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Simon Obirek Apr 2016
Hanging in space,
suspended in nothingness,
tiny little cubes
with rounded edges
glistening brightly
like bulbs;
they're moments.

Some moments are nice
and some worth writing about.
The best moments **** time;
Earth spins slowly,
your bones tilt
your guts twist
and then it's over
like blown-out candles
just like that.

The tiny little cubes are snapshots,
they capture the moments
and they won't shake them after they come out.
The cubes are collages
of your entire life
of the feelings you've felt
the experiences you've had
and your love wrote a cute note at the bottom of the picture.

The tiny little cubes go unnoticed
by most people
but you.
However,
the moments still exist
as long as there are someone
to remember them.
Mitchell Duran Dec 2012
She stood up against the wooden bar lit by a stale football field that shined florescent green and highlighted polyester blue like a muse of Van Gogh or Galileo. Her hair ran down the nape of her neck like a ****** waterfall and the light of the bar highlighted her sphinx like eyes as she turned and caught his eye. He stood at a small table away from the main bar with a couple of friends who were telling stories of their old college days and he, half-listening, quickly looked away, faking to scratch his eye, for he knew he had been caught looking at the back of her and she, with her women's intuition of being observed and knowing this, kept looking and he knowing the only way not to show he had been caught was to look away quickly and very obviously; like a bad actor caught dumb and silent, clueless of their next line. They blushed and shared the heat of embarrassment in their cheeks with the sounds of worn dollar bills slapping hard against the smooth wood of the bar, the bar man eyeing it angrily as cigarette smoke surrounded them and slowly drifted up like a lost soul toward the ceiling and the piano man, eyes tight shut played for everyone there when no-one cared to listen, all underneath the dim light of the bar as they strained to look away from one another, trying to find something they could put their focus upon, but, at the same time, wanting very much to look back and have their eyes meet by mistake all over again.

He focused on the design of the bathroom placards that were in the right corner of the tiny bar where you had to turn sideways and touch shoulder's with every soul inside just to get a drink. He feigned interest in the bronze design of the men's bathroom: a tiny boy looking down at his pecker as he ****** a 1/2 inch thick stream into what the man gathered to be a sunflower ***. The boy was thrusting his hips forward, both of his hands on his side, and he showed no smile, no grin of satisfaction or victory, just a stark, blank face, as if he were thinking "I am peeing in this ***. That is all." The women's bathroom sign was of a young girl with the same kind of *** the boy had been ******* in, but it was missing the sunflower and was replaced by the *** of the girl. She stared up into the sky and into the ceiling lights and was dramatically reaching for a butterfly or bird - he couldn't make out which - something with wings and made him think of a basic metaphor that this poor little girl just wants to get off the *** and be free like the birds and butterflies and clouds in the wide blue sky.

She focused on the man's shoes. She looked at the black shine and the pristine black shoe laces, all looking like everything had just been purchased that day. "There is not a single scuff on them and the way this man cuffs his pants only a single turn," she thought to herself, "Tells me he has something of a style on him". Not so run of the mill. Something special. Something of interest.* But then, she was annoyed by the cuff of the pants because she remembered that was what all the schoolboys in her prep school would do when the day was rainy or the boys rode their bikes home from school or they were nerds. The memory immediately turned her off of the man all together, but luckily, she put her gaze back on the jet-black, seemingly un-touched leather that told her success, class, and security.

The man heard a loud Cheer's!" from his table, abruptly bringing him out of his distraction. He was forced to turn and as he did, he made sure not to look up. He kept his eyes on the table and looked for the half-full beer with the worn Budweiser coaster underneath it. He could see from the his top periphery that she was still facing him but she was looking down at something toward the floor. He fumbled with his large hands for his glass and panned his eyes up slightly. The woman, seeing the movement at the table, looked up. She stared back to where she had first caught him looking at her and waited. The man felt her looking at him and in the same instant, saw the faded Budweiser coaster and reached for his beer. He picked the glass up and as the second Cheer! was yelled, he clashed his glass against all the others, all the while keeping his head not toward his friend's faces, but turned in the direction of the bar toward the girl. He smiled at her as he lowered his glass, not taking a drink. His friend slapped him on the back and told him," You gotta' drink after the cheers or its bad luck," and so he did, still staring dumbly at her as he did. She nodded at him with a self-conscious and embarrassed grin, raised her nearly gone low-ball glass of gin and tonic and tipped it toward him and turned around to face the bar.

"I"ll stand here and wait for him to come up to me," she thought, "And if he doesn't the man is a coward and a louse and not worth my time. I have looked twice now and there is some rule in some magazine that I read somewhere, that if you look twice at a man that it is sign, not a coincidence. No, it has a purpose and though I barely know what reason I want this man to look at me other then to get a drink out of him and maybe some conversation, I am certain I have looked twice, maybe even three times. Yes. I have looked at him and I have made my interest known and now I must wait for him to either come or stay with his drunken friends. They look like frat boys cheering like that. They look like drunken, silly frat boys that wouldn't know the first thing about chivalry. Hell, they probably couldn't even spell the ****** word." She laughed under her breath and smiled maliciously to herself and caught her own reflection in the mirror and, for an moment, wanted to quickly look away. Her face did not frighten her, for she was a beautiful woman, not her skin, which was milky white with the faintest and gentlest dash of rouge on each cheek, nor her chocolate colored curls that bounded like boulder's down a hillside. She turned away from a look upon her eye she had not seen or had recognized in a very long time. Her eyes were frightened.

"Frightened?" she wondered.

The man put his beer glass on the table on top of the coaster. The foam rested at the bottom of the cup like the thin layer of ice that blows over a frozen lake, barely there at all passing with the wind. He stared at her back and liked how she leaned on her right hip and put the toe of her left high-heel to the ground, rocking the nose of the shoe back and forth like she was thinking about something playfully frivolous. Behind him, the noise of his friends became a hollow echo, drowned out by the draw of this woman. She swung her left heel back and forth like a pendulum trying to hypnotize him. Someone touched his shoulder but he shrugged the hand away as in this echo chamber he could only hear the music change tracks on the juke box. The song had changed to an old Ottis Redding song and there was nothing else in the world that he wanted to listen to in that moment. As he watched her, leaning into the bar seemingly all alone, no boyfriend or girlfriend in sight, he saw her raise her glass to the barman and knew she had something by the gentle nod of the back of her head. He then saw her point with her left finger and tap the rim of the glass. Her drink was empty. She wanted another drink. He would buy her another drink.

"There is nothing in this world that a man is more responsible for than getting a woman like this a drink," he nodded, thinking to himself and trying to pick up his courage,"One that plays with my heart like a kitten would a spool of yarn, and yet also like a vulture who would peck out the eyes of a dead man in the desert. This is nothing more then that obligation. A rule passed down from man to man, from age to age, where chivalry was not for the base reason to lay with the woman, but to honor them, praise them lightly as the rain from a heavy mist and show them to the pedestal every woman, whether they wish to admit it or not, do wish for, sincerely do at least once in there life." He readjusted his belt and realigned his shirt that had gotten crooked after the celebratory cheer and thought some more,"I'm not going to do that here, this pedestal stuff. This is more like a step toward that pedestal. Yes. A step toward the shrine she wants to trust she deserves and will one day end up on. And this shrine is all cast and painted in the blurry french film noir of dream, is it not? Aren't dreams the only thing we hope to one day come true? How often - when and if they do come true - they can sometimes disappoint and eventually turn sour like a bad orange. I hope she is drinking and that wasn't just a tonic water. If this woman doesn't drink I don't think any of this will be worth anything at all."

She stood there serene and angelic, the hand that held her drink now resting on the base of the bar. Behind the man, he heard the chatter of his friends and the drone of football scores and player updates coming from the ten or more televisions that hung from the ceiling. Someone reached out to touch his shoulder but missed him as he left the table. His name then echoed behind him but soon the sound evaporated as dew does that rests on blades of grass in a summer morning to a summer afternoon. There was only her and her smell that had drifted to his table and shrouded him with the scent of white chocolate and smoke and her delicate, porcelain hand that had held up the drink shyly but not weakly, in passing demand without that demanding quality drunk people can get like at bars sometimes. He approached her, hovered behind her, but she did not turn, and then came up to the bar to lean into. He did not turn to look at her, though he wanted to very badly, but looked down at her low-ball glass with two half-melted ice cubes and a used lime. The smell of gin came from the glass and the man smiled to himself and put his hand up to signal the bartender.

"If this man orders his drink first and walks back to that table with all of his drunken friends, I am giving up men all together," the woman thought to herself," * Tonight and forever! If he can put his hand up and not even turn to look at me, as I was doing, I thought, to be very flirtatious but gentle, then I see no reason at all to keep going with men. They are barbarians that only want to eat, drink, sleep, and fornicate with women that are easy and provide no real challenge at all in their life. If he wants it easy, he can have it as easy as he wants, but not with me. No sir. Not with me ever. Not with me for a night, an hour, a minute, or even a second."

The bartender, a stout slightly overweight man that was a little over forty with streaks of grey in his thin, short-cut hair, looking very much like he should be home reading with a nice cup of tea by his side rather than in the bar serving drinks to stranger's, approached the man and asked him what he would like.

"Two gin and tonics please," the man said, "With a slice of lime and four ice-cubes in each."

"And what kind of gin, sir?"

The man turned to the woman, "What label do you drink?" he asked.

"Pardon me?" she stuttered startled, her eyebrows raised.

"Your drinking gin, aren't you?" He nodded his head toward the woman's empty glass. The tiny lines of transparent lime skin floated on top of the water that had gathered from the melting ice-cubes.

"Yes, I am. I was just about to order."

"I'll get this round and you'll get the next one."

"Any gin is fine."

The man turned to the bartender," Tanqueray, please bartender."

He nodded and went to make the drinks.

"Your very perceptive," the woman said as she turned to face him.

"I try."

"I saw you from across the bar, but was afraid to walk up to your table for fear of getting ambushed by all of your friends. Those are your friends, right?"

"Yes," he nodded as he looked over his shoulder at them, "Old college friends all with old stories of college that, truthfully, bring me little or no joy to even hear."

"Then why come at all?" she asked, "You seem smart enough to know that if you meet up with old anything, you'll be hearing about the old times all night."

"I was forced to come."

"Someone getting divorced?"

"No," he laughed, "The opposite. Married."

"Well, I hope it's not you or this would look very bad if your fiance walked in."

"And why's that?"

She clicked her tongue and turned to look at the shelves stocked with every kind of liquor. The bottles reflected the soft orange glow of the lights that circled the bar and the colors of the television screens. The man continued to look at the woman who had turned her back on him and caught their reflection in a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He waited for a response, but she stood there silent, knowing she was playing with him. Behind him, his friends were growing louder and a tray of shots had found its way to their table. The waitress who had brought the drinks, polite and with a smile, asked them to try and keep it down. They shouted "YES'S and screamed "YEAH'S" with moronic smiles on their faces, their heads nodding up and down like a dog playing fetch. The waitress giggled a thank and walked away shaking her head with disgust when she was out of sight.

"Well," she said,"You did just order two gin and tonics and I think if your fiance walked in with you chatting with me with the same drink in both of our hands, I think she would be a little upset. I know I would be."

"Perhaps we could act like we are old grammar school friends and just happened to run into one another?"

"Well, that would be a lie."

"Yes, that would be a lie."

"Which would mean we were hiding something from said wife."

"And what would that be?"

"That you approached me after I looked at you, perhaps the look from me wasn't flirtatious, maybe I thought you looked familiar, like I had seen you somewhere, and you came up to me and ordered me a drink and started a conversation with me, much like we are doing right now."

"What's wrong with conversation?" The bartender approached them and placed the two drinks in front of the man. The man took out his wallet without losing his gaze on the woman, took out a twenty and slid it toward the bartender. The bartender took the twenty, paused for a moment to see if the man wanted any change, but left when he saw he didn't want any by not moving.

"Conversation can lead to very dangerous things," the woman said playfully and wise.

"Your here by yourself and your not stupid; someone is going to come up to talk to you."

"And your that somebody?"

"I'm sure I'm not the first one tonight."

"Your sweet."

"I try," he said as he slid the drink over to here,"Your drink."

"What should we drink too?" She asked and raised her glass, the light above them reflecting in the ice-cubes and thick glass of the high-ball.

"Conversation," he said proudly and with a smile, "And the danger that it brings."

They clinked their glasses together, their eyes never leaving one another, and they both took a long drink.

"I'm not here with anybody and I'm not expecting anybody tonight either," the woman said.

"What's your name?"

"Why?"

"I want to be able to tell my friends I met a very interesting woman, but they won't believe me if I don't give them a name."

"I'm standing right here, silly. Go and tell them you met the most interesting woman in your entire life, look over at me when they ask you what my name is, then point over to me and I'll wave."

"You'll be here?"

"I'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Go, go, go," she repeated, pushing him back toward his table, "You bought me a drink, didn't you? The least I can do is wave to your drunken college friends."

The man walked back to his table, glancing quickly over his shoulder, trying to hide it, before he reached the table. He arrived to all of them drunk, beer spilt on the table and an ashtray full of punched out cigarettes and ground up cigars. Every one of them were rocking back and forth with each other, their arms sloppily hung around their neighbor's shoulders, their eyes blood shot with their mouth half-cracked open barely breathing in the smoky, beer smelling air. The man struggled to wedge his way into the circle, and when he did, he tried to get the groups attention by screaming an
Don Brenner Oct 2010
A rhombus is my favorite, crooked square.
I like haunted houses with windows with faces
and fun houses with mirrors that oval circles
that distort my body two hundred degrees.

I like haunted houses with doors at right angles,
and half moon neon protractors
that blur every shape zero degrees.  
I like cubes I stack four cubes high.

I like half moon neon protractors
and scientific calculators.
I like cubes I stack ten cubes high
and old houses with ceilings that creak.

I like scientific calculators
and dividing eight billion by pi.
I like old houses with ceilings that creak
with cylindrical cans filled with old beets.

I like dividing eight billion by pi
and fun houses with mirrors that stretch right angles.
I like old houses with crooked windows,
like I said a rhombus is my favorite.
2010
Jaxey Oct 2018
I wish I could freeze my happiness
In little ice cubes
So when I'm having a bad day
I can just pop one in my mouth
And let it melt my worries away.
Let me melt with you
RabidPoet Mar 2010
"Red Cubes"

Floating against a dark gray
Red Cubes slowly turning
Predicting the Future
Exposing the Past
Against my Protest

...r
Adam Piercy Dec 2012
I walk into my office/abode, closing the door behind me. It's 9:00 PM. Well, 9:03 PM. I sit down at my desk and open my laptop, placing a tall glass of diet cola on the mouse pad next to the computer as a make-shift coaster. Three ice cubes float in the bubbling blackness. I've found two ice cubes won't make your beverage cold quickly enough, while four ice cubes will overpower it — water it down. You can't have that. It's got to be three ice cubes.

I open up my word processor to a new document. I've got to write something — this blank rectangular expanse has haunted me for long enough. I type some gibberish, then delete it. What do I want to write? I remember reading somewhere you're supposed to write what you like.

I minimize the page and open the Internet. No new emails. I could watch **** for a bit. I've always preferred the "amateur" videos because the people in them resemble actual people. You know, the guy's a little overweight, and the girl's got excessive arm hair, or a weird mole. He mounts her from behind, sweating profusely. Their bodies jiggle for ten or fifteen minutes. There's no eye contact, but you can tell they're in love. The TV's on. The guy looks up at it sporadically. Maybe makes a face at the cell phone he's filming his ******* on. The picture quality is low, and the audio is pretty tinny, but you can usually make it out all right. I saw this one video of a guy and a girl getting it on and some other dude was there filming it. You could tell it was an amateur video because she was kind of weird-looking. But, like, did he ask his buddy to come back to the motel with this chick he picked up and film them *******?

No, I can't get behind all that glossy, glamourous, professional ****. There's too much Botox and plastic surgery. They look too good. And it's all fake, too. These people have *** for a living. Watching them go at it, it just feels empty. They're not really into it. And I don't know if seeing guys with twelve-packs and ten inch ***** invokes a certain inferiority complex in me or what it is, but I know I just don't care for it.

Okay. Back to the writing. Now, what do I like to write? I like action movies, so... how about... a serial killer. No, a contract killer. So it's a serial, contract killer who... but there has to be some sort of conflict. Okay, a serial contract killer who falls in love with... but there needs to be something that makes it unique. Something unique that sets it apart. So how about he... or she?... she falls in love with...

I wonder if I have any new messages on Plenty of Fish. Maybe that cute brown-haired Asian-looking girl responded to me. What does "D2F" mean?

No, she hasn't. Well, when did I send the message? Yesterday night? Let's see when she was last online...

Today, at 4:13 PM.

Ah.

Well, maybe she just didn't notice it.

Yeah. That's it.

Maybe the target falls in love with the killer. Maybe they meet early on and they hit it off or something at some swanky soirée. And then... she's hired to **** him. Or her. Yeah, that could be interesting: a lesbian contract killer. Never seen that before. But she's got to be hot. Yeah. Not like the monster Cameron Diaz played in that movie... Monster. But who hires her? Her husband? Yeah, that might work. But would he **** her for being a *****? Or maybe... she stole something from him. Some money. Or she found out he's a criminal, and she's gonna squeal.

Lesbian **** is interesting. Especially when they use the strap-on thing. But I don't know why they **** on it first. I mean, it's just plastic. Maybe they know it's mostly going to be guys watching it. Who knows.

But seriously, why would that cute Asian girl not respond to my message? Her profile did say "msg me :)", after all. Her profile said her favourite book is Fight Club. I think she meant the movie. I wrote "haha ya brad pitt is the shiiit". I don't know. I never know what to write in those messages. I always feel obligated to say something about their profile so they know I didn't just look at their pictures.

I'm good-looking, aren't I? I've had girlfriends. I've had *** a bunch of times. I haven't had *** in a while, but... okay, so I don't have a six-pack, but I go to the gym. I just get so anxious with all those muscly dudes walking around. Maybe I should get a private trainer.

I need more diet cola. No, wait — no more soda. Maybe all that aspartame is messing with my head. Anyway. Back to the contract killer. How many pages do I have? Six. Well, the average movie is about a hundred minutes, and if one page equals one minute in screen time, I'm only... oh look, I got a new email.

Stef341 has responded to your message.

"not my type, sorry"

Huh.

Well, whatever. Fight Club is a stupid movie anyway. How are Brad Pitt and that other guy supposed to be the same guy? That doesn't make any sense.

Back to the script. I need a title. Every good movie has a good title. How about The Lesbian Killer? No, that's too risqué. Nothing with lesbians in the title. This is a serious movie. With a lot of passion. Maybe a *** scene or two. Whatever, I'll just call it The Contract Killer. Starring Cameron Diaz.
JR Rhine Jan 2017
I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.
Your coldness smells refreshing, do your ice cubes contain alcohol?
Went for a few beers after work and also got a meal in the pub and with the meal comes this really really cold glass of water with non melted ice cubes in it, the sensation of cold air being sniffed is beautiful in its change to the nostril and other senses (such as the skin contact against the cold liquidy glass). The question at the end is just a wanting for the water to get me drunk. :-)
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
We are heating up
A-glow--- A-star--- A-blaze
Many other well-lit planets
She's luminous like no other
Simply crazed__Fairytales

*She's Peach-Fruitti-Tutti
Godiva loves nuts
All the melt in's
*
Mr. Bacio-Hazelnut*
Mr. Pistacchio he got his nose______

Inside their sweets____Pinnochio
She's the Light-up Icecream Cone  

Moods are like ice cubes
hot and cold websites
I prefer cold zone
Feeling like
Eskimo in Alaska


Miss Prima Donna
Oh! Donna is her name
Gelatos are not all the same
We are not here to have
special privileges

Robin lost some ruffles
Polar bears ice Igloo
College boys with their sports mug
Polo shirts Santa hoo duffle bags
We don't know what she knows
or what he likes the stars
of the Cosmo we are not
here to win someone's love
OH! Yes Lotto

We are not professors or wizards
Harry Potters, they have some
Pots not a fan of pans got
some ****
**** so cool menthol smoke indeed
Around the Gelato in eighty days
The Race of a drive

computer clicks one-day creation flag
Hens and chicks laid the golden egg

Mr. Egghead meeting Conehead

His tasters choice  
 She loves Mr. Maxwell Mansion
This is Italy the Art sculptures
Sweet Gelato lips say a
thousand words of pleasure
We travel with Exotic lovebirds
Saving the Ice blue diamond
Icecream wreck what a she
gains more than a pound
Mama Mia,
not the Chia job plant
 Over the rainbow
chill out pants
Having Gelato clean
as mint float

To the waffle cone top
of the mountain sugar coat
Niagara Falls here
"Gelato calls"

What spaghetti my name is
Carretti

Mr. Alfredo his physique and
passion for food
Feeling like the comics
Having fun marveling
Carvel walking through
the love tunnel
  
Hot ladies how do they ever
Decide iced up inside

Hothead Alfredo throws
the dough
She coughs he laughs
The pizza everyone's
the head is turning beet red
Something is burning exorcist,
Lady in red pizza list

Back in Brooklyn best
Pizza and Italy (Rome) Venice (Florence)
But Bensonhurst Saturday night fever
With Nightingale Mr. Chippendale
He's chatting away on his cell phone

With her Gelato looking at the
stars of the men spiritual experience
The Cosmos feeling meltdown presence
St Thomas sunny like yellow
gelato melting

Being a saint please don't faint
A food critic dessert
*** a hex playful flirt
T Rex mighty green lime
The love fallout of coconut
He's the hottest man
on earth Pluto
Being whole flavor or 1/2 pint
of Vanilla Sky scholar or
Intermission Icecream internship
The Canadian cup another trip

  Nike air what an ice cream pair
Going back to New York City
Rockettes icecream kick
He's on his time feeling the royalty
Lets bow to the dogs best friend
French barrette in her ice blue
Corvette, she is 'Ice Queen"
Super Ice me, Hero

Do what the Romans do
Lend me your warm soul of hands
Getting married Italian medieval rings
For my next Gelato adventure
escape be polite on Google
Mr. Alfredo loves all kinds of noodle
The shape of Cone's to come in her head

Not an Antman, please or fly by night
Icecream Cone Head Batman
*But I am a woman named Robin
Christopher Robin, Robin Hood
Why are boys and girls name alike
**** good humor lady
Good humor truck
Where is her order head chef
shrimp scampi
In the islands of Sorrento

What a time for ironing
What a waffle shirt eating
his waffle
Icecream with ladybugs and dirt
So many varieties mental thing
Everything icecream you scream
What a college Varsity every year  
"Hot lady Gelato's" head of the dean
list oh! No
[Mr. Alfredo} ice cream chair with
another Gelato pair
Chiao for now
Gelato went a little too far I love Gelato lets travel with Robin and get some unbelievable Gelato but we need to go to Italy I was there it's amazing
Allen Wilbert Oct 2013
*****

I like *****, I like ****,
before you touch, you must get permits.
Nothing like a nice pair of assets,
oh how puppies make nice pets.
Bazongas are ***** that are large,
strippers and hookers, will always charge.
Nothing like the perfect *****,
but only on the perfect woman.
******* are yummy dark or white,
but first you must wait for an invite.
Some girls even have a third ******,
do not squeeze says Mr. Whipple.
I don't mind girls on the itty, bitty, ***** committee,
on a carpenters dream, I show no pity.
They could be called a bust, some call them cans,
a woman's squeeze box, all men are fans.
Chesticles is a term I have never heard,
but everyday, I learn a new word.
I like cones, I like jugs,
girls with big ones, I give hugs.
Al Bundy loved calling them *******,
at the restaurant, I wish I was one of the recruiters.
A girl with a nice set of knockers,
might find herself with unwanted stalkers.
Fergie sang about her lovely lady lumps,
a good set of melons, still give me goose bumps.
***** always come in a pair,
why do bra's, they have to wear.
Even men who smoke lots of crack,
still can appreciate a good sized rack.
I don't care if there fake or real.
in a crowded room, I always cop a feel.
Girls love showing off some cleavage,
I wish I lived in a ***** village.
Babies need breast milk to make them stronger,
if the mom is hot, they may do it longer.
In conclusion, I love *****,
with whipped cream or melting ice cubes.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
well... just one of those times...
going for a refill of ice-cubes
in my glass...
in the thick of night...
an addict like any (happy to
be one, somehow i'm
able to live with other people),
and so the slow trance...
striding toward the fridge,
in a house clad by night...
dancing... jigging,
whatever the cool kids are saying
(only now, can a 30 year old
sound so out of date as a 70 year old)...
wow! check out my wriggling
up-right...
            that *** ****...
walking for a refill of ice cubes
grooving to salt n pepa's push it...
  must be akin
to something akin to the scenes
under an Aztec temple...
you know, that over-powering
sight of engaging in capital punishment...
    oh man,
now i got the moves,
   and pet names for pets that don't
exist...
    move me to Poland and i can
switch off the "addict" in an instant
and remain free of ***** for 30 days...
     i'm actually blaming it on
the environment...
     these isles ensured the very few a good.
i got the salt n pepa dance
to the fridge for some ice cubes...
    as ever, a party, and finally it's
no longer a frankfurter-fest!
    the best one you can have: solo,
and the amphetamine thrid-person
bypass that would require a publisher
and a profit motive for writing on white.
beautiful... absolutely beautiful.
Roy Esnarom Mar 2015
heart shaped ice cubes
always makes me sad
as gently as i hold them
they always melt and fade

i should'v been born colder
around 12/4/10

moved here from wordthingies on blogspot
Tara Sep 2018
Watching the colour drain out of someone’s face,
like ice cubes melting shades out of your coffee.
Branches falling off your favourite tree,
foreshadowing its winter death,
but you pretend you don’t know.

Watching someone you love fall over the same step each time,
like they see a ghost every time they turn left,
so they keep turning left,
And they scream “Why is it always going wrong?”

Watching your brother beat himself black and blue,
like the kids used to do at school,
And now all he recognizes is his beaten back and bleeding knuckles,
but he is so much more than the pain he holds in his hands.

I’ve been watching you break bridges with your voice since I was a child.
I’ve been watching you use fists to communicate since I was a child.
I’ve been watching you self-medicate since I was a child.
I learned from the best,
don’t you see?

Watching you love a woman made me angry,
maybe I knew all along she’d only leave a knife in your back,
after you stabbed her in the front.
At least she saw you coming right?

Watching you break down made me fall apart,
maybe I was hoping I’d become strong,
but watching you suffer felt like being suffocated.
Yet you were the only one suffocating.

Watching you not exist in my life the way you used to took a part of me away.
It’ll never be the same again.
Do you remember all the days we spent doing nothing,
but doing nothing together?
I felt so alive.

I’m watching myself search for you in everyone I meet,
just to get some pieces of you back.
I’m watching myself run away from the person you are,
but I’ve been stuck in quicksand since you left.
I’m watching myself drown as I realize how quickly life changes,
and how quickly it ends.
Why am I so dif-fer-ent?
They say I’m out of touch.
Why am I, ple-nar-ily sad?
This life it hurts so much.
And why do they come, come every day?
Shush, quiet now, they’re here.
Those awful tormentors of my soul all cackling and queer!
Whirling head of spinning revolutions,
…feel my stomach ache and pang.
Why will they not leave me alone?
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

I shouldn’t always feel like this, feel such solemn pain,
…troubling and trouble is these birds are driving me insane!
I’m screaming now! I’m mad with rage! Throwing ice cubes at my deck,
“Go away! Yes, go away!” -their numbers must be kept in check.
Blackhole-whirl, flying twirling darkness, their funnel it points to me-e-e-e-!
For too many is too painful and my mind’s a constant wreck!
One cannot think with those infernal be-e-e-asts,
...and the crazy song they sang.
Why do they so punish me?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

I know they serve the Saturn’s wheel and now they’ve come for me.
What did I do? Oh what great sin, oh the blackbirds from within;

The Abyssimal Sea?

Their whirlpool funnel is all around, as my harried soul, it expiates.
I’m done-in; I’m over now, a sorely victim of the Fates!
They took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
Why could they not leave me alone?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

If you find yourself all alone and mired in their thought,
…do not think, extirpate, all the human damage that you’ve wrought.
His flock of fledgling melancholy musical formation,
…will take you away and straight to Hell; the Seventh Circle congregation!
For they took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
And they will not leave you alone.
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.
The primary reason I came to Hello Poetry is that every single publishing house I could find on the internet rejected every poem I sent them. Since my work is deemed to be worth nothing I gave it all to you for free. It seems that in a digital world where people can share this easily there will always be more content available for free than for a fee. One would think publishers would know this. I have seen some seriously good poetry here and some pieces that are extraordinary.
Just an equation,
A Simple theorem.
A little misbehaviour,
Outside the decorum.
.
I add and provide,
Hoping we never divide.
At the geometry, I stare
Just a mindfuck of a square.
.
A slight cross multiplication,
To bond upon this attraction.
To help develop the postulates.
Of your mere subtraction.
.
I integrate & derive,
It's the formulae I'm deprived
Of. The questions always lead to me and you.
I always end up in my four sided cube.
- Aks, in math classes.
I need to stop doing math.
I like to chew ice cubes.
My brother thinks it's because I'm an anemic.
Not really sure what that means.
But maybe I am sick.
Because the reason I like to chew ice cubes,
Is because it makes me feel numb again.
Idk. I should be sleeping but I'm too anxious.
Tex Dermott May 2015
Leaves
Cease
Falling
Bluebirds sing
Winter slips away
Drinking soda filled with ice cubes
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton.
Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started
Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my
Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston
Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks
Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own
Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between
My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit.

Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to
Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks.

"Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes *******. I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers.

Wednesday is my day for telling the truth.
2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado.
"I have something I have to tell you,"  I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.
Written For Jeff Sherfey
Jeremy Duff Jun 2015
Body

Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.

Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.

Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.

****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.

Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, *******, *******.
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.



Frequent ******* and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)
punk rock hippy Jul 2014
5.
I drop four ice cubes into my coke out of habit.
I kiss my sweet love four times for good luck so our team can win the game.
I catch myself counting to four when Im ready to speak up, I don't count to three or even ten I count to four.

It was on my back in big white letters when dad looked through the chain linked fence and said with every ounce of his pride "Take it for a ride lex."
That's the day I got my first homerun.
That's my old man's favorite number and mine too.
Ill never know why I look at him like hes god.

He spelt my name wrong two years back.
The letters said L-e-x-i,
I whispered that's not how you spell my name it's spelled L-e-x-i-e.
I whispered because I didn't want to embarrass him, I thought if I talked quiet enough no one could see my lips break around the words in shock.
I was 5 when me and mom left him.
The number 5 is my most unlucky number it always takes something from me, like my dog, she was in my arms on the fifth of may when heaven called for her to go home.

Dad came the next day to burry her, the hole he dug was to shallow.
Days after her funeral foxes came and
scattered her bones across the field.  

It was a treasure hunt to find all of them, I tried to save her one last time.

I should really give that man a call.
I'll do it tomorrow , or I'll wait for him to call.
I'll count to four before I answer.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
I am feeling the shock of fast change. How to cope with it is of course the question. Listen to Beethoven through the neighbor's window? Look up from the page? Appreciate doves even though they are so numerous? I seem to have limitless choices although this cannot be true. Could I have become a computer specialist? Sure! How to remain still in the ever-maddening mandala. To remain still on the outer edge of the wheel is to ride laughingly and pluck at the gold key. I force myself down into the craw of the black vortex New York until I feel the strong oscillations gather rhythm and expel me or accept me.

What do I find within the black electric walls of this unique vortex? I find there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope. That my efforts are unnecessary and hopeless. I cancel my subscriptions and stop eating. I embrace wild roots and run through streets with arm around my girl.

                         --------------------------------------

What is important.
That question.
I part my lips in the middle
      and blow
eat corn chips, dipsy doodles
make love, eat grapes.
                                       In their mere chronology
events have no relation. How was making love
different from eating grapes. Differentiation

is essential to bring order from chaos. The chaos
is the accelerated change created by our own species
whose consummations have a quantum effect
      on the environment.
                                          But the chaos
existed long before, and long after us
in both more serene and violent forms.
Again a duality, but here's why.
                                                       For
each duality may then be said to be in a dual
relationship with another duality, forming
cubes.
             These cubes are difficult to join
with other cubes, unless first they are
somewhat melted.
                                 We were traveling among
these cubes, maneuvering
through a static array of equidistant points
but finding it impossible to avoid striking them.

So why the difficulty adapting. Because no species
before us had to adapt to its own effects upon
environment? No, every species must

but our adaptations (of the world) are so successful
(such fabrications!) One green, one brown

                        Two dead leaves
                              sleep-touching
             ­                       Then a breeze!

                         --------------------------------------

                        L­oveliness and loneliness
                        these periodic
                        auras
                          ­         they sleep apart/together

sometimes not always
        using sheets of white nothing madly
                 connecting, splicing, parturition
                          continuing to birth life and ideals
                                   like ants or any other species.
                                            Tree, each poem, begins
                                                          ­       and ends and giving up
                                                              ­            to life's forms
                                                           ­                        graciously

surrendering to greater force, power, strength
        whatever it is called, the clog of heels
                 upstairs to the door, turning of
                          the key, the taking out of the
                                   garbage down below, car
                                            starting, placed in
                                                              ­   gear, cat
                                                             ­             meowing

anyway, for myself, personally, speaking only
        for myself, because although the Parks
                 Department rakes the leaves as it
                          did last autumn, to keep them
                                   from clogging the sewer system,
                                            I am in a heightened
                                                      ­           state of vibration
                                                       ­                   Quivering

like a long steel pipe banged hard against an
        iron beam. The hard hat feels it in
                 his hand (on the gears) but
                          great buildings are built that
                                   nature destroys in time
                                            with a little wind
                                                            ­     water, fire

air, you glide down through the limpid air
        toward the ninety-seven story abandoned structure
                 remnant of an earlier civilization
                          abandoned but not yet entirely
                                   swept away in slow waves
                                            of change.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
John F McCullagh Aug 2012
A cup of cold branch water,
triple filtered, extra dry.
Bring it to a rolling boil-
in a moment you'll see why.
Pour it into ice cube trays
and place it in the freezer
This recipe is tried and true-
obtained from an old geezer.

Wait two hours, then remove
the ice cubes from their tray.
Notice they are crystal clear,
never cloudy cracked or grey.
Place some in a six ounce glass
making sure that none are wasted
then add a single malt and sip
the best ice cubes ever tasted.
I have seen her a stealthily frail
flower walking with its fellows in the death
of light,against whose enormous curves of flesh
exactly cubes of tiny fragrance try;
i have watched certain petals rapidly wish
in the corners of her youth;whom,fiercely shy
and gently brutal, the prettiest wrath
of blossoms dishevelling made a pale
fracas upon the accurate moon….
Across the important gardens her body
will come toward me with its hurting ****** smell
of lilies….beyond night’s silken immense swoon
the moon is like a floating silver hell
a song of adolescent ivory.
Steven Y Burris Oct 2012
To whom it may concern,

     I am alone.  Although it may never quite seem that way, both night and day I am confined to solitude.  These past six years hitherto have been filled with nothing more than the fictional characters in my texts and the short pleasantries granted in passing by dismal men, women, and even children that occupy my days.  Each morning, as the dawn breaks, I wake up disgusted with myself in that same manner which sundry men and women have.  It is not the loneliness, however, that disgusts me.  No, I do believe I have grown quite fond of the residual silence.  Instead, I believe it to be the dull monotony of my routine that has left me truly disturbed.  The days have begun to fade in with each other, along with the nights---especially the nights.  I cannot say, for instance, whether or not it was last evening or that of a day three months afore that I was seated at my desk, much like I am now, finishing the latest draft of a poem in my journal.  Nor could I tell you the present date, although the heat of the day, still trapped in the rafters, is so persistent that I am obliged to say it must be one of those blue summer nights when children run, squealing, through the streets, like plump pigs to the trough.  I have become somewhat of a hermit, secluded in my small, run-down apartment above my bodega.  My mind has grown as wild as the violet petunias, bridging the gap over the narrow, brick walk which separates my garden--- as the myriad of dandelions that have invaded the surrounding lawn.
     Throughout the day I work the till in my shop, observing the assorted physiognomies that populate the three small isles.  As they walk up and down, deciding what they most desire, I, too, contemplate to myself, deciding the few whom I might admire should I get the chance.  I often attempt to strike up conversations with my customers, much to their dismay.  I comment on the weather, the soccer scores from a recent game, or perhaps a story from the local section of the Post & Courier, only to receive terse responses and short payments.  However, I never let these failed attempts at congenial conversation discourage me.  Day after day, I persist.
     The nights are easier.  Although I do not attend the boisterous bars spread out amongst the small restaurants and boutiques that line the narrow city streets as I once did, I often drink.  Seated alone, armed with a liter of Ri, two glasses, one with small cubes of ice and one without, and a pen; I waste my nights scribbling down nearly every thought that leaps into my inebriated mind.  My prose has yet to show any real promise, but my thirst to transcend from this pathetic, pseudo-intellectual literature student struggling with his thesis into something more drives me to ignore those basic desires, defined by Maslow as needs; venturing out and exploring the community that I inhabit or talking to another person as a friend.  So I sit, night after night, at the foot of this large bay window, looking out onto the tired faces of the busy street below.  I sit, night after night, tracing the streaks of red light from the tails of passing cars, imprinted in the backs of my eyelids like sand-spurs stuck in a heel.
     I can recall a time when my flat was not the dank, dimly lit hole in the wall that it has become today.  A time, not too distant, when the rich chestnut floorboards glistened beneath the fluorescent pendant lights, when champagne dripped like rain from the white coffers in the blue ceiling, and music shook the walls and rattled the windows.  Men and women alike would wander through the rooms, inoculated by my counterfeit Monet's and their glasses of box wine.  When not entertaining, I wrote.  At long length I sat beneath my window, proliferating prose or critiquing a classmate's from workshop, but those days have passed.  The floors no longer shine; instead they lay suffocating under piles of fetid clothes.  The halls no longer echo with the rhythmic chorus of an acoustic guitar or the symphonies of men and women's laughter;  the lights are burnt out, the paint is peeling off the walls, and the homages are concealed beneath vast fields of mildew and mold.  Puddles of whiskey sit unattended on the granite countertops around the bottoms of corks for weeks, allowing the strong scent to foster and waft freely through the air ducts into the store below.  The dilapidation that ensued after I stopped receiving visitors was not just of the home, however. Worse yet was the steady rot of my own mind.  Although I have often been referred to as "a bit eccentric," and often times folks would inquire if I had, "a ***** loose in [my] noggin," I have only recently begun to find myself walking about the neighborhood garden in the small hours of the morning more than occasionally.  Further still, it is only recently that I cannot remember how, or when, I came to be where I am. Whenever I do happen to roam the night, it appears as if I do it unbeknownst to myself, throughout the throes of my sleep.  Similarly, I have only just begun to notice that, often times while I attempt to write, I sit, talking feverishly---yelling at an empty bottle, until I find another to quench my thirst.  Luckily, there is always another bottle.
     Needless to say, these past few years have left me very tired, and, after much consideration, I have decided that it would be best if I were to "shuffle off this mortal coil."  However, much like Hamlet himself, I could never bring myself to act upon the feeling.  Though I often wonder about what awaits me after my last breath warms the winter of this world, the coward that I have become is in no hurry to find out.  Alors, I am left with one option: leave.  Though I am not yet brave enough to slip into that, the deepest of sleeps, I have gathered courage enough to walk throughout the day.
           Charon Solus
Andrew T Jul 2016
Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki

By AT

5

While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.

4

As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.

3

During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.

2

Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.

1

Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers
Dedicated to my baby sister, love you kid!
Olivia Kent Oct 2014
The mother of all oxo cubes.
Family trials and tribulations.
Queen of British t.v.
Between the programs, she would slip.
Sons at college.
And daughter's love issues.
Always there with good food and tissues.
Succumbed to the big bad "C".
Bowel cancer.
So in this poem entirely dedicated to this cool lady, I hereby leave a message.
If your body is playing up.
If your number twos flow out as water would, for more than a week or two,
Tell your medic about your flowing issue.
If you notice blood running through your it too.
May just be in the toilet pan.
Any persistent lower abdominal pain, my advice is please to do the same.
Go see your doctor as soon as you can.
This big "C" is fairly common.
Bowel cancer is treatable.
If you catch it in good time.
Linda Bellingham.
Rest In Peace.
So sorry you couldn't keep your real family's Christmas date.
Sleep well.
(C) Livvi
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
the diacritical markings are there for a reason, they are intended for a sharp japanese pronunciation: no breaking apart of su-from-doku... soodo(h)koo! hai! there's a reason why i have managed to ask myself the reason for transcending mere letters... reign from above: in the realm of diacritical markings... hence? hai... as the japanese would state (very quickly): sūdokú! hai.

in only came to me upon no. 9242 puzzle...
i wanted to write the most accurate schematic,
i.e. sūdokú in algebraic form...
some might add: a three dimensional
concept, within a two dimensional
working "thesis"...
               i can't stress enough why or how
i'm fascinated with this ****** puzzle...
but i am, and i will never be able to
solve a single *******'s worth of
a crossword puzzle...
     i'll just open a thesaurus and get,
pretty much the same; a short-cut!
**** yeah!
              but sūdokú? that's different:
samuria: soodohkoo! hai... hai.
       better still: haí - shee?
    (said with teeth tattooed with honey) -
oolmoosht a gee of a j, aha, haí?
******* better learn to swim the next
time a tsunami breath comes from the belly
of poseidon; and where was the japanese
army, dropping bombs into the tsunami wave
to distort it, disperse it? where?
         noooooo where, busy cracking tetris;
but i have it! i have the algebra form
of understanding sūdokú...
   after all, it's an imploded lament cofiguration
(i like my cubes, i like my cubes
very much, i like my cubes because i like
hellraiser II (hellbound) and hellraiser IV
(bloodlines)... i like my cubes imploded
onto a page... i like my cubes -
i get fickle with lightbulbs too,
   the on-and-off i.c.d. - i get to think
if i do the lightbulb "trick" enough times...
my i.q. status will sky-rocket)...
   it's a wonder though:
  ever heard someone with a high i.q. score
tell a decent joke?
              i haven't, and i hope i never will;
it would simply break me theory that:
you have to be a complete ******* to make
people laugh...
      really intelligent people don't know
the basis for encouraging a laugh...
  they just employ "intelligent" jokes,
but their intelligent jokes are reduced to be
being jokes... only if supported by canned laughter.
oh yeah...
     so... sūdokú no. 9242?
   reads almost like an auschwitz check-list...
so, sūdokú 9242 (
empire of the sun
was godly... esp. the young batman singing
that kamikaze song, shay shoon toong sho -
whatever the **** it was, i cried) -
i worked the algebra format,
i had to, look how complicated the asiatic
languages are,
they don't have the rigid 26 letter format,
they have syllables...
        somewhere between the greeks,
that treated their letters as syllables in
the noun format: rho vs. r...
           and where did the castratos come from?
from the sing-along "republic" of the vatican...
i say a, the greeks say alpha,
         the chinese? *******:
    picking up match-sticks with chopsticks!
and thirty thousand complicated years later,
i'm saying chew, and they have used up
my patience, using | | | | | | | |,
or whatever number was used to write a syllable:
the chinese are good at mathemtics,
why? they have absolutely no concept of
a ******* letter!
   of course they'll master it!
look at them... a ******* billion of them!
i haven't finished the puzzle
but i have the schematics of 1 - 9 in algebra form...

   y    x    
 *
 x*    xy   x        x        x       x     x     x      x
         x     xyz    xz      xz
         x     xz      xyz    xz
         x     xz      xz      xyz
         x                                  xy
         x                                         xy
         x                                                 xy
         x                                                       xy

oh, i make my sign of the cross,
    it's an optical game after all,
you spot the heretical (english) concept
of a straight line... i.e. you invite a third
mediating coordinate...
   when drawing a straight line you
don't really need the pythagorean equation,
you just get your point (a) leads to
point (b), or you buy an a - z...

the title? i became annoyed at the optical
illusion in the puzzle,
one of the numbers wasn't showing up...
so i clenched my teeth and said to myself:
no way are you going to publish this
not having solved the puzzle...
   i almost finished with a question mark,
but then i spotted the:

   x 4 x
   x x x
   x 4 x                           blunder...
      
i once stated that learning the greek alphabet
could ease solving the puzzle...
now i'm thinking algebra notation will suffice...

oh, i still perform the *sign of the cross
...
but i'm not into lazy sundays...
  i blind the blank squares
with my pen, mostly doing
only the: in nomine patris,
           et filii...
                           by orthodox concern
i'm leaving the third "person" blank...
    solving a sūdokú, i only have the #...
oops...
                only heretics know more orthodox
mysteries of a religion, than
the actual orthodox useful idiots dare to mind;
e.g., a choir in a st. petersburg cathegral was
singing, i sat on the floor,
  i was told to get up,
  and ******* the priest who was reciting
the bible and not facing the crowd...
                          wha', da' ****, izz, dis?!
burn *******, burn!
  the roof is on fire, we don't need no
water let the ******* burn,
burn *******... burn!
   you pushed way beyond a justifiable
aggreviance of suggested ritual...
this aint'the ******* louvre...
    i want to be the doubting thomas...
you don't want to execute the rights of
a doubtful thomas?!
   have your little transgender ****,
      guess who you're going to see more of?
******* muslims!
               take the fairy-tale,
forget you ever looked at, or read
the nag hammadi library excavated with
poetic brilliance, in 1945, just after
the twins hiroshima & nagasaki were born;
and before every operation i ever had,
i always asked the anaesthetist... *quo vadis?
Frank Sterncrest Dec 2012

1. They remind us to not drink the water in Beijing. Don’t open your mouth in the shower, don’t get ice cubes on the plane; they use their tap water.

I’ve taken my water almost exclusively without ice ever since.

2. In an overly-hip restaurant on Nicollet, I eagerly order a glass of water with ice. One at a time, I turn the cubes over in my mouth, rubbing them past my tongue. I hear them clacking against my teeth, the muffled echoes chilling my cheeks. I let them freeze the roof of my mouth.

I am satisfied, quiet. For each refill, they use their tap water.

3. We get back to the hotel just before the next day. I lay down on the rock-hard bed and my giggling roommate adds more stones to my aching stomach, breaking the rich food into gravel with our laughter. Pebbles stream out of my sides, and we stitch them back together after each chuckling rip. I fill his eyes with snickering tears, and the C-pop station chants muffled choruses, echoing from the blurry screen.

There is tai chi and zebra fruit in the morning. I am one tight-lipped shower away from relaxation.

4. Unsatisfied and talkative, I get to her house just before I leave it. I sink into her bed and grip my stomach tighter around the boulder inside it. I turn her over in my hands, rubbing her past my tongue. Her muffled sighs echo through clenched sheets. I let her buzz the roof of my skull.

She is detached, quiet. I am still unsatisfied and talkative. I am one trembling-lipped shower from release.

5. I remind myself to drink as much water as I can at home. After the vacation is over, I’ll be back to the unchilled, over-treated Atrazine syrup. For now, there is tai chi and ***** calling in the evening. I am hoping that I will one day leave vacation for a new Beijing, sleeping on different rocks and swallowing foreign stones.

I am hoping that when I return, there will be pleasantries and coffee in the morning, that I will turn some waitress over in my mind, that I will drink what she pours me and that I won’t hesitate to order ice, that refills will be on the house. I am praying that I will stop leaving as I arrive.

For now, the old Beijing dries up and crusts over and I have yet to book a flight.
I am several clogged shower heads away from a reason to stop flowing.
I am fluid, soaring over river pebbles, still afraid to sink with them.
I pray that one day, I will give someone stone ballast so we may drown in each other.
Amanda Jan 2015
"Stay a little longer," he said.

The wink of urge, the want she felt in her chest was sharp and careful.

Mirroring the tendency to stir up the settled sugar at the bottom of a stained coffee mugs and tea-cups.
Hey you, you & you!
I think I have a huge liking to soft (marshmellow soft), plain white shirts.
Maybe, it's because they represent something laziness and hot summer nights. :')
xo
Touched or felt, could/would/should it be more real?
Another day, back drinking after work (again) in the same pub, alone this time, phone absorbing my attention alot but look up and look around at the shared space with other 'human animals' that i am experiencing in the pub, i dont feel anything 'to' them, while accepting illusions would it really make a difference if i could (willingly) touch or feel them? not sure where i am going with this tangent, enjoy.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2018
The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.
Rachel Jordan Apr 2014
Through my mother’s thinning hair,
I see her scalp,
and I realize that I don’t know her at all.


While I was sitting on my father’s lap he turned the cube over and over in my hands, intertwined with my fingers, my palms already marked with stress lines. They buried my life line. I told him how I could not line up the colors, the way they’re supposed to be much like I cannot line up when my parents eyes meet.




I cannot line up with your footsteps or the cracks in the pavement, you are far ahead of me in life, in thought.

I am trailing behind.


One night you ran up the hill to the park and left me behind in the darkness to stare at invisible trees, and all I could think was could you hear my voice in your head calling you back into alignment wit me.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
EᔕᔕᕼI  ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sniffles as Ainhara gives her a
handkerchief which she uses to
wipe her tears.
"Thank you, guys," Lyn whispers,
giving them a weak smile.
'Well, at least she smiles,' Esshi
thought.
Ainhara has a bright smile. "My lady,
your lady mother gave Bael orders to
make this soup for you. She instructs
that you eat this."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When Esshi pushes the serving trolley
to her Queen's side, she lifts the gold lid
and Lyn looks at the soup; steaming
kale in a beefy broth with chopped
peppered sausages, lamb cubes,
onions, garlic, mint chopped potatoes
and carrots.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Kale, really? I hate kale," Lyn whines,
gently pushing the bowl away. "I don't want it!"
Esshi and Ainhara look at each other and smile.
'Still acts like a child when her lady mother
commands she eats her vegetables!'
giggles Esshi.
"Your mother says you must eat it, My Lady."
Ainhara chuckles. "It will help with reduce
your stress and help relax your body."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sighs and mutters under her breath,
"I hate it when she does this! She knows
I hate the smell of kale! I swear, I'm going
to outlaw the vegetable!" She held hers
nose up and huffs at the end of her
statement, making Ainhara and Esshi smile.
'At least she is in better spirits now.'
thought Esshi.
Kale, ugh...
It's eeeevvviiiiilllll!!! My mom actually tricked me into eating it one time (don't ask how or when) and as much as it pains me to admit it...
I actually liked it.
But THAT STAYS BETWEEN US, OKAY?!
Anyway, enjoy part 8!
Lyn ***
apollota Jul 2016
Sugar cubes
and
Salt cubes.

They look so similar
that they're often
confused with
the other
2016-07-18
Oculi Apr 2019
A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple

I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.

But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.

Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.

The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.

Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.

I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.

I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.

**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"

We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.

I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."

The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.
Kurosawa could dream.
Tarkovsky could dream.
Lynch could dream.
Why could I not?
The Purple *****

Did you know I’m in a band called the Purple *****?
We’ve quite the cult following in my living room.
I am the talent, but sometimes Divvy Dan
takes a break from the scrounge
to be my wreckhead Rent-a-Bez
tambourine stooge.
There’s no point in a ticket, we are too impromptu;
at loco o’ clock I just put on a show.
Can’t go on a tour, too raw for the rubes.
Can’t cut a record, too avant-garde for the cubes.
We’re not about the music, it’s purely the *****.
Acoustic nogoodniks, grot-rock goons
with dregs in our cries, embers in our croons,
ignored by the neighbours who know it’s dole-day afternoon,
when the ***** play to forget they are doomed.

You won’t have heard of a band called the Purple *****
- the singer’s a ******* loser, tambourineman looks like
he's on shrooms.
I’m the talisman, but sometimes Divvy Dan
never takes a break  from the tam,
lost in vague remembered woods
of sniffing glues enthused.
We’ve already trashed our lives, don’t need hotelrooms.
At lobo o’ clock howl do you do
is what my greeters growl at my muse,
which is the watching blue wolf of lost youth.
When you got them borderline underclass steppenwulf blues,
the Black Dog is but a picnic pooch.
Bow-hoo-hoo-wow, may the mirth of Mozart infuse
my yelps of yearning and yowls
that we were born lambs and will die tramps we two.
The ***** have a jam to forget for a time
that monkey see, monkey consume.

We love you, goodnight, we have been the Purple *****.
We are even ******* than the ****** Beatles.
I’m tambourine man too, sometimes Dan
takes a break from the tam,
cryin’ over my childhood nylon untuned,
ballads for blacktoothed prostitutes.
And my love-life is as rock ‘n’ roll
as a lecture on medieval looms,
but we’re still too rock ‘n’ roll to be found on your Youtubes
- we’ve never left the living room, we’ve kept to our roots.
Sisters of mercy lie sing we dead boys of truth,
who are honestly really rock ‘n’ roll, do you want some proof?
Well, the other day I let Danny’s dog lick my open wounds.
We haven’t got an ad in the back of the Boogaloo News,
what self-respecting young dude wants to be a ****?
Flying Dutchmen don’t rearrange deckchairs,
we need no road crew,
but all you sober truth troubadours too troubled to troube,
Danny’s damnbourine also tolls for you.
Coz, brother, that white dole-monkey
keeps time with the devil’s own soul-hungry grooves.
But then again I’ve had a few.
We’ve been the house band since time and tenancy began,
we’ve spent our lives on the road that’s skewed.
You’d think we’d rock more having so much nothing to lose,
but the Purple ***** play because all hope is pooped.

Doomed,
the band split. Now Dan bangs the tam
for the Stolen Runes.
And I joined a ***** tribute band
called the Banned Tribunes.
Air guitar never goes out of tune.
Rock 'n' roll.

— The End —