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Michael Stefan Feb 2020
rea chfor m eand ** pei mho me
i havenev erwa ntedy oum ore
y ou rreflec tioninm y mirr or
s o surreal ire member you rt ouch
Derrek Estrella Feb 2020
The house of commerce commercializes my vignette of nostalgia through various panes. As I am lost to the neon coast of degradation, a forward conquistador berates me for my due impertinence. This migraine doesn’t match my previous excursions, as it is lethargic and fat in deep feeling. My raincoat is a bed that remains a typewriter, that which I reject. I hate it with precision. “This is not an observation, and you are a boisterous fool that rests on the laurels of institution!” But lo’, I am not that impish man! My pen is renewable, unlike my reserves of happiness. If the Quotidian Cycle remains so mundane, then who am I to adhere to the seers of ingenuity? Planets ingest the polygons that compose my mind to the sound of Igor Stravinsky. The definitions of words coalesce into a redundant gestalt, threatening to escape my clammy grasp. Brats and weasels complain of their jeans and fur, soaked in brandy and tar. I live like a dissident; this vagrant is cold to the sickening nods of animals. God, don’t let me remain an anthropomorphic beast. The suffering is daily, the void is lonesome and lays my spine on stone. Melatonin is a pensive friend, a foolhardy palliative to the disease within a footstep. I’ve no footsteps. Not any of note or worth.
Not a single thread to pride myself in. Conversations and dime trades happen around me at generous speeds while I remain a stranger. Christ, I despise my face. I’ve dug my heels into depravity, the exile from woman’s hold is a wrench in my innards. O, to even think is a crime! Who could love the mind deloused, the small and prudent mouse (but little did they know, he facilitates a disease between him and the universe). Intoxicated, my love knows no bounds, but my lust is rendered sterile and sullen. Who can hold me? Who can hold me? Who can hold me? God god god god could hold me. He is not strong, is he? Somebody hold me, now.
Oh, I know yes I need to indulge in the incessant whispers, for my status of a guileless ***** will have to suffice. A cigarette leaps out at my cursed visage, a container of maroon liquid coagulates in mine eyes. There, voices. Cyclic conversations, cyclic conversations, hep! Help! Take me! Take. Take. Take. Me! I belong in the boon, mister fowler. Take me! I don’t hold weight in this world! So take. Sedate me. Please, almighty, nullify me.
Derrek Estrella Feb 2020
Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve *******- I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that.
“Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.”
The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.
Am I really home
What is home
What isn't
Familiarity estranged
Causes and excuses
Broken lies
Forgotten promises
We all never made
Who are they
Everyone just gawking
At everything and nothing
At where I stood still
Where is myself
Left her locked up
Right she isnt
Who is the writer
Behind this
Sordid
Distorted
Broken
Poem or prose
Who am I
What am I
Is it me or is it really
You
I am here but not
The existing that's extinct
Appearing while I disappear
Depressed but not
Living like the dead
nick armbrister Feb 2020
Hence I like you dear/do you like my older bro?/I am an ice cream
from ******* Upside Down In a Blazing Avro Manchester Bomber – Poems from My Life and More

Nick Armbrister
Derrek Estrella Feb 2020
Farnham sat on the fringes of education, sweating his mind. He observed a charlatan wearing a paper hat in the corner of the centre and proclaimed,
“You will be beautiful in my dreams”
And thus felt at ease. It is a frustratingly slow day in March, as the mister’s heart began to loosen in the literal subjectivity. The sun shone with the dominion of a mad titan, yet at Farnham’s request, acquiesced to a simmer. “The class is finished. you will start again in sorrow, some time tomorrow” were the words that Farnham heard, which duly prompted him to click his heels towards the doorway with great ebullience. What is the day to him, but a measurement? A tightrope, so it seems. He lingered like an unwanted scent to his locker, having dropped all but one of his cents in his classmates’ pockets. The locker opened and greeted him with a lifeless moan. He stuffed it full of his insides and began to feel like a muted songbird.
“Where will I find my voice?”, Farnham wondered aloud, “Who will lend me the right to sing with immense volition?”
He can fly with unbridled confidence yet cannot convey its feeling in a universal medium.Such a poor state. Walking up to the most aloof passerby, “Point your finger! Point it, and I will follow in good faith and stringed navigation!” The unremarkable fellow adhered in mock comprehension, fearing for her wallet. To the northern wing she pointed, where lingering soulmates lied in the garden square of Bohemian export. Farnham, capriciously fearing impermanence, flew like a bird yoked to a noose. The tiles of ivory institution felt uneven below his head as he sunk into the cacophonous call of propriety, where his streams were superimposed onto innocent scholars. In an attempt to escape liability, he eyed a man twice his stature and importance and duly clambered upon his back, steering him by the ears.
“Fellow man, I am looking for something unattainable, but don’t peg me as a defeatist! It is akin to that of enlightenment, which I’m sure you have dreaded over for a time. I have extrapolated the knowledge we have attained so far, and have concluded that attunement is inevitable, and thus applicable to life. You will take me there, to that answer, and in return, I promise to feed you tangerines from the Proverbial Garden. I will love you for your duty and kiss your feet. Please, come with me.”
Moments passed. An answer was being formed, and Farnham waited patiently, wanting to catch it like a fisherman sailor. Then, reply.
“I should take you for a fool, were you not so soaked in this sort of significance. Let us journey, and journey well”. Farnham caressed the ears of his companion and pulled forwards.
will19008 Jan 2020
Drive
Someday alive
Someday I’ll find terrific
     love, crap, courage
even though
even though
     Could have
         used a Human author
who understands Poetry crap stuff
Could have used a Human author
    who understands Poetry crap stuff
Driving alone,
    confused
Someone called
    the words
          Someone didn’t call you
Someday
happily becoming
    a used Human author
          understanding Poetry crap stuff
Drive:
    first Pretty Big nice flower arrangement
Drive:
    first Pretty Big nice funny arrangements
Someday alive
    someday, Friends, available
             finding terrific love
Absolutely we could have used a Human author
    who understands Poetry
Absolutely I could have used a Human author
    understanding Poetry crap stuff
Fall
      day,
Keep
      reading
Find
terrific
love:

      Drive
Julian Moses Jan 2020
Broken scuttled thing
I am not
Extension becoming of you
fervor toy
Begotten of you
for you
Because me
and you
Unscupper’d cavern
my mind
Blanks before you
Untimely departures
demand becoming

Wings burn slowly with the night
My wintergreen hands uncupp’d
Beholden to the penance.
-2020-
Hey, I’m back.
MisfitOfSociety Jan 2020
I can't feel my spirit.
This body is so strange to me.
Slipping through the subway grates,
My flesh dissolves into plastic seats.
I feel no difference between it and me.
Work my fingers across my face,
To see if I am still there.

Vanishing and appearing in the reflection again,
I don't identify with that thing that I am.
It feels like I am separate from it,
It feels like I don't belong in it.
No longer a temple,
No longer a place for a spirit.

One great big seductive neon distraction,
Convincing us into buying:

L-shaped couches,
Makeup kits,
Brand new cars
and television sets.

I work for freedom and pay for slavery.
The things I own I've become.
**** it all, who needs freedom?
MisfitOfSociety Dec 2019
Out of the womb into the microwave.
Brain cells pop,
Electric shock.
We all worship,
In the house of metal.
Devil in the computer,
Screams like a kettle.

She sings through the holes in my head,
She likes me better when I’m half dead.
Fading in and out like a ghost,
Possessing me when she needs me the most.

Metal temptress.
No one sings like you.
Metal temptress.
No one can dress like you.
I hear your whispers through the radio.
I see your image on the video.

Pavements of heaven grow colder against your moonlight.
Your lies rung through my head,
I still see the truth in what you said.

No one lies like you,
No one believes you like I do.
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