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JK Casilda Mar 2019
You are now but a precious watch I used to wear.

I'm still startled by that second I realize that
you are no longer around my wrist.
After almost a lifetime
of having you wrapped around,
listening to the echo of my heart,
I have worn you like you were a part of my body.
An identity,
a reminder,
my only fashion.
You were one thing I was most proud of wearing.
---feeling vulnerable
naked to the world,
like I am in a shower
Without you.

We might've been destined
as your beat and the pulse I have
are in perfect synchronicity.

In a thousand days of going out without you,
I have now gotten used to the fact
that I could go out to the world unshackled.

Every time I watch the time
I watch you
watch me
watching the tick like a time bomb
nothing last forever
and you remind me of that
in the most natural way to you
like breathing.

and now your seconds
wander to places beyond
the circle.
your hands no longer
come together
to hold mine.
time might never stop,
but for me it did.

Our time is up.

After a few years
there's a random sunny day that my wrist
feels light.
A kind of lightness that I wasn't used to.
You were the kind of weight that
I carry before that wasn't heavy.
You were the world while I was Atlas
but never did I complained.

Given the chance
I would've
I do
still want to carry you around.
Carmella Rose Oct 2017
I thought I found love,
I thought permanent happiness came,
it was all rainbows
and the bright sun,
not noticing the blue skies,
the gray clouds,
the madness of this world,
I saw beauty in darkness,
I saw wars on light,
firing guns and stabbing knives,
life is like airplanes with bad engines,
even with all your efforts to be a good pilot,
it will all come crashing down,
love was like falling into a never ending cliff,
always falling,
never landing into something too great
but our dreams.
Our "almost" will always haunt me,
our memories will always be my favorite moment,
the looks we share
and feelings will never be forgotten,
for it is a wound,
that healed but scarred,
and left a marking that in this moment,
I became yours,
and you became mine.
Today was good,
but tomorrow is unexpected,
you'll never know what will happen,
sometimes what you expected,
isn't really going to happen.
When you look at me,
I can’t breathe,
the world stops,
and everything becames slow motion,
but is it right to love someone,
who doesn’t even know you,
for years I’ve been waiting for you,
all I ask is for you to be a part of
my life,
because you my love is my light,
that burns the bridges of my all mighty trust,
and now our story ends,
I have lost you,
forever.
The worst the of loving someone is the day you lose them.
A Lorraine Oct 2015
My heart intertwined and mangled
with the inner-workings of my organs.
Everything I knew about living became
justified as it was sure to be reality.
Someone, please pinch me.

I loved how, sometimes, there is
nothing that could be done.
On the surface, I accepted the abruptness,
but a fire ignited inside me and a roar
fought my chest and lungs.
What could feel worse than this other
than our own excruciating demise?

So, I pinched myself knowing that
numbness had already dispersed
itself under my skin drawing closer
to my marrow. I would soon feel nothing,
except the actuality my heart's death.
Michaela Siaki Sep 2014
I wrote your name.
On myself, my walls,
every scrap of paper I could find.
Tenaciously trying not to forget.
I wrote your name, and in it,
every word you said.
Fighting sleep as it called to me.

But when I awoke; it was gone.
I could not remember why
I wrote your name.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
She had stopped crying.
All evening in her black-mesh coup de voodoo.
On the plane she had been crying
For her Summer pal. Yesterday she had been to market
Big brown bags and white bags, little pink bags filled with crimsony scents,
Capricornia, looseleaf newsprint, postcards, and colored pencils,
She had hands full of handles, bags bundled, stitched in strict Saturday fashion.
He could barely break a step, he could fake dance with her feet on his tip toes.
She was only three quarters the perfect size to fit inside his frame.
The grand disappearing act. And she was only ifs and suicides.
A stranded ray of sun-draped hair on a cooly porcelain forehead, the segments were all just wrong,
Something so wrong, trembling heart cries over a mute coo through a flattened tongue.
The sickle tongue, dodgy on Tuesday's, She had a simple mug, oh! But so cute and soothing, the nape
That wrapped around, my arm lapped its hands in a clapping ginormous duck's bill!
Lapping rhythmically. Thwack! Thwack!
Like no crying I had ever heard. Nor Earthen beauty I had never seen.
Her little lamb legs lumbered over, her awkward thinness and long limbs spilt on top of her,
Her tiny shoulders searching for support from her hips. White aurulent doll head on a stick,
She had sad defeated eyes, whimpering, pathetic,
Too small, and she shuttered and she shook,
And she shivered out every teardrop her body ever made. And she fell back on her bottom, and looked
Up as if to see a white steed standing with her guy striking a poised hand down to her,
He split down the middle, stammering, broken pieces of words crumbling out of his mouth
With eager intentions. He was too weak
To give her his feet, or pull her up in, he hadn't the gumption. He was fully occupied standing,
He wept too; then shuffled a little
Towards where she had fallen. He knew she wasn't right
She couldn't get the devil out of her piercing blue pupils, she couldn't
She lied.
Then she just piled on top of her knees and fumbled as if to rise like a demure lamb trying to rise off its Newborn legs, she just curled her legs,
So stiffly built, and narrow footed, built with such inequality to her siblings,
She got in the way of herself, a little lamb that could not manage.
Too whittled for him, he tried, he really tried, but three years had drained his strength, no real help.
When he sat her upright on her bottom, she opened her eyes, and for a moment smiled, grabbed for His hand but then after awhile she was lost, she lost interest, her pupils wandered.
He was orchestrating everything.
A real project, much more urgent and important. By nightfall she could not stand. It was not
That she couldn't smile or laugh or love, she was born
With everything but the will to live -
That cannot be destroyed, just like a love.
Melancholy was more important to her.
Life could not get her attention.
So she died, with her handles still in her hands, green grass stains her legs.
She did not survive another warm summer night.
And then he wept uncontrollably again.
"The wind is oceanic in the elms
And the blossom is all set."

2

The boy has come back
From the seashore, and atop the plateau.
The woes of women are like a genocide
In the morning, when the killing is over,
And the heat begins, and the bodies lie,
And stark life moves for its sobbing bones,
The curved women move with fire.
Father Father Father the girls
Are weeping, and crying and I cannot resist that gentle frailty
They are shucked in their skin suits rising from their soporific slumbers
In decadent leathers and frou frou dresses. They cling to bold faces,
Nothing can escape that cold crying of women weeping for their princes.
Blood-letting rage cannot overthrow the meadow from the pebble brook,
As a laden head bleats its tarnished tongue across a milky breast, it cannot
Escape the sounds of blue-stained teardrops cascading across the plains,
The sounds of woolbirds braying while their skins are sheared against the
Sluicing sound of water rushing through the flume.
All summer they have lamented, gorging on melancholy, tottering their cotton pyramid heads,
Shaking their cries in deliberation, bald skinny victim women screaming out!
Cotton-mouthed clams yaffing, hearts in panic, wholes of bodies clambering in a *** of woe.
They roost useless, pollard and wethered, jealous
Squinting out the last droplets of desperation from their eyes, screaming their mouths in awful
Togetherness, this cacophony of tortured tongue-song
They curdle the last notes of despair out under knotted breaths
With every inch of strength left inside them, they bray this way and that.
Their mothers scream out in wretched despair, ahhh!
On distant cliffs, on scrawny legs
Their stiff pain goes on and on in the September heat.
"Only slowly their hurt dies, cry by cry,"
Whipped bodies toting wergeld on a shore.

The Day She Died

Was the gloomiest day of the new century,
The first of calamitous, unfortunate autumns to come,
The first dying breath from piceous lungs.

That was yesterday. Early morning, soft rime droplets
Frosted to every blade of grass, not like any other
Earlier June day we've ever had. In the deep twilight
The syzygy announced the moon and demoted the sun.

The Earth-crisp frost nuzzled snow droplets.
Black bands of ravens whipping. Martens littering
Fresh kills of red-eyed rabbits on stark white stale
Summer lawns. A fox grayed, its cold bones
Mapped by ravaged feasts. A possum prowling
In a spot of tawny light.

The concrete spread into a maze
Of black veins ripening in the acute niello
Destitution of its widening cracks,

And when the summer left
It left without her. It will have to accept,
In the paley dim light of this vengeful wilderness -
She is gone.
But for now the warmth has not returned but a naked, half-pomegranate
Rotten moon for us two.
And a great vacancy in our memory.
Written for Britni West
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Yesterday she was nowhere to be found
In the earth or under the earth.


Suddenly she is all here - a bright soon
Of a tomorrow in earnest and potluck joy, embers and pyres, iris and the merriment of ochre.


A star groomed by outer space - spilling wet ash
And fissured out by the tailored saw of the wood.
Now something is stirring in the smolder.
We call it a girl.


Still wowed.
She has no idea where she is.


Her eyes, chalcedony stones, explore ripening doomsday and an ivory moon rock.
Is this the world?
It confuses her. It is a great numbness.


She pulls herself together, rousing to the new weight of things
And to that maternal figure nuzzling her, and to her down burrow.


She rests
From the first infinite shock of light, the empty laze
Of the curious and their curious questions -
What has happened? What am I?


Her ears keep on inquiring, blissfully.


But her legs are impatient,
Mending from so long nothingnesses
Her tiny hands are restless with ideas, they start to try a few out,
Swaying this way and that,
Grasping for balance, learning fast -


And she's suddenly upright


And stretching - a giant hand
Strokes her from top to toe
Perfecting her outline, as she tightens
The knot of herself.
Now she comes to -
Bold, beautiful - Argentina
Over the weird world. Her nose
crimson and magnetic, draws her, consciously sounding,
A petite yaff, aimed towards her mother. And the world is warm
And gentle and softens her daze. Touch by touch
Everything fits her together.


Soon she'll almost be a woman.
She wants to be a Woman,
Pretending each day more and more Woman
Till she's the perfect Woman. The immortal Woman
Will surge through her, weightless, unbound, a twirling flame
Beneath silver gusts,


It will coil her eyeballs and her heels
In a single outlaw fright - like the awe
Between mortar and firework.


And curve her neck, like a crocodile emerging from the placid pond
Among lilies,
And fling the new moons over her shimmery banner,
All the full moons and the dark moons.
Booming, ineffable delight.

— The End —