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Justin Aptaker Aug 2019
how can i afford the cure?
the cure is my disease
how can i speak with words still pure?
my doctor poisons me
yet will i laud
and make it
soft
the words of the wise
are plainly lost
Written ca. 2011
Justin Aptaker Aug 2019
awake now!
Recite!
Write it down, letter by letter
the house of Holy is being built
brick by brick, letter by letter, gem by gem

my Spirit approached me by night
with a vision of gladness
a triumphant tiding
born on a warm and powerful wind in the dead of winter

Say, “It is finished”
Say, “The city has fallen!”
Say, “Come away with me, my love. Come away, and taste not of her poison delicacies”

as in a dream, I watched
while a mad-woman
a maenad
ran through every street and back alley
a lunatic
possessed by the moonlight
holding in her left hand
a magic wand that she had retrieved
from a children’s magic kit
a plastic wand

and everywhere she ran
she swung her wand
pointing at each and every thing
and shouting

HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!
Holy, the cobblestones of the street! Shining in the moonlight!
Swinging her wand and pointing up
HOLY the dark clouds which move to block the moonlight
and move away again to reveal!

Swinging and shrieking and crying
HOLY! HOLY!
Pointing the wand at the gawking passerby
who stopped to stare, clutching their children tightly to guard them from her madness
HOLY the skeptics, the blind, and the deaf! For they shall see! They shall hear!
Holy your children, whom you shall not keep from me!
They will follow me through the streets, singing and dancing to my merry tunes!

Holy the children, for they believe in magic wands of plastic
Holy the plastic, no less than the gold with which you adorn your temples!

Holy the darkness, which falls over your land!
And with those words
the Lady flung her arm
pointing her wand at the moon itself
which turned red-black
like congealed blood over a wound
and darkness fell over the cobblestones in the streets

and panic fell in the hearts of the passerby
because the light was gone
and screaming terrified, they tried to drag their children with them back inside their homes
where the cold hum of electricity kept the incandescent status quo glowing from the ceilings

but the children would have none of it
the Lady had begun to dance under the darkened moon
through the black streets
singing a merry tune (holy holy holy)
and the children each broke free from the terrified death-grips of their parents
and danced behind Her
into the streets
Klaryssa May 2016
My phone dings with familiarity of notification
I fail to reach
Failing to  identify the messenger
Thoughts all point to one thing
My chest constricts with fear as a sharp inhale shakes my body
It could be you
This knowledge, this esoteric ideology about who you really are, limits my tounge.
I can't speak
I can't explain you to anyone because the classic Marvel villian is much too kind.
Realization dawns on my face
I then exhale- slowly, taking comfort in the truth that eases my fragile heart: death prevents all forms of communication-especially druken texts after midnight.
We are drunk in our fears
We are high in our passions

We still-cangetbacktogetherright?
         wrong!
You are my best poetry
Written in longhand
Spoken all in one breathe
But death
Prevents
Sending
Text
Messages
And leaving voicemails
And coming to my house
And calling my mother
And harrassing my sister
And-well, moving on is hard when you, still want to move in.
Special thanks to Joshua Trevino

— The End —