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Zywa Jan 21
We say goodbye, short

- long - stop, the signalling code --

of: I think of you.
Novel "jl." ("recently" - the title also refers to the character Juno Linnaarts, 2016, Anjet Daanje), chapters December 23rd, 1973 and December 9th, 1980

Collection "Inmost [1]"
irinia Jan 9
we are targets for light, for the precision of its
unknown aim, yet we insist in blackening the world
as a self-described pyromaniac, I practice daily rituals with your presence. I tell your name to the wind, to the sheets, to the cup of tea,  to the orchids. then I tell to myself who I am, who you are.
outside the world is drowning in its own guts. your name is incomprehensible, but not to the rituals of the heart, they defy gravity, brevity and bribery. Diffracted on the psychic field your trajectory is eerie, the amplitude of some waves enormous, as I watch them wash the horizon away. dreams are the only shadowless creatures, and still I dream only your shadow. we still don't know why beauty is truth and truth is beauty. oh, happy rituals of the hands: inventing love, writing poetry.
Jeremy Betts Dec 2023
I've always been the kid in the hall
Outside the office door of some metaphorical "principal"
Donning a dunce cap, back to the wall
Anticipation spikes in general
This time it's special
When waiting for the next hypothetical, often hypocritical, shoe to fall I make it a double
Dribble and drop the ball
Taking on the challenge of life was a bad call
The order's too tall, don't try it y'all
What I've been given to work with is abysmal
Can't rely on it being factual at all
A criminally out of date owners manual
A For Dummies series appealing to a low level criminal
Vaguely creating, and/or aiding, this failure ritual
Oh the unmitigated gall
Scheduling my burial service to take place before the funeral
Fuucking brutal
I hate it and it seems the feelings mutual
The line stepping is habitual
The backward motion is perpetual
Not sure any of this is avoidable
But, what do I know...
...everything and nothing is impossibly possible

In bitter ink
I dip my feather.
My hands carve out
A weathered letter.
I hold the page
Steady, it hovers
Grazing the flame.
Your name getting hotter,
Til it crumbles to ashes -
Catching fire at my altar.

▪︎ mica light ▪︎
only two dancers
remain standing
   and swaying
under syncopated lights
held by
an unspoken law
an apparently unavoidable
trait of human nature
that forces them
to continue despite
such terrible choices
of song
and persistence
each was merely
a "friend
   of the bride"
moving in different circles
prior to this
their dancefloor meeting
neither can now
abandon the other
to dance alone
to risk being seen
as the cause
for bringing this
near-sacred ritual
to an end
these residual bodies
left with no choice
but to mirror
each movement
match every sidestep
echo every clap
with rhythm
   or without
it will not matter
so long as this
transient solidarity
of misplaced confidence
and forced smiles
continues into
the next song
German Rodriguez Jan 2022
Now we sit
Here to smoke
We pray to have
The strongest ****

Fill our lungs
With THC
and let the High
come over thee

Made in 2012 in collaboration with my roommates at the time. Thanks Kimmy, Luke, Ryan, and Kimmie S.
The 420 at the end is supposed to be the "Amen" to finish the prayer.
insomniatrical Dec 2021
Set me free
I beg of you,
Hear my plea
Take this darkness
Away from me
Give me a brand new
So Mote It Be
Elaenor Aisling Oct 2021
I move through the woods in ritual
The trees have shed their leaves like
Third sons and eldest daughters,
They cling bravely until the wind uncurls their hands
and bears them away from home.  
A scavenger, I search them out, hold them between finger and thumb,
Their last embrace.

Sometimes I will pluck a fading life from a branch,
melded amber and crimson,
the dregs of sun in their veins,
offered in the last vibrance of summer’s heat.
At home, I press them between pages,
tiny spells of weight and gravity
cast to keep their color.
I know this magic,
Autumn and I are kindred in this,
Our eyes are the same soft green and sepia of hiraeth
cradles of remembrance,
nets always cast back into memory.
Like all memories
There are a thousand useless,
The umber of old blood, trodden underfoot,
the seconds that dripped by unmarked.
But we hold the fragile, happy few,
High upon a shelf
the glowing phosphorus of laughter
The currant red of a last kiss
Returned to and returned to
Like an unanswered prayer.
I S A A C Sep 2021
habitual ritual, the pleasure principle
hedonistic addiction to fulfill every vision
lots of thoughts but none are groundbreaking
trying to slip you underneath my tongue without hearts breaking
want to hear my name spill out of your mouth without chasing
you around, love it when you are around
you let my inner beast come out
habitual ritual seeking you out
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