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English Jam May 2020
Happy Christmas to me
War is over(But only if you want it)
All I want for Christmas is war to be over
War is over(If you so desire)
War is under(If you dream it)
War is love(If you think it)

War is over(If you want it)
She says(Happy Xmas to you, she says)
War is war is war is war is war is war is over
If you is you is you is you is God is all is love
Want it to be
English Jam Apr 2020
my hands tremble.
i am still an embryo.
i have the mouth of an old man.

a red eye sinks into the horizon, staring.
unflinching, i stare back.

my feet feel rubber as i walk
the soles may fall off
a face is disassembled in a very scientific manner

a hand, independent of its body, clutches a spear.
it is about to **** a fish.
the killing is not the point; the ability to **** is the point.
it is power and masculinity, picasso reminds us.
i wouldn't know. i haven't been born yet.

i crawl across the room
numbly,
i feel my way into the dark.

a crack in the sky appears, and a nightmare reaches down
it takes shape as a grinning soul.

it has no body.
maybe it's my body.
i am but the sum of my parts.
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence.
I'm wasting away in a paradise of my own creation!

Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
Like ashen trees and factories which procrastinate and suffocate.

We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and lonely daydreams.
I know it sounds dramatic but as is the nature of reality.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little peices of honey soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pond.
So.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Of coffee and two bass lines and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.

Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked acceptance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.

Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac

!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.!
SITCOMS
ADJASENT PLOTLINES
mumble rap
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
seven letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning

Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite our efforts
We still waste away
  May 2019 English Jam
Cello Girl
Your fingers soared over the keys.
You breathed love into the warm, bell-like tones.
You shook your head if you missed a note,
your eyes danced,
and around your grin
your mouth said
"I still have time,"
you said.
"I still have time before the concert."

A family trip, driving home,
back from the dunes of Michigan.
A father, mother, brother, you,
a sister left at home.
You sat in the back.
You were laughing, your family.
It was the last time they've laughed so hard.

A bend in the road,
a turn into town,
your car,
slowing down.
A different car, behind you,
did not slow down.

It slammed straight into you.
The metal crunched behind you,
the car spun, and your head bounced.
A helicopter came,
to take you away.

It was too quiet at the hospital.
But you couldn't tell.
You were in a coma.
"Brain trauma,"
the doctors said.
"And a broken leg and clavicle."
They didn't mention the broken
hearts.

They tried to pump life into your chest,
air into your lungs,
much like you
pumped life into the body of your clarinet.
But the machines failed where you did not.
The human in you had gone;
only a body was left.

You're playing for the angels now,
I know you are.
There's a smile on your lips,
in your eyes,
your brown, dancing eyes,
as your fingers effortlessly
fly over the keys,
you play
for the only audience
that could ever
hold you.
This poem is dedicated to the boy who plays clarinet in the sky. He was in my grade, and over the summer he was in an accident. He was one of the smartest, funniest, kindest, most talented people I have ever met.
This poem is my effort to immortalize him in words, and process the fact that he is gone.
  Nov 2018 English Jam
Hecate
perfect human imperfections
the gentle roll of a teardrop
down a sun-beaten cheek
falling from eyes of incomprehensible depth
ocean eyes

endless moments in time
snippets of absolute joy and content
small eternities of a life that's been lived

sleepless nights
early morning hours
of peace
of solitude
a mind, a silent fortress

deep breaths on cold days
stinging lungs
seeping warmth from a hot drink

the slow spread of a smile
the result of a scandalous idea

a wisp of smoke from a house-chimney
conjuring images of a cosy, loving family

all the little things
the little bits of beauty
are what to live for
Morning sun rises, here he comes
All night I have waited
Waiting for him to wake from his slumber

He is old, frail in need of company
She left him for a place in the clouds
Never a smile only a frown

I long to say good day
Its lonely on the web
Waiting to snare a bug
On the silken strands I call home

He shuffles his feet along the rug
I watch it all high upon the ceiling
Wishing for a glance upon my web

He never see's me
I see him with all eight eyes
Mr Mccoy, That's what I call him

He makes a cup of tea
I stretch a few legs hoping he will notice
The kettle boils, steam burns my feet
I scuttle to the top as beads form
Like raindrops on silver strings

His tender eyes peer out glass panes
Watching his crop, Old Mr Mccoy
Deep lines mark his face, thoughts of her mark his mind

Eight legs, no way to hug
If only he would see a friend in me

A picture of her, a tear shed
I spin my web, lowering
Closer and closer to his head

"Mr Mccoy ill be your friend!"
No words can I make to fall on death ears
He takes his tea and leaves me be

Tomorrow he might look up
Ill be ready, waiting on my web.
A little story of a spider who just wants a friend.
You're nervous
A bit of a wreck
But you never fail to smile at yourself when you mess up
As you always do

You're damaged
That much is clear
But your smooth laugh puts the whole room at ease
No matter how scarcely it surfaces

You've been hurt by everyone
Yourself included
But you'd rather die
Than put someone down
Because you truly believe every achievement is worth all the stars in the sky

You're quiet
Sometimes it's a little annoying
But who can blame you
You mean no harm

You're self conscious
I mean arent we all
But you put everyone else back together so they cant resist to love themselves a little more
No matter how much
You
This stupid
Stupid
Boy

Hate yourself
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