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zebra Jul 2018
it was a dark dance
of an immovable body
as she was taken by the throat,
death, causing stupendous distortions
and entrancements of lunar landscapes
she reeled pirouettes between smothering
and seeing through a miraculous inner eye
deepening her sense of nothingness
as if pickled in a jar,  suspended in
formaldehyde
held buoyant
where there is no reason for anything
moveless in a veiled corridor
inhabiting innerness, a raven fog
her ******* wet with the scent of fear and ***
she fell through the earth
into the infernal arms of
Hades

his tremulous kisses
a thousand glittering eyes
she could see through
Kiva Beth Oct 2017
Once it started opening up,
Like a wound, the pearl sheen of skin
deepening into a red
As rare as the perfect rose
And just as treasured.

Bones dense around my heart
And lock themselves in place.
Stifling the voice - two beats -
The third one silent.

The fourth,
The fifth,
The third.

You are my arms outreached but selfish,
Hands open but stiff,
Palms red.
Gabriel Ibarra Aug 2018
Often times my mind does wander wildly
Thoughts where I wonder who I would be
Without my past flames that kept me sane
And without my darker days would I have still remained the same
Or would I be a lesser version of me now
Immersed in the aversion of my mistakes and doubts
Cause we all know I've got plenty. What's new?
Maybe one day maybe I'll see things from a different altitude
My higher learning certain forever searching for a purpose
I may never find cause nothings ever perfect
Deepening lines, wrinkles in time, and broken remnants
Of who we used to be, whoever we are, and what we're destined
Carter Ginter Nov 2015
Out into the warm world I stride
I breathe in the smooth air
But it's filled with cyanide

Autumn sings it's song
with the smell of leaves
Reminding me of a time long gone

How can you keep me trapped
Grasping my lungs and choking out
Every ounce of hope I have left
You're gone but still remain everywhere
Memories flood my mind
As I wish to be anywhere but here

You left more than few marks
You bore deepening scratches within my soul
Your memory a salt stinging my heart

So every time I leave that place
And Smell the deadly fall air
You resurface and destroy any hope of saving face
Because I cannot respect myself alone
So how can I expect any from others
When I know you still have such a strong hold

So I jump on my bike
and ride as fast as I can
Until I reach the prison that is my new home
Where pollution clouds the clean air
But sets me free
From you and our old memories
jcl Feb 22
how confusing, to hate what you desire
fighting against nature, realizing the absurdity

i loved you, more than the others
feelings deepening, lives intertwining

i don’t understand, the sudden shift
why it become awkward, was it me

in the beginning, it was harmonious
your aggressiveness, evident, plain to see

i tried harder, but you receded
i felt it, you abandoned me

my hurt turned to anger, i started to dislike you
archetypal millennial girl, quintessential snowflake

love turned to hate, to contempt, finally boiled away
time passed, my heart healed

i become numb, indifferent
stop....,  i’m lying, to myself, to you
i’ll never stop loving you, mon petit minou
#140-2109-03-08
reading what you write
sometimes gives me the
feeling of watching a
low budget **** film,
with a royalty-free excuse
to let a wah-wah pedal
accompany the wet
absence of passion.

      (a wildfire in a glass box
        or Kali candystriping in the
          cancer ward.)

you cannot expect  
spines to tingle when
you refuse to acknowledge  
the deepening abyss in the
facets of self you wear
like hospital gowns.

sometimes i see the naked
singularity hidden behind
your "this is me" event-horizon
and i bathe in it's impossibility;
i could drown in it's defiance, smiling,
if only you could learn to...
Westbow Aug 2018
There is never a rhyme to how it happens.
Your body moves like a wave, only to freeze,
My naive desire sinks, deepening with the cracks in my skin.

You are the stillness of a lake.
I am the silent pier where knots are tied
to secure your vessel.

Climb atop, and step with confidence.
I will hold you -- for a time, anyways.

Leave me in disrepair,
my mercy howl to the sands of time.
Here, I will surely rot and slumber.
L B Mar 2017
This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped
There are photos that go with this. I'll try to post them together on Facebook.
Allison Apr 7
Constant as the fiddle’s hum,
we’ve done it all together, except run.
Fifty years in Appalachia,
we’re cracked leather, aged wine.
My home: the deepening
of our old love and Langer’s lines.
Sophie Jun 7
The silent nights are the worst,
When you hear not a sound.
But the demon in your head,
So many words you could drown.

The claws wrapped around ,
your heart like a chain.
Pulling you under,
Deepening the pain.

Showing you the worst,
The worst of your self.
The worst of the world,
But there's no one to help.

The darkness overwhelming,
The words lost in space.
The only word spoken is,
Hate.

I hate the world ,
For what it did to me
and for all the things left undone.
I hate myself,
For all the parts of me that I still haven't won.

I hate that stubborn smile
You use to influence my decisions
the words you use make me die inside
And to make me in prisoned


And I especially hate that picture,
Sitting up upon the wall.
For making me believe,
Just for a second,
I'm anything, at all.
By Sophie
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