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.
~~
One day you were waiting
your soul singing,
behind an open window,
in front of a large meadow

For the days long
there you made a love song
that blew me so long
grew our love so strong

where never seen any sad,
even days were not at all bad

If I did a little late
that I never forget,
sometimes you made a huff
but between us there was no gap

..
O, the days have gone
If I do not make any wrong
yet the little robin sings the spring's song,
which I bought through my lifelong

But your silhouette,
doesn't go a little far off yet

With a mystic fate
there a pair of pigeons set
yet trying to mate
just before the last breath
.
..
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Vamika Sinha
That night, I heard
the violin.
Between staves of
leaves,
string-encrusted frills,
I heard a violin,

not cry, not sing, but
dream.
I heard a violin dream.

Before long, after
soon,
I heard the violin.
Between shifting, fleeting,
mindful things,
I heard a violin,

fitted unmathematically
within a memory.
Listen to Bedouin Dress by Fleet Foxes.
 Jul 2015 mzwai
smallblank
Who is to say that "you" is you and "I" is me? Who is to say every penny thrown in a well is to wish for something you don't already have.

I have three empty bullet cases in my pocket and a funny reason for each of them being there.

You look out the window and discover a body floating face down in your pool except you don't have a pool and the body is you. It's me. It's everything that never was.

I am a punch line in search of a set up.

What is it like under your bed? Have I become the monster that lives under it?
 Jul 2015 mzwai
derelictmemory
I feel like I'm dying, from the inside out and i am constantly aware that it's happening but i can't feel it because it hurts too much.

Embers burn and they burn out. That's what the pain will feel like. The embers burning at their peak. But eventually, they burn out like candles blow out. And that's what moving on from you feels like.
It feels wrong and unfinished. It feels unnatural. Like a growth, a mass, a tumour. Like a halfway-paved walk or an unfinished sentence.

But my memories of you will never be chipped from my mind like slamming a ceramic mug onto the tabletop. You've ingrained yourself in every ****** movement I make and I don't know how to make it stop. Because I don't want to forget. I can't forget. I need you because you make me feel real. You make me feel like I matter. And that's the worst thing you could've ever done to me.

Because when you walked away, I lost a huge part of me. I lost a chunk of who I was, who I could be.

"How do you feel?"
"Does it matter? It doesn't change anything."

Because that vacant look in your eye was the last memory of you that I have. The distance.

"Whether it matters or not is not the point."
"I love you."

Because the first time I said it, would be the last time you'd hear it. It's been 10 days since then. And 28 since you stopped caring. It's been 3 years and 4 months since we first met. But a day has not gone by when my heart doesn't hurt because you're no longer here.

You said that you'd never leave me.
And you lied.
You said you cared about me.
And you lied.

You said I could always count on you.
And you lied.
You said you'd never let me go.
And you lied.

You said you loved me.
And you lied.
You said I could trust you.
And you lied.

But I believed you.
I believed in you.
I believed because of you.
I don't know what to believe anymore.

A stumbling hurricane into a newly made up home.
I set roots and you tore me out of the ground.
I held your hand, and you let go.
I shouldn't have let you hold me on the way home.
I shouldn't have let you touch me when my heart hurt.

But I did.
I did and you held me.
I did and you broke me.

You broke me.
I lost my best friend because he couldn't stay with me and not feel hurt by my presence.
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Artemis
“Do you think anyone ever really loves anyone else anymore?”

The water is crawling slowly up the shore. You can’t see the sun. He’s hiding behind the clouds again like he has been all week. The forecast had been sunny in the high eighties, and they were right. Partially at least. It wasn’t sunny, but the air was almost thick enough to see and the weight of it was enough to break your legs if you tried to walk for too long. She was sitting next to him. Dragging her finger across the surface of the sand creating these nonsensical shapes like a long lost language she barely remembered how to speak. He sat with his arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes lost somewhere over the ocean far away from the shore.

“You’re not even listening to me are you?”

It sounded more like a statement than a question, but he was used to that.

“I’m listening.”

“Well do you?”

“Do I think people ever fall in love anymore?”

“No, you’re not listening to me. I asked if you thought people ever really loved each other anymore.”

“How is that any different?”

“People fall in love all the time. I know that. But that isn’t really the same as loving someone else.”

“I’m not sure I can agree with that.”

“Think about it.”

She doesn’t carry on right away. She told him to think about it and that was exactly what she intended for him to do. A sun now sits above her absent minded art. It’s simple. Just a few lines emitting from a circle like a child would draw in first grade.

“We spend our entire lives falling in love. We hear all these ideas about what the world should be like, and how people should treat each other. And it all sounds nice, but everything is so impractical, and people are so quick to move on from things that don’t yield quick results. We never stick with anything no matter how nice it sounds. We fall in love with the idea that everyone should be treated equally. We love the idea of a world where people are treated more like people, and less like machines. So what do we do?”

“I don’t know. What do we do?”

“We sit behind screens and go through the motions like we’re making a difference. Sometimes I wonder who we think we’re fooling. You can sit on Facebook, Twitter, or Tumblr all day long and rant about how messed up the world is, but it’s all so pointless. We know we’re not really changing anything, and it’s not, like, something we feel deep down or anything like that. It’s so fake we know it on a surface level. But everyone else is doing the exact same thing, and everyone knows that everyone else is being fake.”

She stops talking for a moment. Taking a breath and rubbing out her first grade sun.

“We fall in love with the idea. But nothing happens and in a few months something else will be just as important as equality, and we’ll write and rant just as much about that. We fall in love in our heads every other hour, but no one sacrifices more than a few hours of their day and maybe some money. Until you sacrifice more than you would ever want to there’s no way for anyone to know that this ‘love’ we have has any substance.”

A crescent moon has replaced her sun. She turns to look at him.

“I don’t think it’s so different. I’m afraid because it seems like we fall in love with people like their ideas. You can go through all the motions and make everything look absolutely perfect. The guy can send her the sweetest good morning and good night texts everyday. He can buy her flowers, and hold her hand at the movies. He can pay for every meal, and hold open every door. All to the point where he actually convinces himself that he’s fallen in love with this girl. Unfortunately everyone is different and it’s just not that simple. They want to end up in different places. She wants kids. He doesn’t. He wants to focus on his career, and travel the world. She wants to settle down, and start a family. He has no time for her dreams, and she isn’t very tolerant of his. Neither one is willing to sacrifice anything for the other.  So everything falls apart because he was looking for someone to wake up to on the few days a week that he was home, and she was looking for someone who would actually be home. We fall in love with our ideas of people, and I’m just not sure anyone falls in love with another person anymore.”

“I think we could.”

“Yeah?”

She watches him as the tide tries to work up the courage to touch their feet.

“Maybe if we ever just looked up. Forwards for once, and not backwards. Maybe if we tried we could see what was coming. Maybe if we knew what was coming we would know who we would want to go through it all with. Like if you knew you were going to struggle to hold a job for the rest of your life. That would be hard right? So whose hand would you want to hold when you realize you don’t have the money to pay rent this month? Who would you give up the last slice of bread for when you can’t afford any more food for a few more days because payday isn’t until Friday? Because sometimes that’s what life is like, and it is in those moments that everything seems to fall apart. On the surface it seems terrible, to lose everything that we know, but the reality is that we lose everything we have that we don’t need.”

The clouds are moving overhead. You can’t make out their shapes because of the way they’re stacked together, but the way he stares up at them makes her think he see’s something in them she can’t.

“Sacrifice is a two-way street. It’s not only about who you want to be there with you when you feel like you’re getting dragged through hell. It’s who wants to be dragged through hell with you. Not only that, but who would be happy being burned alive as long as they get to hear you breathe. It doesn’t happen often, but yeah, I think it does happen from time to time.”

*~W.C.
 Jul 2015 mzwai
derelictmemory
Your father told you that a boy of his stature will only see the way your eyes blink and not look at the galaxies within your irises.

Your mother has always said that your life has to be like the linens in the drawer; bought, used, washed, dried then used again.

Your Math teacher was adamant on equating your worth to a quadratic equation with only two variables; tears and blood.
But you told her that her equations were nothing compared to the way his hands held your face like you were as fragile as woven silk.

Your English teacher once recited a verse to you the way your high priest knelt by the flames but all you heard was a humdrum murmur.

But your art teacher... She could name every tone and shade yet she taught you to confine yourself to primary colours all through life.

Your best friend kept your feet on the ground while your worries flew over you but they couldn't understand the heaviness of that morose feeling in your chest.

Your lover stood by you until the only darkness he could see was his own and yours began to ebb away under the moonlight. He told you that being around you damaged his fragile frame of mind for he could no longer look you in the eye and tell you he loved the way yours were starting to sparkle.

And he was the last one.

He was the last bit of your heart rotting in the dusty corner of a forgotten picture frame in an abandoned hall of memories.
For when you looked at his picture one last time, you flung yourself into the air hoping the water would end things kinder than he.


The end.
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Nicole Hammond
cold
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Nicole Hammond
i am no refuge
if the past 2 years
have taught me anything
i am more shrapnel than shelter
with willing hearts
strewn in my wake
but i am kind
i will not salt your wounds
with these tears
i will keep my distance
but these thoughts like water
circulate silently around you
never straying farther than
these arms can swim
and i am weak
i am so weak
for the smile that found me
in the sound and the strangers
much softer and worthier than i

but your songs still medicate me

and you said you'd keep me warm

and i don't remember
what i said next
but it doesn't matter anymore
because

you said you'd keep me warm

and i am still shivering
so sorry for not posting in so long. i'm proud of this poem.
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Allen Ginsberg
Howl
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Allen Ginsberg
For
              Carl Solomon

                   I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
      madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn
      looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
      connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
      ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
      up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
      cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
      contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
      saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
      ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
      hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
      among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
      publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
      skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
      ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
      to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their ***** beards returning through
      Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
      Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
      torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
      cohol and **** and endless *****,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
      lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
      Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
      tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
      dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
      storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
      blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
      vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
      lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
      ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
      until the noise of wheels and children brought
      them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
      battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
      in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
      floated out and sat through the stale beer after
      noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
      of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
      pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
      lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
      down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
      off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
      and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
      and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
      and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
      Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
      trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
      City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
      ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
      drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
      railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
      leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
      through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
      father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
      athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
      stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
      ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
      angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
      gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
      homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
      light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
      seeking jazz or *** or soup, and followed the
      brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
      and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
      to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
      behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
      and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
      place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
      F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
      eyes **** in their dark skin passing out incom-
      prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
      the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
      Square weeping and ******* while the sirens
      of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
      down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
      wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
      and trembling before the machinery of other
      skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
      in policecars for committing no crime but their
      own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
      dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
      scripts,
who let themselves be ****** in the *** by saintly
      motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
      the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
      love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
      gardens and the grass of public parks and
      cemeteries scattering their ***** freely to
      whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
      with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
      when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
      them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
      the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
      the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
      and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
      sit on her *** and snip the intellectual golden
      threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
      beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
      dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
      the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
      on the wall with a vision of ultimate **** and
      come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
      in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
      but prepared to sweeten the ****** of the sun
      rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
      in the lake,
who went out ******* through Colorado in myriad
      stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
      poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy
      to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
      in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
      rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
      gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
      ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
      solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
      dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
      picked themselves up out of basements hung
      over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
      Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
      ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
      the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
      East River to open to a room full of steamheat
      and *****,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
      cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
      blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
      be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
      the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
      Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
      pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
      bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
      their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
      with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
      by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
      incantations which in the yellow morning were
      stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
      & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
      kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
      an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
      for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
      fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
      fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
      stores where they thought they were growing
      old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
      on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
      & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
      of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
      fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
      ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
      drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
      pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
      into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
      ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
      the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
      saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
      danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
      phonograph records of nostalgic European
      1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
      threw up groaning into the ****** toilet, moans
      in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
      whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
      to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
      watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
      if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
      a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
      came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
      watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
      Denver and finally went away to find out the
      Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
      for each other's salvation and light and *******,
      until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
      impossible criminals with golden heads and the
      charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
      blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
   &nb
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Vamika Sinha
Splash!
 Jul 2015 mzwai
Vamika Sinha
Art is good
medication so you'll
deal with this creatively.

You've careened into this so
make the wreck,
the chaos
bloom on a page.
It might even help.

You're going to be a comic book artist
because in the face of such things
words fail and lips
falter,  and you
want to knock your head comedically.
You want
to conjure silly star-loops for
smashing into this
feeling.
Knocked-out.
Reeling.
Draw, draw out
and ink in your malady.

Crash!

The worst is when
your heart is the caricature.
A full-page feature,
a splash,
of high-strung colours
begging to be neatened.

Splash!

Your
cartoon heart. An
image of a fat, crimson
apple
like a clip-art pic, got
a little worm poking through
it.

Eating, eating away
to leave a love
or loss-sized hole.
Fat white bubbles announcing
hurt!
so graphically.

Go on and
draw it more lurid. If
the feeling is here, you might as well
feel it.
Let the slops of gaudy red
and green
bleed and
bleed
out of the panel.
Stain it, stain
the gutter
where time happens.

At least it gives the comic
a heartbreaking!
twist.

And then you turn the page.
Deal with ugly feelings prettily.
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