This muggy, sultry sun is no fun:
Longest sustained heatwave for over forty years.
Suffocating Sahara with Death Valley cracks
In the dry arid soil.

My electric fan shattered with a power surge
Into fragmented plastic shards.
I so miss it now.
It’s oppressively tropical,
With volcanic heat
And Pressure bearing down on us.
The clammy mugginess of a sauna.
Not the clean dry air you find abroad,
Yet still that remorseless torrid scorching,
Roasting and toasting.
Just too much.

Hot air clothed in humid moisture,
Stuffy and sweaty,
Steaming to a haze
And later
Thunder storms.

I long for a cool brew
To freeze my throat
And quench my raging thirst:
Ice cool, ice cool, ice cool.
I’m sure not talking
Of tea.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\8\2018.

My visual field flashes white in a moment of highest swelling heart
white light dissipates following blackness of my hearts lowest sun­dried hurt
my view of oppressively low hung clouds questions any earthly sensation, twerked torture
of a self­inflicted radiation of irredeemable gloom, hung by self

The acrid ebony of my soul dissipates to an antique comfort with love stretched infinity
I then breathed an atmosphere of sorrow; snapped, shattered infinity into a pile of broken windows
My call of a family of evil given in an intolerable agitation and searched remedy
led to be found abandoned within a continual struggle of grim phantasm

Necessity spake in me, called one mili­helen enough to launch my remaining ship
a cadavorness of complexion, forced port­side of me when crystal ships started to drip with lies
a guttural utterance whispered blankly, alluded keine endurance
as I could only wear certain textures, and not endure the physical elements of this sensory deprived flower

My conjured will, looks upon the morbid moral of an undiagnosed existence
if not unreservedly found in the recesses of self
rosie cheeks forced not by pleasure, but screamed excitement of eternal enjoyable nothing
as my visual field flashes white with a moment of highest swelling heart

Prologue



MyBar. The first time I heard that name, I remember thinking, "who the **** would name their club 'MyBar?'"

Three months, and innumerable trips later, I find myself thinking, "who the **** would enjoy going to MyBar?"

I am not included in that set of answers. Yet here I am anyway, stowing my ID and half muscling, half falling through the front door. Underclassmen from every clique, packed crack to **** on a 16x16 dance floor, in a dark, dank, dive that even the townies don't bother with. The pumped up pulses of the beat can be felt deep down in the bones, as the neon lights cast perverse shadows onto the throbbing masses. The basketball team stands against the wall as some of the more negotiable ladies in the club line up to publicly proclaim their devotion to our athletics department by very nearly, and perhaps occasionally, riding them like jockeys in a steeplechase. The players, sadly, likely felt akin to judges at the Westminster.

The sounds and sights assault the senses, mingling none to well with the excess of alcohol coursing through my system. Disoriented and dangerously uncoordinated, I slide seamlessly through the tightly packed crowd, the gyrating bodies of my fellow classmen gently propelling me deeper like a living, breathing conveyor belt.

Nothing in my appearance hints at the fact that I feel barely able to stand. Though I was a freshman, I was no stranger to getting falling down drunk, and had developed enough of a tolerance to the strange brew to maintain my composure under all but the most intense circumstances, as I would discover during Spring Weekend.

Despite the oppressively tight mass of bodies, the uncontained volume levels, and the array of lights, I manage to focus my intoxicated attention upon the girl in front me. She has hair the color of a glass of bourbon, and a temperament to match. Dark brown eyes, deep red lips, and lightly tanned skin covered up on this evening by a leopard print top and skinny jeans rounded out the package of the most beautiful lady I had ever managed to gain the interest of. Despite her sharp features, she was actually kind and generous. Most of the time. The other times, well, we'll get to that.

This woman is the only reason I'm here tonight. The same could be said for any other night that I come out here. But there's no saying no to her.  Even if it weren't for the fact that I was raised to honor my mates wishes (within reason), it simply wouldn't be worth the headache to disagree. If she wants something, she'll get it, and it's better to have her come home happy than in devil driver mode. Besides, it isn't all bad.

Most people would call what we're doing "dancing." I would call it "public dry *******." But these are the times we live in, I suppose. In any case, I've certainly had worse nights than tonight.

Later on as the crowd thinned out, I was just about to do the same, smoking a cigarette on the snow covered deck around the front of the building. Clothed coitus can really drain a guys reserves. Especially one who's only nourishment in the past five hours has been Jaegermeister and cigarettes.

Our little group begins it's exhausted yet boisterous journey back to the dorm rooms. My girl friend of three months, much like every other night we drink, is absolutely twisted. Propped up between two of us, she laughs uncontrollably as she sways from side to side, bucking us off balance as she does. By the time we get through the door, she's calmed down enough to be inside of a building.  Stripped to our skivvies, we climb into bed and turn off the lights. My roommate has yet to return from wherever he's disappeared to, so before we pass out, well, **** I was there I know what happened.

Anyway, she's just nodded off to sleep when I notice a smell wafting through the hallway. Were I in the comfort of my own home and smelled this smell, it would simply have meant that I left my popcorn in for a few seconds too long. However, being where I am,  I know better than to-- EEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHH

******* THREE AM ******* FIRE ALARMS!

Welcome to St. Bonaventure.

stands alone today and tells a story to clouds
(putt putt)
the worst has happened at the days end
and the frozen orange Gallon
like ice has chosen to now become hand
all in all more or less
3.78lbs put in plastic wrap.
stands alone in the dollar market surrounds with fleeting thoughts sometimes forgotten
today at days end lost while
****** sun at times lost in ******* ******* snake movie
pouring into the retina of the brainless child
o mi babbino mi caro,  past is the skating rink of hell but
knock yourselves out in deep perpetual insanity of whats, hows and neverminds.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosallyc­an be adisappointmentsometimesbutwestillloveherbecausesheis just whatwe callfamilyandfamilyissoimportanttoidentifyoneselfinaworldofchaosc­alledearthoooooooooooooooooooooooooo
computer glitch and error of the metaphysic naiveté of the skating rink of hell near the ******* ******* snake movie in the story of the white trashed oppressively personified virgo at the dollar market holding a gallon of orange juice that costs more than $7.65 because it's apparently organic and thereby magical.

The blank page lies open,
Like a freshly fallen field of snow,
Ready for me to leave my mark
In mucky prints of ink;
Dark across it's ****** slopes

I have little issue with speaking the unspoken,
But begin to falter in breaking the unbroken.
The page is inscrutable; oppressively immutable,
But it's inexcusable to deny its aspiration.

So I must bite my lip and gird my *****,
Break the unbroken and spoil the unspoiled.
But if I set off will I stumble?
What if I fall?
What if the penprints I leave across the field of my page go nowhere after all?

Well there are many fields, and many pages;
And on this long journey; many stages.
I roll in the snow and make a mess;
Start with a word and see what comes next.

So just explore where the blank page leads you.
It may not go where you expect.

I will pretend
That you are beside me.
Arm touches yours
At each bump on the road.
I turn around;
Your face clandestine.
These baggage
Standing oppressively.

I will pretend
That you are beside me.
Because the last
Time I could not forget.
Tiny flutters
Rise and fall just the same.
I recognize
Your mark on everything.

I will pretend
That you are beside me.
Even if I'm
Already going home
A great distance
I allow you to be.
Forever gone,
A fact I'll never see.

Uncaring minutes are but passersby
disregarding my wails.
They hear me; they offer no help.
Though, with only sixty seconds to exist,
why would they stop for me?

The hours pound against my skull with intent to smash their way in.
Such constant clangor resonates through my consciousness
disturbs my ego,
dislodges regrets,
the agitation seems to sieve out
tiny jealousies from among other thoughts.

The Days...
Oh those ******* Days.
They see me confused and seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
And here time really sets in.

The Months form gangs called 'Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled,  and creaking,  
I languish in fantasies of what's supposed to be,
oh, and the 'might-have-beens'.

Time makes things worse.

A dark shadow moves over me.
I look up  as far as a heavy, beaten head will allow
only to see the massive, soul-crushing weight of the decades
seating their backside;
oppressively,
down to rest upon my twig-like spine.
Snap

And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"

To escape for a moment the flagrant mediocrity of hummdrummcommutertaxreturnquiltedjacketfilingcabinetcivilservants­pellcheckingcontractsigninghandshaking, oppressively banal, repetitive, shitness of everyday (notomittingthedayindayoutsuburbanlivingwiththeparentssingleprete­nsiousartsstudentdogpissinginthevegetablegarden blandness of this awfulcrapshortanddissapointing) life?

September 10th 2001

*I am sat in a small cafe
across the street stands
the timeless twin towers.
Man's living towers of Babel.
Perhaps waiting for
an angry Gods wrath.

It is still late summer.
The evening is sultry
Almost as if it understands.
The loss of the two vertical cities.
That the new morning will bring.
death and bloodshed
to my beloved New York.

A moment of silence falls
broken by the solitary cry
of a foraging
seagul above me.
The air becomes
oppressively saturated.
The foreteller of a big storm.

The invisible pale rider
passes by on a pale horse.
The street is crowded
with almost visible
black angels.
They wait with folded
black wings in their hoards.
Patiently waiting for their charges.

My soul shouts for them to leave.
To go back to their paradise.
But their throng
is now in the thousands.
A huge black cloud
that is only visible
through closed eyes.

They are silent.
giving no clue to their gathering.
But I know it is a harbinger
of destruction.
And that in hours
The world will change forever.

MUNIYA

One Summer day of May
Gulmohar, bright and gay
Red blossoms hugging her
Embracing the tiny visitor
Feathered, brown coloured
Small sized, sparkling eyed
Gregarious and melodious
Muniya, the bird vivacious.

She merrily flew in and out
With twigs, figs in her snout
Framing her cosy little nest
By putting in the very best
She laid eggs, pearly white
Sentiments intensely bright
Mystic Muniya motivated
Elated, she daily incubated.

That noon, warm oppressively
All birds screamed aggresively
Slender satan climbed devilishly
Muniya fought back vigourously
Birds pecked the foe ferociously
Serpent slithered surreptitiously
Gulping the eggs remorselessly
All unborn perished noiselessly.

Muniya wailed loudly, bitterly
Her world shattered suddenly
Pain, loss penetrating the soul
Depressing, difficult to console
Emotions enveloping the avian
Her unborn drifted into oblivion  
Misty eyed, she fled mournfully
Misty eyed, I prayed soulfully.

One fine bright summer day of May
To my surprise on my verandah lay
Muniya, her eggs in salubrious nest
Fervent feelings felt, of fest, of zest
Venturing in and out gregariously
Savouring sprouts, seeds ravenously
Muniya nourishing new beginnings
Making new innings, new winnings.

@ Preeti Pathak

Alone in my mind, heart and soul.........


Your name echoes
Through the streets
Dark and desolate
This is my mind

Your beautiful face
Resonates through pain
In an obscure fantasy
This is my mind

Your smile delights
The bleakest stairways
Secluded in fear
This is my mind

Your touch silently
Roams unnoticed
In the frozen corridors
This is my mind

I am oppressively tired
I have walked miles
Empty chambers of darkness
This is my heart

I am frigidly alone
Emptiness has stripped me
I am naked and feeble
This is my heart

I am emotionally frail
Pathetically opaque
Judgement has died
This is my heart

I am morbidly desolate
Exhausted and depleted
All feelings destroyed
This is my soul

I am luridly forsaken
By pain ravishing inside
Leaving nothing but darkness
This is my soul

i. my heart is a ghost town

I called out to every passerby
in this dead and desolate town;
asking,
if they could hear me
but to no avail.

Not a single could hear me
as they move on with their merry lives.

Those with broken souls
seemed to have mend themselves
with the company of others.

No longer do they need I.
I, who whispered nothing
but nothingness to them.
I, who could do nothing
to mend their wounded souls.
I, who is helpless,
in the face of helplessness.

As with my fleeting existence,
I could no longer match their pace.
It was like standing together
on the same pedestal
but on divided worlds.

We could no longer hear
each others' voices.

Upon this oppressively somber town,
I cast my shadow;
shunning away from the laughter,
away from the words
I could no longer comprehend.

My only friend; the silence

How dark the world as night still approaches, I look at graves
our morals we ghosted.
Left infested infesting our spirits, digesting our light in decay its invested.
Are we wicked? Or Bested?
By the trickery of the world molested. A feathered pillow lie our heads we rested.
Standing on the precipice of breeding pessimists born into a age of information yet still ignorant.
Oppressively with kids needing therapist.
To cope in a world of divided ugliness
This where the drug reaches, grabs hold until you defeated beaten broken to pieces, Leaves
Alone, lonesome no one knows loneliness as it knows you.
This a lying truth obscured by the lies in truth with the untruth that it brings. Lies without wings, a melody of deceit.
Thoughts butcherer till our ends we meet.
This the sad reality, life our chauffeur while we strapped to the passenger seat.
All we truly have, are  our own beliefs and that beating vessel in our chest. A pulsating heartbeat

First of September

It is oppressively hot it as summer
refuses to leave the stage and is overacting badly,
to be a walk-on actor or a decoration in play
about summer, it is jarring.
We applaud, but we are tired of the monologue now
It is a time for the lesser actors