some people cut down and criticize and make others feel like mere mud on other's shoes. I am not one of those. I try to see the good in everyone. I think you have great talent, but I wish you would use that and dig deeper. I can tell you right now, with an unbiased opinion, that you unfortunately come across as narcissistic, selfish and and as you so eloquently put it, a "lessor human."
To our good friend, Loghain Carvó .
 Jun 2014
Hayleigh
You scream urgency
Like an accident and emergency
waiting room,
like a person relapsing into addiction,
Because they pushed themselves
too soon.
And there are claw marks in the soil,
Where you've tried to get to grips,
with solid ground,
There's a danger in your voice,
Like a lost child waiting to be found,
And you string sentences at a time
but no sound emits.
Danger, like,
Racing cars and frightened cries,
And there are holes in your back,
Formed by the lies,
You've been subjected too
And i wonder if i could use them
To breath life back into you.
I wonder if i get close enough,
If i could see,
The dreams and memories,
Before they turned stale
And congealed in your veins,
And left you entangled in the remains.
The valleys of your eyes,
Run wide and down deep,
And when you weep,
Your tears fall heavier,
Than a ten tonne van,
You're a shadow of the man,
You used to be,
And even your shadow,
Has deserted you,
Sought someone anew.
And your foundations
Are built on heartache and pain,
And those little tear ducts in your eyes,
Constantly rain,
But you you're in a draught,
All the love you've showered others in
Means you've ran out,
for yourself,
And your health is a picture
Of cigarettes and late night drinks,
Old whiskey, poured down sinks,
And you're reaching the brink,
The breaking point,
But you quite like the sound,
Of broken plates,
And you quite like the taste,
Of self destruction.
And there's a ghost,
Where you used to be,
Haunting the curves
Of your smile,
That you paint on,
Why you defile
Your skin,
This terror your living in,
Could start a thousand wars,
And this battle your fighting,
Inside of your mind,
Leaves a carcus, a morsel,
Of yourself behind.
Your insides stick to the past,
Like double sided cello tape,
And there are windchimes in your spine,
Where your bones should be,
And your heart on your sleeve,
Is clouded,
By red marks where you've sliced open your skin,
In at attempt to be free,
Of those demons, the sin,
For a new beginning.
There's toxic in your lungs,
And a noose around your neck,
Where you've hung your expectations
Too high,
And you're hanging by a thread,
And tying knots the further down you slip,
As you sip,
Another shot of courage.
But there's only so long,
One can hold on for,
And believe me I've been down
To the depths of hell and danced with the devil
On many occasions,
And the sheer frustration,
Of the attempts to be patient,
Are wearing thin,
Like the warm skin, that stretches,
Over your protruding bones.
Just a first draft..
 Jun 2014
Camellia-Japonica
Sat at the hairdressers
Hearing the gossip
Relaxes a woman and her senses.

Nothing outside the door of the salon
matters.
Just the head massage, and gossip.

The world has stopped as her locks
are chopped.
If only a closed door could keep the world at bay.

But, the door will open,
the world will flood in
and with it, for next time, more gossip!
© JLB
05/06/2014
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