I'm done trying to make myself beautiful
I'm bored with mascara, weighing down my eyelashes
gunking up my sight like a city sewer

I'm finished with lip gloss
a pop of shiny color on my wet mouth
pulling you in for a sticky kiss

I want to be ugly
to let my pores gape wide and let in the air
my skin breathing for the first time in years

I want to claw off my clothing
my fabric fittings sewn to slim me down
to tailor me into something worth loving

I want to be repulsively human
maybe all of this is because you said
how you always love the most disgusting things

Nobody Knows McQueen

Why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,

nobody knows,

why,
do you have to lose the sanity,
to find,
the genius,

nobody knows,

why,
do the brightest lights,
cast,
the darkest shadows,

nobody knows,

can’t have the beach,
without the ocean and the sand,
can’t have bliss,
without the pain,

what a paradox we are,
us this Human Species,
all us actors just acting sans practice,
in deafening silence commiting acts of violence peacefully,

in this repulsively attractive romantically tragic,
dramatic sci-fi thriller comedic fantasy,
where we rarely do what we say,
even though we all say what we mean,

constantly on a conquest to find Plato’s Atlantis,
expressing ourselves through our art like Alexander McQueen,
which makes sense in a way since we’re all dressed up with nowhere to go,
and even though that may be so we still wear our hearts on our sleeves,

half peasant have emperor,
have invented have inventor,
half daughter/son half mother/father,
half created have creator,

only hope is that this sadness somehow leads to a happily ever after,

once gone,
only that odor lingers,
is it cologne or perfume,
no one knows or cares it’s 2018 it doesn’t matter,

nothing matters,
even though it feels like everything does,
or maybe everything matters,
and nothing feels like it does,

I don’t know,
and I don’t know if I care,
don’t have the answers,
and if I did I probably wouldn’t share,

or maybe I would,
and I’d do so through these words,
like a man stranded on an island with a universe full of knowledge,
sending these messages in these bottles as my parting gift to this world,

see we’re all on our way,
so have some fun before you go,
is there life after death,
maybe not maybe so nobody knows,

why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,

nobody knows…

∆ LaLux ∆

A decision made impulsively
Sometimes ends repulsively
But sometimes ends perfectly
And eradicates conformity

Look just a little more you
(When in fact there's less of you)
They look again and say that's WHO?
Open up their world view

When they see that people can change

GOD is a white guy in his 30’s. GOD wears a royal blue Petsmart hat.  GOD has on a grey, short-sleeve button down shirt with a clip-on i.d. badge. GOD’s i.d. badge contains no letters or numbers, just a picture of GOD wearing an i.d. badge with a picture of GOD wearing an i.d. badge on it, and so on into infinity. GOD has cold sores on the corners of his mouth. GOD wears stone-washed jeans. They’re too short, but they have an elastic waist which is really comfortable, so it kinda makes up for the whole “too short” thing. GOD needs really thick “George H. W. Bush” glasses so he can open the rodent cages at work. GOD grew a mustache to hide the scarring from years of using old crusty disposable razors. GOD wears high-tops from 1998. They’re rather worn, but remarkably clean. GOD knows what to do with his hands, but not so much his fingers. GOD is in her 20’s. GOD is sad sometimes and she doesn’t know why. GOD nods. GOD once proved that the country of France does not exist. The fact that the country of France actually does exist makes the accomplishment that much more astounding! GOD is the dark and terrible Dragoyle! The first and last of his kind! GOD is a vicious, taloned beast born of the boiling pits of Borok-‘Tor! His reptilian wings expand across all of space and time and, with even the most gentle twitch, stir up a dense shear of molten flame scalding the skin of all Creation! GOD’s ancient black-diamond eyes, forged from eons of wrath and pain blast-melted in the great furnace that is his heavy heart, peer only inward, leaving him an uncompromising and limitlessly powerful but ultimately humiliating and repulsively weepy creature! GOD is All and All is king of all of All and all of He! GOD is the Unmirror. GOD is the final mathematic tragedy of what happens when we only ever try. GOD is the ghost of a dead thing that never was. GOD is the shattered, petrified shell of Pandora’s box cast down to the crackled crust of Pan’s windless desert. GOD loves you more than himself because GOD knows you are real. GOD farts on books! GOD sips on soup! GOD is a very serious actor in full make-up and costume doing an intense and superbly crafted representation of God, getting to the heart, the true reality of what it is to be God, the essence of Goddom, but in the end fears losing control and holds back, resulting in not genius but blasphemy! GOD masturbates to the Salt-n-Pepa 'Shoop' video! GOD caught you ******* to the Salt-n-Pepa 'Shoop' video! One time GOD got so drunk he forgot you were in the room! GOD invited you to the event “Max’s Karaoke Birthday Bash”! GOD knows you, but isn’t in know with you! GOD is 8,9,12,5,9,4! GOD is . . . ! -hha-hha- GOD is heard breathing. GOD breathes like you do when you’re asleep. At the start of each breath there is a very poignant yet very subtle lip-smack sound. The breathing is steady, never changing pace. Like that of Darth Vader only intentionally ridiculous. Like that of a ticking metronome only . . .  lifeful, which is a brand new word.

I hate nearly everything about you.
That stupid dimple next to that stupidly gorgeous smile.
Your repulsively silky jet black hair that feels so horribly wonderful between my fingers.
From your obnoxiously beautiful deep complexion to your sickeningly dainty hands, I can't stand any of it.

I hate the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
That feeling of eternal happiness and comfort when I see you is absolutely revolting.
The way you smell so terribly excellent makes me cringe.
Why do my hands always seem to search for yours, in some grotesque display of love?

But, even though I hate all of these annoyingly beautiful things about you,
The fact that I don't know what you think of me is what I hate the most.

This is a subcultural song

Free energy efficient enthusiasts
Replaced the iroquois punk style
Alternatives, noisy *******; ear
Damaging drum bass boxes in da
Clubs. Ravishing rave parties in
Mini skirts, glam glossy brass on
Ecstatic strobe-light synthesis - a
Synthetic mainstream paradise
Submerged to hypnotic sucklings
On the colourful plastic pacifiers
A gummy retreat before waterless
Collaps. A dehidrated dream that
Tried to shut the world off by the
Tendrils of regression resemblance.
Adult babies aboard going back to
The false long forgotten innocence.

There is no subculture in being above
The depth. Superficiality seems a posh
Pose and a good hiding reason for socially
Awkward childish rebels without material
Issues. The sore tissue of contemporary art
Is people don't believe in subjective objective
Selves anymore. What authorities put on the
Shelves there - it has to be good-when on the
Real deal discount. You think im not of such
Kind. Sheepishly blindfolded herd lives some-
where else. I pity them. Mock the socially meek,
Unajust, fat, poor or a greek profile. It has to be
A button hot child candy nose to **** her or to
Call a beauty per se. Per american dream team.

***** are hot untill they have pneumatics, man
Are man if they whirl the banknotes under bank
Accounts. ******* act like man in disguise greedy
For more. I inhabitated all this inherently ugly
Preachy words instead of puking into a labdab
Lavatory and cleanse myself from repulsively
****** cultural intermittent artifacts. And how
Can i not subdue to its overwhelming pressure.
I'm just an indigo child of flower children. Don't
Throw me the bones fueled with the black golden
Marrow. I'm a new alternative peasant, growing
Carrots and celery at bio degradable villages. . .
Its not a contra cultural venture if your socks
Are made out of industrial cannabis, and yet
There's no need to. Think. Love. Play music.
Listen. Breathe. Live life as if yours favourite
subcultural song is repetedly on...going along

In a winding, twisted fate,
The Brothel, I’ve tried to Escape,
The sickening sounds of lips being ******,
The horrid sounds of those being ******,
The slaps of flesh o’er again,
My mind, I cannot now defend,
I hate every minute, every tick,
This endless clock makes me sick,
I dream of sleep that won’t ever come,
I dream of the day I can run,
Escape, Escape, Escape,
I’ll carve it in myself, it should be my name,
I’ve been mislead, indeed, I’ve been stolen,
But these shallow romances so repulsively sodden,
Have left thoughts so in mind forsaken,
Of each *** and race, lifelessly forbidden
The thought of leaving,
This **** hotel is quite deceiving,
I think of how it became
Synonymous in its name,
With “love" and a quenched thirst
Of our lust and ****** rebirth,
For this menagerie of psychopathy
Is the disease among society,
Eyes that I no longer look into as I speak
Gaze into mine as they endeavor to seek
My soul, laughable, they will not find,
To their credit, it’s long since died,
This wretched place holds me with no interest,
And of how I came about, to be honest
I’ve no recollection.
No recognition
Of anything here, nothing is alive,
All that come, just for pleasure strive,
Empty inside and dying within,
I must Escape this place of boundless ruin.

in winter it is my first time home in three years.

I am in my bed again with a body full of volcanic acid
and a throat nervously full of phlegm as repulsively sweet
as the water of the river that I swam in when I was still young
and naked and fleshy. I have not been  
young and naked and fleshy in three years.

My bed is as hard as I picture your body being tomorrow
when we are both in your car again
and your face
still crumbles open like a basket of bread.

My mother has never baked bread.
My mother at night lies alone on sheets cold as the light from a moon.
Her voice wails like a pair of haunted hands.

Last time I saw you your voice broke apart
atop your final word to me.
Before that your hands were on my thighs like a new curse.
Since then I’ve pictured you standing with raw hands
cursing into brisk air. There are times when I try
to picture my body into something smaller, like a ******
raccoon against the side of a highway strip.

There are no tall trees
in the yard anymore, nothing
to compare my body to. (Mother cries about them all falling
in past storms.)

When my father sees me in my bed he says nothing. He’s
best at walking with his hands sour as bees.

violins play in my head

and my vision seems to be eclipsed in black and white

I don't tell you this

you would call me melodramatic

still my eyes they work at their own free will

and I  am to admire the curves and smile of an unearthly being

you won't let my heart be still

it beats repulsively in your hand

bent out of shape and discolored like rust

but its still yours

the curtains close

the credits

and I guess you're the star of the show

thats how my life ends, love

I hope you got your standing ovation.

You know how it hits you? The weight just slams into you and wonder how you stood so tall for so long.

Lately I have felt so ugly. Like repulsively ugly. Like to the point where I cry thinking about it and deciding what to wear is a losing battle every day.

I like to sleep with a couple of books on my bed. They keep me company.

I want to let my friend know how hot this fire is getting inside me. I want to know that when I sleep I sometimes think of him.  I want to kiss him and i want to say how I feel like Tiffany does in silver linings playbook.

I am not okay after all. I am heartbreak and loneliness and I will succeed I have to succeed what if I don't succeed

Am I too broken? Lately this glass has been spilled all over the floor and it just keeps pouring and cutting anyone that cares enough to get close.

See I have a problem. I am so scared of being liked of being loved. I joke about the ******* I don't but ******* are safe. They will never truly love me as deeply as I love them they will break my heart all the time and I will cry but I know that we all get what's coming to us.

I want to believe I deserve something good but its so much easier said than done

Her face was tainted by beauty.
Her body repulsively covered in curves
The way her **** sat in her thong looked completely absurd!
Her ******* were too round and her eyes too seductive
Her bare midriff, so smooth, left me aghast and disgusted
Her smile was too bright, hurt my eyes, left me blinded,
Shut your mouth woman! I had to say but kindly
Her hair was too thick, too shiny as it fell upon her shoulders
She was young and her grace made her look much older....
But thankfully she's gone, no more succubus to fight,
I am thankful! I tell myself, it helps me sleep at night

Twenty line poems, she asks. Twenty lines.
Twenty lines? I haven't got time.
I can't write on command, I've tried.
Especially not with my compulsive need to rhyme.

Compulsively, repulsively, I'd rather rhyme internally.
Butterflies flutter by, I watch them for eternity.
Eyelids begin to droop, asleep I would prefer to be.
Regretting waking up never has occurred to me.

Why is this so hard if I love to write?
My mind is blocked and the paper remains white.
Put on my Converse and lace them tight.
I'll find inspiration tonight.

Remove me from the house, I'm going for a walk.
Runner jogs by in silence, preferring not to talk.
Step over smeared concrete art drawn in colored chalk.
No birds awake in the night to mock.

Surprisingly, the air is cold.
This Florida heat was getting old.
That giant orb of heated gold.
It's cold elsewhere, I've been told.

I'm a desperate teen but not Faking It
I'm ugly and awkward but not Miranda
Talentless and scared but not Girls
Food rules my life but this isn't Skins
My family is big but repulsively unlike Modern Family
I'm quirky and alone, but cruelly never Amelie
I'm a misfit uncared for so why isn't this Glee?
I'm poor and kind but there will never be Boys Before Flowers
I have deep dark secrets but not like Degrassi
I live a life like many others
but with one difference
it's not a sitcom
it's not a show
there aren't perks to being a wallflower
and it all doesn't turn out okay,
which makes everything a lot less okay.

Trying to wrap my head around everything that daily stirs in my chest,
Do I tangibly hold it, mold it, adhere to it or simply lay it down to rest.

So many questions so little answers and I'm fine with the percentage of how my life is balanced out,
For there is not time to live Chaotically and feed this mad disease called Doubt.

To be Free and Clear in My Heart, Head, Body and Soul,
Is to never report that what you held so dear someone repulsively stole.

So while there are days where my head tells my legs to take a step and walk,
I then simply encourage my journey and give myself a frequent pep-talk.

You are ok, alive, breathing, talking, living, laughing, and healthy...who can ask for more,
Selfishly I raise my head "I can" Lord you know what I am asking when I ask of thee to CLOSE THAT DOOR.

By: Maggie Lopez-Lavalle
Written: April 16, 2013

Philip was genuinely loathsome:
Utterly and totally loathsome.
Repulsively ugly, a stunted repellent dwarf,
Vicious, rude, unfriendly, possibly illegitimate.

He was sarcastic without being amusing,
Always ready to make a cruel remark,
Forever looking for ways to score
And to show his own imagined superiority.

He cleverly managed to make more enemies
Than most people have spots on their back.
The nicest thing I heard anyone say about him
Was "Philip's not all that bad, surely?"

O happy day when I received an email from a mutual friend
To say that Philip was thankfully dead
And pushing up the proverbial daisies,
Breathing silently through the grass.

Surely one should not hate the recent dead,
But for Philip I made an exception:
I wanted to know how much he had suffered,
I prayed that his was not a gentle death.

In Vilna lives a young Polish girl, so wealthy and carefree

Suddenly, away goes she and her family

Taken by force, pushed into a truck

Belongings stuffed into a trunk

A train awaits as they file in

The door closes and the light is dim

The young girl asks, "Where are we going?"

Her father replies, "Only the Russian soldiers are knowing."

Weeks fly by on the railroad

Ever so slowly the train goes

The prisoners alike arrive at a town

Once again pushed into trucks and carted around

The girl and her family arrive at a mining camp

The grandmother says repulsively, "We look like tramps."

"The land is so flat!" The girl remarks

"We're in Siberia...." The father says with a heavy heart

Silk clothes soiled and heads hung low

Into makeshift mud houses, the capitalists go

The landscape, nothing but brown and dried grass

The young girl thinks, "how long will this heat last?"

To the gardens, she goes

To **** the hundreds of shrunken potatoes

Her family is to work in the mine

On little bread and cheese, they dine

Finally relocated to a nearby village

Everyone so hungry, none dare to pillage

The girl goes to school and makes new friends

She wishes hopefully that learning won't end

Her family with their own mud house

Having not to worry about a single mouse

A letter arrives one day

To war, the father must be sent away

He takes the train to the front lines

Everyone says their goodbyes

Weeks later, the newspaper arrives

Heavy casualties reported, from those same front lines

They receive a letter from the father

"I'm alive." It reads, "About crying, don't bother."

Winter creeps in and nothing is left to keep warm

The girl steals coal and wood shavings thinking, "it couldn't do any harm"

Quickly the money goes by

The young girl takes up knitting on the fly

Her knitted sweaters earn them milk and potatoes

She spends less time with her friends, though

The little mud house too cold to bare

They find new people to live with, no warm clothes to wear

Years pass and the girl turns fifteen, not young anymore

Seven years they have spent in Siberia, living like the poor

Word arrives that the war is completed

From Siberia, the Germans had packed up and retreated

A letter comes, saying that the little family can go home

They take the train and upon arrival begin to roam

The streets are barren with nothing left

They find their house, not spared of theft

The father appears much older

The weather in Siberia was much colder

Than what Vilna, Poland was like

The girl takes her father's hand and family alike

The years of exile are done

The war is over, the Allies have won

I spent hours staring at the phone
Wondering when we can ever be alone
It’s hard to love you and I can’t complain
It pains me that I want to show you what it means to be on cloud nine
Although, we’re together
It doesn’t feel like you’re mine
I’m empty again.
There’s no hope left.
I’m left begging for attention like the rest,
And it hurts me
Hard to breathe
Hard to believe that
Maybe we’re not meant to be
You’re shooting me down
Bullet to the chest,
Agonizing pain called ‘rejection’.
I don’t want to give up on this.
I miss when we don’t talk.
But you don’t even want to kiss me.
And I’m wondering if I’m that repulsively disgusting
Lusting over whether you’re worth it or not
When it’s good, I’m fine
But I’m so easily forgotten by you
You’re the Adalind to my Eve,
I can’t bear to leave
Still…that’s only because I’m afraid of abandonment.
The breaking of relationships sent me on a ship of destruction
My own Titanic,
With a dose of hypomanic infatuation
I never knew when to end it
Always afraid of going overboard,
A safety vest couldn't save me from this mess.
When I’m drowning in depression
There’s only the deep, blue sea beneath me
A bottle of pills across my bed.
I swallow my pride.
And death hits for a second.
My parents come rushing in, and they call the ambulance.
Cardiac arrest
Shattered apart like a broken bird's nest
A shocking force through my veins,
People shouting my name, telling me to stay awake.
The doctor said I almost didn’t make it.

cross my legs to smother another memory

my breath still feels so repulsively heavy.

She held my hand with a vice grip
Fingers interlaced with mine
As we walked through the ivy-covered gates of the garden
We were both seeking something
Stone walls stood firm and tall against the sky
Surrounding the stunning grove of trees before me
Trapping the sweet scent of flowers within
It seemed like every surface
From the rose petals to the rocks in the stream
Glowed golden beneath the light of the sun directly overhead
The warmth wrapped around me like my favorite wool coat

I looked at the trees with emerald leaves
And marvelled at the fruit that they bore
Each one was a different color
Countless hues and shades
Some of which my eyes had never seen
Each with unique markings
I couldn’t help but smile to match the beaming face
Of the beautiful woman in sheer robes that approached us
“Welcome,” she said, “to our garden
These trees are gifts from God to his children
Go, search the trees together
For if you find two fruits that are exactly the same
You two are meant to change each other’s lives forever
Share your fruits, eat them together
So you can spend your lives in tandem”

So my companion and I got to searching
We walked along the soft grass with bare feet
Hand in hand
Longing for a match
I knew she was meant to change my life
She had already saved me once
Hours flew by us
The sun never leaving her post
As we went through the whole garden
With a fine-toothed comb
Finally, finally
We found our twins

We each held one in our hands
Turning them over
Double and triple checking the cream-colored freckles
That stood stark against their deep azure surfaces
They were perfectly identical
I pressed the velvety skin to my nose
And breathed in its sweet candy scent
The aroma made my head swim
This was it

I eagerly bit into it
Letting its juice fill my mouth and coat my tongue
It was sweet
Too sweet
Then horribly, repulsively bitter
My body heaved and I spit it out onto the grass
Nose crumpled and gagging
Disgusted
The inside
Was black and sickly brown
Dripping like a sick child’s nose
The fruit was rotting at its core

I still cannot get that taste off my tongue

relentlessly unyielding
what am i to do but apologize
a leash does not affect the facts
nor can such a thing be held with strictness

i shouldve known it would only be
a disgustingly short matter of time
and in such a repulsively simple moment
but of course that is when i am
an unguarded unsuspecting witness

crushed to the ground at your feet
kneeling in pools of tears and guilt
dare i even ask such undeserved forgiveness