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I'd die for you...
You'd die for me...
That was the deal...
An unspoken pact...
When we whispered, together forever.

Now the blood runs cold...
In the ground where you left me...
Covered me in bullet holes...
With the words that you said to me.

You said to me once, no one gets left behind.
And I trusted you and your Web of lies.
Now the blood runs cold...
In the ground where you left me...
Covered in the bullet holes, with my own gun you shot me.

You shot me, not once or twice but three times to make sure I'd die.
Now the ground weeps in cold blood.

I look up at your face and give you a sad smile, with a choking breath I tell you it's okay... Without you, I'd still survive.

Now here I am, still standing with the gun wounds you left me with... And a stronger will to live, to breathe and stay alive.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2020
You worked hard for the plum,
to bite into the Mariposa
before the heat comes
and it rots.  

Its purple plumpness
pulsates with juice,
so dark and clear
through and through.

The comfort is not startling.
It’s the taste you know
from a thousand memories,

What takes you back
is the shock of seeing
your heart in your palm,
the taste of your blood rich
in this other thing.

Yes, it’s not what you hoped,
maybe more for such
a late summer surprise.

Yet, in the shrinking light you
don’t begrudge yourself
this small purple reward for
a lifetime of regrets and doubts,
unborn hopes and still-born pleasures.

This plum blossomed
despite you,
apart from you.

It reached you
skin sweating
ripe to be your miracle.

It’s not just sweet,
it’s sweetness,
full of the seasons
of its short life,
your everything- nothing joy.

Bite into it, and
you must bite into it,
taste its smallness
in your fullness.

Feel it run
down your cheek
overflowing your palm.

Feel it mesh with all
your runny happiness.
We Are Stories May 2020
if you wake up
empty stomach
tired and hungry
and pour coffee down into the empty hole,
it will slide right through
- such is life;
racing myself to the bathroom
is a more pleasurable experience
than not visiting those marble floors at all
that day
that week
those three weeks-
it is by far
the more pleasurable experience
to feel the burn in my stomach
the churn
and groan
than to have nothing happen at all
-such is life;
it is an odd enlightenment
to be aware of the pleasure received
from the release of what we spend filling ourselves up with.
we fill ourselves
we stuff ourselves
and we eagerly await to get rid of it,
and we enjoy it,
at least I do,
for although such things are not what we discuss,
it is what we feel
it is who we are
-such is life
Where Shelter Apr 2020
my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets

every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,  
from  September to September inclusive

but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!

“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents

wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running

it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes

we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of  a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that

cannot cure nor disinfect
My appetite's insatiable
I never seem to get my fill
Each time we're done, can't wait until
The next time I'll be tasting you

Don't know if this talk makes you ill
My heart I share; my guts I spill
One thing's for sure, these words are real
I speak the truth; my lips aren't sealed

The animal can strike at will
He's restless; hungry; won't sit still
When urges rise and overfill
Alarm is sounding; not a drill

Not looking for some base cheap thrill
Connection that will give me chills
Struck through my heart: nothing but quills
Drown in your love; mutating gills

Accept the cost; please send the bill
Without you, lost; you are my pill
Like coming frost; destroy and ****
All reason tossed; both ways have nil
Written: October 31, 2019

All rights reserved.
[Iambic Tetrameter Format]
wordvango Jun 2019
Can you tell me please,
Who the **** finds it a breeze
To scan poems in several identities
Just to minus all the
Wow;Eliot has sure sold out
A work of charity give money we'll
Stay free. And the phone app is coming
"Who runs the site?
Ah, this is where I introduce myself. Ahem, hello, my name is Eliot York. I built the site in the wee hours of many hot summer nights in 2009. Though the site has changed a lot since then, I'm still working on it part-time and it's intention is exactly the same: to create an online space for poetry that is, as much as humanly possible, 1) open to the dark 2) glowing with light, and 3) run with money but not for money. How're we doing?"  Which never did and now I try to scroll and get a blank screen. Guess someone offered enough to make his work for us turn into a marketable scheme. Guess the rent went up. In the big city, York
Emma Pals May 2019
Some days,
I do the slicing.
Others you do.

It hurts,
Hurts like hell

On my thigh
On my heart

The blood still runs
Deep scarlet red.

But you
Don't know that,
Do you?
Jean Oct 2018
I felt my life
It flashed before my eyes
I felt it slip away
Like it was a tangible thing
Something that sprints and runs and flees

But it’s okay
But it’s okay now
Composed 10.6.18
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state

sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing

semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds  
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification

dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits

steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs  
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers

deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle  
relegates human husks,

viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked

witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
she touched
female roots

we remember crying


her real name
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