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How many poems about broken people will I write
Before I realize that I, too, am fragmented.
Equally, if not more liable for the war zones I have called love.
Scorch'd Diana Feb 2021
I am the experiment.
This is my place.
This is my role.
The drug paints hallucinations of meanings around each single of these empty words,
that are naked on a notepad but belong onto a colorful clustersheet,

pityfully fallacy!

Can we, the two of us,
find the meaning of rhymes in here together?
We can engine the searches, only if we want to;
and talking about principles:
most of it, it's ego ****, and I dare to write and spit on anything forbidding me my will I'm freely willingly willed to write
a *title now, within the flow, than out of it at given times, when it rims
and rhymes and Romes and rums.

let me write when I want to, not if you could to, how dare you, I'm sensible and easy to brittle, don't pressure me with principles, you son of a dissociative spine itch!

- We were derailing. And still are. Rhymes so easy, reasons so far. Words I delete will never teach me memoriance.
Two tasks,
can't comprehend this nonsense, I slide on the blade of sentences that split my own illusive walls of honour I enhanced -
throughout the conversation with each myotherselves, perhaps
in advance, far before you knew,
choppy-chopped chown-chauwn-to-grid-cheese-strings
¿point of view?,
while I faithe for making sense with my course of understandnessless mess of a what's a

what-a hard digest.
~ Personally, I recommend
do not become this experiment.
Dah Jan 2020
… from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, it’s a matter of …

… regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders …  

… near the end of his journey the man’s voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast …

… his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...

… even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket …

… ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...


from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented

©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved

first published in Record Magazine
Dah Jan 2020
the architecture of waves, pelicans in adagio
but a tempo slower, the silver-colored fish, streaks
of light, like conversations out of reach, counting
waves, the soft and hard ones …

the sun-reflected surface makes me sleepy
as if a hypnotist at work: my thoughts resisting
this sleep that feels like the final dust of
existence …

starfish ******* the life out of clams,
the weight of the ocean …

the frail branches of an old tree, an old woman
an old dog, a city that’s outbuilding itself, straight
up from Hell, straight into the atmosphere, across
the sky, across the universe …

at sunset, the challenge the sun has to stay alive,
as if a magician at work: darkness falls, like the dead
flame of life, several seconds pass, then several more,
I collect the darkness …

time flies, like a harbinger of bad news, like
an awkward simile that needs explaining …

of all of my loves, of those who were actually
lovers, either married or single, you were the one
who drew me in, against our will, both hearts fell,
bodies withered and ****** …

at sunrise everything reshaped, our bodies felt
alien to each other: nothing has changed but  
the distance between us, always these forbidden
remains …

how our voices grew hoarse, outside it was raining,
everything had rusted …


from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented

©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved

first published in Fishbowl Poetry, Germany
eleanor prince Dec 2019
In solitary spaces
I find parts noise hid
screaming simulacrum
in broken cobwebs

a life pending
in crevices

mantles for
ruptured elements
their soft core exposed

casualties of bloodied past
salvaged fragments
society's furnace

Cardboard-Jones Nov 2018
And it was real.


….I was missing.
I hear I was missing.
(You left the world you knew for me.)

Was it that easy?
….can't be real.
The way we grew….

I hear I was missing.
….I was missing.
(I needed your affection and your love.)

What did I do?
(Why did you leave?)
I wasn't ready for….

I shouldn't have promised…
(….I would have said yes.)
….asked for your hand.

You were a casualty...
(I need true emotion.)
Of my insecurity.
(….many ups and downs.
Why did you come here….?)

I was missing.
I hear I went missing.
(You went back to the world you knew.)
Now I can't sleep….

(Yes, it was real.)
And I never knew…
(You went missing. were missing.)
I hate emotions.

Please….don't close it.
(….out of my driveway.
So many nights I cried…)

I hear I was missing.
I'm here, I'm not missing.
(He gives me affection and his love.)
….but this is real.
(It was….but no more….)

(He said we'll be married.
….we'll get married.)
I need you….I'm sorry...I left.
I wasn't  real
And I never knew it.
(Now I can sleep.)
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