Loving you was
the most
exquisite form
of self
destruction

but I did it
I did it anyway
I wanted to reach
and touch
the flame
to bite
the fruit
to see
to hurt
and I wanted you to fix it

Along the gallant road rides a superfluous vibe,
Secreting utter destruction as it strides through massive vines.
It clasps its form against the almighty wind,
With every curve, it steeps into a lifelike kin.
  
When midnight turns, it taunts with vigorous fear.
Growing its momentum as it creeps near and near.
Suddenly, faint noises reeled in and appeared! Creak…Creak…Creak….
The wind slams into the mahogany door without any presence becoming clear.

What might it be? Who could it be?
Had the door not been closed when I went off to sleep?
The infant child began to ruminate about all the possibilities,
Until the moment it grew tired and drifted into a dream.

The child became the rider of the wind.
Dreaming of endless encounters with other hopeless victims.
Have you not noticed the source of energy imposed from within?
It was the child who crafted this skin of sin.

The silent scream soared throughout the sky.
Until the unconscious mind transformed, as it stroked midnight.
Ding…****…Ding… The animal awoke from its den;
After a superfluous vibe was intuitively picked up from within.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente

The stars were once so friendly,
dancing with the moon to radiate on each
satellite, plant, galaxy solar system
The stars were once so bright,
But that was before they saw a bitter life form
And they dimmed a little
They met the city lights, and saw they were
least important with such beauty,
A planet with stars of it's own,
which lead the stars to dim enough
But then the far away suns noticed
Hatred, and the beloved planets
not being taken care of,
water sources being drained,
Fake satellites being place all over,
The forbidden moon having
Earth's stolen elements stabbed into
Planets hid, and now
All the stars are all a dot to twinkle
Still holding onto that last piece of illumination
and lately, the moon seemed a little dimmer

I thought I'd write a villanelle
though form is not my forte
yet I'll try, what the hell

Let's see if I can do this well
as an exercise in structure
I thought I'd write a villanelle

Can I make my verses swell
write five of them as tercets
well I'll try, what the hell

For to my inertia quell
while my muse is absent
I thought I'd write a villanelle

Now I've fallen to the spell
but the next must be a quatrain
so I'll try, what the hell

My words upon the page do jell
and this is almost finished
I thought I'd write a villanelle
then I tried, what the hell

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 10/5/2014

Oh, What a View!
      from this hazy morning hue,

Familiar faces        interlacing
    back-trip Flashes
Heart is Racing

In my brain &
  through my veins
i still feel the
                       ACID STAIN

Recollections of
Reckless Havoc,
Wreaked when I was
Trapped in Magic

man
  last night
                                           who was i ?

  right now i'm fading from my sight

I am here while i am There
and I have yet to    Find my Mind .

The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me

Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your

Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.

Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right

Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say

Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.

Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to

Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.

That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.

He weeps his heart, and hangs his head,
He doubles back, and follows her back to bed,
She says, " Some homes are towns and lives, while others wear their homes inside." And he keeps up though he's kept out, the volatile, the sudden frown.
She makes up the cupcakes but they're never vegan are they? No they're never vegan are they?

He makes a gift, and wrings his thumbs, the bubble bath, the tepid tub,
Outside where the rains have gone long, something gives him something strong,
And he picks up where he had left off, the trouble is he doesn't know when to back off, and the cupcakes aren't vegan, sweet and such spectacular, but they really aren't eaten, now that they've been made with eggs. No the cupcakes aren't vegan, though they are quite delicious. And he loves her forever, though he never eats again. No he never eats again. No he never eats again.

of all the love i have come to make
and all the hearts i'm yet to break
there is something so subtle in the way our eyes meet
when you're skin is my skin, and you are a part of me

the hazel green, and stubble on your chin
my mortal machine, lovers drenched in sin
is it electricity or madness
where felicity finally left behind the sadness
i cannot wait to see you again.

i hope that water leaks from faucets onto our skin together.
i hope that we can lay in bed and shake the mattress with our laughter.
i hope the heartache we've known, well it just won't matter.
let the boundaries fearlessly shatter
for us and all the mindless chatter

you're sweeter than smoke in my lungs and
i wish you were here.
awake me, give me touch, cause i've been so numb and
i wont watch you disappear.

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &