Cry Sebastian Jan 2010

MacBain splutters,
long winded speeches,
intoxicating stutters.

Whisky reeks volumes on volumes of volumes,
unfathomable mysteries on infallible fumes.

Helga looks hideously sexy tonight,
the ghoul in the corner looks up for a fight.
The toilet's transforming into a white telephone,
just one last drink until the drinking is done.

Redshot eyes light another cigarette,
Shooter all round,
and a beer what the heck!

The dance floor is moving like a seasick ship,
We all feel like rock stars defining whats hip.

T Zanahary Aug 2012

If my canvas was removable
I'd have snakeskin sheddings
piled at my feet
tattooed by a pen in
languages I'm still learning.
Lessons may have missed,
but concepts still birth
third-eye conception,
without static
the reception looked perceptive
but lacked the proper method of thought,
though those with lacked grasp
are gasping to breathe,
are constantly seething
in serial reading,
your glasses reflect crystal balls.
Distortion skewed what you said,
proportionately blowing away my thoughts
with what wrath you wrought,
temper tempering timid temerity
to take tricks to the thoughtless actions
making affairs public
and tricks tickets to freed selves.
I'm tired of feeling like an addict,
your trips to town
leaving me shaking,
the absence
a strong shot of absinthe
followed by detoxification
of my blood
and thoughts.
Atrophy caused apathy
and heart-rot.
This shaking has to stop
or these words will forever
go unread.
Lines becoming waves
I'm seasick off thinking,
sea, I'm sick of thinking,
sick, I'm sea, cool blue
holding vast universe
and creation claimed creatures
in crevices buried
under self.
Thunderheads strike me
with glimpses of brilliance
as they reiterate what already was,
composing a self-made being
prophesised by ancients
who became whole,
a collected conference of ne'er-do-wells
and great lakes of depression
mistaken as puddles when the clouds
reanimate their deadened self
with soul of we,
with vodka and spirits,
both happy and deadly
lost only in the way
they lost self
to selfish thoughts
of a growing (m/w)e.
And when essence is discarded,
replaced by common cents
or otherwise deemed useless
we are left to wonder,
who's this?
look, nearly censored
by silver backings and
dulled centers
seem lacking in humanity,
left more to primal urges,
hunting for those thoughts
left behind and gathering
pieces of rotheart
to rekindle that passion we've forgotten
after complacency compromised
our composure,
leaving heads slung in hopes of finding
a small piece of fragmented earth
in which to glimpse
a reflection of our core.
It lies dormant, though not dead,
we fear eruption of emotional enticement,
instead sleeping giants be we,
volatile and awe some,
do not catch eyes
lest we be the last things seen,
two peaceful for something not known
in the unknown languages
that cover us,
nor seen in the depths
of collective conscious,
though treating us apart,
hair by hair,
limb by limb,
being by be ing we are separating,
nay, unraveling,
untangling me from the complications
of we
only to see we
are incomplete and
Broken to pieces it's easier
to accept
the whole of who we are.

This piece was featured in Penny Ante Feud 9: Supply and Demand.

Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.

You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!

you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes

fastened at my ankle and wrist,
sucking up the biological breast.

You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.

Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.

I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.

Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.

I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.

But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.

Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.

Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.

Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.

Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.

O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.

I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide

with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die

to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.

madameber Mar 2015

pour me a drink
from the grooves
in your hands, honey
i'll lap up your words,
sip your oceans
like wine
because i only find solace
in salt water hallucinations

and you
are the only form
of intoxication
that doesn’t make
me seasick

My extremely late response to The (amazing) Anonymous Joker's (Want) to recollect:

Until tonight they were separate specialties,
different stories, the best of their own worst.
Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy's
laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
story. Someday, I promised her, I'll be someone
going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum
school for proper girls. The next April the plane
bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned
and fear blew down my throat, that last profane
gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned
to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,
sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.
Maybe Rose, there is always another story,
better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.
Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities
turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy's
story, the April night of the civilian air crash
and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,
the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash
ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.
This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking
in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds.
And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking
bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards
to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature
photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.
Special tonight because I made her into a story
that I grew to know and savor.
A reason to worry,
Rose, when you fix an old death like that,
and outliving the impact, to find you've pretended.
We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.
I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.

The Lonely Bard Nov 2016

I used to be a great sailor,
But then I was sea sick,
So I just got retired,
Scared I am of all the ships,
Especially of relationships,
I don't want to kill myself sweetly,
So scared.

HP Poem #1267
©Atul Kaushal
clxrion Dec 2013

Your body as a fleet of ships
Your words are every harbour i have found solace in
Sometimes i feel like the secrets you tried to tuck under pelican wings
Sometimes i feel like the burnt-out bulb in the lighthouse that you easily replaced
I've turned into a beacon for sailboats that ferry the dead, with a heart trailing behind every vessel
Every red light is a warning sign and the skeletons of dead sailors are standing on the bows, waving their arms
They appear to be screaming, desperate for someone to hear them, but the only sound that comes out is that of dangling chains
You can hear the moaning of drowned souls and you're wondering how long it will be until you join them
The dissonant waves turn into hands that pull on you like fingers doing a glissando down your heartstrings
Suddenly you're sinking and every breath costs you a life you didn't know you had but it's gone and you can't get it back
As you're pulled under you watch the light at the surface ripple and fade in the same way your soul crawled out of your skin
You're crawling on the floorboards of the ship and the nails are digging into your kneecaps and it reminds you of her
Your body is covered in splinters and when you pull them out it feels the same as her lips every time they left your skin
You're starting to get seasick but just as you lean over the railings her name falls off your lips
It drops like an anchor, and all of your inner demons rise from the sea and begin to climb the rope dangling from your teeth
You're choking on the past and every effort to shove your finger down your throat and expel it fails
Every bad memory fills your stomach and it feels like swallowing pieces of bait still tangled up with their hooks
You can feel them pulling at your stomach like every promise she never fulfilled, still threatening to destroy you
Your insides shred and tear like the sails and instead of air spilling through it's everything you've tried to keep from her
Suddenly the nose of the boat is diving into the sea and you're regretting ever thinking you were invincible
As the swells rock the ship you try to root your feet in front of the helm but your knees start to crack like porcelain
You're no longer able to swim, you're slowly turning to glass and your hands aren't working, yet you're still reaching for hers
When your fingertips finally touch, your entire body shatters to pieces
Your heart is left pierced and bleeding on the ravaged deck
You're no longer tethered to anything, flopping around aimlessly, you no longer have a purpose
You see your reflection next to hers in the water and it's convinced you that death at sea is more beautiful than you'd thought

Greg Berlin Jan 2013

what was it like
becoming infinite
on that couch
at her parents house
what was her name

lost at sea
look out
behind the aft
is that sixteen?
almost off the horizon now
but this ship don't turn around
no no no
here comes twenty
on track to forever
rough waves and storm
can't remember the calm
no sign of shore

here comes twenty
think I'm seasick
throw me overboard
seasick and sorry
wish it would
slow the fuck down
just for a second
look at sixteen
what was it like

Darbi Alise Howe Nov 2012

once again, I am seasick
over the railing (but never into the wind)
twisting and heaving
all because you were leaving, away away
back to the land and light of day
which i have none of, only one of
forever is lonely
like the line that separates the ocean and sky
here I am
seasick, once again

Tom McCone Apr 2013

Flittering feathers write sonnets
in soaring frequencies;
taking in the ocean at once,
I felt ripples brought to standstill,
damped by second's refrain,
curled back into the
picturesque blue written ahead,
no cloud harbours the ceiling,
no late words shown, jotted down
by the
indifferent and
invariably disappearing breeze.

The latterwork of these days took it up,
and hung it out
on lines stretched across skies and time,
betraying tender surfeit, in moments
torn out,
leaving only
vague traces of
woodworn prose,
spilling out my last sentiments:

"we, once,
were alive,
if only for a moment."

In dreams she holds small collections
of sandy flowers,
above the shoreline,
as the dichotomous cluster takes theirs,
behind a fragmentary grain
in the blacksmith's hide;
written, again, are those seasick letters,
wrung out
in the dead heat of the forge,
the demands of strangers,
in stone buildings by the fireplace,
electric heater, off,
the inbetween reeling
of slightened accomplishments,
the scent of oil,
left over, from the husk of noon.

Miss and want, over again,
missing beguilement in afternoon's repose.

"come back...",
but she ain't the one gone.

dedicated to antarctica
Devon Carberry Dec 2013

I want to tell you everything,
but lately I haven't been able to find the right words.
Upside-down vowels adhere to fractured consonants;
mismatched words snap into twisted phrases and unkind sentences.  
Hesitation has been holding my wrists and drowning me
in rivers of regret and  loneliness.
Waves of sorrow crippling my psyche with every drip
of the faucet.
What once was a controlled trickle
Is now a raging flood.
Oxygen isn't common
In the box labeled reality.
"Take a hatchet to the walls,
and step into the sunlight!"
Curious knights ride upon steeds of
broken glass and rose petals,
with hopes to sew heartache back onto her
tattered sleeve,
all of whom are poisoned by greed and
red-hot lust.
They don't know about the bridges
that've been incinerated inside her soul.
We all need that person who will kiss our scars,
and read us seasick fairy tales of love and triumph.
When we find this victor of such an immortal task
We'll dive into the ocean of eternity,
and hope for the best.

Daniel August Sep 2013

You’re a Koan wrapped in gold foil. And as the words evaporate from your lips like subtle kisses pressed on morning fog, I don’t particularly mind that you talk on and on. Cause it’s nice to hear someone else’s crazy. It’s refreshing to see another’s ceaseless internal struggle, the sound of a soul creasing like pages turned by absentminded fingers—you ramble. Venting all your anguish and heart ache onto me, your hate and instability, and I’m sorry if it seems like I’m not listening, I am, it’s just that I’m blinded; cause with every word, I only see what you really are, the slippery truth that is you, when no one else can be found, like is a sound really a sound if no one is around? To hear it, the cosmic purr of meows over static silence, a tree free falling then by fungus found, tiny prayers for all the tiny violence, my weight in gold, which pound for pound reaches nowhere near your worth.
Though you’re godless and that’s okay. Cause a sort of abstract faith isn’t required to be a good person on this earth. It just takes heeding the lessons that life lends you, like our lips pressed on door steps at two in the morning. My heart bends for you, and I can’t quite explain it, cause with every other moment I feel like its breaking and then in the next it’s more of a subtle quaking, which is really cliché but it rhymes, and then we’re kissing. Rolling around on the pressed linen sheets of my bed, and its late you say, and so I drag the conversation on and on, trying to savor the moment with feeble graspings. It doesn’t work, though I didn’t think it would. And you have to be going, and you don’t deserve me, as if someone else could, but to me every word sounds like flower petals falling, sailing slowly from the tops of trees pretending that they’re dying. Even though we both know it’s a cycle, cause I took earth science, and next year those pussydicks’ll be back; cause matter isn’t created nor destroyed, in fact—just like those words which inadvertently annoy me with fear, they’ll pass, but never quite disappear, and in the night sometime, maybe I’ll hear them as I take out the trash under the dull star shine, or maybe on some far off beach in the oceans salty whine. Or both, I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter. It just seems like my whole fucking life is some abstract puzzle. But we’re kissing again which is fun, so I don’t particularly care. Though in the back of my mind I’m very much aware, that time is fleeting.
And you say we can’t be together; I can dig that, but I’m looking for answers and that just ain’t one, like dry helium gas in my lungs, my chest feels kind of light, and maybe I’m crazy, but it feels right, which honestly makes me seasick, cause for some strange reason I really like the idea of we, and when we kiss, to me, it feels like fiery lightning, a sort of willful treason, my vocal cords shiver, tightening, my throat a river parched in dry season. And I’d tell you all this, but by now, you’re halfway to your car. And I’d like another kiss, but I’ve pressed my luck too far. And it’s saddening, but at least I peeked a glance under your gold foil wrapping, by chance, earned a sight of your beautiful debris piled—messy happening, which is somehow both refreshing and maddening. And as you close your car door I want to scream ten thousand clichés, and if I thought for one minute It’d convince you to stay; I would, but I don’t. I just stand there knitting thoughts and emotion, my face a wincing mask at every little motion you make, sitting silent for silence sake, when I realize I really ought to yell something out, so I ask “What’s the sound of one hand clapping?” And you shout something back, but I don’t quite hear you, which to me honestly, seems all the more fitting.

Maeve Dwyer Feb 2014

There is a place
I run to when
I want to watch
the world spin
and all around me.

In my vodka carnival
lies a lazy daisy
Electric tents, plastered
on twisting tracks.
The thundering
of carts deafens
chit-chatting faces.

I wait for trembling
lips to go numb
and then fade into one.
I turn the wheel
in cheap thrill
over and over again.

Breathing free,
when the voice
Trapped in the back
of my skull stops bleating.
Its never-ending tune
for one wild moment
becomes faint ringing.

Laughing still,
when the machine
shudders and with a
vicious jolt
catapults me
flying, flailing, and falling
with a thud
into a raging sea.  

Sitting dizzy,
when the merlot waves
crash over me
and blur memories
I sketched that day,
stick in hand, all sandy.

Pounding, surrounding,
I somersault sideways
and let the flood
wash me away.
A swell tosses
my rag doll limbs
in jest.

My vices are rippling
over the dark water.
A vagabond current
grabs my wrist
and his bubbles hum
a tired mantra
in my seasick ear:
greet death
with double vision.

Rushing, roaring
He leads me down
the black tunnel.
Ill float as far
as the tide is willing
to take me, away
from candy-coated
fairy lights.
My vodka carnival
Is twinkling on the bluffs.

Finally gone,
When mascara rivers
flow inky and drip
from bleary eyes
to the icicle tip
of a comatose
ring finger.

I think, maybe,
I am drowning

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