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Jon Thenes Aug 16
i want to smell of smoke again

i want to breathe and choke again

i’m tired

i want to drink and weep ink again

i want to cut at my temple
with the thinnest of paper
or the sharpest of tin
to reveal all the species
i hide from myself

i want to pull at her white-like hair
from the plugs in her fatty scalp
and toast a new age
of no sticks
no stones
no mourning backed world
of mother-can-care
and complete emotional crutch
and ease off of life
remove your footing from the devotional clutch
and the pounding of my head
and the wrong end of the bed
and dwell that we wish
netting gills ; forever dead
An old one...about thirteen years ago
No significant alterations made
Jon Thenes Jun 26
in this lasting thick sop of heat
people protect their dearest habitually
and who knows how long that shall last ?/

all acts are weighed upon/
the neighbourhood is rough/
the swelter raises all the gritty flavours
level with all our senses/

some spend time on the rooftops
but it’s not avoidable there/

tasks are monument :
the hateful
hurting
malnourished bodies
are there own enemy
a struggle to perform basic life/

the fever beat breeds the pollution
and the pollution is solvent
in the population/

it’s a barbed experience
working to perspire/

we’re cast where we began :
occupied animals
and when the day sinks
then begin the dog nights/

people are game for a fight/

of all this
i take my leave/

i seek to study/
i want to shut down/
i need decay/

i’ve stalked from this blazing environment/
i’ve gotten far underground/
removed a grate
from our buildings basement/
followed rungs to a cool drainage tunnel/
not far along that I discovered a hunch in the cities material
edged through a crack/
ever downwards by touch................/

i’ve found a damp corner
within a ruin
beneath the ground
within another city
built over once
and then again by the current inhabited one/

this is location/

from the summers heat
and from the social wheeling/

Quick to go fungal
I adjust my body temperature
and mottle the skin of my stowed carrier/
I regard my blood beats
and concentrate
marking them slower and slower/
I retract to operate on minimal features/
I become a dominance of my thought stream
and narrow it to almost nothing/

I’m a short stop from from coma or organic breakdown
I am now dedicated ,
thoroughly ,
to the one study
I am no gardener, but I do know this:
Perennials and orchards need the kiss
Of an early frost, a freezing deep,
To hold them whole through winter’s keep

A bloom in false spring, (winter’s hollow),
Before the heavy snows that follow,
Will have the cell walls bursting, cracking,
Freezing, thawing, expanding, contracting.

So too, must dreams lay dormant still,
Or else becoming Winterkill.
Much as I wish them to bloom, bloom now,
They must lay under the mulch and bough.

I tell myself, “Learn what you can from the season”
Patience, Myopia, Acceptance sans reason -
You are stuck in the wheel, right here and right now,
Hearing naught in the dark, muffled underground.

Yet I am no seedling! I am no tree!
Though my flesh warms and cools just as easily.
So why should I wait? Why be pinned by the cold?
Do I have a choice in the story that’s told?

Could I be a cold crocodile, nose above ice,
Or hibernate warm with the marmots and mice?
Why not come in from the outside to thaw,
And savor small tidbits of hope in my maw?

Could I choose to fly south, or to stay evergreen?
Must I really wait for the melt to be seen?
I wonder, though I’m sure from what seed I have come,
Is it winter that dictates what I will become?
Samuel Champney Sep 2018
The sun falls faster and the colour of the leaves I'm drawn to,
No longer am I longing for that lawn dew.
Gotta fight the cold, feel I need to wrap up warm too
As the season turns it's something that I can't warm to.

I see the squirrel foraging within the leaves,
What lies for him fills me with jealousy,
Because once his work is done,
He gets to sleep and just like the sun
We won't see him for several weeks.

Theres something I, just can't put my finger on,
Theres something that burns within
Me which lingers on,
It's as black as the winter clouds
I stop, think and look around
Has anybody else been veiled with this shroud?

Of course, smiling faces, festivities are near,
I can't face it, wake me when Easter's here,
When the sun goes, so does my soul,
Burns me up like Nich's coal,
Winters drawn and I can't go on.

Maybe it's in my breed, when I start the freeze,
My body starts to cease so I need to sleep
Within the winter leaves,
Just wake me please in 28 weeks,
Jeez!

The pain in my chest, it's all too much,
Had since I was 12 and nothing has changed
Its strange, I go blue and slow,
Before we get the snow,
And when we get that very first light
My body start to excite.

Sun worshipper - no I'm not,
I'm guessing its my body clock
No matter how I try to fight it off,
Its a feeling, I just cannot stop,
On the other hand the feeling can't be topped.

Maybe I'm like the birds, the bears and the lot,
Work hard all season now need this winter break,
To reset my brain, to enable me to carry on,
Just ring me when spring has sprung.
Zero Nine Dec 2017
Start, like another
End, like every other
Alone, UtI, spinning web
Like I believe I'm the spider
The weaver, weaving, tearing down
Start today
End tonight

Under the influence for years
I'll never pronounce it wrong
I start like another
I end like every other

While I wasted the time waiting for you to leave
I never once thought I would commit arson
Burn the memories we made
(Though, I did)

(I saw the start and new the end)
Sean Hopps Aug 2017
This is what it's like
To wake up from fake, long sleep.
Would not recommend.
Maybe one day when the days are fine,
Maybe some years after nine.
Maybe then we come across each other or maybe we won't.
Maybe we ignore or maybe we won't,
Maybe we smile or maybe we won't.
Maybe we crave for that one hug or maybe we won't.
Maybe then you notice the love in my eyes or maybe you won't,
Maybe you can hear the poem my eyes recite or maybe you won't.
Maybe you still pull my cheeks or maybe you won't.
Maybe you still laugh on my jokes or maybe you won't.
Maybe we exchange contacts or maybe we won't.
Maybe then you leave saying goodbye once again or maybe you won't.
Maybe you call me later or maybe you won't
Maybe i say hello and you reply or maybe you won't.
Maybe we start once again or maybe we won't.
Maybe we fall in love once again or maybe we won't.
Maybe you too wish the same to happen or maybe you won't.
Maybe you too miss me or maybe you won't.
Maybe you too write the same or maybe you won't.
Jon Thenes Nov 2015
When I passed into hibernation
My tastes began to sour
Birds of prey
And emergency vehicles seemed to attend

It's for medicinal purposes
I'm in hibernation again
For it's that time of year
I've left my blood under soup skin
And my mind's in books and pieces

Winter passes

Perhaps time to take on life once again
And the disease-beats in between ?

The seasonal change excites me
My heart beat increases
And returns to normal
My breathing quickens
My blood wakes me

The seasonal change excites me
My feet were turning black
My eyes were folded heavy
Now I'm flowing back
Victory !

My blood likes my limbs now
And I take in moisture through the skin
I lick my lips for the sensation
And my thought tilts with sin

I stretch to my full height
...but cramp up :
Hey !
This doesn't belong !

This is muffled
This is unsane !
I excercise my muscles
Then shrink back in pain
It's not meant to be ...
Hibernation once again.



Previously published [Show Thieves 2010 : An Anthology Of Contemporary Montreal Poetry - 8TH HOUSE PUBLISHING]
DaSH the Hopeful Oct 2015
Sometimes I sleep so **** long
    
  The fabric of my dreams rots around me*

                                             *
*And im left lying on a cold unforgiving slab of reality.
Gaye Sep 2015
I sat under my dining table
Of eight chairs and forty eight columns,
It felt like a house with
Windows, dust and unwanted curly locks.
Sitting cross-legged on the white floor
Reflecting my clothes, body and words
I pulled my nails, sang little rhymes
And hit the chair legs with my little thumb.
Guests came, gossiped, recited tales
Gulped tea and left with more stories,
Some returned, others did not.
I sat under my dining table, awaiting
Plates, conversations and fuming-
Black tea. It did come occasionally
With my mother, father and few strangers.
There were books, umbrellas, newspapers
And sometimes samples of medicines,
They sat like Victorian women in long gowns
Who did not speak even after a tempest.
I sat there morning, noon and evening
Unaccompanied singing little rhymes.
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