Robert Zheng Apr 14

i collect stamps
not the mail kind
not the male kind
not the may hill kind
not the mayo ill kind
not the may hue kind
not the maim yew kind
not the mwaya view kind
not the mwayam myeil kind
not the amaway yilovski kind
not the mynsigwi malomisten kind
snot snee smail skind
rot tree trail rind
trotsky braille grind
hot bree hail's tine

don't tell me what is and isn't poetry fuck you
Ben Mar 23

Hammocked on two beanbags
With a glass of cold beer
And a magazine
Splayed across my lap
The silence in the apartment
Making my ears ring
Too many local metal shows
And shooting guns without
Ears on
So now a phantom
Traces a musical triangle in my ear

Just as well
True silence
Is supposed to drive people
And I don't need
Anymore of that

My girlfriend and her roommates
Will be heading back from
Work soon on the subway cars that
Constantly hold the stale smell of

"This is nice"
I say outloud
To no one  
And by acknowledging
The moment so I have
Adulterated it

Existential crisis aside  
This is nice

Pagan Paul Mar 23

Your name burns acid on my tongue,
a visceral hydrochloric distaste,
drool, despised, forms on my lips,
grey, venomous from your serpents kiss.

Your fingernails, biting knives in my skin,
slicing open old scars to bleed anew.
The crimson trickle, like dripping honey,
drying rotten about hairs, to scab.

Your body consumes my passion,
regurgitating it thrice seven-fold.
Vomiting lust over the dining table
designed by Nature to make you gorge.

Your intentions, elusive, wild and fey,
twist-fuck my mind like knotted stars.
Secrets on the tail of a comet, lightness,
darkness, spitting from a moon girls lips.

© Pagan Paul (23/03/17)

More from the Darkside...PPx
Ashlee Hoffmann Feb 20

january 11th, 9:44pm

and as i write my last words out
in hopes of someone listening,
i find that you were listening
and holding onto everything
i thought no one wanted.

i thought no one wanted me.

i knew that no one saw the signs
that i drew through my words,
until i met you
and you showed me the parts of me
no one saw.

not even me.


Robert Zheng Feb 11

I have come to you
Of my own accord

With broken hands and brittle heart
With fragile mind and fractioned soul

These tears of mine are part a toll
Till toll the bell o’er gentle knoll

Into the sun and by my birth
Once again a mewling foal

Fall will come and cold will break
Yet again for heaven’s sake

I like to write poems as a sort of flow of consciousness just to see what comes out. Generally, it doesn't make coherent sense, but I feel it still reflects my mindset at the time of writing.
Ben Feb 8

Lurching over
A river that flows
So slowly that it
Becomes the sky's

A bridge is stretched
Easily over it
Staring at itself
In its entirety
It's meticulously
Constructed arches
Become hollow mouths
In the rivers silvery

I want to visit
The river one day
As opposed to
Just passing over it
So I can watch
The belly of the day
Skip across the river
Like so many flat stones

I want to melt a wax Viking,
with a piece of sword shaped kindling.
Watch the face drip, sag run into a
droopy frown of fluid features.

To saw the head from a celebrity mannequin.
Watch fall it to the floor,
with it's perfect teeth and face;
plastic smooth skin.
Almost as plastic and smooth as the “real” thing.

To tear the words from the mouth
of a liar, cheat, chancer and con-man.
Rearrange the words to spell out the truth.
watch the eyes and puffy face spasm,
as if possessed by a phantasm.

Ben Jan 31

Watching the train tracks
Kiss and retract and
Kiss and retract
They meet and depart
Like a pair of silver lips

In the distance there are
A huddle of crumbling buildings
That used to be factories
Or warehouses
They're now bleached bones
Under a dusting of February

There is a silhouette cut out
Of a dog that stands in front of
Them, closer to the tracks
So close I almost missed it
I wonder what purpose it could serve

I suppose
To remind someone of
What once was
Or what could still
A solid shadow to stand out
Against so much bleached

And sometimes,
It is all I can do
To just be.
To just breathe.
I am not always
Sunshine and
"Well look who it is?"
Some days I am just
"Sorry" and
"I'm trying my best".

Some days I am sugar and cream in my coffee,
And some days I am
Full to the brim
Cup after cup of sorrow and
"No, I'm just tired".

No, I'm just tired.
No, I'm just tired.

Ben Jan 5

When I had a job I felt
Like I was always grasping
For time, any time that I
Could pull towards me
Like air bubbles drifting away
From deflating lungs deep
Under thrashing waves
I don't know what I wanted to
Do with it I just know that I
Had to pull it towards me

Now all I have is time
It is a comforting and alarming

Now, what is the excuse?
Where is your novel?
Why aren't you in shape?
Why haven't you gotten your flu shot?
Why isn't the house clean?
What's your purpose?

Meditating on these points
In the syrupy folds of the clocks
Hollow ticking
I find that life is
Boxes to be checked to keep
Everyone else off your back
While you try to figure
Where to even start

Next page