jdotingham Oct 3

which hits the ground first:
the lead or the head?

Save me? &
there's a T a P - T a P - T a P-ping at the door;
i wish it was a raven whom quoth nevermore (for nevermore seems to be a lot more adored than what i endured, with more than five whole minutes with sweat dripping from poures)...
instead, it's a |piece| of |metal|
which causes the lead and the head to fall upon the floor^ T a P T a P T a P

bang¿ bang¡ save me? bang¿ bang¡
take!-mybody, but not my soul
take!-mylife: stop me from g r o W I n g old.
save me?
save me?
not at all/
\the innate fear of[never"nevermore"]; as the lead and heads
                     H I T
                     C O L D
                    F L O O R

the body lay upon; wait, it:
                      H I T
                     C O L D
                    F L O O R - 32/origin/2017


{taken souls from paper plates,
taken lives from wisdom days
taken away those velvet dates
self-defence from what they say
taken away from binoculared dreams
taken away from mysterious means
taken away into make belief
seduced by a violent tendency.

it's no one's fault, it's written with words... or so i've heard. it's our right for this bird!
just because.
don't trust anyone, even sugar looks like salt.
but you trust a personified raven with lead coughs of molt-
(countdown from)ten.


when metal spreads like jam
                                                  and when flesh is cut like ham
what a sham. want some more?
bam! bam! bam!
the % screams louder than Beatlemania's crowd, man
context of fear and loading screens of physical machines.
sticks and stones break bones, but faith will only hurt me,
god of death, raven, heck, meth & an uprising of beth! all against the proclaimed defensive offence.

                                                    s­tars&stripes&&splinters&knives&masks of spite&cocked bites&directed strife and crowds disbanded by a sound of...
            nevermore! - the metal raven brings a room alive, before....
age only comes to those who die old, warmth only comes to those cremated toes, rest only comes with the eternal bed -
laws need to entangle the lead fired with thread,

which came first, the raven or the lead?
life or death?

jdotingham Sep 27

where's the romance? where's the mystery> where's the slow dance? and where's the symphony?
it comes... eventually.
i wait for the bus, endlessly. waiting. waiting? waiting! slating the lateness of the bus. so I wait longer. and lloonnggeerr. and lllooonnngggeeerrr.
i didn't realise this is the wrong bus stop. shut on sundays.
so i walk to the other bus, passing the resistance of waiting.
there's the romance! there's the mystery! there's the slow dance! and there's the symphony!
it came. just on time.

jdotingham Aug 16

bed/rooms. temple of the person(al).
messy floors in order of a jackson pollock on crack, cd collections of when music was rad, then we look over at our slippers: our we slowly becoming our dad. an empty space on the other side of the bed: the dent disappeared. the new wife is a bottle of gin and a meal of beer. books on self help thrown into the fireplace (along with pictures of jane). stains on the ivory. yellow and faded whites.
knifes should not be kept in the bed/room (they.are.though).
dull lighting. bland shadows. the mirror is smashed in the tip outside, the mirror don't lie, it's a reflection of life and it tells men they are fuckup guys.
introverted emotions. extroverted commotions. misunderstanding. alpha male landing.
july feels like september which feels like december. time does fly and drag at the same time.
a drag from cigarettes with a candle to mask to smell of fag: a closet open, throwing up a clothing trap.
scribbles of paper, poetry. jane is poetry. the angry note of: "all these characters are fictional, any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental... apart from jane... fuck jane" the rest is empty. expressionless as the mirror.
the temple is falling apart.
some cut their ears off for art.
in the bed/room we part with the feeling of wondering what it feels like. to break away from anomie and inner penitentiary lives. a fire? suffocation? alcohol poisoning infection from mould? slitting of wrists before we get old? a cluedo of the bed/room.
                         in bed/rooms we have narrow vision: night-thinkers. curiosity kills.

suicide among men is higher than ever. it is a problem.
jdotingham Jul 30

i met my gold/digger on a train to new orleans.
         she glanced over, we made eye contact, she took me.
                beautiful was probably an understatement, a hardbody as patrick would say.
       "Hey Antonia" I would then say.
<?> was the response.
the atoms were filled to the brim with beauty, but something was missing. the electrons?
       she responded, i missed it.
       i replied, she twists it.
"you are crafted by the gods or some other pretentious bullshit. but you are empty, so i will never die for you. Antonia."
<?> was the response.
she spoke once more.
alien voice. foreign to my ears.
this was not my gold/digger, but she could've fooled my tears.

jdotingham Jul 30

&the tail stops, so does the panting, the eyes immortalised in that naïve stare. I stand there with the pistol in my right hand, looking at what was once a dog. was it once my dog? does it matter?    
             I become God. Dog becomes sheep. And, the universe doesn't even blink.      
so I light another fag and toss my empty Crayola Crayon Cigarette Case into the puddle beside me. I guess that's some sort of metaphor. who knows, who cares(?)

jdotingham Jul 12

i am the elephant in the room, maybe not self conscious, but i definitely stand out.
i am of many elephants in the room, maybe not conscious of it, it's definitely normal.
the new elephant in the room is the WHALE.

NuBlaccSoul Jun 5


george v May 23

soft moonlit temples
rising ~ falling ~  every breath
entreating kisses
swordsmen lay bare their prowess
her temples ~ vowed lips exalt  

gv 5.2017

Form:  Tanka

Her hair falls, the spring rain
Over her chest, rising
Like the hills of the world
Bright in the summer of her smiling face

She sees all the world like the clouds in the sky
Feels it with fingers like beams of the sun
Her laughter comes rolling
The wind in the trees

Her heart flows, all loving
Like salt to the oceans
I feel in the water the touch of her hands
The birds say she loves me
They sing in her voices
She hushes, with nature to watch the stars rise

I’ll tell her I love her
Through the world she’ll hear me
She sleeps now, like mountains
Our love will move on

Tamal Kundu May 6

It was the missing decade
of my life that came back,
late on one clammy night.

Wearing your visage
of a foraging girl
at the foot of a tranquil Vesuvius.

Spent though I was,
for those decades still with me,
I sat awake listening to the warmth of open windows.

The decade came for me,
in figments and memories
wheezing a few questions.

This room is known to me,
as is the night,
as is the flaying heat,

and the carved words
on the creaking charpoi
by some distant uncle.

I melded with the light squeezing through
into this dark, sulphurous room
like an exile away from my maker.

The decade came to me
and sang lullabies
of princes who never were.

I have kept my vigil
until the mirror ran dry
and returned to sand.

The decade wears me now
as I am, the hunting boy
by a shimmering Ganges.

Form: Free Verse
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