what you need to understand about me is that i am nothing more than misplaced passion and a pair of blindly swinging fists that tremble with unrighteous anger. so allow me to apologize in advance for the fires my subconscious starts. i am a clumsy compilation of ill-suited lines that will never see life in your poetry. at least, not like they used to. you are a book filled with with pictures i never got to take, and every day i am forced to sit idly by while she starts a new roll of film. the missile crisis reincarnate is inside my chest, so forgive me for not being able to control when i shake. forgive me for fumbling with syntax so crassly. i know better than to spew hate and call it poetry. please understand that the endless series of sinking ships in my head makes it difficult to form coherent thought. my thoughts, will **** me, if your absence doesn't first. i think about your hands more than i am proud to admit, and when i picture them reaching for her i feel so sick. i'm sorry. i am so sorry that i haven't yet learned how to moderate the volcano in my throat. i'm so sorry for spitting fire with my eyes closed. forgive me for confusing anger with bravery and burning down too many houses to count. in my misguided thirst for blood i weaponized memories and threw them like daggers in every direction, but the only one being hit is me. i am so tired of bleeding, i am tired of this one-sided war, i am tired of being a war. i tried so hard to be catharsis personified but i have to face the reality that my arms would only hold you like a grave. i loved you like rainwater, and lost you like time. you were never mine. you were never mine. you were never mine. i have to say that to myself every day because it eases the pain of watching you belong to anyone else. but i can't ignore the surplus of "what if's" wreaking havoc in my consciousness. i think that's why i get so angry when i picture you laughing with her instead of me. i am blocking out the memory of the night you told me my laughter could cure your sadness. ******* it. i am trapped in a nightmare where the walls of the home we built are lined with photographs of her. this is why i can't breathe at the thought of her smiling when the flash goes off. they say that nothing good stays; i have never been good at leaving, so i guess that makes sense. you once referred to me as an anxious mess you would spend the rest of your life cleaning up, and i can't get that out of my head. i hope you know, that after everything, i would still sit and collect dust on a shelf in your house forever, if that's what you wanted me to do. but i know it's not, so i'll go back to apologizing. i'm sorry that my rage doesn't have an off switch. i'm sorry for being a literal spitfire. i'm sorry for being an earthquake under her glass slippers. i'm sorry that my mouth is a loaded gun and that i have ****** aim. i swear to god i'm trying not to shoot so often but this is one of the hardest things i have ever done. so until i learn control i will burn in silence with the safety on.  

- m.f.

A nerd bitten by the charity bug,
Spoke of slum children’s education
And shining darkness in their eyes.
In the shanties ,the water flows
Like a shadow in cloudy daylight
And smells bad to the kind rich.
My check glistens in the dark
Like a meteorite on a dark night
In the next moment it vanishes
In the depths of hunger and belly.
Other men have fat bank accounts
But are spiritual for soul-hunger.
Poetry sounds crassly out of place-
One would wish the black sewer
Is not talked about in prose as well.

Illusions come in many forms, many guises.
They often take shape, many forms many sizes.
A blank canvas or blank slate
our minds create
--children of our imagination.
Identities bulldozed by need
we rush to plant the seed
to quickly take its form,
tender and loving
or lustful and cunning
we miss the deception
see only reflection
and crassly miss the person
beneath its shackles.
The canvas a prison
is passive, not active
releases its captive
to our great surprise.
"I thought that you loved me"
"and how could you hurt me?"
with sorrowful tone
we cry "I'm alone."
The romance is ended
the love you defended
was never to be
you just could not see--
and somewhere we see them
departing in freedom
but often we miss the whole point.
True love's not possessing,
will not be repressing,
will not be demanding
nor will it be binding.
True love will empower
does not make one cower
it gives us the strength
to be happy and free.
And should you still ponder
the nature of wonder
be troubled no more
just open the door
let jealousy burn
And if they return
your joy will be great
for it is your fate
that they'll leave you no more.

J. Sandy

crassly clashing
diametric opposites
seething hostility paints tar-stained walls
coated against cold indifference
interfering ideologies cause pause
cryptic clauses calculate circumstance
vs.
significance
symbiotic relationships deteriorate
puddles of love remains…unwashed
free-flowing determination
wrestles mindlessly
paraphrasing haphazardly
seeking direction

Thereupon the graveyard hill
The moonlight, the **** arrest me still
The forms that clasp my hands and will
Stood there as I stared into the dark.

Frightful, there, as I wasted merely
Watch Sol retreat, my beloved dearly
Left me to the crest of moon, so dreary
Whilst came the eve and her baleful art.

What emerged there I could not tell
Some ghastly mist wash’d ‘pon the knell
I knew I stood where haunts do dwell
And awaited my life, me, to thusly part.

In the dark of mind, of eyes
The visions growled with bitter despise
They laughed and mocked my bitter cries
Which rang in the frost’d dark.

From shifting tombs I heard a blast
And saw there distant the teeth that gnash
But stayed so far as my vision cast
And retreated from time to their glassy plots.

Left there was no hellish waste
But dazzling auroras in its place
So the earth mirror’d constellated grace
Here on ground, or aether was I not.

The sleepy moon produced a harp
And bid the winds to sing their part
To lift me from, to effulging stars
While forms spectate in intended spots.

The chiming bells and blissful psalms
Were to me some transcendent alms
And left their glitter in my eyes’ palms
Which refused the word, remained as thought.

Therein I saw my wrongs turned right
That evil in the dark is born of the light
And infernal black is at first white
That what I’ve feared was sun-taught.

I ran, then, from the graveyard hill
Whilst ‘cross the valley the dawn did spill
Crassly, the sun, the shades’ home fill
Leaving me blind just as at the start.

Set, did I, my pen to make
The beauties witnesses, tho’ too late
The ebon innocuous still to this date
I lost them, lost them as I stare into the light as tho’ the dark.

You are something I'm not sure about
     like why leaves sometimes fall and sometimes float
     or waves sometimes break and sometimes don't.

The sound of us trickles in the streams I pass.
It's in the steady beat of feet and concrete
and it's the quiet refusal of moss to make a single sound as two feet pound.
     But another pair might make a sound? Wake the ground? If I churn out rhymes will you get in line?

I'm a single set of feet
crassly attached to a fog and wind and atmosphere of you.
For you are as present as the hawks that circle and the fog that rests
and equally hard to touch.

Latin Mortality

People coping carelessly,
Dissociating, crossly, staring crassly,
Stilled in fantasy and logic phallusies,
Yet time ticks and life leaks,

Money makes me more,
Under false guise of one who seeks,
Love, height, esteem, sight, seeking a dream,
Bulky bags, brimming bucks, books and buffets,

Broad, full or empty,
Doesn’t matter the stacked inventory,
It’s how the items are used,
Momento Mori,

Was your energy used efficiently?
Will you grow in elegance and prosperity?
Effortless legacies echoing down corridors of time,
What will you be remembered for?

Are you fine with what you’ve left unsaid?
Who you’ve led or wed?
Who you’ve fed a lie or made cry?
Always remember you will die,

Ten good deeds?
A score?
Does it outweigh the dark?
Do you care which heavenly bells hark?

Strong formidable, body healthy,
A traumatized mind stares at a reflection,
That of a skeleton,
Drained, caned, infamy preordained,

Bogged down by mental mortal chains,
Social strains, driving him insane,
Perspectively it will never end,
Even death is just another time encapsulated den,

Forever adding details,
To a undefined gory story,
Forever and always,
Momento Mori...

Dark grounds. Sharp moon.
He slips between the gates.
Welcome to St-Columba Cemetery:
Home of William Butler Yeats.

A graverobber,
scanning for the famous,
straying through the stones.
After all, shame has never homegrown.

He lumbers, he hungers
hoping to scavenge Death’s dinner.
Any sense of light getting
thinner and thinner.

At last,
our famous poet is found.
Whose steps may stomp on holy ground.
Dear Morrissey surely would be proud.

With dusk still looming,
he stands over casket defiant.
Crassly exhuming
the body of a giant.

Now, years begone.
His sun having set on many lawn.
His songs now carried to the grave
Another poet yet to be made.

©PMcCoywrites

When she acts like she’s calm.
She takes her time.
Before she begins to spread her alms.
Uncovering her true colours.
Let her be her true colours.
Let her be free.
All round the aisle she farts;
'cause she feels free.
She smiles so suddenly like the sun.
These are her truest arts.
When she uncovers her true colours;
you’re half safe.
When she covers her colours;
you're crassly unsafe.
Don’t make her seem serious.
When all she needs is to be free.

Yelling at cows
To communicate
Don’t
It’s the nothing to eat
And the nothing
You won’t
It’s illiterate faith
In a written conviction
Submission
To sheepishness
Meek superstition
Conditions of living
Look closer to death
It’s traditions
Of giving
Largesse
Dispossessed
It’s a kid without shoes,
Without pants,
Without soap
It’s his future
Still stuck
In the past
Without hope
It’s a rope
Swaying from
The back-breaking
Day labor
When seasonal yields
Don’t appease
The slave trader
It’s nature sustained
In humane
Sorts of ways
Yet its plagues
Of malaise
No known substance
Allays
It’s ablaze
With the wasted,
Mismanaged,
Degraded
Potential surpluses
From scarcely
Translated
Inveterate cultural norms
Antiquated
To progress outpacing
Its status updated
It’s really just sad
In explicit
Indignity
Vapid morasses
Morose
In its imagery
Lacking in prose
Like its tax inefficiency’s
Masses of *******
Classless delinquency
Crassly harassing
All those it sees differently
Yes just
Synonymous with
A simplicity
Virulent in
Its immuno-deficiency

Holly smokes a packet a day
and it makes her voice sound raspy-
but business can’t stop you from being a babe,
but these babes just ain’t that classy-
and you can shake what your momma gave ya
and get all that you need crassly
but that can’t stop the people from starting to say
“I think that girl gets nasty”.