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 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
wordvango
I thunk or did or said or thought or knew is
in the middle of a guitar string chord plucked
with a background rich of bass drum
the ****** of a cymbal the beautiful
voice of a beautiful band where beautiful
girls dance sensually writhing in tune  to
my heart throbbing a voice singing
as no instrument ever can
trembling my
everything
crying
samba
me
At the crossroads where time loads its shotgun
and the Sun sheds a tear for the day,
there's a light at the end of the tunnel
but it's going the opposite way.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
Distorted petals of rosemary flesh
Dance on the sound of heavy breaths
Wherein tunes of black distress
Seek for a happy-ever-after dress

Greetings for the blooming death
Toying with my life like a game of chess
Seeking for a button to press
To shut me down, and clean my mess

Master, have you not seen the depths?
Of the anguish swinging between our chests
Oh dear, where is that redress
You once promised to express

Master, come and open the door
Order death to remain afar
Release my spirit on a distant shore
Or keep it in your rusty jar
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
Naked is how I love you
like an autonomous grain of sand
skin against skin
and your furtive passions
composed nerve-cells
lavish with mellifluous vibrations
that wash away all signs of negative energy

Naked is how I crave you
that simple lithe figure
faded muscles and tufts of hair
a dimple with a non-existent twin
palliate a thriving surge

Naked, just as you lie
underneath the satin sheets,
and aquiline just as the same
succumbed to unremitting sparks
you are the motif of my every piece
*and you are that act of symbiosis
between the canvas
and the paint
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
His palm is a sepulchre,
It holds captives and sun-rays.
Macabre consolation fractured his skin.
He who embalms the petals of my words,
to paint forlorn attempts.
With keen acumen he carves the coffins
And adorns the figures of decay.
As alchemists, he works,
to convert base spirits into colours;
Immortal for all the decades of disdain.
His palm is the afterlife,
It keeps hummingbirds and streams.
Unholy droplets cured his cells.
He who puts me on hold,
like soulless novels on his shelves.
As soothsayers, he says,
"You count your pulses; no longer."
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
I have written poems that hymn their love of mute birds
And poured the stars into their palms
I have burned their feathers into words
That shone like ember in your jars
I thought these birds were your guardians
And you'd succumb to my merciful massacre
I haven't realized it was obvious
That you were nothing but a traveller

I have written poems that hymn their love of hummingbirds
And sprinkled salt on their scars
I have turned their chords into pearls
Crimson-blooded and tars
I thought these birds were your audience
That would succumb to a wrangler
Now it is clearly obvious
That the letters of your name
And the venom of your face
Are but a constriction that is vascular
He told me he was damaged.
I was too,
So I tried to fix him.
If I could save him, I could save myself,
Or maybe he would save me.
But instead,
He broke me further
Instead of mending the rips in my soul,
He tore it to shreds,
And left his marks on my skin.
It's not nice to hit people.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
Eight months since I have seen
Green oak trees and glowing kites
Pale blue skies and star-crowded nights

Eight are the layers of pain
that have not seen any light
Eight are the loaded pistols of nostalgia
stacked on my shoulders

What is Eight?
To some; legs of a spider or that of an octopus
But Eight is the number printed on your football jersey

Maybe Eight are the cookies in that rusty jar;
But Eight is the day
of the eighth month
when you followed my paths

When the cold breeze hits me
as I smoke my eighth cigarette
and travel back in time
to when I rose in your love
up to the eighth sky

a rainbow of seven fears hit me by
and a force of friction dragged me back
to fall back in love with you
deep into eighth ground

*To the Eight I've always favored
I bitterly make a toast
Here's to the only number
that now I loathe the most
I am hopelessly in love with a memory, that of which I revive each time my pen bleeds.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
A poem was always supposed to heal, or to help; at least in a way or another.
But this time is different, not even Rumi can do the work.
My mind is in a blank state-it has shut down.
With a trembling body and shaking wrists
Stealing glances and guilty kisses
Amongst each panic attack I drive through
I sense your sighs and get charged
Then see your phone screen and drop down
My nerves are threads ablaze
She has bigger eyes, her body is steady and so are her wrists
But she does not admire that surgical scar of yours
I seek refuge in it and that's the problem, I guess
She claims ownership, it is her right after all
She is priority
You write her name on every bill board
And I hold the ladder for you
You are writing my death note, you know
But these matters are small
For your phone screen will still glow
With messages that will make you grin
She demands ownership, it is her right after all
As I fight Gods to get those grains of sand you once stepped on
But she is priority, she is royalty.
This is not a poem, it is a tribute
To the time when I breathed you in and you breathed me out
We could have breathed forever
But my cells are attacking one another
And my mind is in a blank state
I have already mentioned that
But you see, I can not hold that ladder anymore
And I am in no state at all
Not one of priority - obviously.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Jana Chehab
I wanted to speak of his powers
As King preached for liberty
The world seems to know of legends and Englishmen behind platforms
of heroes and villains on stages
and maybe of some med students explaining how unprotected *** leads to ***
But tongues have not yet spoken of his rampant ability
to be a beacon and a tempest
how he could raze and raise
abate and abet
I wanted to tell them
Why the soil recall his footsteps
And the leaves hiss as he exhales
But he dresses in polyester and he even walks unmasked
Everyone speaks of anarchism and GMOs
Then fetch a beer and watch the football game on live stream
I wonder if roses are cowards which embrace their raspy thorns
But then I remember how I would grasp you in a heartbeat
And I wanted to tell the world of your powers
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