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  Feb 2016 Ugo Victor
Mikey Pooler
"that was one hell of a"-
                                                        "Night?"

"I mean you do got yourself one hell of a vibe"

When I'm with you
Under the moon
I can see so true.

And "Truthfully that's one hell of a mind."

You say I'm *"one hell of a anti"
-
                                        "social at times?"

"Truthfully I'm social just a little too"-
                                           "Soulful at times."

But "You like to show your soul too! And to me that's so cool!"

"How we can feed off each others energy."

"I guess that's what they're calling soul food."

"There's demons all in my head,
eating my feelings for food,
crawling in my soul for a bed,"


She goes "But all those demons aren't you! They're in for quite a surprise.
There's no space for my love.
Allow me to make room."


For sheltered demons whom we despise
"That was one hell of a hiest."

Stole these demons with the bright words she spewed.

Gave them no where to hide.

Brought them to light,

we watched them burn
as we watched the sunrise.

"That was one hell of a night."

Now my hearts **"one hell of a paradise."
Bolded is me speaking and itallic is the women.
Ugo Victor Feb 2016
...cos as you struggled to hold on to life/ life that was never there for you/ you wouldn't stop smiling / smiling like it's all OK.

I remember spending that last night crying/ crying to shed the pain/ pain I never think I do survive/ survive the night I begged you still.

And now that you are gone I've learnt/ learnt that some of man's losses shape his destiny/ destiny he wouldn't stumble upon otherwise/ otherwise it's not OK that you ain't here/ here to see me become the person you always wished I be.
Lost a loved one. She was everything. I hope I can find another like her. She was everything.
  Feb 2016 Ugo Victor
Helen
I sat there, burning
I was the Fire to your Ice
Even in my yearning
You never looked at me twice

So now I'm out of control
Scorching a path to Damnation
Recklessly down the road
to your soul
You can't even see your own Salvation
flicker to inferno
*snap*
  Feb 2016 Ugo Victor
Eden Branch
.
Hope is not found in a desperate measure
Nor is love found in the flesh's pleasure
Made up of endorphins or abstract ideals
Too much of either, you won't know how to feel
  Feb 2016 Ugo Victor
Austin Bauer
I waited for an elevator
It was an exceptionally long pause,
And there was a group of three arguing
Over the meaning of a clause.

I knew the answer to their query,
But questioned if I should reply.
Social stigmas can be strange
So I decided to be shy.

They searched their minds,
They racked their brains,
And I just stood there -
The answer boiling on my tongue.

My elevator arrived just then,
And I reluctantly stepped inside.
The doors closed slowly, slowly,
And I heard their voices die...

...So it is with my faith.
Many people are searching
And I have the answer,
But I am too afraid to speak.

So I step inside an elevator,
And lift myself above their problems
Pridefully rejecting the searching
Of those who need an answer.
  Feb 2016 Ugo Victor
JJ Hutton
How many times and on how many screens has JFK been assassinated? she asks a few minutes into the commute.

Someone has said that to me before, I say.

And I notice, now for the first time, even she is a rerun or a ghost
or an unfortunate reminder of the one who came before her,
from the artfully mismatched polish on her toenails to the way her wrists wrap around each other as she talks her quiet talk, her fingertips balancing her iPhone, which streams Jackie Then Kennedy scrambling toward the back of the Cadillac. Its the Zapruder footage in slow motion and somehow in HD, and she touches the thumbs up icon when the footage comes to a close.

Across from me sits a dead man. I'm sure of it—his death. He lounges in himself, his belly fat imperialistic in its expanse, moving beyond beltline and claiming a space all its own on the torn, blue cushioned seat. The dead man looks a bit like Marlon Brando, post-Tango in Paris, when the depression set in and with it the weight, but like Brando, there's still a cool magic in the deep lines of the dead man's forehead, something forlorn and knowing in the drag of his eyelids.

It's here that I remember I'm a writer. And moments like these, I'm supposed to render in belabored yet fragmented ways.

That's ego, she says, not looking up from her phone.

What's that? I say.

The way you pigeonhole me. Rerun, ghost, et cetera, she says. Maybe I've made love to a sad man like you before. Maybe you're a trigger for me. Maybe I know everyone you're going to be, everything you're going to say.  Like I was going to tell you these pants, these pants are lenin pants and I got them from Bali. And I didn't say it because I already knew your response.

Are they ethically made? we say smugly and simultaneously.

And the subway car does that screeching sound you hear in movies and the tunnels outside do that motion blur you see in movies and I try to kiss her but she says that uh-uh cowboy line you know from movies.

Brando had affairs, I say.

Kennedy had affairs, she says.

Have you ever had an affair?

It was exhausting, she says, the performance required. All the effort in your vocal affectations, those terrible 3 p.m. lunches, the pet names, your obligatory passion and one-liners, the secrecy for the sake of secrecy, the purchase and disposal of lingerie. If I could get the time back—

I'd spend it alone with a glass of red wine and a good book, we say.
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