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Kabelo Maverick Nov 2018
The identity is not correct,
God’s people dishonored
and in a state of aggression,

Geographically topsy turvy,
the history is miseducation

Blasphemy spits in the
face of the Motherland
like mocking the wrath
of a silent Beast

Like scorching the sky for Thunder
We’re provoking Divine Intervention

AND SO IT SHALL BE…!
Maverick
BJ Donovan Sep 7
Fat veins beg for a needle of heaven.
   I tremble and sweat in a strange room
   with troubled souls dressed in white
   just like me. We never make eye contact.
   At the edge of a dream I worry for her
   safety. Another fistful of pills takes
   me to a bottom of a sea where I sway in
   rhythm with mermaids and octopuses and
   her under blue sky and kites on a beach
   where we live our fragment of happiness.
pin me
like the pain
strung you up inside

seize me at the scalp
by a fistful unannounced
like the haunts startled you
from behind

drain me at the jugular
like the want bled you dry
then turn me out
blood-starved

unhinge you into me
like the doorslam stripped
that oxidized adamantine

exorcise we
entertain these demons
till they are screaming
safe words
Aditi Sep 2017
(... And i like you.)


We never tire
Of trying to fit everyone
Into the shape of voids
Our hearts have carved

And that's fine.

It's still not something I'd do to you.


(..And i like you)


Love has made a ghost
Out of the best of us
And we anchor to the memories
To save our entities.

And honestly who am i to judge?

But you knock new air into my dead, dusty lungs

(..And i like you)


We ache,
And we mould our ache into arts.
Abusing and devouring  love,
Like scorched land tasting the first rain drop.

And I'm one of the many inked hearts.

I would leave my pen though, you make me want to.


(..And i like you)


We all have been loved,
And we all have been lonely,
Some of us feel the presence,
More when it starts to ebb.

And I've always felt myself overstaying my welcome, even before arrival.

But I'd leave my pieces on your door, as an excuse for you to call me.

(..And i like you)

We are always
looking for a replacement.
Disguising our sadness with a new skin
Trading one addiction for another; a vicious cycle.

All these temporary fixes and the perpetual sadness.


But you could be a detour from this dead-end I'm leading to.


(And i like you.)

Fistful of mosaic desires,
Confessions barely held in by my teeth
Future is easier to swallow than salvage
Your intoxicated lips smirk in agreement.

All these loving hearts with eyes askance.

But something tells me if i showed you my palm, you'd understand.

(..And i like you)
Will probably take a while to acknowledge the voice in my head saying (...And i like you) or i can keep ignoring it, even if it's the most obvious thing.
I am
fistful
scarful
dreadful
mouthful
constellation of burnt
sore spots connected festering

but, also
breathful
dreamful
brainful
blissful
lapful
lifeful
string of lit brights
prismatic as Northern
sky candied neons

and just
being with you
made me glow
in dingiest dim

by you being you
and me being me
in unison

we can cherry bomb
the blackest sky
with your hand
in mine
Kevin J Taylor Jan 2016
I was 19 when I shook my first fistful of
poetry at His Grace, "The Editor". Each page
carefully pre-crafted for His consideration.
My genesis of pain and pen and paper.
They had lain on His desk at least a week when I,
Impatient Poet, had searched Him out—Hijacked Him
in the stairwell of the 6th or 7th floor and
demanded His attention one flight up, His parlor
office filled with His dance-floor desk and His fancy
banker's chair. I should have known. I waited for the
sheaf of poems that bore my name and agony
so clearly to appear upon the velvet shoulders
of certain victory. I waited for His Grace
to bend, to me, His knee and pledge the fealty that
I had already agreed upon and accepted
must occur. I should have known. I should have known when
I saw the brass-chrome name-plate turned towards His chair—
the only one. I should have known His name. He passed
my poems of war across the Maginot dance-
floor desk and smiled, "You can't say that," He said. Say what?
and He pointed. I had used, sparingly, I thought,
an earthen word. The excremental noun. ****.
Rejection was swift. Redemption beyond reach.
Respect was all that remained to be plundered.
"Change it," He said, "Change it" "Change it" "Change it." I will not!
"You must!" Never! I took the page, folded it away
and left to stumble flights of stairs and into the
sudden grey of decades passing. He should have known
I would remember. He should have guessed at least the
manner of His demise. ******* Souls: The mantra
of his poem-book found in the Fraser Valley
Regional Library Discards. I was ecstatic.
Here He was without the flights of indignity
and now I owned Him. I have chanted His verse.
Rolled each syllable around my mouth until they
were smooth as riverbends against my teeth while the
voodoo dance of Change It, Change It, Change It echoes
and I revise His poetry.
1975 or so.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
JS CARIE Jan 16
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes

One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace

In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge

A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin

Over and across the bed
Released from my grip

Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist

Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers

For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs

Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar

Slow let go of her feathers tangled

In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose

Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose

The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints

In a mechanical motion

Hair pulling emotion

Triggers upward
her chest and chin

Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent  

When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget

She takes me in invest

I take her in continuous shooting

All the unfastened
unclothed

Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Oh! Woe to the poor captivated lover
Being trapped in love, but beloved gone

Oh! The moment I'm sitting as tulip alone
In my heart's blood, she is gone as wind

The voice of ax didn't come from Bistoon
Shireen is gone to Farhad's dream tonight

Oh! I will inform you of my painful alas
The day my enormous patience finally gone

Pity lover that flew your grapevine hair
With a hundred hopes come, gone unhappy

I am happy you abandoned all my rivals
Although, you left me as fistful of soil to wind

Mountains and deserts are mournful tonight
Lovers as Majnoon and Farhad gone forever
- Inspiration from a classic Persian poem
- Shireen and Farhad is an ancient Persian love story
- Bistoon is a mountain that Farhad had to finish a tunnel to reach to Shireen but eventually died there
- Leili and Majnoon is an ancient Persian and Arabic love story
George Anthony Dec 2018
you were born on the cusp of spring,
a breath of warm sunlight
coaxing bright life back into
dark husks of wilted stems
and barren souls in need of bloom.

i died the day i came to life.
a beginning amidst the beginning
of the end. four days of stuttering heartbeats later,
i was hurried home under a heavy sky
of god’s tears and thick cloud

your eyes are sick with grief in winter;
i think your chest aches to heal
the fragile, frosted frills of flowers
that suffered and struggled
and surrendered to the cold

you are burdened by empathy
for the crumpled caskets lining the flowerbeds,
impatient for a fresh start
so you can refresh these corpses
into new life. new roots
and petals flourishing in the image of your beauty

you are a god i could worship.
you are a god i could believe in.
you are a creator of life, and colour, and new starts
you created happiness within me,
so i can only hope to do the same for you

i, dead the day i came to life,
belated winter baby with blue lips, blue veins
am alive for perhaps the first time in years
sleepy, but still awake—breathing, blooming
as if spring came early just to kiss the feeling back into my fingertips



a fistful of sunflowers clenched tight,
and with you by my side
my chest is set alight
with a sun’s ray of hopefulness
that the day will eradicate the night.
unholy ghost Apr 30
every second, unplanned.
every moment, the weightlessness
or the heaviness of silence.
you're in my thoughts,
the pain of a paperweight.
I want to drop you, smash
you into a thousand million
little reflective pieces, but it
doesn't matter, not really.
the rorschach of broken glass,
I'll still find your face. the
eyes, mostly. that's what got me.
the dark, endless abyss of them.
I see them in my sleep sometimes,
see the way you used to look at me
when I close my eyes. it's a
unique kind of pain, somewhere
between the sharp sting of a paper cut
and getting annihilated by a bus.
there's no being free of you.
there's no escape. I want one. I want
to let go. I want to hit the bottom,
but I'm so scared there isn't one.
you don't want it anymore, but
I'm so scared that my love begins
and ends with you, and you hold
onto it, greedy like a toddler with
a fistful of sweets. for you. for no
one else.

— The End —