Andrew Durst Dec 2017

I think I'll fall asleep in an hour
I think I'll be dead in a week
I'm sick of bitter arrogance-
it isn't something unique.
In fact it's kind of grotesque
the way I choose to progress
it's like i'm slowly
cutting from my
and stopping
at my chest.
Do you get it yet?
Do you find it hard to understand?
Am I not what you were looking for
or do I need to be better than I am?
I'm only asking.
I think that's fair.
But then again I'm getting acquainted with
I tell myself it isn't real.
I try to believe that you care.
But all that goes out the window when
I see you are not there.
It's unusual;
the way I trip
over myself.
Therapists and teachers
always said I needed help.
But I didn't believe them.
Ignorant was how I felt.
Trapped, corner,
I was pissed with what was dealt.
Just know that I didn't keep it.
I just walked right on out.
And for every moment
I've been defeated-
at least I wasn't

someone else.

Full of stupid errors but it felt good to let this all go.
So enjoy for what it is. Thank you.
Emma Cheung Nov 2017

Ten times nightly it crawls beneath,
Five times sprightly it ruptures my peace.
Pale is its breath
When I open my legs
Waiting for it to go back inside.
Sometimes, when it sleeps, I begin to feel
Something close to love.
And slowly it moves, its endless wrath,
Extinguishing all warmth,
Coming back to its fat prey.

It opens its gall black shining eyes.

How dreadful,
The cold silence of waiting
For uncondensed hatred.

Corey Parsons Oct 2017

On Sundays the creatures
Ooze from their awkward dwellings,
Like fat worms after a downpour,
And rush the City.

They infect silently with their sick eyes,
They brush along your shoulder in passing,
They exchange dirty money,
They cause accidents.

They stare at you from across
Your favorite diners
With black coffee depression
And mutter underneath their breaths:
"This isn't real."

By Corey Parsons

(a ballad in 5 parts)

there’s so much meaning here
between floorboards and music scores
the peacefulness rots my soul to the bone
and i’m a walking gramophone
knowing i can only sing
when i’m alone
so tear my lungs to bits
and hide them there, where silence sits
out of the way of everyday drolls
because i need this space to flow
mold me;

i’ve been screaming since womb’s release
and if you think i’ll ever keep the peace,
you’re wrong; i long to burn you
in between my teeth, like old strings,
i know i cannot touch you, nor
will you ever be taught to see
people like me
are meant to be, so
unfold me;

god, if you’re up there, hear my gruesome prayer,
tear down the chords that strung us up tight
took away these rights, unite the sight
behind these eyes before i’m blind again,
don’t tell me that the lives of men still matter
because i am not a man,
thrice been, now never am
you see, i’m a grotesque:
undress these guts
and i’ll bleed
behold me;

its hard to believe there’s something more
once my foot’s out the door and you’re
running from prison
once you’re chopped off our heads
let the windpipes glisten
let me speak through my wheezes
if it pleases you, sir
withhold me;

so here i am, alone again
the only way to hear the pen as it
strikes strikes strikes the page
breaks breaks breaks the cage
inky gore, caress these days
‘cause they’re sinking through
the languished haze
of all these old how-do-you-dos
you can’t
control me.

written january 2015 for my literature of the grotesque final project. a little gory commentary on being queer, trans and mentally ill in the 2010s.

To this day
I cannot conceive
How such a pure and beautiful soul
Would ever love a monstrous and grotesque thing as me

C Cavierre Apr 2016

Illogical, crystal clear--
this contradictory of fear--
I am caught for one precious moment by
the horrible visionary
of my grotesque fate

as promised, the continuation of Fear
Nora Feb 2016

How distasteful you are,
With your sundry splotches
and jarring imperfections.
Oh, you taunt me so!
Whether your anathemas
are reflected through the mirror or my own eyes.
Oh horrible, hateful, heinous thing!
I cannot bear to stare any longer.
How sickly your color is--
A pallid yellow, like one giant bruise
That has budded and blossomed
In some unnaturally grotesque fashion.
My blood boils, my pulse races
And I raise my weapons to fight--
Two talons--claws honed to perfection.
Be gone, you wretched scab!
And so I tear, scratching furiously,
Until no more of you is left.
The blood is stuck beneath my fingertips,
Or what is left of them.
My sinews tremble, bloody and bare,
As the last of my wallpaper
Is ripped from my bones.

A small tribute to Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Concept is mine, story and inspiration are not.
Baylee Sep 2015

The fingernail moon
Shinning through
my window
At night,
Brings light to my
dark and grotesque
As I lay awake thinking.

The junk I've collected
Makes great shaddows
on the walls
Of my room,
And the silhouettes
Of junk
Look like people arguing,
To me.

The VIP culture is the grotesque manifestation eating up the democracy inch by inch.

They are elected by us from among us and then they want to be treated really special,
They want to be treated as someone royal by everyone,
Do you get the joke?

It still remains a democracy!

My HP Poem #896
©Atul Kaushal

~                                              Preaching hate
        The audacity
                                   To say
                              in gods name
                                                          T­hat yours
    is the only truth
                                That way
                             Lies madness

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