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Sep 2018
I would imagine my shoes full of broken wineglass
     and I would bicker, shoot, hum, wring
     carefully take them all out,
     with my godcrazed sweaty hands
I would see hallucinatory men in love, all destroyed with jarring
     scars on their arms because of the Great War,
     wrestle each other to steaks in the dead beach
     moaning with their twenty year old cigars
     still in their tortured mouths
I would see children playing at Dawn,
     They never grow older, always the age of eight
     They all played games with me, especially
     In those Westfield overblown supermarkets
I would dream of a pure Strawberry Field's kingdom,
     With John Lennon’s flannel shirts and a picture
     of some artist’s wife wanting to jump off the Brooklyn bridge
     Thinking I’m related to Napoleon
     who I forgotten about, ever since we left Chinatown that day.

So I called the twenty four hour hotline, where all the suicidal people call in the middle of the night,
      groaning in my bathtub, thinking of my visions,
      knowing one thing, I cried,
      “ I don’t want to turn into a cockroach like Gregor did!”
Instead I turned into a Shakespearean agony girl in two days,
     and wrote dramas in my room at midnight
     hissing of the mistreatment of slaves back in 1821.

After, I wept of the romances of the guiltless terraces in the tiny
     exhaustible corners of the street, in the abandoned libraries,
     and went back to school half-insane filled with gibberish stanzas
     and academics that sounded like more gibberish.

Then, I was I crowned with pinnacle ‘Madness of Thou Brain and Sick Oblivion, with auditory hallucinations’

I gave my one synapse yell to my only friend in town, and they all
     sent me to some institution where I felt more belonging than I
     did in eight years.

I met a girl who was planning to read To **** A Mockingbird in an hour,

I met a boy from Juvie who smoked too much and took too many pills

I met a boy who was just as sick as me, we played Twister in the
     dark until the nurses caught us holding hands,
     I never saw him again after that.

I met a girl who completed her suicide two days before her
     discharge.

Can you see it yet? In the tiny inexhaustible corners of the streets?
     In the abandoned libraries?

In little time, my generation will beat their visions to the streets,
     their innovation will rise to daring freshness.
A poem that reflects the society of modern times, a hallucinogenic mess of questions, but still somehow surviving and standing firm in its ideas.
Angela Liyanto
Written by
Angela Liyanto  F/Sydney
(F/Sydney)   
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