E: Favorites

Jul 2015 E

abyss

Jul 2015 E

Yasmine

abyss

A world where
clouds rain heavy glass
onto birds that shriek
above butterflies that breathe fire
over oceans made of oil
near grass made of needles
below trees made of knifes
holding leaves that release toxins
would still be a nicer world
than one without you

#poem #feelings #thoughts #you

Jul 2015 E

park west

Jul 2015 E

KD Miller

park west

7/21/2015

sitting on the wooden bench in the middle of the park the
couple across from us rolls something
to smoke the “hooligans”
(who am I? That was me months ago)
congregate on a bridge overpass
a dog lies down

your tears do not fall steadily and well
practiced like mine,
in a cacophony like an abscess
in a concrete dam wall

clutching your shirt, cursing masculine dogma,
my fingernail pushes a little orange seed of water and you
blindly take out a pack of menthol

you offer me one– you never do
I take it, light it, burn it out after five moments,
I press my face against yours so our tears blend, this nodule of saline congregating merging like a bacteria

as it falls ahead on the ground
our tears, one
hit the Silent concrete on the grey New York

fat rats play on the nettles behind us.

Jul 2015 E

Wild Orphan

Jul 2015 E

Allen Ginsberg

Wild Orphan

Blandly mother
takes him strolling
     by railroad and by river
--he's the son of the absconded
     hot rod angel--
and he imagines cars
     and rides them in his dreams,

so lonely growing up among
     the imaginary automobiles
and dead souls of Tarrytown

     to create
out of his own imagination
     the beauty of his wild
forebears--a mythology
     he cannot inherit.

Will he later hallucinate
     his gods? Waking
among mysteries with
     an insane gleam
of recollection?

     The recognition--
something so rare
     in his soul,
met only in dreams
     --nostalgias
of another life.

A question of the soul.
     And the injured
losing their injury
     in their innocence
--a ****, a cross,
     an excellence of love.

And the father grieves
     in flophouse
complexities of memory
     a thousand miles
away, unknowing
     of the unexpected
youthful stranger
     bumming toward his door.

                         New York, April 13, 1952

Jul 2015 E

One

Jul 2015 E

Aver

One

well father screams out through the window screen
daughters nothing but an empty dream
yeah just keep on walking down that road
never wonder where the hell it goes

on and on

brother sinking down in that stream
creek runs red with blood I've seen
washed out in the sink to keep me clean
oh what a thing

a thing that keeps me awake each night
the thought of you here
well my hands tied
and my heart blind
to you

sister sister well i almost missed her
lined her dolls up before you kissed her
and knocked em down
right to the ground

well my brother he called just yesterday
heard the news said you;ve gone crazy
well was it you who's gone astray
well aint it a shame

and this thing that sings me to sleep all day
the memory of you running away
from all the things you held so near
creeping out like a frozen fear
as i hold my tears

and oh how the seasons go
winding on along this sorrowed road
and oh how the torture blends
with the sound of my heart beating
the sound of my heart beating
with yours again

i see that tower standing tall
and my soul climbing on up that wall
and through your heroes pride you'll see
that tower crashing down on me

mother oh the one i pray
seek to save us all each day
we tear ourselves apart you see
searching for some hope beneath

but oh here we go
and oh we never know

father will your will be done
let me know when kingdom comes

#love #truth #doubt #life #pain #hope #faith #sorrow

Jul 2015 E

get drunk and bake cake

Jul 2015 E

Sag

get drunk and bake cake

FRIDAY NIGHTS WERE FOR
walmart runs and getting drunk and baking red velvet cake and another walmart run because we forgot to get chocolate icing the first time and flour on our eyelashes like snowflakes in Colorado and cranberry juice and ***** and twirling around the kitchen and heavy hearted kissing on the sofa and medicine for the people and forbidden touching and a few tears and endless loving.

SATURDAY NIGHTS WERE FOR
numbly staring at the tile above the faucet and soaking for hours in the tub with a book sitting on the ground and not being able to gather my thoughts and focus enough to pick it up and start reading it and laying in my mothers bed and watching sad films about writers and hitchhikers and thinking if this were 1947, that would be us;

but this isn't 1947,
this is sunday,

and SUNDAYS ARE FOR
sleeping until my body cannot take any more rest and willing myself to get dressed and singing on the 10th floor of parking garages over looking the city and looking for green lights at the end of all the tunnels because you're okay and I'm doing my best.

Jul 2015 E

Untitled

Jul 2015 E

Chris

Untitled

You said "I don't really dream,"
That time I told you my nightmares
I didn't believe you then
But now it makes sense.
Because what could a monster's worst nightmare
Possibly be?
Maybe it's me,
Just repeating all the scary things you said
Words that sent my heart to teeter
Over the cliff in my mouth.
When you blow through sin so wildly,
What could possibly scare you?
Maybe the cracked-mirror face you wear
Stops you from clearly seeing your fears
Or maybe you've been so scared before that
Nothing else can compare.
Maybe some tall secret keeps you in its shadow,
In a permanent nightmare.
So what happens at half past four
When the room is spinning and you
Fall just short of your bed
And sink into the floor
Do you even sleep at all?
Are you even alive anymore?
I think.
I think,
That they tortured you and told you it's okay
That the world locked you in a yellow wallpaper room
Where the paint soured and curled in on itself
Like thoughts spoiled in your head from holding on too long.

You always liked yellow because "it stands for insanity."
I guess now I know why.

Jul 2015 E

Sorry

Jul 2015 E

R.S. Thomas

Sorry

Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.

It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.

It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.

Jul 2015 E

I AM AN ARTIST BECAUSE I SAY I AM

Jul 2015 E

Amelia

I AM AN ARTIST BECAUSE I SAY I AM

I will always decide which parts of me you are allowed to love.
Are you braver for hurting me or am I braver for letting you?
How many of my thoughts are free of muse; why can't I convince myself that my pain is profound?