She wakes up every morning
with a frown on her face
as he stumbles from his bed
and into a chair that
he will never get out of-
there is tension in the air
as she downs another
exclaiming, "bottoms up"
when it makes her glass world
shatter
at the rise of a cup

All he can do is watch the pieces
as they become pronounced
while the shift of retreating cats
induces a pitter-patter
and more pictures fade out;
the happy memories
now stained
from her cigarette smoke
to ensure they'll die together,
yet somehow alone

He is cursed with a disease
that has rendered him pitiful
but alcohol doesn't care,
she drinks another swig,
becoming more cyclical
and deems the mans hindrance
as sinful

Stuttering, he can't escape
a liquid she's drowned him with
by pouring it into her own veins-
maybe it's better this way,
to watch the walls as they cave in

What else can he do
as he slowly degrades
from Parkinson's?

How many women here
have been impregnated
by Elon Musk? looking for hands

He plans to repopulate the planet
single handedly - well, not handed
exactly - you know what I mean.

In Australia, great swaths of Texas,
and of course Mar-a-Lago, he’s a serial offender,
because his ***** is legal tender.

Factoid: you might catch a disease,
he’s sleeping with everyone north of Belize
and several of them, frankly, look ******.

Of course, you’d have to listen to him talk. shivers
Unless you say, “Hey, can we do this without conversation?”
That’s when you’d slip on your sleep mask, and, well, you know.
But what would you be thinking about?
.
.
FUN! by KiNG MALA [E]
BLOODONTHETIMBS by Bren Joy  [E]

John's illness is called

John, Ella's is called Ella --


mine, well, you know me.

Tu és um milhão de coisas;
Desejos, pesadelos, alucinações que nem bálsamos aplacam
Olho ao meu redor, e lá estás,
Porém, em meu ser, não te sinto.
A voz do povo, como um roubo de opiniões, revela a lógica
E o absurdo,
Pois o verbo é o que é,
E também o que não pode ser.

Antigas poesias,
Clamando às estrelas e à lua,
Mais um divertimento fugaz.
Sentimentos que não encontram sentido em tua mente turvada,
Como uma epiléptica a observar um estroboscópio sem fim.

Tu fizeste flores brotarem em meus pulmões
E em meu peito;
Embora formosas sejam,
Não consigo respirar.
Arrancaria tais flores e te as entregaria,
Um ramo de “eu te amo” que jamais foram ditos.
Teu nome, como gelo, cala meu coração.

Espero, aguardo, pela próxima mensagem,
Risadas que me impelirem ao retorno,
Ansiedade que confunde o pensamento,
Sofrendo por males que não ocorreram… ou ainda ocorrerão?

Na minha sepultura, portas se fecham,
Meu corpo se desfaz,
As flores se tornam parte de mim,
Pouco chegam a mim as vozes que falam
De uma fantasia.
Resta, enfim, a solidão.

so scared of losing yourself
to a future disease
you forgot about the rage inside
and your family's grief

there's a lifetime of love here
but it's getting hard to see
this thing you think you're fighting
well it's really fighting me

Pressure in my chest:

it's happened before, I know --


nothing to worry!