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Audrey Maday Dec 2015
Perhaps I get a little too invested,
With anyone who might just,
Happen to look my way
B Young Nov 2015
can we stop and get cigarettes?
pull over I think I'm going to be sick
quick open the door,
what's all this trash on your floor?
recognize me
see me
I don't know you
but I need your approval,
in neon lights
and
her **** is wet with fear.
as death whispers in my ear,
"I can whisk you away
from all of this, if you just as say."
I grin
I chuckle
but no, I think I'll stay.
and
my **** is hard with fear.

Long lost lovers unite for one last night of delight,
ain't rekindled romance such a lovely sight.
Edward Coles Nov 2015
Now the working day got me blue again
and the taxman takes all profit from my sanity,
lining the pockets of the rich in this top-heavy system.
I fell to the delusion that the left is always right
in this fight for centralised power,
but now the working day got me blue again,
and I'm tired of watching the news at ten.
I'm tired of seeing the human race **** each other,
so I turn off the television, and I try to live again.

Try to live past that working day,
past the need to keep artifacts from yesterdays
that can never effect the here and now.
Try to live past the event horizon,
the Great Electron in the sky;
the awful weight of uncertain futures-
but the working day got me blue again,
and those twelve hour shifts **** my strength
before I can punch through the wall that separates
you and I, from the happiness we earned,
the tears we cried.

The working day got me blue again,
and I've been quitting smoking for five years now,
But bad habits accumulate when you have no time
to file all the information that passes your way-
like dust across a construction site, when they promised
things would change. Though I've been breathing since birth,
I still turn to cigarettes as if they were the only thing that will calm me
in this sea of high expectations, sugar and caffeine; an isolated reality.
The working day got me blue again
and only music seems to talk above timesheets
and all those titles given to fools that you must obey.

I try to live past this humdrum panic,
this commonplace, day-to-day emergency.
I have been waiting for the paramedics,
for a team of experts or an expert lover
to frame all my fears into words, into diagnoses,
into myths and fallacies that tell me everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay, despite the finger on the button,
despite the chaos in my brain.
The working day got me blue again,

the working day got me blue,
and so all I can think of to do is to
fall into the grooves, into the static sheet of familiar melodies
on midnight walks, only my headphones and a cloud of smoke
to keep me company. The constuction site is always under new management,
the disabled are always ****** over by the government,
and its a surprise the fire service can still afford the price of running water-
double the price of Coca-Cola, and all the sheeps left to the slaughter.

I try to live past the bitterness that kills invisibly
like Carbon Monoxide; a fog, a cataract, that occludes the vision
so steadily, so incrementally,
that you cannot see the Scrooge in you,
until you find yourself alone in your room,
when only yesterdays remain, tattoo on your skin
in a series of callouses, of scars; photographs of guilt or all those better lives
lived by better men. Better women: better blades of grass and ameoba.
We stare into our phones in some punch-drunk hypnosis,
glowering at the world that distracts us from distraction.

The working day got me blue again,
and so I fall into a retreat. Into a fox-hole of self-delusion,
of puppetry in the world through my ugly words
and solemn verse; as if being clever with my tongue,
as if being cursive at the microphone is enough to save the world-
or at least, to save myself. You see, I've been a beacon of poor mental health,
I've been a victim of my own crimes for too long,
but the working day got me blue again, and before I find that strength
to punch that wall, or to make a change,
the working day got me blue again,
the working day got me blue again.

I try to live past the elevator jazz, as I stand on hold
for a company that would just as quickly drop me,
despite the smiles on their logos, despite their slogans of delight.
The lights went out a while ago,
and so I'll work another weekend,
I'll fix up my future pay, I'll sing sadly into my guitar
after a twelve hour shift, my ode, my unrequited love,
my poetry for Saturday.
You see, the working day got me blue again
and though I've spent my time saving up,
putting in the hours to fill my cup,
the working day got me blue again,
the working day got me down.
A beat poem

C
Ronjoy Brahma Nov 2015
आं आजै आबैमोनखौ गोसोखांलिया
बै समनि गाम्बारि बिरगोस्रिमोनखौ
दाउरि सिख्लामोनखौ गोसोखांलिया
बिसोरनि गोसो आरो मेगना गुबुनखा
-
सिनाय जानाय दानि साकिरा बियनसे
अन्जलिना जलि
मादुरि इस्वरियामोनखौ
मख'यैआनो गाहाम जागोन
-
आं नोँखौ सोनाबारिजोँ रुजुनो नागिराखै
मानोना बिसोरहा मान दं
आं चिन तिब्बेत करियान
माल्दीब मालायसिया नेपालखौ मख'नो नागिराखै
बिसोरहा मुलुगनि जौसां सोमावनो गोहोआ दं
-
आं सोर्गोनि मेन'का
उर्बसि मेन'का तिल'त्तमामोन
बै समनि नांगोल सिड़ाजोँ एरखांजानाय
सति सीता
साबा पाण्डबनि बिसि
द्रौपद राजानि फिसाजो
द्रौपदिजोँ रुजुवा
फाप एबा दायफोर नांनो हागौ
-
नाथाय पष्ट-मर्दाननि सायनासालियाव
गल'ल' नायहोनो हायो नोँबो
नोँ नकल सोनाबारिनि देलायमांग्रि
अब्लाबो आखाय खबनोसै आङो
ख्रब ख्रब ख्रब
दाउखा सिगुणफोरा फोर फोर बिरलांथोँसै।
Lilly Gibbons Nov 2015
Grand memories of places, scenes,
adventures carried out in distant landscapes.
Smiles so full of wanted kisses.
The body talking in a nervous language,
accent pronounced, gesturing wishes.
Watching as one sips a newer grape,
the old no longer worthy.
Teardrops forming puddles on pillows,
a stream of stories washed away.
All hellos, goodbyes, greetings unnecessary.
Uneasy replies to questions unwanted.
Truth too painful for innocent ears.
Hearing woes unbearable, seeing is enough.
What was once plenty has gone stale.
In the nights shadows, crawling amongst fallen leaves.
Alex Bex Oct 2015
Along the august avenues,


modern temples of the night
before a gasping skyline.




©2014 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
Quartier Latin, Montreal, May 2014
Alex Bex Oct 2015
He visits gangs in the meadow.


From crumbling shelters
of bored youth,
the sigh of a certain train in the distance-
Shapes form on their closed eyelids.


In empty lots, they shout
and pound the earth,
they try to be heard.


Mischief under cold
summer lamp posts.
Cloud breaths rise,

alone again,
out from their metal coffins.


©2014 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
Alex Bex Oct 2015
In late year retrospect,

half night suggests,
beyond Darlington junction,
an amber lining at street's end.



©2013 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
Darlington, Montreal, November 2013
Alex Bex Oct 2015
Here by night,
the sky shines in ghostly ways-
gray veils slither high,
cover up the city
seize every street corner.


Among the chants and shouts,
scattered hawkers and thievish plays,
Raval pleads for another day.


Its veins at some flat time
sputter one after another,
the Drab
tightly dragging their belongings,
or a brown cigarette
they eternally cherish.



-



Fence shudders from the court
awake sunken couples-


Head slightly tilted to the left-
through curtains of smoke,
she makes him laugh, lights another cigarette.


Her bronze skin glistens
in the dark sun

taunting from the window.


©2015 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
Alex Bex Oct 2015
Bayou,
a vague haven
where the sky trembles
when howls the shadow man.




©2014 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
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