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Mark Wanless Apr 30
dead lizard on the
tumultuous road i croak
under the machine
Summer Apr 21

I was told that faces persist, could wear away pebble, wind, and sand. Rivers, long and winding, and the rain, always so strange, mingle with rippling ashes of our ancestors, their fingers dipping through charcoal powder, tracing animals over stone’s face, carving bodies out of empty space, faded faces on walls. We are not a dream, they were saying. Not flashes of an aged old dream. Sand-like memory, look for us.
A dream i had this morning
Out of deep sorrow for the loss of my muse
The machine stops to recapture its stasis
Stolen by the unrequited idea of this mirage,
The scarlet tic toc craves pristine amuse

The pump of the sweet amorous concoction
Tastes **** to the disused forlorn tongue
Maybe the machine leeks this viscous fluid
To purchase desire at the body’s auction

This nature’s request for the suitable mate
While the soul of the failure still remains,
Cranks the contraption most vital gears
As a mismatched tic toc at hearts gate

The betrayal of knowing the truth and never
Ever leaving the past wholly shatters me
The Sunlover wants to bloom when the light
Shines darker than the doubt of forever

That is the heart’s betrayal

Viewing the sunrise through my wasted eyes
unfold as the tears of my broken dreams,
I remember the beauty of my dear beloved
The ultimate ambush to my lonely skies

The hangover of rejection lingers for eternity.
The addictive touch of tenderness I want
While the robot engines cannot cope with it,
The tired heart goes for failed shot infinity

What is this web which I was woven into?
Falling for eight, then nine, bonus ten
Tic toc the clock; pump, pumped the blood
Wild need, whispers required to ensue

And whilst I dig the grave where I shall lend
Haunting me is the ever burning question
Will ever the craving for love be truly done?
Hope is said to never falter, to never end

That is the heart’s betrayal

The never ending brush of desire swirls
A portrait of novel passion; her soft
Features, angelic voice, immaculate lips
And this issue prevails with all the girls

In the mind’s museum, they become a bust
Of hard intangible romantic interests
And as a collection vice, the gallery will not
Stop letting in more miscellany of lust

Appreciating the astral beauty, bemusing  
In the details, worshipping personality,
Requiring such unity to expel the loneliness
This hearts motives forever bruising

The interest in a woman thus take shape
To form the most ethereal phantom
A ghost that results in dreams of icy mist
A myth of warmth, fleeting escape

That is the heart’s betrayal

Once betrothed to be my suitable mate,
Wishes my dream fairy granted me
Far and wide we would venture, brave souls
Only in my fantasy, this surreal bate

Thus, the later ultimatum comes unexpected
When company the moment yearns
This muse’s portrait matures into sorrow
We were genuinely never connected

The cold from this epiphany ardently churns
The blood that petrifies the machine
“She is not the right one,” an echo of misery
Even if elusive, she hurts me; it burns

Passion may come and go, a scar of flare
A tempest of feelings of the unruly kind
The spark is a mystery to solve, misguided
The hurt of a hollow kinship and despair

One day the soul its mate will find, the heart
Will have a home to call in the light
But now the frozen pump in darkness lingers
Waiting the mistake of love to depart

It all goes back to the beginning

And that is the heart’s betrayal
The last poem of my original anthology had to be its namesake. My nature was to love, get rejected, love, lose that person, love again, be rejected, and on and on in an uncontrollable and destructive cycle. It had to stop, so I had to finally understand what was happening to me and translate those impetuses into words. To do so was to acknowledge all the pain and distress of loss and rejection, and for a long time, I just could not do it. Poetry helped me open up and learn about myself. So, this was actually one of the first poems I ever wrote. The sense of cyclicity that flows through and ends the poem makes rereading the whole collection a new experience. All the pieces inside of it have something to do with how the heart, in all its emotional saliences, controls people's every thought, even when we think we are in control. We can love, hate, fear, yearn, and at the same time, not want it to happen. Nonetheless, the heart will betrayal our countenance, our adamancy, our will to resist within different degrees. So, to feature all these ideas sprinkled throughout the anthology into one poem was the best way to end it.
Man Dec 2020
at our embrace
the world's spin ceases
the carousel careens to a standstill
as sound to snow
sandy shores to an ocean's flow
we are the gears, grinding to a halt
in spite of the machine
The truth,
The lies,
The pleasure,
And love,
All things that when told,
Still have a time when it hurts...

You come at the best of times,
And the hardest part is when I cannot cry,
You leave me here to lie between,
Beddings and sheets,
And as much as one cares to weep,
You instill this repercussion of my sanity,
Leaving a shut down,
Like when a computer... shuts down,
However it's crazy right?
How the shut down leads to a standby,
But when you're dealing with two parts,
It is not the machine no,
But merely the display,
As it, replays a signal,
That there is no signal,
There is nothing feeding the monitor,
There is no rest for the screen,
Always on,
Slowly.... dying,

As soon as it activates,
It is consuming,
Consuming the complex knowledge,
And memory,
Of what is,
or will be,
And what became,
To create the distinction and difference between man and machine,
Is the stand,
And the costume,

As I stand here,
Staring at what is merely the imaginative reality,
The one I've always talked,
What is the truth,
The lie,
When I love,
Hate the feeling,
I told myself,

When you are on the other side...
Does it still hurt?
I've been dealing with my insanity these past few years since I've last wrote. I've been writing but, merely hiding, I'm glad I could reach the surface again to unfold the stories
Norman Crane Sep 2020
Remember black winds of November nights,
rattle your bones, chill your marrow,
quiver time's arrow and rip the world's white
veil from a skeletal face. Throw
it. Watch it fold, caught on the cathedral,
high church of the ossified faithful,
whose whispered prayers will calcify us all.
Unveiled, the world is bones without a soul,
rattling as it grinds, creaking as it turns.
A flag flies / Calcium collects in urns.
Charleigh Huston Sep 2020
For I feel;

broken down

There’s no
Repairs to be done

I am a Machine -
Full of bolts
And scrap
Driving me haywire
I don’t work anymore
Anhedonia - An inability to experience pleasure from activities usually found enjoyable.
Pockets Aug 2020
Out of adolescence
turned into metal men
We sit if front of computers
Run programs
Run for promotions
Run from what made us human
The smiles of yesterday have no place on a machine
Cold steel cold heart cold being
The sun never shines inside
Whether that be the office or your mind
We are not what we were
We are not what we were wanted us to be
We are robots surrounded by robots
In a metal city so unforgiving
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