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 May 2014 Kayla
Evening Ways
Changing at an alter
As to fault my state of mind
Less permanent when pursued
Captured perfect when the blame is all mine

So I'll peek over the dawn after rising
Soon as night time colors fade
A grieving child am I after consequence
Blaming only the loss of my ways

To perfect would it be as to stumble
Over the cross heirs tangled sight
Falling then into an oyster
Where I am harbored from piercing day light

Maybe the sun I wish to blame
For tumbling off my sheltered road
No such denial shall reprove the yielded dream
A directional view no longer can I hold
When released I'll have faulted pursued self defeat
 May 2014 Kayla
Jordan Clark
Tonight
 May 2014 Kayla
Jordan Clark
Tonight
I'm going to drink
until I feel profound,

and let unspoken words
carry me off to a glorious
drunken excuse for sleep.

Tonight
I just might dance

to four chords,
and pretend I'm just like
everyone else.

Tonight
I'll be cool, calm,
and collected

until I see your
stupid beautiful face.

Tonight
I'm going to tear
apart the woodwork,

because I've drunk too much
to let dead carpenters
tell me how to feel.

Tonight
I refuse to
feel a thing,

in order to send off
a year of feeling
too much for too little.

Tonight
I'm going to lie
until everyone thinks I'm okay,

simply because I can,
and it's the only thing
I'm still any good at.

Tonight
I'm going to **** the silence
by choking on my own words.

Tonight
I'll fight gossip with better gossip.

Tonight
I will move on.
 May 2014 Kayla
Joe Roberts
I'm a little disturbed by the implications
of dreamcatchers in cars.
Are we that prone to fall asleep
behind the wheel?
Are we that scared of our nightmares?
If life is a dream
does a person who dies near a dreamcatcher
get caught,
a fly in a web,
in the dreamcatcher and wait to be devoured
by the nightmares inside.
Five more dossiers slam down
beside you, bosses look stern
and flick through to spite you,
crossing off task after task:
appraisal target attitude,
shred your worries and feign
a false sense of gratitude,
scribble a signature, pretend
that you won't work here long.
It's just a stop gap, well,
one of two, perhaps after this
you'll be hired by another few.

Ten minute lunch, more bitter
than ***** tabasco juice
but ****** Mary and Jesus,
keep your mind on the salary
and you might get through
tapping and typing away
for a parasitic conglomerate
who barely remembers you.
Wolf down the freedom,
spark a fossil fuel fire on
your tobacconists’ anti-stress
breathing flute, clench
fists as you trudge through
the muck and the mire.

They laugh as you slump
over your desktop, under
the fifteen thousand word
count a day, hundreds
of calls and email favours
still you get payed for less
than half of your labour.
One look to the surroundings,
the folks in your office, step
back from your desk and hand
in your notice; sell your assets,
share your amenities,
cut off your phone-line,
don’t pay your licence fees.

At the door, the postman
struggles with bills and notices,
pushing and prying
more and more letters
the poor fellow moans as
you almost clap his efforts.
Gathering dust, your post
gets pushed up the stairs.
Knocking out your wellbeing,
this builds up in piles to
the height of your ceiling
until one day you awaken
with no gas or lighting,
nothing to quench or feed,
your rumbling stomach
near delirious being.

No more in awe, frightened
to express your distaste
for nine to five slavery
you pile a large steel cylinder
with technology and clutter;
letters and junk-mail literature.
Lighter fluid marinade you
feel empowered like
the folks at the gas board.
Pull out a matchbox
strike to a major chord.
Prepare for the roaring
of bureaucratic nonsense
burning and fizzling.

Strike one, the phosphorus
occupies your nostrils,
how sweet the smell
of keratin, and butane,
kerosine and hydrogen.
Strike two the match ignites,
the wind breaks your bindings,
you relax with such laughter
that the flickering orange
flame blows into a cinder,
smoke pining. Rig the pack
and pull out your portable
lighter, the whole box of
matches sets joyfully on fire.

Like witch over cauldron
you cackle and crack up
toss in the phosphorescent
rectangular prism to
the concoction which kept
you imprisoned for month
after month; year after year
you’d forgotten to fulfil
that dream, pull out your
mobile and text your queen
‘Let’s move to the mountains
and bask in the heat; revel in

rebellion. Reject, neigh, defeat
the notion that we must sit
at computers like digital sheep
that we can’t cross an ocean
on our own two feet.
We can grow our own grain
and cull our own wheat’
Whip out your tickets and jump
on the flight here lies a path,
come forth and fulfil it tonight.
'No amount of fire or freshness
can challenge what a man
will store up in his ghostly heart'

F. Scott Fitzgerald
 May 2014 Kayla
-KL
Understanding.
 May 2014 Kayla
-KL
I understand now.
It's okay to wait.
We're young.
I know you love me & you know I love you.
I know that won't change.
Because everything will be okay at the end.
-K.L.
 May 2014 Kayla
James Palmer
My mind is polluted
My thoughts, convoluted
Overwhelmed by your desires.
If you really wanna burn your bridges
Then you're gonna have to start some fires.

I've got plenty of room
For many more scars
That I may or may not regret,
But I lack space
For memories
And consequently, forget.

If clocks decide to leave minutes behind
And begin counting sins,
Would the hands move any slower?
Would you find heaven within?
 May 2014 Kayla
princess
emptiness
 May 2014 Kayla
Bjørn O Holter
You asked for a life
Full of beauty and music
The devil said no
I tattooed a client today with extreme interest in music and art, but who never had a chance to express himself. I felt sincerely sorry for him..
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