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Paulina Falomir  Nov 2018
Blanco
Paulina Falomir Nov 2018
A veces me mareo de tanto blanco,
No se malentienda, gran color ese blanco
Sólo me marea verlo y verlo en todos los edificios,
Las paredes
Y no me marea el color en sí,
Me marea la intención
Me marea usar el blanco para adormecer
La sensación de acorralamiento en jaulas
Que doblegan voluntades
A través de necesidades

El ser estático en su jaula porque no hay más a donde ir
Y las jaulas blancas
Para que sienta paz
Y las paredes blancas
Para que esté tranquilo

Me marea el blanco
Me marean las intenciones
Las intenciones “blancas”

Me marea recurrir a colores
Para disfrazar crueles realidades
Nadie quiere estar sentado todo el día

Quizá me marea el truco
Me marea
Me marea el blanco y lo que implica
Me marea el uso

Y la pregunta, pero sí no el blanco entonces ¿quién?
Entonces ¿cuál?
No abundan opciones
De jaulas negras, de jaulas rojas, no vendría nada mejor
Tiene que ser el blanco
Y eso me marea

Probablemente me marea la realidad y yo
Yo lo refiero todo al blanco
Me marea tanto blanco
Had to be in spanish, it was mind *****
Corvus  Mar 2018
Hamza
Corvus Mar 2018
Some things don't end smoothly.
It's not the slow braking of a car,
A seamless transition from driving to a standstill.
Sometimes you need to slam on.
And it never happens silently,
There's always a screech or a thud or a gasp,
It takes you by surprise and it lurches you forward.
You have to hold on for dear life.
The unexpected nature of it wreaks havoc on your insides;
Butterflies are woken up from your stomach and become nausea.
You check to see if all your limbs are intact, or in fragments.
Then you do the same for your heart,
Searching to see if it went through the windshield
Or if it managed to stay held inside by your unyielding ribs,
Only ever collapsing under the strain of breaths,
Hyperventilating into an airbag.
Some things don't end smoothly.
It's not the steady sigh of relief,
It's the jagged, shaky breaths that never fully extend
In or out, and there's no calming halt afterwards,
Just a process of continuously hitting the brakes.
Through and through my mother is anorexic
You would be too if your environment was toxic
I can’t help but be sad when I come home late at night
And she’s asleep on the couch with tear stains from a fight
I bring back food from the restaurant I work at
She says she can’t have it because she’s too fat
Eventually she caves and I get her to eat
Fish, broccoli, fries, and red meat
She tells me it’s too late at night to eat snacks
Although she’s a normal weight her bones still sound like they *****
It’s now 1 am and I go to turn off the tv
She quickly wakes up and stairs blankly right at me
“Leave it. And turn the heat on”
She says to me, fighting a yawn
Before I leave I notice the wrappers
A caloric binge had clearly trapped her
And tomorrow I’m sure the cycle will repeat
As the image of my mother withers and retreats
zebra  Aug 2018
Nausea News
zebra Aug 2018
REPUBLICANS
Former South Carolina GOP leader
kills dog to please God
Rob Beschizza

GERMANY
Germany's top domestic spy advised far right xenophobic political party on how to avoid being billed as "extremists"
Cory Doctorow

RUSSIA
Guy who pretends to ****** people for a living named Russian Goodwill ambassador
Seamus Bellamy  

BUSINESS
We're going to be eating bugs really soon now, again
Cory Doctorow


POLICE
Surveillance camera shows off-duty NYPD cop dropping a weapon near man he shot in the face
Rob Beschizza

SCHOLARSHIP
When should the press pay attention to trolls, lies and disinformation?
Cory Doctoro

CORRUPTION
Wells Fargo: we stole houses and we're being investigated for ***** low-income housing credits
Cory Doctorow


LATE STAGE CAPITALISM
How Jpay gouges prisoners' families for "digital postage stamps"
Cory Doctorow

ALEX JONES
Alex Jones is suing the parents of a Sandy Hook victim for $100,000
Gina Loukareas


***
:(
an appropriation
patty m Jun 2014
A nightmare whispers in my ear
sidles down, spreading wasp-like wings
as it hisses between pointy teeth
words of chaos and confusion.

Disturbing revelations
whirr, jitter, and chatter as I flinch.
Its consumptive rattle spraying spittle
emits a putrid scent reminiscent of rodent.

Milky blue and innocent eyed
yet dastardly depraved,
the imp reaches out
shivering with excitement,
ignoring my piteous complaint.

Oppressive gray skinned nightmare
barbed prehensile tail
your vicious stinger
breeds monsters.

Failing light
the fallen rain
congers danger
Between bouts of nausea
I watch him ******* breath from mewling infants,
opening plague tombs, unwinding sheets,
and I cringe with the fear of being buried alive.

Clinging to bones, scant hair on a withered head,
I cry burning tears,
my face seamed with scars.
Not dead yet, but powerless to refute him.

Leagues of the dead march by
rank after rank of their numbers
never staggering to an end,  

I try to rise, wheezing , tongue swelled over teeth
eyeballs bulging, as their footsteps grow louder.

Still I dangle chained to this moment
terrified ,
as nightmare rears its head
but even more frightened of dying.
Kara Jean  Aug 2016
Love
Kara Jean Aug 2016
The first eye opening
A bright room
People crying
Our first moment seems to be love

Love
Butterflies out of control nausea
Heart deep fluttering
You need to sit your *** down kind of feeling

Love
Do we stop?
Stop loving?
Stop living?
What happens when the mind mishapes, decays?
Standing hand in hand in the middle of love, do we leave or stay?
What is the true definition of love?
Can anyone really explain?
Marcus Lane  Mar 2011
Lost Link
Marcus Lane Mar 2011
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.

A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.

And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.

Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.

Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.

The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.

Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.

Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea

Adrift in a sea of springs.
© Marcus Lane 2010
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