Lucy Tonic Nov 2011

Once upon a time
There was a man
In an apartment
With flesh-colored walls
And a perfect view
Of skyscrapers
And rooftops
He has a brother
In a jail
With a perfect view
Of warehouses
And factories
Cover to cover
He reads magazines
And newspapers
And he likes two
Sugar cubes
In his regular cup
He doesn't worry
About ends
It's just progress
And we've all
Got to bend
Less the world breaks
If the bomb comes
It'll come in a neat
Little package
And someone
Will build new
Quadrilateral colonies
For two

Alessander Dec 2016

Your tears are so light
Like cheetah paws over puddles
Tepid and quick
Below ivory moons

And your hands though small
Massive on my chest
Each finger
A Stonehenge slab

Your words don’t quite reach
Muffled like some ancient wind
Low and distant
Falling off the Himalayas

But the ache is intimate
Like burning sage spreading
Touching every empty corner
O ashen holiness

Smoldering inside

Ménage was a clever boy
scholarly pursuits
brought us lots
of joy
most things being equal
I liked him





KILLME Jan 2014

currently stuck
in that quadrilateral
I'm supposed to be
externally reasoning from

Wei-Qi Ooi Jan 2013

She sits there,
frozen like a statue,
fingers apart,
typing on the running technology.

Glossy eyes beneath her ever clear glasses,
as I watched her I wonder,
have we been consumed by lifeless objects?
is this our future?

Sitting lifelessly on the other consumer of our life,
only moving to adjust her glasses,
the girl sits there,
eyes pierced into the ever quadrilateral brightness.

The feeling of regret,
it illuminated the vicinity from the sitting girl,
yet I am doing the same,
writing this poem.

Julie Grenness Jan 2017

Think outside the quadrilateral parallelogram,
Enough of this whinese spam,
I stopped fighting my inner demons,
Now we're on the same side---he mans!

Feedback welcome.
Sam Hawkins Apr 2013

What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.

What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had long taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.

What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.

Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.

And what was this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn head gesture,
a thank you for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say  
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?

Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.

That morning, with the last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in an open quadrilateral,
held its position.

written and posted a few hours before the Boston Marathon Bombing, Monday April 15th, 2013
Clemence Huet Apr 2012

I'd been trying to write a poem
Just one fucking poem
But he said
Just fuck around
Swallow down a bowl full of squares
Let’s play games with each other’s minds
Spend a night lost in a house of cards
Where the joker cackles despite your begging
A reminder of what I could do without
Shouting at the world from the white pavilion
You suckers!
With your skirts hitched up and tongues hanging out
Gagging on a lover’s loneliness
All I see is your undergarments crying for attention
With a liquor solace barely down your throat

Eighteen silver blades
Smile at me with their perfect teeth
One to mark each year that past
A nineteenth will not be necessary
Ready to drag
Like the man trailing his head on a string
Across the surgeon’s winking knife
Tapping their toes on the bathroom counter
Anxious to mingle with my flesh
I’ve already scrubbed in
The survival rate looks dismal
The cotton reel loosens and my halo slips
Down - the noose around my neck

He sat across the room in plaid
Remarked upon the crosshatch of red
That drew the crooked red grin on the white of my thigh
Like loops of raspberry liquorice
Seeping out sticky tears
He misses handling the vegetables
Who ordered cocktails in lurid colours
Well, I’ve a mélange of my own
A collection of prescriptions from the doctor’s office
Stored in a heart shaped box
To swallow down like jelly beans
I’m waiting for that deadly sugar rush

Death’s been dancing on my doorstep
Absent minded as I sit at the dinner table
Head in hand, foot in grave
There’ll be no morning migraine
Perhaps a little mourning in the peripheral vision
Swept up from beneath the climbing frame
Under a soil blanket with a tomb stone mattress
Coughing up the sand in my throat
That I emptied from the egg-timer
Those darling quadrilateral crystals
Blissful in their ignorance  
Disturbing my quiet complacency
Drowned in a glass of tomato juice
That I poured from my skull
Death holds my hand in the dark
And I whisper to pass on the message
Bury me with pyjama’s and a pillow

Inkveined Jan 2017

Nestled beneath a cloak of constellations

Cerulean branches sway ominously in unison

Beyond, stands a house shrouded in mystery

Somber silence is heard upon midnight's arrival

Chain of stars encompassing the sky's lunar bell

Quadrilateral stones lead down a worn pathway

Shadows whisper through leaves in the hour of 12

— The End —