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Jon Thenes Sep 6
This generation knows only darkness
and sleeps on its back

the sleeper windmills violence in upon
it’s own sensory plate
                                       (the turbulence of
                                        fit-fusion
           ­                             and shapeless
                                        mood based dreams)

                
protest whine

offence

a life less of assurance
awaiting instruction

bore
froth
tend
endurance

Days are no fun
played out underground

A Mole baring task-force
A clunder

Muscle beings
reading the darkness

              

Tales held of the higher plane
an existence firm upon the roof terrain

Once a thriving insistence
ocular culture and unpushed air

This is what came to the generation
of post surface availability

              

The Moles are quaked
they raise in hunch
reach out for their boots and tools
begin the awake shift
Notes of The Post Apocalyptic Underground
annh Sep 1
Subway skip jive,
Off and on,
Up and over,
Been and gone.

Mind your wallet,
Watch your step,
Take your seat,
Turn right, lean left.

Token trav’lers,
Quick, quick, slow,
We’re underground,
And on the go.

‘I loved the abandoned subway stations, rushing past the darkened platforms, the sprawl of graffiti like old letters. Letters left by ghosts.’
- Hannah Lillith Assadi, Sonora
L Barbera Jul 9
Wet bodies
electric
drugs and disease
disobedience accepted
the wild run free
don't wear the uniform of  9-5
come naked, impartial
Enjoy the ride
Hurricane Jul 3
I don't live within the walls,
I don't live between parentheses,
I don't grow towards the light,
I live underground,
Overwhelmed and dissatisfied,
Detached and fretful,
Still thinking my life is my own and my choices have meaning.
I'm back , divinely uninspired to a hellish extent

for the yellow wallpaper & HMT
Amanda Jun 10
There is no heaven
There is no hell
Those are just lies
Us humans tell
I found both
Not in the skies
Or underground
But in your eyes
Doot doot doot
annh Jun 3
The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.  

I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’

Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.

As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become.

'Who is left in the ghetto is the one man in a thousand in any age, in any culture, who through some mysterious workings of force within his soul will stand in defiance against any master.'
- Leon Uris, Mila 18
Arisa Mar 2
Rich soil fills my mouth
And covers my eyelids in soot
As I hear the clank of a shovel against hard stone,
and feel the weight of dirt on my once pink-lips
Now faded to a dusty brown
As I'm buried
5 ft deep
Underground.

Muffled footsteps leave my mortal presence,
The shovel left behind, next to my stump of a body.
No breaths to be taken,
No blinks to be had,
I think to myself, in this silent solace, surrounded by black:
Suffocation is slumber.
Not something to be admired,
But rather recognized.
I am one with the Earth
And the Earth is one with me.

If the police do find my body,
Or a stray dog digs up my death,
All I can say is that the burial was quick,
And that my
Deep breaths
Turned Shallow
Within
Minutes.
I've once read a story about a child that was buried alive,and was miraculously saved by an old gravedigger who heard him scratch the roof of his coffin. This is based on that.
Byerly Jan 11
there was once a little flower
with a huge smile
sitting in the grass
with its yellow petals
singing a lullaby
waiting for some child to approach

the kind of power that it kept
it was nowhere seen before
not in a thousand years at least

it grew up with a ray of sunshine
but it was surrounded by darkness
so its heart was in the wrong place
it was confused

it owned the hearts of 6 kids
and with 1 more
the world as we know it

would end
the metro is a dream machine,
lights pulse through dark windows;
colours stretch, tangle,
till they break, phase, fade out.
those high pitched squeals,
squeaks of wheels, wind tunnel
rush and hum of pushing against time.

gliding underground, electric eel,
growls like a metal dragon,
tail bending around corners,
weaving the bends,
hisses like a snake.
jumping out in the half second
before it exhales to a stop.
Written June 2018
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