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Lenz Nov 5
Sometimes you can hear not with ears, but with a skin: with your fingers on fabric, with your hair sinking thought the palms, with your muscles on anxious joints.

Sometimes you can hear not the music, but emotions. Words, voices, harmony, rhythm, — all of them are spiralling into one multidimensional Rubik's Cube; all of them are thickening into a rich hodgepodge of colours; and then you can’t understand if the drums are ringing inside of your brains or if the song itself is closing its eyes with joy.

Sometimes you can hear nothing.

And nothing can sometimes hear you.

Today you hear winter.

Being on the ground floor it’d be like being outside.

Your elbows are on a windowsill. Your droopy eyes are chained to a sleepy late-night path.

You are therefore one short step from that path: just breathe and touch the earth with your cosy socks. The earth is chubby because of yesterday’s raindrops.

Smells like roaring lorry. Hears like water and warm winter.

The colour palette is in shades of a half past four morning.

On the opposite side of your street your neighbour still keeps Christmas: the garland made of white-blue lights flickers during four finger taps, and is lit during three. One-two-three-four, one-two-three. You can almost hear ‘Fantaisie Impromptu’ by Chopin. Right. Four. Left. Three.

That white-blue trembling sneaks into puddles along with the low smiles of lanterns further down the block. The blue glow is dancing, the copper illumination is dearer.

The cat runs — grey mouse — grey stain — on the canvas.

The windows are like card backs in Tarot spread on the walls like on the tables.

The windows are mirrors, and the mirrors are caves.

The windows run with perspective.

With the cat.

Tell us, sky! Do you exist? Have you been always franking us? Both on the left, both on the right one cannot find a difference. Your colour is lullabying.

Your colour is dual; at first glance it’s pure blue-plum gouache, but looking closely… The sky is scarlet. Scarlet as a wisp of a tapestry.

The scarpestry breaks through plumouache.

Suddenly a little white twinkle hops into winter, and suddenly dies.

Your heart has grown to your tongue root and to your little alcove under your ribs, and the heart is writing-writing-writing, and is escorting passing cars, and is fuming-fuming-fuming, and is sweating like in a sauna.

It’s dribbling outside.


Max Mar 26
At fortnight it awakes and grows
It runs between a shoe and toes
It hisses, rustles, up it goes
And resonates

It softly comes, it quietly leaves
Behind a knot one can unweave
In hundred ways

The mist that falls upon the lawn
On summer days

Then, in the hour before the dawn
It resonates

Its tongue is pretty poor for words
It speaks instead in subtle chords
No one can play

There, in the shades, black, blue and green
There, in the cut between the scenes
There, where it hardly can be seen
It resonates
Derrek Faraday Dec 2018
Nothing but a forlorn pain
Phantoms of art
Snake charmers
Larva tamers
“Free Me from the sun”

Helicopter steed
Blaring Gjallarhorn
Crystalline ammunition
Shrub-like heads
Civilian militants

Snake charmers, take my hands
Sting them once again
Render me strong and heartless
Tend to my obsidian horn
It grows longer as the sun subsides

Blood on the papers
Christened for television
Whitened crusade
Negotiation for control
Count your blessings

Arm the hangars
Send the reserves
Whip the cavalry
Watch the nation
Watch them bleed again
Derrek Faraday Dec 2018
On the evening of August 6th
The body is separated, eviscerated
Stone walls
Lost thralls
A family takes their evening stroll
And finds themselves imprisoned
Their umbilical cord, cut down the half
Microwave oven
Searing monsoon shower
Vagrant feet are shackled
Eyes are blinded with exhaust pipes
The East is not allowed to cry alone
Decay, wail on
Wail on
Contain us
Dear Marcus, free me
From these Pyrrhic victories
Clean this dusky mall
I feel safe under phosphoric lights
Guerillas swing on electric wires
Transatlantic conversations
Acquired on paper
Red cloth seizes everything
Stray, running felines
The impassioned, waving flag
Kept in a velvet pocket
Stay here, stay a while
This cold era is a rising draft
The Bermuda Triangle
No more ships crawl along the winded shore
A time capsule
The nation sinks into antiquity
The brink of armageddon
Cusp of oblivion
Crimson hand of eternity
An old, whittled clock
Last minute
Cold Turkey!
God almighty
Peace is never promised
But we may yearn again
Nobody is free
But we are safe for another hour
God almighty
Leases on the lands
Paid in thorns
Nations playing circles
Mr. Versus Mr.
An ever-changing world
Stagnant and tightly oiled
Save this soil
It will cave in silence
The clockmaker sits in the backdrop
Readying her tools
Nick Stiltner Jul 2018
They sing from along the path,
lined like torches would, evenly spaced.
A hazy wood surrounds me,
swirling trees and melting hues
of a late summer afternoon,
fiery colors dancing and melding together,
flowing to the next,
cream in a Sunday morning roast.

The colors, the chimes
they illuminate my stumbling journey,
my tottering travel.
I stop and catch a gaping breath,
bent over, panting, and begin to listen.

The wind pushes the trees,
it sounds the chimes colliding ring,
it exists in flux,
rising in singing ascent
and exhaling in a comforting sigh.

Drifting down the path,
I separate and regenerate
With each glitching step forward
my face distorts, rearranges.

What is the source of verse, of thought?
Rehearsal, a precursor who holds us like
a ventriloquist through time, or is it just
a keen ear for your minds own
singing wind chimes?
bakunawa Apr 2018
W                            e                        s          ­   t             a           r          t         e      d            f       a       r          a       w     a      y      f    r   o   m     e  a  c h   o t h er now wehavenowhereelsetogobutruntogether but no o n e   r e a l  i  s  e   d     t    h    a    t      w    e      s    h   a    l     l       a      l     w      a       y       s         b        e         d        r        i         f         t           e        r        s         r      u        n          n          i         n        g            t      o       w      a       r      d         w    h    a    t     l  o ve nextoffers.
Love shall always have it's directions and misdirections---- But it shall never be left nor right, not even correct or wrong, just together and apart.
Homunculus Jan 2018
Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
like quilts.

They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr

through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons


there's a
penitent androgyne,
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
creative crime: But

Don't worry, I don't even understand it, and I wrote the **** thing.
John Benjamin Apr 2017
It is not some dusty frame,
            hanging rusty nails;
                        chaotic mess.

            No es amor solo amar, to you,
                      just some language you,
                                can't comprehend.

Distraught, despaired, disheveled,
                a dystopian novel notion,
                     There's no need;
you don't need to patronize.

Cold hand upon cold hand;
       lifeless smiles colluding.

                                 And as if you were a Monet sunrise,
my impression of you is that of drunken brush strokes,
                                                        ­                   dull blues,
                                               and angry orange hues,
Left on display within a rotting, wooden frame.
I'll 'A-ha!' when you 'Da-da!', be yr
hangdog lapdog Vince Dingo &
yr own personal Theo
(someone to sell your art, someone who hearts),
if you don't pose a go-go, my girl Gauguin. O when you sulk you

sizzle like a Cezanne
in the boot of a Securicor insideman's
sunset sedan, absconder after a fence's attention
to monetise his hot Tate pension
of filched Impressionists
& the Expressionists they felched
(tho' only in the noble Athenian mode
of an erastes taking an eromenos
under his ring, I mean, wing!).
There's a Degas in the trailer!
A Bazille in the footwell, clogging up the clutch!
A Seurat jutting out the sunroof!
A Manet between the shell & the chassis!
No Pissaro in thisscartho'...

Monet spiders of impasto Aprilshowers
are a freebie windscreen Renoir's squeegee,
parting gratuity from carwash clouds
of Securitannia, as our artnapper's
Salon des Refuses-replete saloon
insouciantly mounts the Seacat's ramp
at sweatfree sunset speed, en route
to Costa Calida
sans securicaution.
A victimless crime against the aesthete Joe Public,
it'll only cost Aviva.

So, Dark Cow & my unherd of readers,
thank you for reading
the rejexpectorated stye-ary
of Adrian Steppenmole,
aged 29-38 & a haller.
Broody Badger Feb 2017
The skyline is a range of mountains that surround us on all sides they reach about the same height all the way across and resemble a wall.
I am at the bottom of a fish bowl.
Just above that dark structure the sky is a hazy green which transitions into hazy blue as it ascends vertically. Overcrowding the first two layers: long and lazy clouds, they turn from black to grey, to purple then to a bright salmon orange as your eyes follow them sideways— closer to the sun. Above that the sky is blue, lighter, still all clean and unbreathed. Above that pink clouds, stretch their limbs like sleepy housecats, fur splashed purple like bruises and wine stains. The neon mass conceals the rest of the sky until the blue steadies-out, turning nighttime, resting like the ocean from afar.
The moon is a curved grin on the bottom, a perfect crooked smirk from my position here above the murky pool, resting on the fake rock mass— Orange like expired oxygen.
Inside the house Jim tells Wendy to clean the pool. The Cheshire Cat is laughing at me as I look up.
There is one star directly above the moon, their distance apart from each other is the precise length of my forefinger if I hold it up to my eye and close the other. I don't know if it's the North Star, but it's so far the only one bright enough to shine-out through this thick veil of SOCAL fumes and advertisements.
By the time I finish writing this the clouds have turned a sickly brown, then all a smoky grey. The skyline still shines; greener more toxic and honest, like the body of water below me.
The colors all die down, one shade at a time.
Like whoever is editing this picture simply dragged a decisive finger on the brightness setting backward to reveal the darkness. The curtain is now lowered not raised: the contrast cranked to full. Full-dressed I light a cigarette and step off. The water takes me in with open arms and wet kisses.
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