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Justo Yanez Oct 2019
Out of the window,
They fall like slush
White and clumpy.

They are bonded by their freezed-wet flesh.
They gather and fall
Gather and fall.

The buildings loom in winter fog
That rises and stalls
And like my mood,
I am foreboding.

I wish it could come and go
This winter-ous fog
This smog of doom
The stale flesh, the memory that

And in my head, it a beehive,
That drills holes in two.
And like the other day,
I decided to do

The very act I did
At fourteen
Perched on my tongue
Two by two

The same time the german elder
Told the same joke of the train
That stops at the station
Two and to.

If I could die, I would have done it
Swiftly and true.
But I cower and I cower and I cower.

And like the snow out the window,
I disappear in twirling crystalline cotton
That falls into the same
abyssal, black hue.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016

Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.


Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
with gratitude for the inspiration from, to:

"Words are his instrument, poised to deliver, sometimes
infinity's mirror,
sometimes a word or two for you,
reality is on its way...going to come through and fit for you."

for Patty M, who swore me to never, and only, give up to you, my best.

for Sia, who loves her Sylvia so.

Born on April 24~25, 2016

and of course, for Sylvia
J J Sep 2019
Fluted cap dripping skull matter thin as blood
as ice, as milk,
we sat rotting in the sun
alone and pretending we werent
lest we be left out again
not again, my lover
my motherly carer my sister my brother
please see that the first to die does so
in the other's arms
corrupt and corroded beyond
ae looking glass charm.

The night floats through the day
Sun skins the dirt underfoot
  and a whole winter seeps
our morphine stasis,
    planted cosmically in place
   forever and ever for a day,my love that I must one day forget
that one day must die as the earth dies as i must

     only to be reborn as we dreamt

In the cold ashen season where coal
   lines the cracks along our wall.
Heavenly July days that seem so far a way.

You gathered my thoughts,nirvana shepherdess
   that shed lively shards of grass over formica;
You held me warm as the flies peeled my skin,
    budding me close warm enough to make the needed death
feel not so drastic, feel calmer than words could express.
Ackerrman Jul 2019
The first time
I lost my mind,
The world seemed a destitute place.

The first time
I took it by force.
Left to fend with fiends

Furrowing through time,
Clawing at the day,
Dragging myself against the pull.

The introduction to
Something dark and true.

The second time!
I could stand no more
Of what I found before

Did not mean to come back,
Sometimes I think I didn’t,
Mulling in a mood grey and grave

The blue sky,
Once bubbly
Now looks blander

Circle of red.
Head of lead.
Lying in my bed.

The third
barely touched
Just scraped at chalk.

After that, I went away…
Opted out.
Nothing mattered.

There I sat in limbo.

Like an old car,
I sputtered,
Bore sitting and rusting.


And how I laugh,
To say
That I am less

How I laugh-
To say that I am dying
To think that I am sloth

I am greed.
I am pride.

I am failure,
I am afraid-
Of everything.

I died some time ago,
Left company

So now I am back in the game.
And enigmatic.
Do I scare you?

Because I should.
I am terrifying
And cant be intimidated

I do not fear death,
I do not fear reprobation
But honestly?

I scare my self
And I am afraid of you too,
Fear is my super power.

Depression is my identity,
Something personal to me,

So Welcome death,
Welcome fear!
Welcome Might.

You can’t comprehend me,
What it is to be free,
You have never died

Never writhed,
In fire,
You circuit.

I shan’t come out tonight,
Or any other

But stand afront,
With twisted mind, bald and blunt
And I shall eat you…

That look-
Look down

Divert your eyes,
But stand in my way,
And I shall eat you

Your eyes-
Fresh grass

Red light
Yellow filter
Green eyes

Pain defies
Anguish flies

Panic stricken,
Anxiety driven

Quick- Look down now,
Holding back the wrath of Jessu,
This mouse will ******* eat you!
I like Sylvia Plath. This is my Lady Lazarus.
missy brown Apr 2019
Your ambivalence
unlike her riddle in nine
syllables, is clear.
Rowan S Feb 2019
Manhattan is a symphony
Directed by her laugh
And the lines that trace her battle scars
Begin to fade at last

My Sylvia, you've fought a war
With more life yet to go
But I battle the same demons, dear
Please know you're not alone
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