i’ve got a crush on a boy i call Elbows.

he’s got grace in his hands and anarchy in his mouth

he’s got angles where i’m soft and softness where i’m angled

You ran
When it was your turn
Hiding
While the poor did burn
Now you ruin
The lives of others
Ignoring the cries
Of tearful mothers
With shameful assurance
In your own power
You now stand tall
Pretending you did not cower
Allowing others
To walk and die
In your place
So you could lie
About your past
And how you believed
In a just cause
While your kind deceived
The sheep
Herding us along
You pretended to be strong
But in fact you were wrong
And now seasoned
With a flag
And a god
You brag
Of America
And it’s greatness
Yet you destroyed
The moral compass
In your desire
To ****
And for what?
To achieve God’s will?
The same God
Who said
“Blessed are the peacemakers?”
As he led
The meek
And the poor
As they seek
Deliverance
From the likes of you
Who can only steal
From the hearts of the few
Who continue to believe
In a world of green meadows
Sparkling oceans
And the love they conceive
As their children
Look to them for guidance
In a world
Where avoidance
Of conflict
Is rewarded
With the power
To ignore the exploited
And to line the pockets
Of those who said no
To service
But now say go
To those who have no option
But to fight and die
For the chosen few
Who will not tell us why
They can live with impunity
Never answering the question
Of how God’s grace is given
To Satan’s confession

I considered killing myself today
No, it's not a cry for help
Just a plea for life
The pressure oh the pressure it hurts and burns

A passing fantasy
How easy and peaceful
Poppy tea would be, just another nap
A beautiful dream that doesn't have to end

It's so much more mature than when I was 15
I used to cut stars into my ankles and call it art
It made sense to induce my own pain, to control it, for once

To have something so abstract as emotion
Visible and finally released as such a brilliant, lively serum

In these times of existential crisis, I realize how morbid I really am
Maybe I'll just be a gothic poet, my hair is already black
I'll wander around abandoned buildings
And read The Bell Jar in the dark

I think I'm going insane slowly, like you know how geniuses think too much
And eventually lose it completely

If I'm too intense for you then no comments are needed
Hold onto my words though and you might relate someday

Maybe this isn't even poetry
Maybe it's just a long lost journal entry I never had the guts to write.

Draw the line.
Keep telling yourself you know where your feet tread.
What if that fragile balance fractures?
Which side would you choose?
Would you handle going against yourself? Against the very vibrations passing through your body?
Or would you risk shredding what little peace of mind is left?
The cold metallic feel brushes against your hands. Do you pull the trigger?
I can't contain the possibilities, especially when I reminisce.
That night I ran, barely dodging scattered wooden chairs.
An echo of your temptations beconed me further.
How thrilling to live in between the creases of each lie.
How ******* to let the chills of danger spread a road on your skin.
To let those words touch my lips as they splatter out and run with the wind; completion.
An affair of love with the more plausible mistake.
You reek of danger but my heart found a home in fear, and so you must taste sweet.
I have found the cure to failure; throw yourself at an inevitable loss.
I want to hurt, shred and slash.
I want to rule and to rule,
my kingdom on pillars of empathy and psychosis.
Keep your enemies close, but keep your addictions closer

I have begun my waiting
for you to die. Should this make me terrible,
i am not sorry. No,
not yet,
i am not sorry nor
do i feel the need to be.

You stripped me
bare
shoulders, bones and all,
my quest to save you has ceased now
that i am
no more
than
a droplet of rain on your windshield.

You can't feel
me
you can't see
me
you can try to touch
me
from the inside but i will always be
looking at you from the outside
in just
like i've always been with that
precious bullet proof glass
between us.

Yes,
i have begun my waiting for you to die.

I need to say that sleeping is...
hard to achieve when your goals are set high, and yet something prevents me
to convey just how difficult rest is to apply to your day to day life
trying to get by
Every year around this time I get weird without knowing why...
Leaves start to fall and my body starts shutting down in depression that won't let me live my life happily without dodging the darts, here's my vain confession, I'm scrolling through a lie, reading stupid people's denials... just an advice:
don't let them tell you that you don't suffice... you **** well know what you have to do, just shut them up with a smile that says "I hate you too" ;)

I wanted to be something I was not,
Shedding myself like snake's skin,
I yearned to become,
Desperate, eager, aching.
Craving approval from eyes that weren't my own.

Until I realized...
That they were.

Never realizing that I--
Was good enough.

                      ©Elv

I don’t want to talk.
Just cry on your warm shoulder.
To pour out my heart.

The two catholic priests sat
in the Breakfast Room
off the refectory
in the abbey.

They looked up
when you entered
then continued
their conversation
about Dante
and you poured
yourself a coffee
and a small bowl
of Cornflakes
with a little milk
and sugar.

You sat down
and sipped the coffee.

There were prints
of Michelangelo
on the walls
and a crucifix above
and between
the two doors
that led to the
refectory
where the monks ate
three times a day.

The priests conversed
but said nothing to you.

Their words were uttered
in posh well bred voices.

One said
Few believe in Hell these days
and even fewer in Paradise
and those that do
have vague ideas
gathered from odd books
you find on airport
bookshop shelves.

You listened half heartedly
as they talked.  

You wanted to ask
about the place.

Wanted one of them
to hear confession.

Maybe one
to give absolution
and perhaps offer a solution.  

You could hear
the footsteps of monks
in the other room
getting their breakfast
of bread and jam
and black French coffee.

One priest laughed.

You never heard the joke.

The other guffawed loudly
in a girlish voice.

And the woman was seen
leaving by the back door
semi dressed and in great distress
the priest continued
And Father Denton
was never the same.

Then they were silent
and stood and smiled
and went their way.

You sat alone in the room.

The Michelangelo prints
reflected the single bulb
hanging above the table.

The Crucified seemed
above it all.

You would find some other
to hear confession.

To give absolution
from your fall.

I am afraid that before I say this
You are already gone
You are already with her
You are already a stranger

I am afraid that after this confession
You will ignore me
You will leave me out here
You are already a stranger

I am afraid that while I'm speaking right now
You are not listening
You do not care
You are already a stranger

I am afraid, I'm afraid of what we will be
If there is anything that we will be
All the what ifs may come true
I am afraid... I cannot admit my feelings for you

Happiness is a tub of ice cream
Waiting to be eaten
Not some cute love story
Where every word was sweet

Happiness is reading a book
Waiting for each exciting chapter
Not some confession
Where every word is so predictable

Happiness is a teddy bear
Waiting to be cuddled every night
Not some bouquet of flowers
Where everyday was a life sentence

Happiness is spending time with friends
Waiting everyday to hang out
Not some time with a guy
Wherein you can't define him just as happiness

Cause he's not just your happiness,
He's your everything

A stripper does not command the same feelings
when there is no music
when there is rain
when there is **** beneath their feet
when there is no stage
when they are
naked.

Step off stage,
peel their eyes from your skin.
Layer after layer
of pervert,
of bloodshot,
wipe the trails of loathing
they leave behind.
Take a cotton swab to your navel
to dry your mother's tears.
These are nothing you haven't seen.

Find glass where it is not broken,
Break it.
Pull on your face until you can see your cracks
echoed in kaleidoscope reflections.
Let your tongue swipe your teeth
and slurp down the dollar bill smile.
Chase it with the cat that was
swimming in your eyes.
Imagine what you would look like dead.
Make silly faces in broken mirrors.
Turn away before they fade.

Shake your head in your hands
until music flies from your ears.
Shake harder.
Spill the hypnotic equilibrium they sold you
Watch the room start to sway.
Sit down.
Stand up.
Find your legs.
*****.
Heave,
feeling there is much more poison
than will ever come out.
Cough into the air,
knowing your hands are sacred.
Wipe your memory on someone else's sleeve.

Walk to the door.
Let your profession slip from your shoulders.
Become human.
Become blending into the crowd.
Become busy with something in your hands.
Open the door, then your umbrella.
Do not breathe.
Take five steps forward and wait to exhale
until your hear the door slam behind you.
It isn't healthy to mix the sight of rain
with the smell of broken pianos.

Walk forward.
Out of your shoes.
Wince as the concrete speaks to your heel.
Bathe your toes in the nearest puddle.
Let your umbrella slide from the warmth of your hand.
Watch it fly.
Notice the people.
Move your sight from the ground
and rest it on their chins.
Realize you're wearing no clothes.
Pull the confidence down and off of your walk
and turn to the closest alley.

Step off stage.
Peel their eyes from your soul.
Become an individual.
Forget "the people."
Notice the persons
wrapped to their noses in professions and smiles,
confidence and ignorance pouring from their eyes,
heads tucked low beneath charcoal umbrellas.
Smile.
Without trying when you hear the clouds roar.

Stop when you find there are more walls than bodies
and the smell of ***** is stronger than your own.
Forget your smell.
Open your mouth.
Forget your taste.
Bend your knees and raise your head.
Close your eyes and feel it rain.
Scream.
Strip the religion from your prayers.
Scream the ineffable confession.
Forget your body.
Drink the rain.

there is no music
there is rain
there is **** beneath your feet
there is no stage
you are
naked.

I know nothing about this discontentment,
This irritation and friction with sanity,
Suddenly it feels like I have not known my sanity,
Ever.
I have a confession to make.
To my parents,
3 decades older than me.
To tell them that I’ve been lying to them,
Lying about my degree, education and academic wealth,
For almost two years.
The fact is,
I had no choice but to tell them all is well
When the awls were pricking into my tender innards.
The time has come now,
Because I can no longer continue telling the untruth,
I tried if I could crawl in the campus,
Under the tag of being institutionalized,
For them.
Every day that I kept a straight face to them,
I trembled and felt the roars of the rising schizophrenic worlds, bit by bit, all around me.
I felt the unknown telugu that I heard in my mother tongue,
In my dad's voice.
Him renouncing me.
Him grabbing his head,
So as not to explode from the dirge of my living dead.
I hear my parents abusing me, in the random shouts of my neighbors.


I saw it all so clear.
I screamed.
I ranted.
But, found no warmth anywhere.
The fear, anticipation and confusion have killed my sanity.

Today, I flutter like a half-winged bird,
In the darkness of yesterday,
That my parents count as lit.
But then I released,
Knowledge is free.
And, knowledge is everywhere.
And knowledge came to me,
not with the stamps and seals of degrees,
But the enlightenment
From a concoction of three snorts of ******* and a dash of a little LSD on a Hoffman blot.
I rebelled mad in my high,
That I will no longer be institutionalized.
That I’m a free soul.
I became sober,
But my interests did not change.
Its been two years,
And I’m still astray, waiting to fully feel the freedom I have opted for.
For the pain of the mismatch I pour into my parent’s ears,
It kills me each day, second and time.
I have the guts to confess to my parents,
With neither shame nor embarrassment,
That my path is true and solid.
I wish not to be trained no more, to live.
I wish to simply live on my own.
I want them to know the truth.
That I have my house.
My kitchen.
My milk pan, mixer and fridge.
Today, if that **** that happened 5 years ago to me,
had happened now,
I know how to stand.
On my feet,
and hand him, my ******,
over to the law's eagle blind beaks sharper than the awl of my gossamer mists. Rather than bend my conviction, arrogance and identity to that ******* of a coward.

I want them to know that this is the only way.
Today,
I earn myself.
I live myself.
I’m free.
I have to be free.
I write all that I will.
And do forever the same.
I just,
Have to be free.
I will be free.

I don’t play chess with love.
There is no strategy, no foresight,
No due process; only a knot in the gut
Which prevents all action
That does not result in your touch.

I don’t chase after love.
I lie in wait, in unfamiliar places,
Abandoned mines and filthy drunk tanks-
Watch morning break through the cloud
With stupid hope there are no more false dawns.

I don’t bear false witness to love.
I tie a ribbon to the loaded gun
And hand it over to the woman
Holding a scalpel with a smile
And earnest for my confession.

I don’t want to do this anymore.
My heavy limbs, lack of light.
Waking up to Ground Zero
And sleeping with a lie of chemicals .
I don’t want to forget how to love.

I don’t think the choice is mine.

Listen kids I’ve got something to say,
Before he met Mrs clause, Santa was gay.

I suppose that makes him. Bisexual
He was also an intellectual.

He studied at the college of legends and myth
That’s where he met his love, Mr. Smith.

They met while studying invincibility
In the library, a place of true tranquility.

Before he had grown the big white beard,
He had acne and pox marks that people found weird

Not Mr Smith, he thought he was quite handsome
He said the moment they met his heart was held ransom.

They met every lunchtime and ate in the park
They discussed a love of Christmas and knew there was a spark.

Santa had wanted this since the moment he was born.
Someone to love, someone with the horn.

Two. To be precise on either side of his head.
It lead to lots of excitement and surprises in bed.

When both of them had graduated, diplomas in hand,
Santa went into the family business, Krampus joined a band

Like his father before him Santa was a toy maker
Whereas Krampus had become a notorious law breaker

When Santa was out testing toys in the rain,
Krampus was getting drunk and snorting *******.

But despite the distance they always made time
To meet at least once a month for cheese and wine.

One time. However, 5 years after they met,
They snuggled up together, enjoying every second they could get.

Krampus hugged him so tight, if only he’d known,
That Santa had to break some awful news of his own.

You see, to take over from his dad there were rules to follow,
This news was almost the hardest thing Krampus had to swallow.

The rules were quite clear, Krampus had to get the boot,
Santa had to marry a Mrs cause before he dawned the red suit.

Krampus couldn’t believe it, can’t the estate move with the times?
Were these really the rules or was Santa sick of his crimes?

Santa swore blindly that these were the things he had to do.
But he swore to Krampus “I’ll always really love you! “

Despite this heartfelt confession Krampus was pretty ******
He tried to push himself to his feet, but drunkenly he missed.

He slipped head first towards Santa who stood in his place.
His horns were sharp and pointed, stabbing Santa in the face.
“oh ****!”  he screamed “are you OK?” but Santa screamed in pain.
Both his eyes were bleeding red, fearing he would. Never see again.

Krampus rang his buddy from the ER that he knew,
Panicking he cried down the phone not knowing what to do.

He explained the situation not knowing what to say,
He had to rush Santa there quite fast, he had to use the sleigh.

There were no magic reindeer to pull the sleigh that night
So Krampus used a pack of wolves, and held on quick and tight.

They made it to the hospital hoping, No one saw them fly
Krampus tried to stay real strong, he didn’t want to cry.

But when Santa went to surgery to see what could be done.
Krampus balled his eyes out, he just wanted to run.

He stated all night in the waiting room with all his fingers crossed
He swore he would make it to to him, no matter what the cost.

Finally the tooth fairy gave him A happy nod.
Santa would Be fine for now. Krampus thanked his God.

He didn’t really believe in God, there isn’t one, he knew,
But in that situation it just felt the right thing to do.

When he went into visit and to say his apologies,
He found the door was locked, and Santa’s father held the keys.

“be gone you **** Demon, I think you’ve done enough!
Mrs clause has gone to Santa’s flat to empty all your stuff! “

Krampus tried to speak but Santa senior cut him off.
“you are not to see my son again, you honey smelly goth!

He has a big bright future, a loving faithful life ahead,
And I swear, over my dead body will you be back inside his bed!

Now get the hell out of here, don’t show your face again,
Go crawl back to the tree stump hole, that sinfully minging den! “

Krampus really had messed up, and took all the comments thick,
Santa had said his dad was old fashioned, but not that he was a total ****!

In anger Krampus left and swore to never love again.
He felt embarrassed and ashamed, that he was into men.

For years he lived a quiet life but never found his calling
Until one Christmas eve he saw a flying sleigh that started falling.

He ran as fast as his houves could to catch the falling fatty
His clothes were old and smelly, ripped and frayed and all round tatty.

Luckily he managed just in time to save the man from dying
But he was not prepared to see his long lost love, and started crying.

Both of them just stood and hugged, thier love was truly magic
They both hated the fact that the outcome would always be quite tragic.

“you saved my life, my Mr. Smith, I knew you were not bad.
Maybe now I can put in a word and big you up to dad? “
So that’s what he did, he called him up, then put the story in writing.
Santa senior said “the only time you should see Krampus is when you two are fighting!

Don’t you see son, you are good, and he is bad to the bone,
The devil wants him to destroy Christmas and sit on an evil throne.”

Kramus was destroyed again, depressed and quite distraught,
But Santa cheered him up again with a wonderful devious thought.

“ if I am the good Christmas spirit and you and the spirit of bad,
I’m supposed to make the children happy... Then you should make them sad!

That way every Christmas eve when you try to steal their things
I will he forced to fight you, from the obligation it brings!”

So from that day on they both played their parts,
They kept up the charade till they were both old farts.

Even to this day people speak about the war
Between the good St. Nick and the Krampus *****.

Every now and then children swear that they hear,
The fighting raging louder as Christmas eve draws near.

But trust me when I tell you That when the winter air is biting.
The grunts and moans you think you hear, is surely not them fighting.

Like Romeo and Juliet their love is tragically mental.
But not as bad as the morning after their Christmas motel rental.

Because both of them will play the role but grin from ear to ear,
When they think of the night of passion they have, in December every year.


Christopher Mahood
@thepanicrooms

Oh my! I am so selfish
Do I have to confess this?
Of course
Oh No
Then I confess.

They came asking
That I may come close
I couldn't
I am sooo selfish
I thought they would take away
What does not belong to me
Mine and yet not mine.

I confess that I have a sticky hand
Not that I take
Because I can't give..............

Now! Wait a minute!
Am I supposed to be confessing this to you?
While you know who the owner is
Of what am afraid to give.

Tell me!
Do I have to give my love to anybody?
When it belongs to you.
Mine and yet not mine.
Oh! I confess that I am confessing.

you breathe me in
each stolen kiss
a sacred prayer
spilling from our lips
you say my name
and my blood sings for you,
evergreens blooming
through my ribcage
no moment
will ever be long enough
your fingers find my hair
crimson flames
dancing across water
your whispered confession
sealing my fate
as i scream your name
into the heavens
my own personal sermon
i will never be whole again;
for you have captured me
so entirely.

good things are twisted and reversed
in my mind and I don’t understand why
my brain poisons purity.

a compliment turns into
sarcastic pity,
a one word reply
a hateful confession
against me.
labored breathing,
no matter how innocent the cause
and I am back
to blurry blue bathroom floors
and a heart 300 decibels too high,
a heart that cares too much,
a heart so easily broken
that no one dares to try
to even get close anymore,
maybe for fear of breaking it
but much more likely for fear
that my poison
will leak
and every sweet situation
will be soured
with my apparent inability to function
the way I’ve been told I should.

The giving of a gift

What's this?
- I couldn't let you leave without...
You shouldn't have.
- I couldn't...
You didn't have to.
- I can't.

A failed apology

Can we talk for a minute?
- I really don't have the time.
I want to say something.
- I know.
I'm sorry.
- I know. I'm not.

A love confession**

I'm in love with you.
- Don't say things like that.
I'm in love with you.
- In love with what?
I'm in love with you.
- There's nothing to love here.

I told him my secret
Of the love that I've kept
Deep in my heart, from him.

I divulged all the details
Pouring out my soul of emotions
And serving my heart on a silver platter, to him.

At first the initial shock
Of telling all my desires
Showed on my face, but it was acceptable, to him.

He completely agreed
And understood my words
My poetic confession appealing, to him.

He loves me, he say's
And I love him
Which is exciting to me, and to him.

Now that the secret is out
The passion is unleashed
Which is entirely okay with me, and with him.

Where we stand is spiraling
Into a depth thought unreachable
And the idea is less terrifying, and more exhilarating to me, and maybe to him.

I've accessed intense emotions
That I thought were only for the insane
But maybe I'm crazy, to him.

I've opened my heart
Everything I am, spilling out
And it seems it is more than just a little something, to him.

I expect this to work out
Maybe for the long haul, I don't really know
That would be nice to me.. and maybe a little crazy, to him.

A little crazy never hurt anybody
At least it never hurts me
And clearly, that's okay with him.

Everything.
Everything's okay.

Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams

It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered

The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.

The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by  his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression

The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.