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Eva B Apr 6
Sister Magdalene had her own parking space
in the lot of the church where my grandfather
placed his hand on my shoulder.
Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke
about the Father.
Something about bad breath.
I giggled a fragmented
Amen.

As a young girl I dreamt of the honor
of battle and the burden
of armor. Each morning I’d awake,
my wrist sore from painting fields
menstrual red. My thighs ached.
My horse's name was Gust.
She was the color of overcast.
Once, she got so tired
she kneeled. When she stood
her stomach held the night sky.
I laid beneath her and named stars
from bits of her fur
until the field began to whisper so loud
that I woke.

Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews.
Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame
tip-toed up her habit with the resolve
of a field of corpses rolling their eyes
toward salvation. When the flame
reached her chin I bit my lip.
Joan asked what’s wrong
or what’s right.
My mouth was full.

The flame grew to reach the Father,
kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.

I listened to the church bend
in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.
Based on Otto Dix's 1914 painting, The Nun
As the cold came forth,

The trees rain pink atop heads,

Of young and old too.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
MAD

don't write about it

paint a scream

a pen not a brush
only corrupts the scene

turn paper to canvas

let colors cry
flow tears and bleed





whit howland © 2019
Ourselves stripped bare to our syntax
Enigma GD Jul 2019
Just give me one more broken heart
So that the numbness can start to spread
Throughout my nerves and in my veins
To forget any feelings, any pains
I'll have new senses and give them new names
Senses that wont make me feel deranged

My hands and heart will become my own
Tools for sinning and a beating stone
They'll forget they served anothers throne
They'll forget what it means to feel at home

My feet and eyes will be selfish for me
Carry us to places only I want to see
No longer shall they dance on flames
Or search for truths where none remain

My lips and tongue will still be kind
To each new friendly face I find
And lovers even more so

My liver and lungs will both be mine
For indulging pleasures smoke and wine
I'll give away my torso

My mind's not mine, It's never been
Its shown me things I've never seen
Makes me speak words I've never heard

Whether thoughts are who we are? The lines get blurred

As long as, like the rest of them, it keeps me from being hurt again

It's doing it right now..
While it was meant to be expressionism, I wrote this at a time when I suspected this was going to happen, it did happen. It's only fair to say it does not make one numb. Quite the contrary. So perhaps it's a wish, for how I wanted my emotions to handle another heartbreak, but it never does get easier.
Oculi Apr 2019
A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple

I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.

But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.

Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.

The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.

Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.

I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.

I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.

**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"

We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.

I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."

The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.
Kurosawa could dream.
Tarkovsky could dream.
Lynch could dream.
Why could I not?
Derrek Faraday Dec 2018
Rattle on
And do so backwards
In the insular hole
Strangle lo’
To and fro, in herds
Build for me a pole

Wail along
And do so sweetly
In my crooked glyphs
Sail strong
To lands discreetly
A flintlock at your hip

Walk across
And do so sideways
In a tiled oasis
Count the cost,
To hands that play
Deal out epistasis

Swim away
And do so upwards
In a veiled monsoon
Drown the day
In Carinae
Seek its vagrant moon
I'll 'A-ha!' when you 'Da-da!', be yr
hangdog lapdog Vince Dingo &
yr own personal Theo
(someone to sell your art, someone who hearts),
if you don't pose a go-go, my girl Gauguin. O when you sulk you

sizzle like a Cezanne
in the boot of a Securicor insideman's
sunset sedan, absconder after a fence's attention
to monetise his hot Tate pension
of filched Impressionists
& the Expressionists they felched
(tho' only in the noble Athenian mode
of an erastes taking an eromenos
under his ring, I mean, wing!).
There's a Degas in the trailer!
A Bazille in the footwell, clogging up the clutch!
A Seurat jutting out the sunroof!
A Manet between the shell & the chassis!
No Pissaro in thisscartho'...

Monet spiders of impasto Aprilshowers
are a freebie windscreen Renoir's squeegee,
parting gratuity from carwash clouds
of Securitannia, as our artnapper's
Salon des Refuses-replete saloon
insouciantly mounts the Seacat's ramp
at sweatfree sunset speed, en route
to Costa Calida
sans securicaution.
A victimless crime against the aesthete Joe Public,
it'll only cost Aviva.

So, Dark Cow & my unherd of readers,
thank you for reading
the rejexpectorated stye-ary
of Adrian Steppenmole,
aged 29-38 & a haller.
Taylor Rogers Dec 2016
I love you more than you will truly, ever know. I am stricken with so much fear. I am so scared because, truthfully admitting, I have no certainty that I obtain enough strength to defeat this "monster". I can't stop hearing this **** on a loop in my head. What if I never break myself free, what if I am trapped inside my own demise forever? It's the most frightening thing that I've ever known, I have been too afraid to be anything other than still; so, so, still.
Written by Taylor Rogers

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, PO Box 1866, Mountain View, CA 94042, USA
Taylor Rogers Aug 2016
Deceit you speak all the while
Knowing I know and how I feel.
Thrashing scars upon my flesh,
God knows they'll never heal.
Mistrust and doubt,
Lies and hidden truths;
All the same and all coming from you.
It's all that I can do not to shout.
My nerves clenched tight,
Can't you hear them scream?
I say to you, you're right, as I
Try to bury my truest emotions.
Being who you want is merely a dream
Inconceivable madness;
Pure in love and intricate filth.
Already weary souls, encumbered with The weight of every lie.
White lies, black lies; colorblind
Lucidity comes without pigment
All the flickers of light;
Can't you see them?
They call my name and wish
To carry me away.
Love and lies and passionate cries
Have brought me to endless insanity
No one left to save me.
Written by Taylor Rogers


This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, PO Box 1866, Mountain View, CA 94042, US.
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